I led my horse into his quarters. It smelled of hay and cedar. De Silva stuck his head around the corner. “It is settled. Your room is ready.”
“That was fast.”
“I keep a small staff here. They take care of things. Please, follow me.”
De Silva’s boots clomped along the wide floorboards. I squinted with the shift from dim to bright and followed the Spaniard in silence, still holding Emmaline close to my chest. Her legs dangled, knocking gently against my side.
We walked along a stone path through a formal garden of boxwoods pruned into odd shapes. Fantastical, as Emmaline would point out if she were awake. I missed her running narrative, her enraptured view of the world. I stared at her closed eyes and imagined what she would say. Her fascination with mermaids. Fish. Flowers. Childish things that smacked of magic.
Through her eyes, the world was magical again.
Dear Emmaline, you have to be all right.
De Silva led us to a door of sliding glass, recessed under a canopy of copper. At the clap of his hands, the glass slid aside. Heat from inside mingled with the crisp cool of the fall morning. He trooped along a vaulted corridor streaked with light that fell on a thick wooden door. It was padlocked. De Silva pulled out a fat ring of keys and inserted one into the lock. The door yawned into a cavernous circular room where glass-and-steel stairs wound upward and disappeared.
Was De Silva our jailer? Or our savior?
He swept his arms through the opening. “Welcome, my friend. Your suite of rooms awaits you, two floors above.”
Emmaline rustled in my arms as we ascended the turret. “Is this Rapunzel’s house?” She yawned, and her head lolled against my chest, unconscious once again. I tried to recall the Rapunzel story. A princess trapped in a tower. Her only escape a wily prince and her torrent of golden hair.
I was no royal. And, I had already cut the princess’s shiny locks. I twisted a clipped curl around one finger and hoped we’d be all right. De Silva was taking us to a respite.
Or to our mutual end.
When a ringing telephone ricocheted through the corridor and up the stairs, De Silva stopped, and I nearly collided with him. He looked back before making a slight bow and slipping past us. “Last door on the left. Uno momento.” His boots clipped along glass and marble as he hurried back the way we came.
I dithered. Eavesdrop on De Silva or continue alone? His voice wafted up the stairs, and it made up my mind to wait.
Holding my breath, I weighed De Silva’s words.
“It is just as likely one of your toy soldiers shot him, no?” De Silva’s voice dripped with disdain. He listened for a few beats and cut in again. “I am certain you do not, but in any case, I have seen no one fitting that description.” De Silva was a practiced liar. “I will be in and out today. If I come across anyone, I will consider your request, Señor.”
I’d heard enough. The Judge was looking for us. That much was clear.
De Silva joined us a few moments later. He studied me, and I fought the urge to squirm. Emmaline lifted her head and smiled at the Spaniard. “You’re a nice man.”
His face melted. “Ah, beautiful girl. Good to see you awake.”
I cleared my throat. “I know I should explain—”
“Not now. Her health is more important, yes?” De Silva’s black eyes sparkled. He continued down the hallway and stopped in front of a door of carved wood. When I looked closer, each panel depicted an intricate hunting scene. He grasped a lever. “The entrance to your rooms.”
I turned and almost stumbled as De Silva pushed us through a doorway into a white room bathed in light. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, their panes criss-crossed with jail-like ironwork. When he followed us inside and closed the door, I didn’t miss the click of the lock.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I always detested enclosed spaces. A stifling office or the front berth in a keelboat. Perhaps that’s why I was the kind of leader who always chose the field. People usually found me patrolling the streets of New Orleans or galloping over the countryside. The front lines were the best place to demonstrate my mettle, to avoid situations that boxed me in.
In Nowhere, I retained my sense of self-preserving claustrophobia. Surprise was the best way to keep an underling in line. I used it often, but not too often. People reveal their basest selves when they’re allowed to relax. To believe themselves invincible. Security makes a man slipshod. Slow.
