Crown of Dust

by Mary Volmer

  That sparks a whole mess of hogwash and fancy talk. They make threats to footprints, brag about what they’d do if they caught them, string them up, curse them with Chinese hocuspocus, but no one offers to saddle up and give chase. No one mentions the law. Probably are the law. Hudson with a badge to go with his bravado. Whipping and lynching; tarring and feathering—there isn’t much difference. Emaline raises her hand for silence, feeling like a schoolmarm in a class of over-grown teenagers.

  “They say anything?” asks Jed.

  “Nothing,” Emaline replies, biting her lip. Jed eyes her suspiciously. Concern dragging his whole face downward and Emaline grows aware of her unconscious gesture.

  Too many secrets. She collects them like buttons: big ones with shiny surfaces that look good enough to eat, miniature ones too tiny for use which she preserves for novelty alone. She knows that Limpy keeps a picture of his mamma in his trouser pocket, that he never knew his daddy, that he mysteriously blames his propensity for chatter on this fact. She knows that Klein is a Lutheran pastor’s son who fled Germany in order to marry a peasant girl with the misfortune of being Catholic. The girl died a hundred miles from the California Coast on a steamship, prompting him to forsake his name, Gunter Kranz, for Klein, a name whose meaning Emaline assumes carries some significance. She even knows secrets no one has told her; about Harry and Fred, for instance, that the reason they never come upstairs to see her bears no relation to David’s claims of piety. She suspects that eventually they’ll tell her outright, confirming her suspicion, or Fred will. Harry takes too much pleasure in the social game, playing with the town’s unwillingness to acknowledge the relationship. It’s the same with her and Jed. Ignorance, even self-perpetuated ignorance, is easier than outrage, if less intriguing. The town is not yet established enough for such scandal, although Mrs. Dourity, Erkstine and Waller and her sister Rose are changing that. Outrage comes from stable places like Grass Valley. And David? She’s seen the way he looks at Alex. Should put the poor sap out of his moral misery, but what fun to watch him squirm, flailing himself with guilt. Besides, she would never tell Alex’s secret. Of all her secrets, she knows that this one will lie with her in the grave.

  She squints down from the porch at the small form she knows to be Alex. Her head barely reaches the level of Limpy’s armpit. All other details are a blur, moving into and out of focus. She feels a headache coming.

  Vultures congregate to the smell of blood, chasing each other in circles, taking pieces from the sun like the blades of a giant windmill. If Victor Lane weren’t populated by a crowd of people trying to appear casually disinterested as they stroll past for a second and a third time, the big ugly birds might land, displaying for Emaline their featherless heads, red and wrinkled like the rotting flesh they eat. No one place or person deserves so much attention two days in a row, she thinks. Mrs. Dourity and Mrs. Erkstine, standing a safe distance across the street, probably believe Emaline planned these spectacles; a variety show that Lola Montez, the infamous spider dancer herself, would envy. Orphanage? Hell. Emaline considers herself a patient woman, but there are limits to the virtue. She sucks in her breath and her belly, letting both out at once in a rush of air and flesh as Limpy leads a silent retreat back to the mine. Emaline doesn’t try to stop them. They’d just track blood across her floor. Be more of a mess than a help. Only Alex and Jed remain.

  “Go on, Alex,” she says. “You paid me plenty last night. Go on now.”

  Alex hesitates, showing a genuine concern that Emaline appreciates but doesn’t need right now. She winks, gives Alex a smile, and watches her trudge back down Victor Lane, passing Rose and a well-dressed man with a striking resemblance to Preacher John. The Preacher tips his hat, receives a poke in the ribs for his civility, and continues down toward Sander’s dry goods.

  “Well,” says Jed, pulling her eyes to him. She hardly expects him to stay. All day, he had been so distant, hostile even. This baffled her. Last night she’d been too tired to give him what he wanted. And when he’d asked her what was wrong, all she could say was, “Alex.” His anger was unexpected. She was afraid at first that he would force her, shove her back against the wall as they had done more than once in passionate play, asserting a physical dominance he had never before taken advantage of. Instead, he left her, closed the door behind him, so quietly, with such painful restraint, when all she wanted was to hold him all night until no explanations were necessary.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Emaline tells him, hoping he’ll stay, not so much for his help as his closeness. But she knows very well his aversion to anything resembling witchcraft. Emaline supposes this qualified. At the very least, it is a warning. “I know,” he says. “I want to stay.”

