The Bones of Paradise

by Jonis Agee

  Graver climbed down, unhooked the check reins, and tied the team to the railing. With a pat to each wide neck, he turned, and seemed uncertain whether to help her down. She solved the crisis by opening the knee-high door, unfolding the three steps with a shove of her boot toe, and descending with her skirts held above her feet the required six inches. Her mother would be proud that all the money spent on private tutoring had produced a lady able to exit a carriage on her own, even though she then stepped squarely into a cow patty with both feet, breaking through the dried crust to the green slop beneath. Only by the grace of God was she able to maintain her balance. When she laughed, Graver visibly relaxed and held out his hand, which she gratefully accepted.

  She turned to her sons, who still sat on their horses watching the activity. They were half-grown children, she thought, what harm could find them here? “Boys, be back here in two hours. I’ll need your help then.”

  Hayward nodded nervously and glanced at his brother. Cullen shrugged and dismounted.

  “Take care of the horses,” she said to Graver, who rolled his lips and nodded. “I have a few errands.”

  Graver stared at his boots an infuriatingly long time, then nodded again and turned toward the store.

  “Where are you going?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew the tone was all wrong.

  “Vera gave me a list.” He smiled unexpectedly and her mouth responded before she could control it. He wasn’t afraid of her. He wasn’t even interested in keeping a job with her. Maybe Drum was right. Maybe he was the killer. Dulcinea noticed that Rose watched him closely from the back of the runabout, where she still sat, posed like a visiting dignitary.

  When she entered, the store assaulted her senses in a multitude of ways—first it was the riot of stink, the high crafty stench of a half circle of pale cheese the size of a wagon wheel, the myriad smells of harsh black bars of store soap and braids of garlic so old the dust hung in long strands as if the gray-white bulbs wept, barrels of apples and squash and potatoes with the rich scent of ripeness turning to rot, the dry stale odors from bins of flour and rice and beans and sugar, the acrid aroma of coffee beans, the half-rancid layer of lard and butter and milk left too long in the warm room, the damp ashes in the stove, the deep-smoked grease of bacon and ham strung on rope that had begun to carry the green hue of the molding skin rind, the thinner, sharper tang of sausage loops that spanned the corner of the meat counter like Christmas tree strands, the rich shine of the brown-red casings decorative against the drab browned plaster walls.

  In the women’s goods, a thin layer of cheap perfume hung in the air, a too-sweet idea of flowers that clung to the nose and mouth, competing with the odor of bran mash, straw, and hot downy bodies from the feed area, where the baby chicks, goslings, and ducks were corralled in separate pens, crowding and cheeping in the corner under the heat of kerosene light. She leaned over and inhaled the manure-and-mash smell, reached down and cupped a downy black chick and brought it squirming to her face. It flapped and protested, its tiny eye blinking furiously as it paddled the air, and stabbed its beak at her fingers. She cooed and stroked its head until its eyes drooped sleepily, then held its body against her cheek, closed her eyes, and she was there, that first spring when J.B. brought the chicks home from town in a wooden box he had wrapped in burlap against the cold—fifteen chicks, and she insisted they keep them in the corner of the kitchen where it was warm. She never minded their stink, because she never tired of watching them chase each other until they collapsed in a heap in the corner of the pen, eyes squeezed tight against the light, tiny chests pumping slowly in and out. She wanted to make them her pets, to press that plump downy ball into the hollow of her neck and feel the soft search of its tongue against the underside of her chin—but the coyotes and snakes took every one as soon as they put them outside. For the next batch they built a coop and a large pen to contain them until they were grown and smart enough to be turned loose. They only lost five of those. Were the chickens now at the ranch descendants of those survivors?

  Near the implements she noted the source of the oily smell that put a sheen over the whole store—the leather, guns, shovels and rakes and hoes, the spools of chain and rope and wire all wore it: saddles, harness, strap goods, boots and shoes, even the long waxed coats shared it—the odor of preservation, of what it took to keep their lives out here, if not smoothly, then at least withstanding. It had been so long since any of this mattered to her that she wanted to pause, run her fingers over the goods, and let the rich scent soak into her skin.

