Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  “Get them duds off and turn out the lamp, why don’t you, Nevis.”

  “I … uh …, is this my bed too?”

  “Ain’t no other, is there, Win?”

  “No other at all. Don’t be all night over there.”

  Nevis began unbuttoning his shirt, aware of the inner quaking he wished would go away. At the age of twenty-nine, he was about to lose his virginity to an ex-whore, in the close presence of a shitcan emptier. It was not the tableau of romantic conquest he had once been in the habit of picturing for himself, but in the harsher light of waning expectations, the faces and opportunity turned toward him were the finest there could be.

  Working with Nightsoil Smith drove Nevis deeper into the arms of his new companions, since their odor became his, and he was made unwelcome in the usual haunts of drinkers. Offended by the reaction to his aroma, Nevis drew away from society and found company enough with Smith and Winnie. They brought their liquor from a store with a window through which Smith could be seen from within; bottles were brought outside and cash quickly changed hands. “They give me a good price too,” bragged Smith, “because of two reasons, which the first one is I’m a regular customer which they like, and the second reason is I said I’d come right inside the store if I ain’t happy with the charge, see, so they keep me sweet the way I like, and they’ll do the same for you on account of you’re my partner now.”

  Nights in Winnie’s double bed were drunken, orgiastic and remarkably amiable, given the conflicting temperaments of the participants. Nevis grew to realize, as the weeks passed, that he had become a happy man. It was such an unlikely sensation that he treated it as a man would a basket of fragile eggs, anxious for its preservation while anticipating its end. One evening he went so far as to declare that the man and woman who had saved him from celibacy and a life without hope were the finest human beings he could ever have wished to encounter in this or any other life. Three-fourths of the way through a bottle, all three broke down and cried.

  “We love you, Nevis,” sobbed Winnie.

  “And I love you,” he bawled, “both of you.”

  Winnie allowed the men simultaneous access to her body shortly after this declaration, as a means of cementing the bond each held dear.

  Nightsoil Smith’s work as driver and loader of a honey cart did not occupy all of his working day, especially after he had Nevis to assist him in the retrieval and emptying of shitcans from the back alleys of Glory Hole. “This line of work ain’t gonna last forever,” he advised his partner. “Leo Brannan, he says he’s gonna put that newfangled plummery in every house and building in town, and that’ll be the end of the honey cart.”

  “Plumbing, it’s called.”

  “Once the plummery’s inside everyplace, it’s the end of the line for you and me, doing what we do, so it’s a good thing there’s the other line.”

  “Plumbing. Yes, a good thing.”

  With Smith’s second wagon they would drive as far up the valley as the road allowed, then unhitch the mules and strike a path almost straight up, to an overhanging ledge of rock on the western slope. In the shadow of the ledge was a wall of ice that did not melt away all year, although it became a little smaller during the brief months of summer. The ledge provided Nightsoil Smith with his secondary occupation, as supplier of ice for the fancier restaurants of Glory Hole, and even, he had heard, the table of Leo Brannan himself, by way of a third party. “What we do here is we get connected to the richest man west of the Mississippi—ain’t that something?”

  “Indeed, but I’ve heard of a new process by which they are able to manufacture ice on demand.”

  “Huh? It ain’t possible! Cold air, that’s how ice gets made.”

  “It has something to do with salt, I believe.”

  “Salt! Who the hell wants salty ice! That’s for Eskimos! You must’ve heard wrong about that.”

  “I hope so.”

  They hacked at the ice wall and wrapped the chunks in several layers of burlap before loading them onto the heavily blanketed mules for transportation to the wagon, then went back for more. When the wagon was filled, usually after four or five trips to the wall, the mules were rehitched and they returned along the road to town, where Smith delivered his cold cargo to three separate customers in the food business, and came away with enough dollars to make their efforts worthwhile.

  “Smith,” asked Nevis (even now he had not been made privy to the man’s first name), “why doesn’t anyone else go up and take the ice that’s there for the taking? It doesn’t belong to anyone, yet you and I can sell it for cash profit.”

  “Same reason we make money hauling turds, my friend: it’s not the kind of work your regular feller wants to do, which is good news for us, I figure.”

  The domestic idyll Nevis imagined he had fallen into was broken on occasion by outbursts of inexplicable hysteria from Winnie, who sometimes gained liquor from sources other than Smith during the day while her men were working. An excess of drink would tip some finely balanced scale in her mind and reduce Winnie to a screaming shrew who drove Smith and Nevis from the shack with her abuse. She would call them the filthiest, vilest names, and Smith would respond in kind for a while, then admit defeat. Nevis witnessed these exchanges with mortification, but attempted to intercede only once, at which time Winnie threw a chair at his head and called him a no-dick fool, which Nevis thought unnecessarily hurtful and quite wrong in any case. He and Smith would beat a fast retreat on these occasions, with the evening bottle safely secreted beneath a protective armpit, and share their usual measure, and Winnie’s too, in a place far from the stable and shack. “I sometimes wonder,” Smith confided, “if she don’t, you know, sell herself when we ain’t there, and get the stuff thataway.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. I think Winnie is devoted to us both, in her own inimitable fashion.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means, my friend, that she is an unusual creature, with unusual needs, some of which may not be met by our good selves, sad to say.”