  “Gonna need water. Lots of it,” says Emaline though this is not what she wants to say. He turns to fetch the buckets. “Jed …” but the words catch in her throat.

  “There’s no one like you,” she says finally.

  He only nods and disappears around the corner of the inn.

  By the time Emaline and Jed have cleaned the mess from the front porch of the Victoria, the day has faded to evening. She sits alone on a bench, picking feathers from her hair. Blood crusts on her dress in variegated patterns. Blood under her fingernails. Blood streaked across her face like war paint. She hasn’t thought about dinner, and the evening’s bread has burned to coal in the oven, and if she ever catches the sons-a-bitches who did this, she’s gonna rip them limb from limb, starting with their smallest and fondest. Cowards, the lot of them, riding through town like a bunch of savages, masks hiding their faces, as if it wasn’t obvious who they were.

  She rises to the sound of her knees popping and heads inside. The saloon is empty of all but her regulars. Chicken blood and feathers have a way of putting customers off, but tonight she doesn’t mind. The last two days have been more exciting than is healthy. A glass of whiskey, a wash, and bed. She will deny her worries for a few hours of sleep and maybe by morning the smell of blood and the pink residue left on the wall outside will have vanished.

  She makes her way to the bar and glances at Alex, who lounges, legs apart, on the settee. Quite unladylike, she thinks. No doubt quite comfortable, too. She has no reason to doubt Alex or her confession. Emotion rarely lies. Emaline is almost envious—not of Alex’s past, but her present. Just one of the boys, her boys. How many times has she wished she could just sit and play poker, eat someone else’s cooking, make messes for someone else to clean, bask in the smelly camaraderie of men. Their acceptance and respect wouldn’t be rooted in need. She could be sexless, thoughtless.

  A glass shatters on the floor behind her. Harry’s voice rises above the level of her thoughts and Limpy replies in protest. Even Alex leans forward into the argument.

  “You lying sack of shit!” says Harry.

  “Now listen!” says Limpy, raising his big hands to no avail. “I ain’t made anything for sure yet. We just talking.”

  “We nothing. You and Mr. James were the only ones talking,” says Harry, and Micah speaks up.

  “Well now, let’s not get carried away. There’s nothing in writing, remember that.”

  “You knew about this?” David asks, standing up, and Micah eases back in his chair, putting his feet up as if to counteract the aggression in David’s voice.

  “I told you: hydraulicking,” says Fred, looking to Alex for confirmation. “That was my idea.”

  “Well, not exactly hydraulicking,” says Limpy, talking so fast now that his hands can’t keep up. “We don’t mine the gold, see. Leave that to some other poor bastards. And what does every poor bastard with a pick need to get at his gold, whether he’s got the richest vein in California or the ore tailings of another man’s claim? Water, of course. Water. And what we’ve got here is a year-round supply and a whole slew of folks dependent on it for their washing. No, hold on, let me finish, Harry. Mr. James explained it all to me. See, what we do is, we start our own water business: dam up part of the creek, se
ll water by the miner’s inch to all them claims below this valley. We—”

  “You can’t sell water,” says Harry.

  “You can, though,” says Fred, standing up next to Limpy. Emaline rests her elbows upon the bar, stares off into the quiver of the lamplight, barely listening. If it is an argument worth her attention, one night won’t see the end of it.

  “We—” says Limpy again, motioning with his hands to everyone leaning into the circle—“we take a percentage of the profit of every claim using our water. It’s a ’vestment, is what Mr. James called it. If we don’t do this, someone else going to. And with the way the mine is playing out … No offense, Alex, but that nugget might just be the richest thing in the mountain. Now, water, water is gold and—”

  “What have you done?” says David, and the circle goes quiet.

  “Done? I ain’t done nothing. What we doing? We talking.”

  “You’re talking,” says Harry. “I’m finished talking about this.”

  “Mr. James was here about water?” Alex asks.

  “How much?” says David. “How much money are we talking?”

  “My idea. Hydraulicking,” says Fred, and Harry jolts from the table, knocking his chair over and spilling his whiskey.

  “We are not talking hydraulicking, Fred!”

