Calico Palace

by Gwen Bristow

  “Sure,” said Gene. He spoke sincerely. “You can count on me not to make any trouble, ma’am.”

  Hiram said, “Ning?”

  Ning spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I never was one to blab, Hiram.”

  “Pocket?”

  Pocket said, “Right.”

  Hiram glanced at Marny. With a slow smile Marny spoke, not to him but to Kendra.

  “Kendra, the other evening I told you, I’m not a lady but I know how to act like one. Well dear, I’m not a gentleman either but I know how to act like one. That’s all.”

  Kendra wondered why she was not crying. It would be such a relief to feel tears in her eyes, to feel anything besides this whirling confusion in her head.

  Hiram smiled down at her, and behind the stubble of his beard and the sweat streaks down his forehead, his rugged face looked almost sweet.

  He took his hand off her shoulder. “Now you can go,” he said.

  “Thank you, all of you,” said Kendra. “Thank you.”

  She was surprised to hear herself speaking so steadily. She added,

  “Please, don’t anybody come with me. Let me manage this by myself.”

  “Of course,” said Hiram.

  She turned and went away, in the direction Ted had gone, up toward the highest end of the strip where the river came down around the higher mountains.

  In the group she had left there was a hard silence. Then Ning asked,

  “Any liquor left in that coffee pot of yours, Marny?”

  “Plenty,” she said, and held it out. “You’re welcome to the liquor, boys, but bring me the pot when you’ve finished. Now I’d better get back to work.”

  She turned, about to walk toward the Calico Palace. As she did so she stopped, and the men heard her swear, softly, angrily, obscenely. They were astonished. Marny had heard most of the ugly words in the language but this was the first time they had heard her use them.

  They looked where she was looking. During the past few minutes they had been so intent on their own subject that they had taken no notice of the rest of the camp. But as they saw what Marny was seeing, their lips too moved in words like hers. Close to their circle, within easy earshot, stood the round little pinguescent figure of Mrs. Posey, with her curls like a lot of wilted daffodils on her head.

  Mrs. Posey saw them looking at her. For a moment she looked back at them. Then, with a smirk of delight, she turned and trotted off down the strip.

  Pocket shook his head. “That woman,” he murmured, “is a public nuisance.”

  “Q.E.D.,” said Marny. “That, my friend, is short for Quod Erat Demonstrandum, and that’s Latin for ‘I told you so.’”

  22

  WHEN SHE OPENED HER eyes in the light of daytime and found herself alone on her bedroll in the covered wagon, for an instant Kendra had a feeling of surprise. It was like the morning after her fall down the gulch, when she had wakened alone because Ted had slipped out early to start the fire and make coffee in her place. She remembered how bruised and stiff she had felt that morning.

  Today again she ached all over. Her head beat with a dull rhythm as if somebody were pounding the wagon with a stick. But as memory pushed its way into her mind she knew that this time she was not suffering from any damage to her body. This time the wounds went deeper than that.

  Memory pushed in, hard and cruel. The moment when Gene Spencer had recognized Ted. The hours afterward, when she had been alone with Ted, finding out that through these golden weeks she had been living with a dream lover in a dream world. The pain growing worse and worse until she had cried out, “Leave me alone! Stop explaining. Stop talking. Just leave me alone!”

  Then the night, when every hour seemed twice as long as the one before. And at last the glimmer of dawn as she had dropped to sleep from sheer exhaustion.

  Kendra wondered how long ago that had been. The day was bright now. The sun was shining on the curtains of Chinese grass-cloth, so artfully woven to let in the air but keep mosquitoes out. She felt uncomfortably hot. This meant the morning was well advanced, for here at Shiny Gulch, no matter how hot the sun, the nights and early mornings were cool. As she sat up and caught her throbbing head between her hands she could hear the sounds of the camp—horses stamping, men shouting, the rush of water and the clank of pickaxes on the rocks. They were the sounds she had been hearing every day, only now they were different. Everything was different because she was different herself, and she would never be the same again.