  “Nevis, you can talk like a preacher when you want to, but at least I know what kind of lies a preacher’s spouting.”

  “All I imply is, the lady, for all her wondrous virtues and elastic compliance, is her own woman, just as we, Smith old fellow, are our own men, and there are mysteries within each of us that the others will never divine, no matter how hard the effort to do so. Accept her as she is, and the morning that follows her bad temper will see Winnie welcome us back with open arms.”

  “Well, she always did get like this every now and then, even before you come along, so I guess that’s just the way she is.”

  “Exactly so. You have a grasp of the obvious that most men would offer a limb for, Smith.”

  “You don’t mean that.” The shitcan hauler blushed.

  “Oh, but I do. I’m a happy man, you see, and happy men speak their mind without hesitation.”

  “Is that right.”

  “You may be sure it is.”

  37

  Leo was inclined to view Zoe’s departure for Europe as desertion. She was his wife, and he had not given her permission to go anywhere. It was an insult, but he financed the grand tour Zoe and Omie were embarking upon because it left him free to pursue his dalliance with Imogen without fear of domestic upset. He was tempted to move Imogen into Elk House, purely for the convenience of having her near, but Rowland Price dissuaded him with a reminder that when Zoe returned there would be a tremendous fight if she found her very home had been invaded by the other woman. Leo demurred, but blamed Zoe anyway for the necessity of his continued visits to the house he had bought for Imogen.

  News had reached Leo from his home state of California that the cannibal Slade was wanted there also, on a charge of double murder at a lumber camp in Mendocino County. This additional crime, when released to the press, sent the nation into another frenzy over Slade. Many people claimed to have seen him, especially in the southwest, where two more acts of a bestial natu
re had been committed against ranchers in remote areas, murders considered too gruesome to be detailed in print; “Extensive mutilation of the abdomen, chest and cranial cavity in both instances,” was the fullest description published of Slade’s newest outrages. Leo added another two thousand dollars to his reward for Slade’s capture, and called for greater vigilance among the law officers and civilian populations of New Mexico and Arizona territories, which appeared to hold a fascination for the madman criminal. For all his derangement, Slade was credited with great cunning in having evaded capture so far, despite the hue and cry raised in his wake. Leo hoped for a quick return on his investment, but could not help admiring the way in which the creature seemed able to melt away into the desert country without a trace. His picture was everywhere, but Slade himself seemed invisible.

  It was during one of his increasingly rare visits to his own home that Leo learned from the servants that a man had called at the front gate several times, demanding to see Zoe Brannan. He had been told on each occasion that she was away, and on the latest attempt to see her had been given the further information that she was overseas, and was not expected back for a year or more. It had been almost a week now since the man paid that final call. Leo was made curious by news of these visits, but had forgotten about it by the time he left Elk House with several more changes of clothing.

  He was reminded of the stranger several days later, when Jenks, his secretary, announced that a certain person was in the waiting room outside his office, insisting that he meet with Leo face-to-face. “He refuses to give his name, sir,” said Jenks. “I’ve tried several times to get it from him. Shall I have him escorted to the door?”

  “If he won’t state his name like an honest man should, then yes, have him thrown out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jenks said, and left to give the necessary order to the burly fellows Price insisted be posted near Leo’s person at all times, wherever his location.

  Jenks returned to Leo’s office a few minutes later.

  “Sir, he says … he says he’s the husband of your wife.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The husband of your wife, sir. He says he has tried several times to see her, but has learned she is not in the country, so he insists upon seeing you instead. He appears to be quite serious. Shall I have him thrown out?”

  “No, send him in. Has anyone else heard what he said?”

  “No, sir, only myself.”

  “Keep it that way, Jenks. I don’t want this sort of nonsense getting around, even if the fellow’s a simpleton.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leo felt a strange humming in his head. He knew that his life was about to change. The claim was outrageous, but he half believed it even before the fellow set foot inside his office. The door opened and closed, and there he stood, a man without any stamp of uniqueness whatever, an anonymous individual wearing anonymous clothing much in need of repair.

  “Your name,” demanded Leo.

  “Bryce Aspinall.”

  “What do you mean by saying you’re the husband of my wife? That’s a patent lie. What is it you want?”

  “She’s my wife, not yours. We were never divorced, you see, so she’s still legally mine.”

  “A lie. She told me her husband was dead.”

  “Then it’s her that lied.”

  “You claim to be Omie’s father, I suppose.”

  “No, that was some other man. She already had Omie when I married her.”

  “Where did this alleged marriage take place?”

  “Pueblo. These are notarized copies of the certificate.”

  Aspinall handed several sheets to Leo. They appeared authentic, but could have been forgeries. He would assign to Price the task of verifying their content.

  “You’re saying that my wife is a bigamist, sir.”

  “She’s not your wife,” Aspinall said again, “she’s mine. You have the papers there. The minister who married us is still living, and will confirm what I say, if the papers don’t convince you.”

  “Why would Zoe lie to me?”

  “To be married again, to a rich man this time.”

