Steamy Dorm

by Kristine Robinson

  Again, I’m left to wait in a dark room. At least I’m alone in here; the true horror of my future life has not yet begun. This must be the antechamber to hell, I think bleakly. The room is bare of furnishings aside from a bed. It’s none too clean but I curl up upon it and cover myself with the thin quilt. As the evening deepens, noises from neighboring rooms begin to penetrate the thin walls. I can hear men groaning and the dull thud of bodily impact. Sometimes, the higher register of a woman’s voice crosses the threshold and I desperately try to close my ears to the sounds which are alternately ambiguous and distressing.

  Hearing footsteps outside of my door, followed by a key in the lock, I cower on the bed, huddling underneath the quilt. Peering out from beneath the covers, as the door swings open I expect to see a man. But the doorway frames a respectable looking woman. She’s dressed plainly and looks to be in her 40s or 50s. Confusion swims to the surface of my tumultuous emotions.

  “Emma.” Being addressed by name pulls me back to reality somewhat. “My name is Madame Claire. I am the owner of this brothel. I have been informed that you are a virgin. I have no intention of ruining a good girl. But you’re young and pretty, as well. You’re worth more as a wife than as a whore. Therefore, you will not be staying here. Tomorrow, you will be sold at auction, married off to the highest bidder.” Her keen eyes watch for signs of incomprehension or resistance. Seeing none, she continues. “For tonight, you will remain in this room. This is for your safety as well as to protect our investment. I will send food up directly and come to fetch you in the morning.” She turns to leave but adds one last comment over her shoulder. “Try and sleep. You never know what tomorrow might bring.” And with those ominous words, she departs.

  Her parting advice chills me. I do not understand what she means about being sold in marriage but she left before I could ask questions, seemingly on purpose. She had said her piece. I would have to wait in fear and suspense until morning. And try to sleep…Who would let their guard down in a place like this?

  Chapter 2

  I must have slept, at least fitfully, because my dreams were laced with terror and images of strange men advancing towards me. When morning comes, I must sort the realities of the day before from the stuff of nightmare; there’s little distinction. My eyes feel gritty and tired and my stomach is roiling with nerves. Once I get my bearings, the apprehension of the day before settles back about my shoulders as though it had never left. Today, I will be sold like chattel to any man with cash who wants to get his dirty paws on me. I feel sick.

  Madame Claire returns to fetch me, as promised, and I go with her willingly, eager to leave my one room confinement if only to trade it for unknown torment. She leads me outside and I blink in the bright morning sunshine for a moment before registering the scene before me.

  A raised platform has been erected several yards from the brothel and a modest crowd is gathered in front. I’m confused by the number of men present; the town itself couldn’t possibly contain so many. Then I notice that horses and buggies are staked or tied nearby indicating that the assembled men have traveled from elsewhere. I see several other young women already displayed on the platform as well as a sinister looking man with a hand on his holster. He’s clearly there to ensure compliance from the female captives.

  I balk reflexively as Madame Claire tugs me in their direction. Taking my arm in a firm grip, she propels me towards the dais. My knees wobble as I ascend the narrow steps. Glancing nervously around, I see the same fear on the faces of each woman and quickly look down, fear and shame evoking another wave of sickness. The women vary in age and appearance. Some are very young, around my age I think, maybe fifteen years old. Others are fully mature; their faces show more wariness and fatigue than outright panic. These are the women who have survived more than once, I think. I can see it in their eyes and the lines of strain on their pretty faces. But the young girls mirror my own terror. I cannot bear to watch their eyes darting this way and that like birds in a net desperate for open sky. Mostly, I look down.

  One by one, the women are brought forward and men holler from the crowd, jockeying for position in their efforts to secure a prize without over-betting. I keep my eyes fastened on my shoes, afraid that if I am forced to see the faces of these brutes, they will haunt me forever.

