The Whip

by Kondazian, Karen

  The women clucked their agreement.

  “Another example ladies, of this wanton shamelessness, is this article I’ve clipped, entitled, Lives of the Nymphs.” She proceeded to read in ecstatic voice:

  “We the Libertine newspaper, have pledged to keep a watchful eye on all brothels and their frail inmates. This sad tale is the story of a rich, successful courtesan, Amanda Green—the tall, full-formed daughter of a dressmaker, who was abducted by a man in a coach and plied with Champagne. At the crowing of the cock she was no more a maid. Abandoned by her gentleman abuser, she took up with a German piano tuner—after which there was no recourse but a life of open shame. May those who have not yet sinned, take warning by her example. She is very handsome. She resides at Mrs. Shannon’s, No. 74 West Broadway.”

  Some of the women tittered. A few others began coughing behind their cloth napkins.

  Charlotte was in the kitchen, pulling a baking sheet laden with golden brown biscuits out of the cast iron oven. The whole kitchen smelled of baking. It was toasty warm and inviting. A quiet peace prevailed. But then the silence was broken by the summoning ring of the dining room bell.

  Charlotte sighed; she’d become, over the years, a sigher. In a moment she pushed through the door into the dining room carrying the platter of biscuits. The women were still prattling on about the newspaper clippings. She began to serve each of them.

  “You see what happens when you polka,” said a woman smirking.

  “Bare arms. What is young womanhood coming to,” said another. “Never catch a proper man that way.”

  The majority of the women again clucked their agreement. A few sat buttering their rolls, eyes averted.

  Charlotte turned and took the empty serving platter back into the kitchen. She leaned against the frame of the kitchen back door—for she’d become, over the years, also a leaner against doorframes. She let the cool air bathe away the heat inside.

  Lee came around the side of the house, moving toward her with a lanky stride and the same smoldering eyes, which at the moment were looking a bit sheepish.

  Lee had lived some other places for six months or for a year or for two, and then was pulled by the gravitation of an unfinished fate, back to a shaggy orbit about Charlotte for six months or for a year or for two. Once he’d been gone much longer. When he came back, he mentioned a baby boy and a wife. But with no accompanying details or repeated mention of their existence, Charlotte was not altogether sure he was being truthful with her. She had also heard unsavory rumors that he had been living with another man.

  Despite her misgivings about his character and intentions, she always took him back into her life. Not sexually of course. She hadn’t let Lee touch her since that night so many years ago in the stable. She had loved him. She had been drawn to him. But somehow she had never trusted him. Her instincts, with a little help from Jonas of course, told her no good would come of it. But, Lee was the only person who knew her past, and with whom she’d traveled through time. And of course, for better or for worse, she realized he was the closest to family she might ever have in this lifetime.

  Referring to his feelings about her, Lee had once explained in a drunken ramble, “there’s a hand ain’t been played yet,” and raised a glass to an uncomprehending bartender in some nameless saloon.

  Charlotte watched him approach her now. He stood before her, head down, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “One of the horses is walking funny.”

  “I can’t keep doing your job for you. I’ve got my own work to do.”

  “It’s not for me, Char. For the horse. He’s suffering. And you’re so good at fixing ’em.”

  Charlotte glanced back at the pile of dirty dishes awaiting her. She let out a sigh, pushed past Lee and strode out towards the corral. Lee, behind her, smiled to himself.

  In the corral, she tried to examine the hoof on the horse. She saw that there was a nail embedded deep within. The appaloosa began to nip at her. Calming him, she realized that she should not try to fix the hoof by herself. She would need to take him to the farrier. She’d probably get in trouble from Mrs. Bidwell for leaving the dirty dishes. But, nothing to be done. The horse needed tending.

  Twenty-Three

  Charlotte led the limping horse by the halter, Lee trailing behind. They wound through the narrow back streets of Providence and then entered a series of smaller unpaved alleys. They were at the edge of town now. Stretching ahead of them was salt marshland, punctuated by quaggy islands of tough spartina grass and isolated clusters of tall broken reeds. A few gulls cried.

  There before them stood the blacksmith’s shop, a crude construction of rough boards. In front hung a hand-lettered sign:

  Byron Williams

  Farrier / Blacksmith

  “I hear this one’s good,” she said. “Better than the old farrier.”

  The horse snorted in pain. Charlotte stroked his side, whispering to him, “Sorry boy. It’s alright. We’re here now.”

  She handed the reins over to Lee and turned to leave. She should be back slicing beets for the boardinghouse supper. She should be shelling peas. But then she heard singing, a male voice accompanied by the rhythm of hammer on anvil. The sound rolled out of the shop on the still winter air. She had to see.

  Peering through the open doorway, she saw the blacksmith at work. His back and arms sweating as he bent over the coals—a young Negro man. He hadn’t noticed them arrive; he didn’t know they were standing there staring at him, so deep was his concentration.

  Lee yelled out. “Hey you. Byron Williams. Put a shirt on boy. There’s a lady here.”