  Suddenly, the indefinable spice of her husband after a day of hard work, the heavy sweet sweat that smelled so intimate it could be coming from her own body. She turned abruptly, and Graver was watching her, his arms spread across the aisle, hands resting on the plank shelves. She blushed and dropped her eyes, opened her mouth to speak and found the words had disappeared. In the dimness, he looked ever so slightly like J.B. Nonsense, she chided herself and blinked away the tears.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  At the post office window tucked in the back corner of the store, Dulcinea loaded Graver’s arms with packages and directed him to the runabout, but as he stepped off the plank walk, the stack began to slide. He felt like an inept clown juggling parcels while a couple on the walk watched the spectacle.

  A tall, narrow dog sauntered over, sniffed a box lying in the muck, licked his chops, daintily picked up an edge in his teeth, and turned to run.

  “That’s my chocolates! Here, give that back!” Dulcinea shouted at the dog, a black-and-white long-haired creature with a whiplike tail and jutting hips. It turned to stare at the commanding figure on the walk, and with eyes down, ambled over, hesitated in front of Dulcinea, and then carefully placed the box at her feet. Only then did the dog look up, its red-rimmed, watery eyes hopeful. Dulcinea stared back for a full minute before bending to retrieve the package with one hand while she stretched out the other to let the dog sniff her fingers.

  It leapt onto the boardwalk with an awkward, shambling grace, more akin to grasshopper than deer, and immediately sat with its head at her waist, tongue lolling as it opened its jaws in a happy, panting grin, eyes bright, tail thumping a steady rhythm like a person knocking on the door to a house.

  “Why, he’s somebody’s dog! He’s such a good boy, aren’t you, aren’t you a good boy?” Dulcinea cooed and rubbed his head, cupping each ear in her hand and massaging with slow, circular motions that brought groans of appreciation from deep within the animal.

  “I’m afraid he was someone’s dog,” a tall stranger paused to remark. “A family of homesteaders who returned to Missouri last month. Dog couldn’t keep up with the wagon. Sore leg. They weren’t of a mind to pack him in with the kids and furniture, so they tied him up outside of town and left him. He’s been living high on the hog, as you can see.” The stranger gestured toward the ribs that sprang out when the animal sat.

  Graver deposited the packages in the empty back of the runabout, stepped up to the walk, and brushed at the dirt on his trousers.

  A Mormon ranch family edged by the group, turning their heads to stare even when they were well past. The woman and her daughter wore old-fashioned sunbonnets and the group dressed entirely in black and white. Behind them came a Negro couple, the man in a carefully fitted dark blue suit, the woman a sky-blue gown. Dulcinea stared openly at the passersby.

  “Every color and faith out here. Live and let live, I say.” The stranger lifted his hat and resettled it.

  She studied him for a moment, then returned her attention to the dog. She was going to keep him, Graver realized, and the stranger seemed reluctant to move along.

  “Percival Chance, ma’am, attorney-at-law.” He bowed slightly and touched the brim of his gray cowboy hat. The pants and coat sleeves of his black western-cut suit were shiny, threadbare at the edges, and the once-white shirt a dingy gray. The leather of his black-polished boots was so worn, there was a brown undercast to the shine, and t
he soles were thin as cardboard. Must not be much money in lawyering, Graver decided.

  Dulcinea nodded. “Mrs. J. B. Bennett.”

  The lawyer glanced at the riding costume she wore instead of a black mourning dress. “My apologies, Mrs. Bennett. May I extend my condolences?”

  She tipped her head. “You may do anything you’d like, Mr. Chance, but I thought Mr. Rivers was the only lawyer in town.”

  Chance’s fair, handsome features tightened, his skin stretched over the sharp cheekbones and fine straight nose. “It’s a mistake I am correcting.”

  Graver studied his face, the sardonic mouth, almost smug with secret amusement at the world’s expense. Maybe he was being too hard on the man, but he could not shake the sense they’d met before, and that it hadn’t been an altogether pleasant encounter.