  As each bid is finalized, the young woman is led from the dais to be claimed by the winning bidder. I feel more and more exposed on the dais at each transaction. Finally, I am alone before the crowd. I’m shaking all over and can feel my face flaming red. I am tugged forward, towards the front, and the bidding begins for my hand in marriage, or some sad version of it. Despite my attempt to tune out the rude noises, I notice when the bidding becomes frenzied. Perhaps because I am the last woman available, or perhaps because of my thick gold braid and wide blue eyes, the men are fighting over me with unrestrained zeal. My terror increases in proportion to their excitement. The clamoring is so overwhelming, I can’t follow what’s going on and I still will not raise my eyes, but the noise abruptly subsides as the man on the dais declares somebody the victor.

  I’m hustled off the platform by the enforcer with the gun and maneuvered through the already dispersing crowd. We stop and I see two pairs of men’s boots, scuffed with wear, and slowly raise my eyes to see the man who has purchased me. There are two men in front of me, both lean and sinewy and both wearing wide brimmed hats under the hot western sun. They are armed and well outfitted and both wear bandanas which cover much of their faces. I wonder which of them I now belong to and wish that their faces were revealed so that I might read their expressions. Nothing about their demeaner reveals which of the two will be husband to me and each of them gently grips one of my elbows to escort me to their waiting covered wagon. With one on each side, I am boxed in but they are not rough with me as they assist me into my seat. They settle themselves quietly on either side.

  As the horses begin picking their way across the road, one of the men turns to me and takes a deep breath.

  “Emma. Do not be afraid. We mean you no harm.” His quiet voice is muffled by the bandana and I am forced to lean forward to catch his words. “You should understand, however, that our intention is to marry, if you will have us. We reside at Bridgewater Ranch. It is…unusual. We who live there have been soldiers together and our bond to each other is that of blood brothers. We prefer to share our wives with close friends. In this case, it is I and my friend here, Ian Stewart, who have purchased you together.” I glance at Ian, for confirmation, and he nods methodically.

  I am incredulous and spend several moments in silence, absorbing this information, before addressing the man who had been speaking. “And what should I call you?”

  Smile lines appear beside the eyes of the masked man who had addressed me and he says, “my name is Whitmore Kane, but people call me Whit.”

  We bounce along the rutted track and I reflect on how different this ride feels from the one yesterday when I had been bound and headed towards certain prostitution. I still don’t feel entirely safe; I don’t know Whit or Ian and I’m essentially at their mercy. They can do whatever they want to me and I lack the physical strength or the social clout necessary to protect myself. Nevertheless, they pose no immediate physical danger and, more than that, their demeaner is in no way intimidating. Far from it. They seem to be trying to put me at ease.

  We ride in silence for much of the afternoon. During this time, I study them out of the corner of my eye. Whit seems to be the spokesman of the two, friendlier and sunnier in disposition. He is taller than Ian, with fair hair and light blue eyes. I can tell a lot about a person from the lines around their eyes and, even with the mask, it’s apparent to me that Whit has a jovial nature. Ian is harder to read, particularly since he has not yet spoken. His face is itself like a mask behind his bandana, but his dark hair curls out from under his hat and, when he turned his face to me earlier, I was struck by the intensity of his electric blue eyes. They both sit straight backed like the soldiers t
hey are, with hands on knees. Their hands look rough but clean and for that I am grateful.

  Finally, I ask, “what is life like at Bridgewater Ranch?”

  And the enigmatic response is, “you will find out very soon.”

  The horses, sensing the proximity of their stable and feed bucket, have quickened their pace. We pull into an enclave and Whit climbs out, holding a hand steady to assist me down from the wagon. Ian is right behind him. Looking around, I see an orderly assortment of outbuildings and cabins nestled beside a fast-moving rivulet of water that cuts through the arid landscape and inspires feathery grass and wildflower etchings along its banks. It’s so pretty I catch my breath and we all stand for a moment in the late afternoon shadows to admire Bridgewater’s natural beauty. Whit and Ian then direct me to a one room cabin set off to the side. We all troop inside and my apprehension returns when Whit locks the door behind us. I tense immediately, assuming they intend to make good on their claim tonight, right here in this cabin.

