Two-Gun & Sun

by June Hutton

  There was. And just an old man—

  Mr. George, he said. First name Leonard.

  I knew his name already, from Silver, but right now my throat swelled so that I couldn’t speak. Him crumpled on the stairs, pink as a baby bird. A dark stream flowing from under his shoulder blades.

  Parker nodded toward the door. You’ll have noticed how crooked the road is in spots.

  The shift in subject pulled me from my thoughts. I’d like to believe he was being considerate, but Parker’s line of thinking had leapt crazily from the first time we met.

  I still couldn’t trust my voice and so I dipped my head to indicate he should continue.

  The holes, he said. They’re going to fill them in and straighten the road at some point. The authorities might give us streetlamps, then.

  He was referring to our very first conversation. I felt I could trust my voice, now, and I asked him, Why is it called Zero Avenue?

  He shook his head as though I were a sorry creature to ask such a question. The holes, he said. They look like zeroes.

  It was true. They did.

  I wonder, I said, returning to the subject of Mr. George, what the authorities will say was the cause of death.

  Whatever they say, he said, they’ll take their time about it. Ever know any kind of government, civic or otherwise, to be expedient?

  You know, I said, I haven’t seen a graveyard.

  Isn’t one. Not anymore. Used to be right where the pithead sits. They were digging six feet down when this one time they struck coal. That was the end of the graveyard.

  They left the coffins there?

  Oh, no. Shipped ’em all out. Some to Vancouver, Seattle. Some back to the old country. That’s where old Mr. George’ll go.

  Tension migrated up my spine to my head, and I rubbed it. Uncle had been sent home to us, not at our request, after all, but as a result of their requirement.

  I see you’ve hired your printer, Parker added.

  Another shift in subject.

  I think so, I replied. Vincent Cruz. You know him?

  He Chinese?

  I nodded.

  Doesn’t sound Chinese.

  I nodded again.

  Nope, he replied, don’t know him.

  He says it will be some time before we get the press running.

  That’ll cost you.

  He seems perfectly decent—well, I’m probably paying him more than he gets in Lousetown.

  I smiled weakly. Probably? I knew I was.

  Parker studied me with those pale blue eyes, stained swampish by the visor.

  Your uncle struggled to keep himself in ink and paper, he said. He’d shut the business down now and then to save on costs. When things were slow.

  In summer, I said. He used to come out to visit us, then. But I can’t very well do that. I just got here.

  He was a frugal man, that’s how he did it.

  I gave Parker my list, and waited for him to continue.

  As he pulled items from the shelves, he said, Your uncle used a bicycle to get around. No motorcycle for him.

  No?

  Said they looked evil, had the evil eye.

  I thought Parker was Cyclops himself with that one big green shade in the middle of his forehead. But I asked, Doesn’t anyone here drive cars?

  The holes! he snapped.

  I nodded quickly. Of course.

  Only motorcycles and bicycles can maneuver around them. In your back shed somewhere, if you know how to ride one.

  He opened a bag and began filling it.

  I spent my childhood on a bicycle, I told him.

  Anything else? He held out the bag, stuffed with a small packet of tea, another of flour, a pound of lard.

  Sockeye, I said. Two tins.

  I left his shop and crossed the blackened grass to the back shed. My fingers groped the edge of the doorjamb for the switch, and a light bulb dangling by a cord crackled to life. There it was, hanging from the wall. I could use a bicycle to get around, to find more news.

  I dropped my bag of goods and lifted it down, rolled it back and forth on the shed floor to test it. My brothers and I had stripped down many a bicycle, cleaned fenders and restrung chains, pumped air into flattened tires. These tires were fine but the chain needed tightening.

  I left the bag where it landed, and searched the shed for tools.

  A Saloon, a Woman and an Outlaw

  This morning I heard my printer’s voice downstairs, calling out, Hello!

  By the time I had unjammed the doorknob and hammered down the stairs, pausing only long enough to score through September 6 on the calendar, he was in his smock and rolling the sleeves.

  I rolled up my sleeves as well and then pinned back my hair. I followed him to the stacks of shelves at the side of the pressroom.

  I’ve been reading your book, I said. He made a good case for staying out of the war.

  Vincent kicked open a stepladder and turned his cap backwards before answering.

  They didn’t listen.

  I know.

  I hesitated for a moment and then added, I lost a brother in that war. He died fighting for someone else’s country. I’ve never even been there. Neither had he, not since he was an infant.

  And yet he joined up, he said.

  He shouldn’t have. None of them should have. But I was just a girl to them and they ignored me.

  Vincent launched himself up the rungs of the ladder, and I called up after him, I liked the part about the silkworms.

  His back was still turned to me, but I heard him say, Me, too.

  I took a long step forward to see what he was doing up there.

  I’ll be right back, I said. I've left the kettle boiling.

  And I raced up the stairs.

  When I came back, he had lowered a small machine onto the top of the ladder. It was the same one he had told me about the other day.

  You want to print menus?

  He grinned.

  Be a while before we get the big press going. We could do newssheets for now.