  Dulcinea patted the dog a little too hard on the head. To his credit, the animal merely squinted and flattened his ears. “If you’ll fashion a collar and leash for him, Mr. Graver, and tie him in the runabout. Wait, here, use this.” She unclasped the buckle and slid the belt from her waist in a single motion, while the men stared, and wrapped it twice around the dog’s neck and fastened it. “And now a leash. Maybe a piece of harness? I’m taking him home. Can you go ask the storekeeper for some meat scraps and a bone?”

  Dulcinea turned to the lawyer. “Since my husband used Rivers, perhaps it would be best for me to hire you instead. Do you have an office?”

  He tipped his head to the right and they walked past the Emporium to the next building, where his rented office was a small, stuffy room on the first floor, divided from a patent medicine retailer and dentist by a flimsy wall that forced both men to conduct their business in melodramatic whispers.

  Dulcinea paused in front of the open door Chance held and glanced back at Graver. “Will you complete the order at the Emporium and meet me at the livery stable?” She gazed at the dog, who watched her with growing love in its eyes. Then, as if realizing the two boys had been missing and quiet for some time, she looked down the street, stared at the door to the beer parlor. “And find the boys. We’ll need them at the stable.” She picked up her skirt and swept through the doorway.

  Inside the Emporium Graver found the bolts of fabric Vera had requested; noting the array of colors and textures, he fingered the plush velvets. His wife, Camellia, came to mind, how pretty she’d been when they’d first met at a soiree. She’d worn lilac silk and velvet, a complicated dress that favored her wide hips and narrow waist and small bosom—and she smelled like a heady, sweet flower, her namesake, she’d told him with a laugh. She’d always preferred pale shades that complemented her white-blond hair and skin that burned in the harsh prairie sun as soon as she’d left her parasols and broad-brimmed hats behind in Kentucky. After they came west, it burned over and over until only the raw red skin remained, even in winter, and her fine hair turned brittle, lifeless. When she died she was like a locust shell, the remains left behind after her real self crawled away. He vowed that day he’d never remarry, and never again bring children into a world that would kill them as easily as flies.

  He searched his pockets for the lists from Vera and Dulcinea, whose paper irritated him with its sweet perfume, and he held it between two fingers, away from his body as he walked. Everything about that woman irritated. Scented paper. French soap. Boxes of chocolates. Marshall Field’s, when they had a perfectly good wish book from Sears, Roebuck. She wouldn’t last, he concluded, though a nagging buzz in the back of his head said she might. So far she’d proven herself tougher than most women who lost a husband and had a man like Drum Bennett to deal with. He smiled at the way the old man raised her hackles.

  “I cannot sell goods to you if you insist on coming through the front door. I told you to come round back, hand me your list, and wait by the steps.” Haven Smith, the store owner, had to look up to stare into the bland face of the man beside Rose. A Southern Methodist preacher with a tendency to thump the Bible he kept by his register when all else failed to impress, Haven stood only five feet four inches and had the poor luck of never convincing a woman to leave Kansas City for the fortune of life in the Sand Hills. Now he took his loneliness out on everyone, especially Indians and homesteaders, whose poverty was a sure sign of disgrace in the eyes of the Lord, at least that was how he preached it to his congregation on Wednesday nights and Sundays.

  The Indian pushed the scrap of packing paper, covered with thick letters scrawled with what appeared to be the burnt end of a stick, toward the white man and muttered a word Graver couldn’t hear.

  The storekeeper clenched and unclenched his fists and made no move to pick up the paper. The Indian had exceptionally large hands with powerful fingers. His face was puffy as if from drink, but the small determined mouth, stern eyes, and square jaw suggested he was not a man prone to weakness.

  “I’m not touching that filthy thing,” Haven Smith growled and shook his head, the gray hair curled in tight, possessive knots, glittering in the poor light of the store.