  Leo realized Aspinall was unaware that he had not been rich when he and Zoe married. He wondered how little the man knew about other matters pertaining to the ceremony between himself and Zoe.

  “What precisely do you hope to gain from bringing this story to me?”

  “A small piece of what you and her have got.”

  “You mean this is an appeal for money?

  “Yes, it hurts me to say. I’m not a proud man anymore, Mr. Brannan. My hands are crippling up with rheumatism, so I can’t do the work I trained to do.”

  “What work is that?”

  “Stonemason. I need a pension of some kind. I don’t ask for thousands, just a regular payment to keep myself in the common comforts. It’s not too much to ask. I wouldn’t have bothered you if Zoe was still here to look after this.”

  “I see. May I ask what it was that caused you to be separated?”

  “We just … drifted away, her from me, me from her. It was after our boy died. We did have a son, and with him gone … That’s how it is sometimes, Mr. Brannan. Marriages aren’t made in heaven like they say. It just worked out that way, and she never did want to admit she knew me after that, is my guess.”

  “Where are you staying at present, Mr. Aspinall?”

  “The Great Divide.”

  Leo knew the place, a cheap hotel several blocks away.

  “This has been a considerable surprise to me, of course. I don’t see why I shouldn’t help you, in the absence of my wife … of Zoe, but first I should like to consult with my attorney; you can see why, I’m sure.”

  “It’s only natural, sir. I want you to be aware that my motive is not mercenary, even if money is the reason for my approaching you this way. I ask only for a reasonable pension.”

  “And I’m sure the matter can be resolved to our mutual satisfaction. Be assured, I shall be in touch.”

  “Thank you.” Aspinall began moving toward the door. “I heard you were a solid gentleman, and I see now it’s true.”

  “Good day to you.”

  When his visitor was gone, Leo sent Jenks to fetch Rowland Price from the barbershop he had departed for just minutes prior to the first announcement of Aspinall’s arrival. When Price hurried into the office, one sideburn trimmed and the other still bushy, Leo told him what had occurred, and handed him the papers Aspinall had left.

  Examining them, Price was appalled. “This is a disaster.… Would your wife truly have done such a thing?”

  “My wife is a peculiar woman in many ways, Rowland. If this fellow disappointed her as a husband, I can picture her consigning his memory to some cellar of the mind, the better to get on with her life. The fact that Omie is not his could only have made Zoe’s choice easier. I want you to go immediately to Pueblo and verify this certificate. Find out everything you can about the marriage. In the meantime, I’ll have a small amount of money delivered to him at the Great Divide to keep him quiet.”

  “Is that wise, Leo? It might encourage him to demand more. He seems content to ask for very little at the moment.”

  “The risk is mine, Rowland. Leave as soon as you can, please.”

  Alone again, Leo went to his window and looked across Glory Hole. The view was relatively unimpaired, the sky clear for once. Glory Hole belonged to him only because he had married the woman who made the original strike high up on the valley wall. That strike had become the Deer Lick mine, still the most productive and trouble-free of them all. The claim on that precious land was in the name of one Zoe Dugan, Leo recalled. The claim might be invalid, since Zoe had in fact been Zoe Aspinall at the time, if his visitor’s story was true. If the claim was not invalid, and Zoe had legally owned the Deer Lick, then all the subsequent expansion, all those other mines tapping into the same mother lode, might also be hers, since every additional claim had been financed by profit from the Deer
Lick.

  Leo’s mind began to race with potential repercussions. He had never before questioned the chain of finance and ownership; now its genesis was critical. If Rowland came back from Pueblo with a report confirming the worst, there was a labyrinth of legal documents to sort through; decisions would have to be made. Behind the dreadful tangle of possibilities loomed one all-important question, frightening in its implications, a question terrible to contemplate: after all Leo’s efforts in establishing the town and the mines as the center of gold production in America, did Glory Hole actually belong to Zoe?

  Price returned after four days to deliver bad news. Reluctant to broach such an explosive topic in his office, Leo received him at Elk House, and listened with a sinking heart.

  “The fellow carved his own tombstone, Leo, then simply walked away, and Omie … well, Omie predicted everything, according to the newspaper files. There was quite a hullabaloo, then your wife left town with her.”

  “Rowland, we need no longer refer to Zoe as my wife.”

  Price had confirmed the legitimacy of the marriage certificate, and sought out pictures of Bryce Aspinall that had appeared in the Chieftain. The man was who and what he said he was.

  “Have you decided what to do about this?” Price asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “If you were of a mind to divorce Zoe because of … recent developments, you could have the marriage declared null and void on the basis of her bigamy.”

  “The problem does not lie with my love or lack of it for Zoe, Rowland. The problem has to do with the nature of property rights. Ownership, Rowland, is the problem. I have been engaged in research of my own in your absence, and the results may startle you.”

  “Should I pour myself a drink and be seated?”

  “Pour for us both. What I have to tell you has gone no further than Jenks and my attorney. They have plowed through documents and lawbooks by the cartload, and they have found no way around the predicament.”

  “What predicament?”

  “I am not the owner of Brannan Mining. She is.”