  Newssheets. At once I saw them shooting out one after the other from the press, emblazoned with The Black Mountain Bullet. While a newssheet wouldn’t be the same as a newspaper of several pages, I was itching to print the stories I encountered every day, anxious to convince the bank that I could do the job, the newssheets first and a newspaper to follow.

  Grab that end, he said. We can set it up on the table.

  We lifted it down. The machine lay under a thick layer of dust, a flat-bed press about the size of two pillowcases laid end to end, with a wooden handle connected to a large wheel. Vincent said it was a basic, hand-cranked machine that would run with some cleaning.

  I set to work, oiling and scraping, pulling hard on the wheel until at last I got the roller gliding back and forth.

  He tore a narrow strip of paper, dragged out what looked like a large metal ruler from an upper shelf, and pulled open a wooden drawer of slots, each full of lead bits.

  It’s type, he told me. See?

  I was at his elbow, watching his hands. He dropped the lead pieces into what he called a composing stick, part of it shaped like a ruler, pushing them into place. These lines of type would be fitted into a frame he called a chase, and when it was filled, I’d have enough for one page and that page would be my first newssheet.

  The newspaper itself won’t be much larger, anyway, he said. Maybe four of these pages, a sheet of two pages double-sided and folded in half.

  Four? I had pictured several more.

  Vincent swivelled and scanned the room. I don’t see a linotype machine, he said.

  I asked what that was and he said it was a machine that sets the type automatically. The operator punches the keys much as you might on a typewriter, and the lead pieces fall into place.

  It’s a big piece of equipment,
the size of some presses. No one running a newspaper larger than eight pages would do it without a linotype.

  Then we’ll do seven.

  He pulled off his cap and looked up at the ceiling as he scratched his head with the brim, then tugged it back on.

  Six, or eight, he said. Even numbers, only. You’ll see. Right now, just a line to show you how it works.

  What does it say? I leaned in close.

  The line was full of backwards letters, the sentence itself, he explained, running back to front.

  He took a bit of ink onto his thumb, ran it over the line, then took my slip of paper and dropped it over the line.

  Rub your hand against it, he said. Press hard.

  I did as he instructed. Then he peeled the strip from the line of type:

  The Bullet’s New Publisher Is Lila Sinclair

  Every printer must do as he had just done, finger each piece of type for font and placement, mouthing the letters and words for correct order. But this was my name he had thumbed into place, my new occupation he had composed and assembled. I couldn’t think straight, and continued to stare at the slip of paper, while he, as though nothing of any significance had just occurred, returned to the press, whistling, How ’Ya Gonna Keep ’Em Down on the Farm—

  *

  The next morning I made tea while I scrawled onto a card:

  September 7th

  Dearest Robbie,

  I have not heard from you in some time and hope that you are well in Australia. I miss our fights with Father! (Not really, but I do miss you.) I have let the boys know that I am settling in at Uncle’s, at last. This is not the prettiest place but it is full of news. I cansend you a copy of the first newssheet we produce.We plan to practice on one-sided sheets inpreparation of the first full edition of the newspaper …

  I scanned the lines as I stood. As much as I tried not to elaborate it still might have said too much. The place isn’t pretty, and I allowed myself the word we, twice, though Robbie, of all of them, would be sympathetic to my situation, having moved even farther away. I added a few pleasantries, and signed it.

  Parker had wrapped my package of tea in an old copy of The Bugle. As the kettle boiled I had a look at my competition. Parker was right. It wasn’t much of a newspaper. It was the size of a menu and was full of numbers, mining statistics and mineral prices. I was relieved to know my printing machine could accommodate sheets larger than this. He must use a table-top model, as I would for the smaller newssheets. Anything larger would be a waste of machinery.

  Downstairs, I found another envelope on the shelf under the counter, and then, because I was there, I went through the drawers of the desk I had unearthed. Broken pencils, a dried up pot of ink, but in the second drawer a silver cigarette case and matching flask. I shook the flask, unscrewed it, tipped my head back for the one drop that was left. I could empty some of my own bottle into it, though, for carrying around. The silver case held rows of little white cigarettes, and I held them up to my nose and inhaled. I’d always wanted to perfect smoking. The only times I tried, I did nothing but choke. A couple of times behind the barn when we were drinking, and once in town with Bess, who stole her father’s cigarettes and could blow smoke rings by age ten. I slid both case and flask into my pockets, addressed the envelope, then left for the post office.

  Ed was leaning his elbows on the counter, looking more barman than postmaster.

  No tea, I quipped, and handed him the envelope. Any mail for me?

  Ed crouched, swung a box onto the counter, and rooted through it.

  One was a postcard showing Baker Street back home, all brick and stone and those red-striped awnings. I flipped it over and recognized Pat’s hand by the left slant of the writing:

  We are all right. Hope you are getting on all right, too.Your ever-loving brothers. P&P

  It made me smile. Pat was never much for words.