I never had the luxury of feeling secure. Not while I lived.
Not now, in this grimy motel room in a town more forgotten than it was when it was settled. I rode through it once, on my way to Richmond on a mission to clear my name. Pioneers buzzed around my horse, awed by my uniform bedecked with gold braid and my cougar skin saddle blanket. I walked my mount down the street just outside this window, and people followed me. Transfixed.
Of course, my journey was a success.
But, I never imagined I’d be back here, holed up in pitiful room that reeked of moth balls and mold, dueling a pen against the tremor in my hand. The hand that touched my Ann. For a brief gift of seconds, I held her again. I could still feel her skin burn into mine.
God, how I missed her.
Water smeared paper. I wadded another effort into a ball and cast it aside. No subordinate could receive a letter from James Wilkinson and suspect him of crying.
I took out a clean piece of parchment, and I steadied my hand.
And, I started again.
Dear Sir, I wrote. Herewith you will find my instructions on a pressing matter………
THIRTY-NINE
He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. Handsomer than Daddy, even. He ran his hand along my forehead, and I didn’t feel all better right then, but I knew I would.
“I’ve never had a handsome man doctor.” I tried to make my voice sound stronger than I felt.
“I am no doctor, but I am here to take care of you.” His eyes moved from mine to Merry’s, and when he talked, his voice was musical, like Daddy’s, but with a funny accent.
Merry carried me into a ginormous bedroom, all white, with a frilly canopy bed. When he set me down, the mattress came up to his waist, and it was firm with silky covers. I always wanted a canopy bed in my room, but my mother wouldn’t allow it. I sunk into softness and thought about the other things I wanted before I ran: to wear Levi’s instead of frilly dresses (good); to see the world outside of New Orleans (mostly good); to find Daddy (excellent).
Anyway.
I knew it would be, when we found him.
Merry stroked hair out of my face with his rough fingers. “I’ve been worried about you, Em. Good to see you’re feeling more yourself.”
“What happened? I only remember little bits. Loud voices. The whole tent fell down and—and the Judge was there, wasn’t he?”
“Ssh. Let’s not relive it just now. It’ll get you all worked up again.”
The man—Mister De Silva—he came in and stood next to Merry. He cleared his throat, and Merry moved aside and let him get closer to me. I almost squealed when took my arm and pressed my wrist with his fingers. They were strong and cool. He looked at his watch and counted with his lips, but he didn’t make any sound. When he finished, he smiled, and I felt my face turn red. “I will help you sit up, yes?”
He put his hands under me, and when he helped me up, I got a little dizzy. He steadied me and listened to my heart from the back, and even though it was beating really fast, I took the biggest breaths I could. I tried not to bite down on the thermometer he stuck in my mouth, because Aunt Bertie told me it had something poisonous in it that would be bad for me to swallow. Instead, I watched the shapes the sun made through the filmy curtains. Like clouds on the floor and up the walls. After he peered down my throat with a popsicle stick, he smiled. “All done.”
“It’s shock, right? Just as I thought.�
�� Merry watched from the end of the bed, twisting his hat in his hands.
“Her temperature is a bit high, but it is nothing serious. How long were you outside?”
Merry looked at the ceiling, counting the time in his mind or trying to decide what to tell him. I didn’t know which. He finally looked at Mister De Silva again. “Several days.”
“This child is badly sunburned and mildly dehydrated. Exposure, aggravated by the shock of a sudden fright. The boar, or something just before, yes? She needs rest—several days’ worth—and she must recuperate indoors.”
I sat up. “But—”
“Unbelievable. Just what sort of parent are you—”
I tugged at Mister De Silva’s sleeve. “But—”
“I do not understand why you would drag this child through the woods for days, without proper hydration, adequate food, ample clothing or even a first aid kit. On a single horse. Could you not even take time to put together some supplies?”