  It’s comic really, the two men’s poorly matched bodies squaring off, but Emaline is not in the mood. She stands up straight, places her hands on her lower back and leans into the stretch. She steps up on a stool, then up on the bar.

  One quiet night. One night without drama. Emaline’s head brushes the crossbeam. Her toe taps against a whiskey jug on the counter and Jed gapes up at her, holding his arms out as if he could catch her. Squinting, she can see the bald spot on Micah’s lumpy head, the muscle near his temple moving in time with his mouth, and Harry’s cowlick rising like an exclamation point as he brandishes one of her new upholstered chairs. Couldn’t use one of the old stools. Wants to break something precious. Precious. Emaline taps the whiskey jug closer to the edge of the bar as Limpy backs out of Harry’s reach. Jed tenses but makes no move to catch the jug as it falls, breaking into two unsatisfying pieces on the floor.

  Stillness. Cricket song. Emaline is on stage.

  “If there’s any messes to be made tonight, I’m gonna be making ’em.”

  She reaches to the shelf behind her, grabs a bottle of rum by its gooseneck, takes a long drink, spilling none, then slams it to the floor in an explosion of glass. “I’m tired,” she says and smashes another bottle and another. Five tumblers are sacrificed, two of which bounce, two break, one does both. Whiskey on the counter. Whiskey soaking her shoes. Rum diluting whiskey on the floor. Glass and ceramic bits surrounding her as she reaches out for Jed, who helps her to the ground. She can feel their eyes as she climbs the stairs. She falls into bed too worn to enjoy their shock, their blessed silence.

  18

  With a stool in each hand, Alex steps from the Victoria to find Emaline hurrying in the opposite direction.

  “Thank you, m’dear,” says Emaline. “By the fire pit. Follow your nose,” and bustles off without even slowing down.

  The anniversary celebration was Emaline’s idea. “Just a change,” she said, “to bring us together as one town.” Alex wonders if this effort isn’t futile in the face of the Ladies Temperance League, now five members strong with the inclusion of Gerald Sander’s wife, fresh from Boston. Mrs. Dourity and Mrs. Waller linger in front of the cigar shop, brown packages under their arms. Alex crosses to the other side of the street.

  The last three days have found Emaline in four places at once, baking pies, skinning the hog, cooking the usual breakfast and dinner, and serving drinks and men each night. Her smile is willful, and Alex wonders if she’s the only one who sees the tension pulsing that vein on Emaline’s temple. She had Jed whitewash the Victoria and it glares garish white even in the evening. She’s aired mattresses, washed the linen, even shined the mirrors, disregarding Alex’s observation that no one was likely to notice the Victoria when the pig roast was in the clearing across the creek. “I’ll notice,” she said.

  Alex rests a stool on the ground to wipe sweat from her forehead. She readjusts her hat and continues past the general store and Sander’s dry goods.

  Two weeks have passed since Alex’s cycle ended, and true to her word, Emaline hasn’t once asked about her plans. Alex is content not to make any plans. She’s still the Golden Boy. Just Alex. The perpetual youth. All she’s sure of is this town. The slant of the steeple, the ornamental balcony and the raucous noise of the saloon. Everyone she cares for sits down to Emaline’s dinner each night: Limpy, Jed, Micah, Harry, Fred.

  And David.

  She no longer tries to emulate the way he sits in a chair or holds his whiskey cup, just watches and feels him grow more remote. Even he’s been asking questions about this water company Limpy has been endorsing every spare breath. At the mine, he no longer tastes the soil for richness and his eyes no longer scour the ravine face for gold lodes; instead they linger on the ridgeline where the cedars sway. The physical distance he has always maintained has extended into silence. She’s tempted to walk right into his cabin, slam one of these stools on the ground before him and stay there until he has to tell her to move. The thought only adds to the stagnant funk of this air sitting like a cap on the valley.

  She reaches the creek, steps over the buckboard bridge into the clearing. A large circle of grass has been scythed and trampled flat. She sets the stools next to the plank tables, breathes in the scent of roasting pork. The sound of digging is so familiar she has to listen for it. She sits, watches smoke from the fire coil up in dizzying spirals. Across the valley and gliding closer are two cumbersome foreigners.