  The blacksmith looked up, bewildered for an instant, someone startled out of a trance. In a moment though, he’d taken them both in: a man with the eyes of a hungry coyote, a woman with tight guarded eyes the color of lavender.

  “Got a horse out here with a limp,” Lee continued. “He’s got a nail in his hoof. Oh, and don’t get no ideas about taking advantage on price, boy. My sister here knows all there is to know about horses.”

  Charlotte’s face clouded with embarrassment. She stepped away from the door.

  Byron, suppressing his anger, reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. He grabbed some of his tools and went out to check on the horse. First thing he saw was Charlotte smiling at him in apology. Nodding his head, he accepted the apology. He knelt down next to the horse and turned the hoof up in his hands.

  The horse began to snort and jerk his head.

  Charlotte went around to the horse’s other side and began to stroke and calm him.

  In a moment Byron had spotted the problem.

  “You see there?” she said as she continued to quiet the horse. “The nail’s dug its way under the shoe. I didn’t want to fool with it.”

  He released the hoof and stood up, dusting down his pants. She smiled at him over the back of the horse. He smiled back and something invisible spread through the air between the two of them.

  Lee sensed it too, and it confused and enraged him. He had to stop it. Without thinking a moment longer he grabbed a pair of the blacksmith’s pliers, hunched down, seized the horse’s hoof, and clamped onto the head of the nail with the tool. In a fast abrupt motion he twisted and wrenched the nail out. The horse reared and screamed out in pain as Lee scrambled aside.

  “Lee!” shouted Charlotte in distress, shocked by his cruelty.

  Byron looked at him with undisguised disgust. He turned to the horse. “Easy, boy, easy,” he said, comforting him. He looked at Charlotte. “You’ll have to leave him for the day. You can come for him later.” He wouldn’t address the man at all. “I’ll be wanting to check that shoe and his foot.”

  “Thank-you. And I’m so sorry,” she said. Their eyes slid for a moment into contact. “I’ll come back for him after dinner.”


  Charlotte walked home ignoring Lee. He followed a few paces behind her. So much was working through him. He tried to resolve it by grabbing her from behind, his hands encircling her waist. He turned her around.

  “Come on Char. I didn’t mean to hurt the horse.” He leaned in to kiss her.

  She shook him off. “What are you doing? Leave me alone.”

  She was furious, walking faster, refusing even to turn to look at him.

  Lee let her go. He stopped in the dusty road, his face filling with shame and self-loathing. What the hell was wrong with him. He had to get a drink.

  So much was working through Charlotte too, though back at work she tended to lunch. She tended to dinner. She dutifully attended to her beets. She attended to her peas. She punched down the risen dough, divided it up into rolls, and put them in a large pan for the oven. She set the table, served the meals, and cleaned it up. She finished the washing up. She untied her apron, put on her hat and coat, and walked out the kitchen door to collect Mrs. B’s horse.

  Twenty-Four

  Byron had finished work for the day. He sat in his cabin, next to an oil lamp, a book open in his lap. He got up as he heard someone approaching and opened the door to see Charlotte walking towards him.

  “I came for the horse,” she said.

  He watched amused, as she strolled past him into the cabin. “Where’s your brother?” he said.

  “He’s not my brother. And sorry about earlier…he doesn’t understand how you treat horses.”

  “But you do?”

  “Horses are easy. It’s him I don’t always understand.”

  He smiled and picked up his book, Emerson’s Essays, from the table, turning several pages until he found what he was looking for. He began to read to her:

  It seems as if heaven has sent its insane angels into our world as to an asylum, and here they will break out in their native music and utter at intervals the words they have heard in heaven; then the mad fit returns and they mope and wallow like dogs.

  “I guess he’s right about the mad dog part,” Charlotte said. “Lee’s been run out of near every town he ever set foot in. But I’ve never heard him utter words heard in heaven. He’s more one for words heard in hell.”

  Byron chuckled. “I’ll get your horse, Miss…?”

  “Parkhurst.”

  Outside in the shadows Lee stood alongside the blacksmith’s shop. He watched Charlotte and Byron come out of the cabin and walk over to the small fenced-in area where the horses were kept.

  Byron untied Mrs. Bidwell’s appaloosa. “The foot will be fine. I put a special salve of wool fat oil on it. You’ll need to continue putting it on his foot for about a week. So it doesn’t get infected. Keep an eye on it, and go easy on him. Don’t go ridin’ him for a few weeks. Let it heal.”

  Charlotte nodded. She stood there next to Byron, stroking the horse, scuffling her feet in the dirt.

  “You know I shouldn’t have said that about Lee. He’s as close as I come to having family in this world. There is good in him—at least there used to be. Guess it’s kind of hard to see, sometimes.”

  Byron handed her the reins and a small tin of salve for the horse. He smiled, gazing at her. His smile was shy, warm, complicated.

  She felt self-conscious, out of breath. “Oh, almost forgot. How much do we owe you for fixin’ him up?”

  “A quarter’ll be fine.”