  Maybe if she had a good wash in cold water her head would stop thumping and she could think. As she was used to doing every morning, she slipped her bare feet into her shoes, threw a blanket around her, gathered up her clothes, and ran to the bushes where she and Marny had set up their bathroom. On her way, through the undergrowth she caught glimpses of men at work down the strip. She wondered where Ted was.

  —I don’t care, she told herself.

  But even as she said it she knew she did care, or she would not be wondering.

  Their green bathroom was shady and cool. Here stood their bathtub, the lower half of a brandy keg sawed in two by the Blackbeards. Beside it were two pails of water the Hawaiian girls had brought in.

  The cold bath did make her feel better. She rinsed the tub, refilled the pails at the little waterfall near by, and left the bathroom in order for the next user. The familiar work loosened her muscles and cleared her mind, and made it easier for her to think. She had to think. She could not talk to anybody yet.

  She found a place to sit, under a tree, out of sight of the camp. The wind blew pleasantly on her face. Around her were the odors of greenery and wild herbs and fresh-turned earth. She heard the drone of bees and chirps of birds, and squirrels rustling about as they looked for acorns. She ran her fingers along the earth beside her. Faintly damp, it felt soft and gritty at the same time. Her hand loosened a pebble, and sent it rattling along the ground. A mosquito lit on her wrist and she gave it a slap.

  The sting of her own slap on her skin roused her as though from a doze. As if all the hours since yesterday had been crowded into an instant, they came back.

  She was not married to Ted and she could not be and now in black disillusion she did not want to be. Ted had a wife in New York and her name was Della and he had left her because she bored him. No, there was hardly a chance of Della’s having died. She was one of those violently healthy people who would live almost forever. And no, he could not possibly have divorced her. Not unless he had caught her taking a lover, and there was no hope of Della’s ever doing that. Not after she had roped a husband and could sit on her bottom and get fat while he paid the bills. Once a woman like Della got hold of a man he was caught for life, bound to put up with her and her two wet-nosed brats.

  Who was taking care of them now? Ted didn’t know and didn’t give a damn. The brats were whiny and spoilt and messy like Della herself and the thought of all three of them made him sick.

  “Ted, why did you marry her?”

  “I’ve nearly cracked my head trying to think of an answer to that one.”

  As he had told her, Ted had worked in a law office in New York. Gene Spencer had been a clerk in the same office. Ted had liked Gene, had invited him to dinner, and one thing Della could be counted on to do was put a good meal on table when there was a handsome young man around to enjoy it. Quite different from the warmed-over slops she served when only her husband was there. No wonder Gene had remembered the pie.

  Gene had gone to another job in Brooklyn and Ted had not seen him since. Ted knew Gene was a Mormon, but he had not known Gene had taken the Mormon ship to California. He had not thought about it at all.

  No, Ted could not go back to New York. Not ever. Because if he did he would be locked up for embezzlement.

  He was not in the habit of stealing. But he had been so sick of Della. For months, all he had thought about was that he had to get free of her. But how?—if he left her she could drag him into court, and she would, no doubt about Della. T
he only way would be to go off to some place so far away that she could not find him. And this cost money. A lot of money.

  Then one evening he was in the office catching up on some work. He often stayed late and had dinner at a restaurant because it was no fun to go home. Another man was working late too, a cashier. This fellow went out to mail some letters. Ted was alone. The fool had left the safe open. Ted caught sight of a pile of cash.

  Here was his chance. Never again would he have one like it. That damned idiot of a cashier, he should have known better. The temptation was too great. Ted gathered up the money and walked out.

  Leaving everything behind him, he went directly to the waterfront and asked what boats were leaving tonight. He took one for Boston. He had no idea where he would go from there, anywhere would do so long as it was far away. In Boston harbor was a ship about to sail for Honolulu. Ted paid his fare and went aboard.