  Chapter 3

  Instead, they seat themselves at a small table and politely invite me to join them. I relax somewhat and obligingly take a seat across from them. I had been too anxious to notice at first, but now I see that there is a loaf of bread on the table; the outside is the color of chestnuts and it smells faintly of molasses. My stomach growls and I realize that I haven’t eaten all day. I’m ravenous. Whit gestures to the bread, raising an inquiring eyebrow over cornflower blue eyes. I nod eagerly and he pulls out a knife, serrated on one side and flat on the other, which he uses to cut a slab of the bread. The inside is pale, almost white. He hands it to me and I indelicately inhale it. Wordlessly, he cuts off another piece and offers it to me.

  They must be hungry too, but they aren’t eating. I wonder if the bread is poisoned but I’m too hungry to care at this point and I’ve already eaten it so the damage would be done by now. Besides, it’s delicious, somehow heavy and soft at the same time with a curious malty flavor in the crust. They exchange significant glances as I swallow the last bites. It seems like they’re hesitating, as though they need to tell me something and are apprehensive about my response. What could they possibly have to be afraid of? They have all the power in this arrangement!

  Ian lifts his hands to his neck and begins untying the knot on his bandana. Whit follows suit. Are they worried that I’ll find them ugly? I’ve never known a man to be self-conscious about his features…As their faces are revealed, I’m struck by the smoothness of their cheeks. Are they very young?

  “My birth name was actually not ‘Ian’ It was ‘Ann.’”

  I stare at Ian, now Ann, trying to make sense of the words, as Whitmore adds, “my name was always ‘Whit,’ but I’m also a woman. Please don’t be alarmed.”

  Alarmed isn’t the word; I am shocked. “But…but…I don’t understand. You bought my hand in marriage. I’m a woman. So are both of you. What…?” I’m too confused to formulate a question.

  Whit takes pity on me and attempts to explain. “Everything we told you is true. We’re a community of retired soldiers. The part that we didn’t mention was that Ann and I were close friends when we were children. We played rough. We were boyish. At twelve years old we cut our hair, stole some clothes, and enlisted. We looked like boys, nobody knew that we were girls for months. By the time they realized, they already thought of us as soldiers. The men we served with came to accept us because we fought at their sides. We’d all saved each other’s lives too many times for them to treat us any differently than they treated each other. After getting out of the army, we all decided to form a community here. We’d seen enough war and violence and wanted to create a safe haven, somewhere to settle down, raise our children, and maintain our ties to each other. We’re like a family. That’s why we share wives. The general rule here is two men for each woman. Most of the men prefer to marry virgins. Me and Ann are less particular about that but, in order to bid on you, they had to believe that we were men, with the same preferences as all men.”

  Ian, no, Ann, is watching my reaction closely. seeing that I’m still confused, she fills in the piece I’m most baffled by. “We are women, yes, but we have the tastes and preferences of men. Do you understand?” She looks at me keenly as she says this, letting the heat of her gaze land fully upon me, lingering on my throat and the swell of my breasts. I feel myself color and she chuckles softly. “I see that you do.”

  Whit also smiles at my response. “I know this is a shock. You have tonight to think things through, come to terms with it. Tomorrow, your training will begin.”

  Before they leave, Whit and Ann make sure that I have food and water, a bedpan, and a clean nightgown. I especially appreciate the last item. It feels wonderful to slide something soft and clean over my body. They even provide a pail of water and a cloth with which to wash myself. As I scrub the travel grit off my face and hands, I also scrape away layers of fear and shame accrued over the past two days. By the time I’m finished, my skin is pink, the water is cloudy, and I feel human again.

  The bed in the corner is small and clean, with a modest pine frame. A red and white quilt with a simple pinwheel pattern is folded neatly atop the bedspread. I wonder if the quilt was stitched by one of the soldiers’ wives. Somehow, I can’t picture either Whit or Ann quilting. My mind is swirling with thoughts. I’ve never met anybody like them.