  Yesterday she’d watched the gulls wobble over the lip of the ravine and into the valley on wings ill suited for the breathless air. Limpy bet Micah three ounces of gold they wouldn’t be able to fly out again, and so far every attempt has failed. The air’s too heavy and too still. They jaunt into the clearing, with that petulant head-first strut, then pause to shift foot to foot. The sight takes her back to the deck of the Sea Sage, almost a year ago. Boston Harbor had become wood splinters in the horizon. Gulls swarmed, their warm droppings christening the scrubbed deck, baptizing the shoulders and bonnet of a dreamy young woman. And then San Francisco Bay, so crowded with ships that passengers had to be rowed to shore. She can visualize both scenes, a leaving and an arrival. She’s touched two different faces of the same continent. There should be some sense of accomplishment, but what she feels is lucky—lucky to be alive; lucky to be alive in Motherlode—and she has no desire to go anywhere else. Like those gulls, she has no lift, no reason. Motherlode just might be as good a place as any; a better place, she thinks.

  “Hi, Alex. What are you thinking about?”

  Lou Anne, fast approaching, stops just feet away. Her hair is curled and tied, no longer dangling free in the manner of young girls. Only a corset could hold her back so straight. Alex wonders if Lou Anne is capable of understanding the direction of the Golden Boy’s thoughts.

  On the girl’s face is a naïve playfulness that Alex can’t help but resent. She resents the way Lou Anne can sashay up to anyone, charming with her very boldness, while Alex must remain ever hidden and silent. It makes her angry. She wants to slap the girl, to break that perfect straight nose. Instead, she points to the gulls.

  “Daddy says they’re good luck,” blurts Lou Anne, “that they protect sailors at sea. But Mamma says—”

  “We’re not at sea.”

  “That’s what Mamma says.” Lou Anne’s face brightens.

  Alex turns and walks away.

  Gunshots ricochet off the ravine walls and Emaline’s ivory-handled shotgun blows smoke with the rest. The sun has set behind the ravine, but she’s no longer cold and she wishes Jed hadn’t left to fetch her shawl. She bounces through the crowd, grabbing, dancing with, then discarding man after man, breathing in the
ir pork-and-whiskey breath, embarrassing Mr. Waller by kissing him on the lips with a bit of French flavor. Idiot damn near bit her tongue off, but whiskey cures all, and she wheels around the dance floor to the rhythm of the fiddler’s foot. The guitar and accordion have long since given up on harmony, and it’s just as well, for half the boys are singing “Old Dan Tucker” to the tune of “Buffalo Gals.” Voices compete as everyone seems determined to be heard above the rest. Emaline makes her choice and belts:

  Tucker he had cash a-plenty

  Dressed to death—his old trunk empty.

  She grabs Harry by the collar with her free hand. If he steps on her toe again, she’ll shoot his foot clean off. She tells him as much as they twirl around the dance floor, past David, enjoying himself in spite of himself, past Limpy and Mrs. Waller, her bun relinquishing strand after strand of slicked-back hair until a brown tiara surrounds her face. The woman bites back a smile as though it’s a sin to show teeth. Emaline kicks up her skirt, exposing her flushed white flank. The cool air rushes in under the folds of fabric, sending a chill from the tips of her ears to the tips of her toes. Forgive that, she thinks.

  “Dada, dada, dada, dada,” Harry sings, forsaking lyrics altogether, but clinging to the eight count. His arms are damp with sweat and his smile turns the corners of his eyes downward.

  “Toes,” warns Emaline for the fifth time, and bangs him on the thigh with the muzzle of the shotgun. She discards him for a drink and a breath.

  God above never threw such a party, she thinks, catching her breath before knocking back a drink. Terrible stuff, whiskey. She watches Limpy lumber about the dance floor, dragging Mrs. Erkstine with him. Mrs. Dourity is standing by the whiskey barrel, a big horsey grin on her face. No, God never threw such a party—and where the hell is Jed? Think I’d sent him to Grass Valley.

  She leans against the plank table, squints out into the twirling mass of bodies. David, the fool, is making a great show of bowing low and kissing the hand of that Lou Anne gal, whose corset is just a-pressing her small breasts toward her ears. In a town like this, twenty men to every woman, that gal might never discover just how plain she is. Spitting image of her mamma, minus the ramrod up the ass, but give it time.