Merry opened his mouth to talk, but Mister De Silva held up his hand. “I do not want to hear it. I ordered some juice from the kitchen, and my cook will prepare her a decent meal. She must stay quiet tonight. You will remain with us for several days, until she is fully—”
“No!” I jumped to my knees, and even though my legs were stiff and sore and the room wobbled a little, I crawled toward Merry. “We have to leave tomorrow, at the latest. We have to. Merry, tell him we have to.”
Merry’s eyes were glassy when he looked at me. “De Silva’s right, Em. I’ve put you through a lot these past few days, more than most adults would have the mettle for. You need to rest.”
“No. No. Daddy will be waiting for me. On Wednesday, he’ll be there.” I knew it was a mistake as soon as I said it. Merry rubbed his face with one hand, and Mister De Silva put his hands on his hips. His voice was tight when he spoke, and his nostrils flared.
“You said you were the girl’s father.”
I looked from Mister De Silva to Merry and back, and I knew I had to do something, something really big, to save us, to keep Mister De Silva from telling anybody where we were, to get me to my daddy. I opened my mouth.
And I spoke the truth.
His eyes got big when I stood on the bed and told them about Daddy, about how much I missed him, about how I hadn’t seen him in forever. I told him about my mother and her men and the Judge, and how she made me serve tea and show off my chest and talk to them. When I got to the part about how I got away from the Judge, Mister De Silva’s mouth dropped open. I hugged Merry and told Mister De Silva how he found me in the rain, and we ran away from the Judge and his men, all the way to the river. I told him about the Mardi Gras floats and Mister Jim’s boat and about how I wanted powder blue Levi corduroy pants and pink rubber bands, and Merry bought them for me with a two dollar bill I wrote a message to Daddy on. I told him about Mister Jack’s birds and doughnuts with cinnamon and the man in the doorway of the bus, about the swamp and the alligator, and all the muster, and how the Judge showed up and kept calling me ‘Ann.’ I didn’t remember much after that. Their voices were all a bunch of noise in my mind. I told him my mother was dead because Merry saw it in the paper, and I didn’t know where Aunt Bertie was.
“So, you see. I have to be in Nashville on Wednesday. I know Daddy will be there, waiting for me.”
When I finished, I was standing in the middle of the bed on wobbly legs. I got so worked up telling our story that I didn’t know I’d been jumping, and covers and pillows were strewn every which way. I tried to calm down by crossing my legs and plopping to the mattress while I waited for Mister De Silva to say something.
He rubbed his temples and squinted. “Unbelievable. You will write novels someday.”
I couldn’t read Merry’s face, but I hoped he was proud of me. Mister De Silva took a couple of steps toward Merry. “This story is true?”
“I sure couldn’t make it up.”
“Did you shoot a man at the muster? The person on the telephone earlier said you did.”
Merry turned away and walked to the window. “I don’t know how I could have, but the whole thing got kind of jumbled at the end. When I saw Wilkinson—the Judge—and his weapon, I knew I had to get us out of there. I grabbed a gun and shot out the support for the tent, and I think there might have been some other gunplay as it fell. I know I didn’t fire again. I was too afraid I’d hit Em, but I don’t think I hit anyone else, either. At least, I hope I didn’t.”
I scrambled to the edge of the bed, next to Mister De Silva. He scratched his beard. I could almost see the wheels and levers turning in his brain. Some people thought really loud. He jerked his head and stepped over to the window, next to Merry, and put his hand on Merry’s back. “I will help you, my friend. Between us, we will decide the best way to get you to Nashville by Wednesday.”
He slapped Merry on the back and strutted to the door. When he closed it, Merry sat on the bed beside me, and I snuggled next to him.
“Merry. While I was asleep, I had the best dream.”
“I’m surprised you can remember your dreams, as out of it as you were.”
“Well, I remember it all. I dreamed that Daddy was waiting for us in Nashville, right where I thought he would be, and I was wearing a Wonder Twin costume, and you got to live with us in Nashville, because you became his very best friend ever, because he was so glad you brought me to him he didn’t want you to leave.” I tugged on Merry’s jacket and pulled my face closer to his, until our foreheads and noses touched, and my eyes almost crossed. “I don’t want you to leave me, Merry. Not ever.”