  Kendra did not remember how long it had taken him to tell her all this, nor how many questions she had asked. She did remember that they had been here in the grove, out of sight of the camp and of their own wagon. Ted had walked up and down, now and then pausing to stand in front of her as if to make a speech in his own defense. She had seen the sunset red beyond the trees. She remembered saying,

  “And your name is not Ted Parks.”

  “My name is Timothy Parker Bradshaw. I thought if I changed it, there was less chance of her finding me.”

  Here Kendra recalled her own shock at learning that Marny did not know Delbert’s real name. How foolish, how young she had been then! Marny did not know Delbert’s name, but Marny knew she did not know. She had not been a child bedazzled by a handsome stranger.

  —How stupid I am, Kendra thought.

  She asked, “When you went to the fort last spring—when you ran away and left me in San Francisco—was Gene Spencer at the fort then?”

  “I don’t know. I was there only a day or two before I came up here to look for gold. I didn’t know Gene was in California till today.”

  “You’ve met nobody else who knew you?”

  “Nobody. And Gene wouldn’t have known me if you hadn’t pestered me to get a shave. If I had kept my beard I would have recognized him first. Then I could have gone somewhere else.”

  “And did you plan to spend your life like that?” she demanded. “Always running away?”

  What a useless question, she thought as soon as she had asked it. Of course he had not planned it that way. By this time she was realizing that Ted never planned anything. He acted and then thought about it.

  And now she was having to face all this, and most especially to face the fact that she had made a fool of herself. She asked desperately,

  “Ted, why did you go through that marriage ceremony with me when you knew all the time—”

  “Good Lord,” he burst out, “you all but got into bed with me. I’m not made of marble.”

  This she knew very well now. He was not made of marble and neither was she. But she felt a surge of anger. She was realizing something else.

  His self-pity, so easy, and to her amazement, so sincere. Everything was somebody else’s fault and he was the victim.

  Della had been a fat lazy bore. It had not occurred to him that he might not have been a perfect husband. The cashier had been a fool to leave the safe open. He had snatched at his only chance to get away—it had not entered his head that he might have worked his passage on a ship, like Hiram. She had made him get his beard off just as Gene Spencer reached camp. She had trapped him into this marriage that was no marriage at all. None of it had been his own doing. Not once had he blamed himself.

  Nor did he now. Her anger must have blazed in her face, for he spoke again, this time not defiant but pleading.

  “Kendra, I tried to put some sense into your head! I told you I was no good. I tried, Kendra! God knows I tried.”

  Kendra spoke slowly. She quoted what Ted himself had said to her, on a happy firelit day that now seemed so long ago. “Started with Adam. That woman Eve, it’s her fault—”

  “Oh, stop!” he exclaimed.

  “I won’t stop,” said Kendra. She felt a cold hard rage such as she had never felt before.

  “I told you,” he cried, “it would be the mistake of your life. I gave you every argument—”

  “Every one,” she cut in, “except the one that might have worked. The truth.”

  “I did love you, Kendra!”

  “Not enough to be honest with me. Not enough to tell me the facts, then say, ‘Now do you want me?’ You could have done that.”

  Again Ted stopped pacing, and stood in front of her. “If I had done that,” he asked, “would you have said yes?”

  “Wait a minute,” Kendra answered. “Let me think.”

  It seemed to her that she had to look at herself more closely than she had ever done, be more honest with herself than she had ever been. If Ted had told her the facts, would she have gone through that ceremony, and come with him to the hills of gold? Would she have done this, knowing that he had deserted not only a wife but two children, knowing that her marriage was almost certainly not lawful, that any day somebody from New York might recognize Ted—would she?

  After a long pause she said slowly, clearly, “Yes, I believe I would.”

  Ted gave a start of puzzled astonishment. “Then,” he exclaimed, “why are you so blistery mad with me now?”

  “Because you didn’t give me a chance to choose,” she returned. “You didn’t tell me the truth. You haven’t any—” She remembered the word Marny had teasingly told her to use, and she said, “You haven’t any guts.”