  Though I am exhausted, and the snug little bed is calling my name, I lie awake for a long time puzzling over Whit and Ann, my new “husbands.” I did not want to be married off but it never occurred to me that I could be married off to a woman, never mind two! I don’t know how I feel about that. Now that the shock is wearing off somewhat, I admit to myself that I am relieved. The thought of another strange man putting his hands on me fills me with dread. But I don’t feel that kind of dread when I think about Whit or Ann touching me. It makes my heart pound, though, to think of it. I don’t know why.

  Up until yesterday, I had lived a sheltered life. But my impression was that most men are revolting. They smell like sweat and tobacco and force themselves on women who aren’t under another man’s protection. Living with Josh I saw how even handsome, charming men use their power to take what they want from women, giving little in return. I always assumed that one day I would marry one because that is expected. I hoped to find a nice-looking man, perhaps one who would bathe before taking his pleasure of me. But marriage between women…

  What does that mean? Do Ann and Whit really want to love me as a husband loves his wife? Do they expect me to love them? To lay with them as husband and wife? I remember the way that Ann rested her eyes on me here in this room, only hours before, and blush again, now alone in my room. I fall asleep with the image of Ann’s piercing blue eyes floating behind my closed lids.

  Chapter 4

  In the morning, I wake gradually, unsure where I am. It isn’t home. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell that the light is wrong. I can hear a bird singing lustily outside my window and distant voices as people emerge from their burrows. The sound of feet crunching gravel outside my little cabin wakes me up completely and I remember everything about the strange circumstances in which I now find myself. I have been purchased by two women who dress like men and were soldiers together. They are best friends and they intend to share me; and this strange fact, aside from their femaleness, is the norm here at Bridgewater Ranch.

  The footsteps stop outside of my door and knuckles rap softly to alert me of their imminent intrusion. I rise quickly and smooth my nightgown demurely across my knees. Oh yes, my “training” begins today. I’m not sure what that means but I’m expecting something sexual in nature. I lick dry lips and take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever, or whoever, is coming. The door opens and Whit steps in. Yes, I had been right in my analysis yesterday. Whit is the spokesman, the people person.

  Now that I know that she is a woman, I wonder how I didn’t see it before. The mask, of course, hid most of her face and perhaps her height threw me off. She’s
taller than most women and her shoulders are broad. But her wide blue eyes are merry under thick, dark blond lashes and her cheeks and throat look as smooth and tender as a peach. She has strong features; high cheekbones and wide, full lips. Standing in the morning sunlight streaming in the open door, the word ‘handsome’ comes to mind. I’m surprised that I’m capable of thinking of another woman as handsome, but Whit is unmistakably handsome.

  “Good morning, Emma. Did you sleep well?” I nod shyly and she continues, “As I mentioned yesterday, your training begins today. I’d like for you to get to know the other wives here at the ranch. They’ll be kind to you, I promise. Learn from them. We help each other here. We do chores together and work as a team. Everybody has skills to offer and we try to allow individuals the freedom to play to their strengths. But you must contribute something; is that understood?”

  I nod again hesitantly. “I don’t know that I have any skills” I admit in a whisper.

  “You may not have found them yet, but I am certain that you will. There are always chores. Perhaps you can help with the washing, mending, or cooking. Don’t be afraid. The others will be happy to teach you what they know; anything you can learn to do will lighten their own loads.” Whit smiles encouragingly and I feel reassured. She has a nice smile, I see, now that the mask is gone.

  “So…that’s the ‘training’ you were talking about?

  “That’s part of it. You will spend the first half of the day learning from the women here. You will learn about the culture of the ranch and how we operate. You will take your evening meals with me and Ann. This will allow us to get to know each other better.” Whit is watching my face intently to see how I’m taking this information. Apparently satisfied with my comprehension, she adds in a seemingly offhand manner, “and you’ll spend your nights with us, separately. Tonight, you will be sharing my bed. Tomorrow, you will be sharing Ann’s bed.”