  I watched as Ed continued to sort. Behind him, on the wall, was a telephone box. Instead of another letter to the boys I could arrange a call to them, but they would have to cross two fields over to the neighbour’s to take it. Besides, making a call meant answering questions more easily avoided on paper. Such as, Are you lonely? Are you homesick? No, it would have to be a letter, a short one letting them know about the newssheets, too.

  The pile of mail continued to grow beside the box until Ed scooped it up and dropped it into my arms. That’s it, he said.

  *

  A light was burning in my shop window, so I knew my printer was there. I stepped inside and dumped the letters and packages onto the counter noisily, calling out to him.

  At last he came out from the pressroom, wiping his hands on a rag, and joined me at the counter.

  I handed him one of the packages, a small but heavy square. Machine parts, I was guessing.

  He tore it open. Opera, he said, and spun the package around for me to see.

  I leaned over. In the wrappings was a lead plate with strange lettering. I must have been wrinkling up my nose because he reminded me, It’s backwards.

  From the poster above I got my bearings: the large bold wording, announcing La Fanciulla del West, along with a series of names below it, the characters, the actors who played the characters, and Puccini himself, while in the centre the type was broken up with a small picture painted in rich golds, greens and reds. A saloon, a woman and an outlaw. There were no dates on the poster, just the words “Coming Soon. ”

  Inside the package with the lead plate was a letter providing the dates and times. It faced me and was upside down to Vincent, but he read it aloud easily, explaining that since the dates and times changed with each new location, we had to set the type for that part of the ad.

  Vincent reversed his cap, then folded his arms.

  Not my favourite, this one. A western. Maybe the opera company figures it’s enough of a draw for a place like this. Nobody here would know good opera from bad.

  He had just described me, and I felt my ears redden. My father listened to opera recordings on the gramophone. I liked the sound of some, but not enough to ask what was playing. I was better with words than music.

  I’ve finished your book. Are there others?

  Vincent tucked the plate and letter under his arm while I put the rest of the mail in the top desk drawer and the paper scraps into the box.

  Yeah, he’s written lots of articles and lectures on the modernization of China. His Three Principles. I don’t have any copies of those.

  Three? What are they? Sorry, behind you. Just pinning this up.

  I pushed a thumbtack into a red-striped awning.

  Nationalism, democracy and livelihood.

  He turned and added, Pretty place. Your hometown? Quite the opposite of here.

  For a moment I lost my focus as I considered that.

  Nationalism, I said. How is that something to strive for when it exists already?

  His eyebrows shot up and he looked truly delighted.

  Because it doesn’t, not yet. You know, no national spirit, just all these people looking out for clans and families. It’s the most important of the three. Everyone in China has to see themselves as part of China, or how can we work together on democracy and livelihood?

  And democracy, I said, can’t exist until China is free of imperialist and foreign domination.

  He pointed at my forehead with the folded letter.

  Now you’re thinking.

  The door rattled open then and Morris in his white suit blazed over the threshold.

  My dear! he roared. There you are. Vincenzo, my friend, greetings to you, as well! What a surprise to find you here.

  He’s the Bullet’s printer, I said.

  Welcome, then! You’re my printer as well. Oh, hasn’t she told you? I’m her partner.

  Vincent looked directly at me, but said nothing.

  Not partners, I said. We discussed a minority
interest but I still haven’t received the bulk of that sum—

  That’s why I’m here, he said, and handed me a crumpled, filthy bill. And, he added, to place a notice in our paper. Which one of you do I see about that?

  The boss, Vincent said, and turned for the doorway.

  The boss, said as an American would say it, short and snappy, and yet the tone of the remark was levelled at me like an accusation. I had done my homework too well not to feel slighted by the label. I had let my guard down, too. My eyes followed him as he headed for the pressroom, the plate and letter still clamped under his arm. Morris brought my attention back by shaking out a folded note and, without any prompting, began to read in that gravelly voice of his:

  Announcing the arrival in Black Mountain of Mr. Morris Cohen of Montreal businessman, adventurer, & raconteur here to plumb the depths of these rich soils & who cordially invites interested investors for an evening of cigars & brandy at The Bombay Room

  What do you think? he asked. Here, he added, and he handed the note to me.

  You don’t say when, I pointed out.

  That’s to be decided. We could add a line saying notice of further details will be posted at the Bombay. That’ll bring ’em.

  I read over the note again. It was too wordy already but a large advertisement would pay more.

  You are paying for this ad?

  Should I? he asked. I just paid the deposit.

  When you’ve paid in full we can discuss what privileges come with it. The name of your enterprise? I asked.

  Black Diamond—no need to write that . . . well, yes, go ahead.

  It’s a good name. You’ll attract some interest, I’m sure. San Francisco seems to think there’s plenty more below, just waiting for discovery.

  Who?

  Oh, someone who came in to place an ad.

  Just himself digging around, or others?

  Others I’m sure, all with big plans. Coal likes company, as they say.

  A remarkable expression.

  I explained it to him, as San Francisco had explained it to me.

  Morris fidgeted for a moment, rocking on his heels, jangling the coins in his pockets. I’m thinking, he said at last, of the smaller investors. The big ones have their own bigger fish to fry. Why don’t we change that? Pencil?