I hoped Merry didn’t want to leave me, either. My brain screamed the words for him. I’ll be with you forever, Emmaline Cagney. Forever and always.
His voice sounded clogged. “When you see your father, you’ll forget all about me, Em.”
“No! I won’t ever ever ever forget you! I won’t!”
He ran his fingers along my cheek, and I relaxed and snuggled into him. His chin moved on top of my head when he talked. “When I was nine, I thought I’d remember everything forever, too, Em. But, time robs us of a lot of the things we thought we’d miss for life, things that seemed important at the time. Critical, even. Life compresses our circumstances into highlights.”
I fought the tears that pressed against the backs of my eyes. My voice quivered, but I didn’t cry. “Well, you will always be a highlight in my life, Merry. I know it.”
“I hope so, Em. Just like you will always be a highlight in mine.”
I thought back over everything that had happened since I ran, and I remembered almost all of it. But when I tried to recall my room in New Orleans, I could only see things that mattered: toys on the floor; the fan in the window; my Marie Osmond comb. Merry was right about the highlights. I couldn’t even see the details of my mother’s face anymore.
I pulled my head from under his and looked up at him. The skin under his eyes was dark, like somebody hit him. “Do you think my mother knows where I am? If she’s dead, can she see me?”
“Do you want her to be able to see you?”
I sat up taller and burrowed between his arm and his chest to hide my face and think. Did I want her to see me? She wouldn’t like anything I’d done. My dirty fingernails and my shorter hair were the person I’d become. More the girl I wanted to be. “Do you think she is nicer now that she’s gone?”
“Who knows, Em? Maybe dying improves some people.”
“I want to think she’s nicer. That she would protect me and love me and watch over me. That she would want me to find Daddy.” My voice broke at the end, and I scratched at my eyes while Merry stroked my hair. I tried to memorize what it felt like to be that close to him.
“If that’s the way you want things to be, Em, then believe that’s the way they are.”
“I don’t think my mother was good to me, Merry, but I didn’
t want her to die.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“I want to talk to her one more time, to tell her I’m going to be okay, that Daddy will take care of me.”
He guided my face up to see his. His eyes were sparkly blue. “What’s your favorite memory of your mother, Em?”
“I used to watch her brush her hair. She had a hairbrush with pearls on the back, and she tugged it through her long black hair. It was so shiny and pretty when she finished. Sometimes, she would pull me to her and wrap me in her soft wall of hair. She looked at us in her vanity mirror and called me her beautiful girl. I want to hear her call me her beautiful girl again. Just once.”
I cried for real, then. Not like a baby or a spoiled brat. My tears came from somewhere older. More mature. It was the first time I really understood that my mother was gone, that death stopped everything. The only way I could change her was in my mind, my memories. I wanted to remember something happy, to wash her clean and make her good. She could live forever, or at least, as long as me.
If I thought about it hard enough, maybe I could convince myself it was true.
FORTY
Monday. October 10, 1977. South of Tupelo, Mississippi.
I didn’t know why I scratched at the pages of my journal. Was it a tick, held over from life? A constant reminder of my failure to publish my expedition journals? Delusional hope that I would get to keep a scrap of memory from failure to Nowhere failure?
I rubbed my eyes and looked around me. Started to write what I saw.
I couldn’t help myself.
Hector De Silva’s truck was a rusty red farm model, and a behemoth at that. Through the vents, I breathed in a mingling of engine oil and rubber. Emmaline slept with her head in my lap. I put my arm around her to keep her from bumping too much.
Hector’s battered leather suitcase shifted in the bed of the truck, next to our duffel bag of new supplies. It was kind of him to put together enough to see us the rest of the way.
To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriwether Lewis Page 17