  Graver stepped forward, leaning around Rose, who stood with head high, her shoulders wrapped in a black-and-red shawl trimmed with ribbon work, elk teeth, and tiny bells, and then reached over the head of the small girl who accompanied them, whose eyes were fastened on a jar of candy sticks. Picking up the list, he held it under the lamp and read aloud the small necessities. Smith blinked through his smudged square glasses and did not move.

  The storekeeper ignored Graver and fixed his gaze on the Indians. “I told you to get out and come through the back there. Now git.” He started to turn, but Graver grabbed his arm.

  “You want the Bennett Ranch business, you fill this order right quick. These are Mrs. Bennett’s guests,” Graver spoke in a low voice, his lips near Smith’s ear. Then he picked up the man’s hand, shoved the paper into it, closed his fingers around it, and squeezed with his own until the man’s eyes watered, then released him. “Understand?”

  Smith shrugged, glared at Rose’s family, and stomped away to fill the order. It took a few minutes, during which Graver lifted three candy sticks from the big jar and handed them to the little girl, receiving a shy smile as reward. When Smith returned he opened his mouth to protest, then glanced at Graver and thought better of it.

  When the order was assembled and wrapped, the Indian reached for it, but Smith raised his finger and shook it like a schoolmaster at a child. “No no no.” He smiled. “You pay this time.” He swung his eyes to Graver and lifted his brow. “Unless your benefactor wishes to contribute something more. Sir?”

  Graver had nothing, which he suspected Smith knew, and wanted to back away, but couldn’t now. He’d overstepped. He could try to put it on the ranch account and repay it working without wages. Before he could suggest it, Smith said, “Ah, I thought not,” and pulled the order back across the counter.

  “I paid. I have credit here. That picture—” He tipped his head in the direction of the dusty penny postal picture cards that stood on the counter for travelers and hill folks.

  Smith smiled, the lamplight reflection on his glasses hiding his eyes, and leaving two burning holes. “Only one left. No more credit unless you take another. And this time, I want your wife and little girl, too. Indians are real popular now. Especially in fancy regalia, so bring that with you next time.”

  Graver pulled the postcard from the rack. The man was dressed as a chief with full eagle feather headdress. Over the front of his beaded shirt a bone bib hung from his neck past his waist, and around his hips a wide beaded belt with long streamers. He wore beaded leggings and moccasins, and a fine quill-trimmed blanket over one arm. At his neck he had tied a cowboy-style kerchief. The same determined face looked beyond the camera without a trace of embarrassment.

  “This does not include my family,” the man said. “And I think I will not be posing for more of your pictures.” He leaned toward Rose slightly and said something in the quick, husky syllables of their language. She lifted the beautiful shawl from her shoul
ders, revealing the shabby, stained blue man’s shirt she wore tucked into her patched skirt, which was held by a belt decorated with red, black, and yellow beaded stars on a white background. She laid the shawl on the counter without looking up to see the storekeeper’s greedy expression as he eyed her belt.

  “The belt, too, and we’ll call it even.”

  Rose murmured to her husband, who shook his head. Reluctantly, she untied the piece and set it on the counter next to the shawl, but kept her eyes on it. The little girl solemnly placed her candy sticks on the counter, too.

  “Get those dirty things off my counter.” Smith shoved them toward the child, who wouldn’t raise her eyes, and let them fall and shatter on the floor. The child’s chin quivered, but she remained quiet even as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Graver took a deep breath. “That’s enough.”

  Smith was enjoying himself. “Oh, and what is it you need?”

  Graver took the package and placed it in the Indian’s arms. Then he reached into the jar of candy and pulled out a handful of sticks and gave them to the child.

  “I hope you can pay for—”

  “That will do,” Graver said. “Put it on the Bennett account.” He placed Vera’s crumpled shopping list and the scented one on the counter. “And while you’re at it, fill these lists for Mrs. Bennett and load it into her buggy out front.”

  Under his watchful eye, Smith left to gather the items, weaving in and out of the many customers with questions. Graver went to inspect the ready-made spectacles in the second aisle, figuring he could use a pair for reading in the dim light of the bunkhouse, before wandering over to examine the slightly used clothing along the back wall.