  Still puzzled, Ted shook his head. Kendra went on.

  “If you had told me the truth—I was so in love with you, I wanted you so much, I think I would have said, ‘Yes, I’ll do it. It’s nobody’s business but my own. It’s wrong and maybe I’m wrecking my life but this is what I want to do.’”

  She drew a short hard breath.

  “But you didn’t tell me. You wanted me as much as I wanted you, but you didn’t love me enough to let me make up my own mind. Do you understand?”

  To the end of her life Kendra never knew whether Ted understood this or not. He could not answer. As she talked, her anger had risen. Now she spoke sharply, full of scorn.

  “You’re a halfway person. That’s what I can’t stand. A coat with one sleeve, a house without a roof, a bridge that stops in the middle of a river—who wants those? Things are no good unless they’re done.”

  “What makes you so merciless?” he begged. “Kendra, I was in love with you! I tried to tell you—”

  “You did not try. And whatever you call trying, now you can stop it. I’m not married to you and I’m through with you. If you think I’m going to sleep with you tonight in the wagon or anywhere else you’re wrong. I don’t have to and I won’t.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said with a tired sigh. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Leave me alone!” she cried. “Stop explaining. Stop talking. Just leave me alone!”

  “All right,” said Ted.

  He turned and walked into the shadows among the trees. She heard his footsteps crunching on the ground.

  That had been last night.

  Now she had to face today. Now she sat here under the tree, hearing the birds and squirrels, feeling the heat even here in the shade, wondering what she was going to do next.

  It seemed to her that there was only one thing she could possibly do. Go back to San Francisco. Tell Alex and Eva what a blunder she had made and ask them to take her in again.

  —Oh God, she thought, how I dread that! But where else can I go?

  —Face one problem at a time, she told herself. The first problem was how to get to San Francisco. She would have to endure one more talk with Ted, to arrange this. One more talk, then they would say goodby.

  “Oh, Ted!” she said, and her voice broke with a little sob. It was the first time today she had spoken aloud. As sh
e heard her own words, it seemed to her that she had two separate hurts. One was what she had learned about Ted, the other was memory of the joy she had had with him. One emotion was as real as the other, and they were there side by side, doing battle within her. She hated Ted for what he had done to her, but she had loved him, and she was finding out that love did not go when it ought to go.

  Suddenly she realized that the air was pungent with the odors of coffee and bacon and roasting beef. The day had reached noon, and men in camp were cooking their midday meal. With a twinge of surprise Kendra recalled that she had eaten nothing since that Sunday dinner of dried peas and pork and potatoes—had that been only yesterday?

  Last night she had not wanted food, but now she was hungry. She stood up and walked out of the grove, down the open strip. In the gulch a few men were still working, but most of the miners were gathered around fires with their pots and pans. As she came nearer, several lifted their hands in greeting. Kendra waved back. It was cheering to know she had friends, no matter how casual they were.

  At their own cook-fire Hiram was doing the work. He had strung chunks of beef on a long peeled stick, and set this over the fire, the ends resting on stones at either side of the trench. Now and then he turned the stick so the meat would be broiled on all sides. On the crisscrossed sticks, the coffee pot was steaming.

  Catching sight of her, Hiram ran forward. “Howdy!” he said heartily as he reached her. “Had anything to eat yet?”

  —Oh thank God, she thought, he’s not starting right off to talk about Ted. She answered, “Not yet, and I’m starved.”

  “Beef isn’t ready,” said Hiram, “but the coffee is. Come on and have a cup.”

  They went to the fire. Kendra sat on the ground and he poured coffee into her tin cup. Her spirits rose as she sipped it. What a joy, the day’s first cup of coffee. When he had given the beef a turn Hiram sat by her, linking his big hands around his knees. How vital he was, with his muscles and his thick waves of hair and that rusty-gold beard looking as if it had exploded from his chin. It occurred to her that she had never seen Hiram indoors. He did not seem to belong indoors. With his size and energy, he would make any room seem to shrink when he came into it.