  She handed him the money. “Thank-you again…for fixin’ him up…and I very much enjoyed the poem you read…and I… it was nice to talk to you.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, Miss Parkhurst.”

  Reins in hand, she hurried away.

  Lee stayed in the shadows until Byron had gone inside; then he stepped out to track Charlotte safely home.

  Twenty-Five

  The following afternoon, Charlotte came out of the general store, her arms laden with groceries. As she passed a tiny bookshop she saw, displayed in the front window, copies of Charles Dickens’ newest serial novel, Dealings with the Firm of Dombey & Son: Wholesale, Retail and for Exportation, and also, copies of Emerson’s Essays, volumes one and two. She took a few more steps then stopped, checked her coin purse, turned, and went into the bookshop.

  Back at the boarding house she sat at the utility table in the kitchen, poring over Emerson’s essays, lips moving to each word, finger moving slowly across the page. There were dirty dishes stacked all over the counter behind her. She heard a low melodious whistle but she ignored it and kept reading. Maybe he’d give up.

  But in a moment Lee entered through the back door, dressed in dirty work clothes. She continued to ignore him.

  He hovered near the door. “Hey, I know I did wrong by that horse yesterday,” he said. “Doing wrong by it, I did wrong by you, and I apologize.”

  She looked up from her book, her eyes softening.

  He continued, “I don’t know what I can say for myself, except, the way that Negro was looking at you—well it set me on fire and I didn’t know what I was doing till it was done.” He contrived to look both apologetic and outraged.

  She glared at him, then rose from the table and tried to leave the room.

  Lee blocked her way, his rough hands grabbing her.

  “I don’t understand you Char. You took that darky’s name back at the orphanage, too. What the fucks the matter with you?”

  “Go to hell, Lee.”

  “You listen to me. This town don’t take kindly to mixing of the races. Maybe that would work in Boston, but not here. As your brother, I’m obliged to warn you.”

  “You’re not my brother.”

  Her words stung, and his grasp loosened. She took advantage of the moment to shake free. She lunged and ran through the door into the dining room, disappearing into the interior of the house.

  Lee stood by the kitchen door, full of familiar hurt and anger. He turned and walked out, slamming the door hard behind him.

  That evening, Charlotte still fuming over her altercation with Lee, made the decision. She grabbed her new copy of Emerson and marched her way over to Byron’s cabin.

  Twenty-Six

  The shopkeeper held the door open for Charlotte. She smiled her thanks.

  “Now you have a wonderful afternoon, Miss Parkhurst. And keep yourself warm. It’s chilly outside,” he said.

  “Thank-you, Mr. Bronson. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  How nice everyone was she thought. How blue the sky. How crisp the air felt on her face. Even the run-down buildings seemed to sparkle. It was a grand day. Days in general had been grand. She let out a long easy sigh and headed back to Mrs. Bidwell’s to prepare dinner. Even that didn’t seem like a chore today.

  It had been almost a week since she had gone to his cabin. She couldn’t stop thinking of him. It was the first time in her life she’d ever felt this way. God, the sweet way he looked at her.

  It was time to go and surprise him again. As soon as she was done with the dishes she would leave…maybe take him some leftovers as well.

  He’d been surprised at her spur of the moment visit last week but welcomed her in anyways. They’d sat and read together till dawn. He’d explained his love of Emerson to her…that the poet’s words gave him courage and inspiration to not only live the life that had been given to him, but also to find a way to sculpt something good from it.

  It had been hard to leave. Harder still to go an entire week without going back. Tonight could not come soon enough.

  Twenty-Seven

  Charlotte and Byron were sitting at his rickety little table. By the light of the lantern, she read aloud from Emerson:

  Be true to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous age. It was a high counsel that I once
heard given to a young person, “Always do what you are afraid to do.” A simple manly character need never make an a-po-lo-gy…

  She paused, stumbling over the word. Byron reached over to find her place on the page, his hand brushing hers as she pointed it out. In that moment an electric shadow passed over them. He moved his hand away from hers.

  She blushed. “Oh Lord…”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s…it’s late,” Charlotte said.

  She jumped up knocking over the chair as she pulled on her coat. Embarrassed, she picked it up. As she was fumbling with her hat and gloves, Byron stood up.

  “Charlotte,” he paused for a moment, struggling with his words. “I’ve been thinking a lot…since the last time. Please don’t come here again.”

  “What? What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been thinking about our friendship. You don’t know what people can do. I have found the strength to be here and make a life for myself. But I don’t know if I have strength enough for the ugliness that could happen to you. Please Charlotte…don’t come here again.”

  She listened, dumbfounded, trying to absorb his words. “I don’t care what other people think. I have to go now, but we’ll talk about this later.”

  She picked up her copy of Emerson from the table and hurried out.

  Twenty-Eight

  Late the following evening, Charlotte stood at her bedroom window watching the snow fall. She exhaled against the pane, her breath condensing in a cloud against the glass. She turned from the window and glanced into the small mirror above her bureau, stopping for a moment to straighten the frizz of curls on her forehead. Over and over she hummed a maddening fragment of song.