Calico Palace

by Gwen Bristow

  And she liked all those beautiful gold coins she was collecting in her safe at Chase and Fenway’s. Marny had a high opinion of money. It gave her freedom to do as she pleased, and the triumph of proving herself. Marny shrugged as she thought of her brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins. For all their prattle about good repute and good behavior, she knew that if she ever did go back to Philadelphia they would have more respect for a rich sinner than a poor one.

  It was time she went back to her card table. As she turned from the window she caught sight of herself in the glass. Taking up the candle, she went nearer. She looked well. Her penny-red hair shone in the candlelight, and her cheeks—still somewhat freckled in spite of the San Francisco clouds—had a healthy glow. She wore a dark green dress, not very low at the neck but low enough to set off her nugget necklace. Men liked that nugget necklace. It was, as Marny herself had said, a trophy that belonged to California. Marny liked it too.

  She blew out the candle, picked up her dinner tray, and went down to the second floor. Opening a door behind the bar of her parlor, she beckoned to the bartender who had brought her dinner.

  “You can take it now, Wilfred,” she said as he came to the door.

  “Right,” said Wilfred, “and I’ll stay for my own dinner. If I don’t get there soon all the turkeys will be gone and I’ll have to eat beef again.”

  She gave him a smile of comradeship. “Fine, eat turkey while you can. Mine was good.”

  Another bartender was approaching, this one from Chad’s bar in the public room. As Wilfred took her tray and went off, Marny spoke to the second man.

  “Yes, Gordon?”

  “Fellow downstairs,” said Gordon, “has a ticket on the Unicorn. Wants to cash it for gambling money.”

  Marny puckered her lips, calculating. The steamer Unicorn was due to leave December first, day after tomorrow, and except for one or two quick showers, there had been no rain for two weeks. However, the ticket would still be good on the next steamer run. “Take it at twenty per cent discount,” she said.

  He nodded and went out. Marny walked around to the front of the bar. A dozen drinkers greeted her and she threw them a kiss.

  Pausing at the bar, she looked around. Everything was going well. Norman had gone out to dinner, and another Frenchman from New Orleans stood at the roulette table replacing him as croupier. Rosabel was playing the piano. Mr. Fenway, ungracefully straddling a chair, was listening as somberly as if he were hearing a dirge instead of a waltz. Near the piano was the faro table, where the players sat in their own blank-faced silence. Two young Mexicans were dealing monte, and a Yankee who spoke with a Harvard accent was substituting for Marny herself at twenty-one.

  Marny could hear the clink of coins and glasses, and here and there the tinkle of a bell as some player summoned a bartender so he would not have to leave his game. In front of the bar a boy about sixteen years old was busy with a broom and dustpan, sweeping the carpet. The cleaning boys each paid half an ounce a day to be allowed to work here. As they swept up the cigar ash and dried mud and other odds and ends, they emptied the sweepings into bags. After work they sifted the sweepings.

  Lucky gamblers, misty eyed drinkers, men who had had a good summer at the mines, were not too careful with their gold dust. When they took out their pokes to pay for drinks they rarely bothered about the grains that fell on the carpet. When a boy sifted the sweepings of an evening’s work he nearly always found enough gold to pay back his investment several times over. San Francisco was a dirty town, but never were carpets kept so clean as those of the gambling houses around the plaza.

  Marny heard the main door open, and the steward saying “Good evening, sir,” to a man coming in. She glanced toward the door and gave a start as she recognized Loren.

  The wind had spanked Loren’s cheeks bright pink, his cider-brown eyes were aglow, and as he took off his hat he smiled with the happy impulsiveness of a man who smiles without realizing that he is doing so. Loren had never been inside the Calico Palace before. As he came in he looked around him with curiosity, like a city boy on his first visit to a farm.

  Marny hurried to meet him and caught his hand in both of hers. “Loren! Come in, I’m glad to see you. And I think,” she added in a lower voice as she drew Loren toward the bar, “by the look of you, you’ve brought good news.”

  Loren nodded with his own engaging eagerness. His joy was like a light. “It’s a boy!” he told her.

  “And Kendra?”

  “She’s all right—would I be so glad if she wasn’t? She was sound asleep when I left. Mrs. Chase is with her, and will stay till I get back.”

  “Oh Loren, I’m so happy for you!” Marny exclaimed. She spoke to the nearest bartender. “Pour Mr. Shields whatever he wants, he’s my guest. Shall it be champagne, Loren? Fine, I’ll have the same.” The bartender grinned and poured the champagne. As they lifted their glasses Marny said,

  “And I suppose his name is Loren Shields, Junior?”

  Loren chuckled. “I haven’t made sure yet, but I hope so.”

  The other men at the bar were listening with a certain wistfulness. So few men in San Francisco had anything like a family, or if they had, they had left it two or three thousand miles away. They congratulated Loren. Every one of them wanted to buy him a drink. He declined, saying he’d better get home sober. He had just come here to tell the news.

  “When can I see Kendra?” Marny asked.

  Loren was not sure. It would depend on how she felt, and what the doctor said.

  Marny said she understood. Loren went on,

  “They say Junior looks like me.”

  This Marny did not understand. As far as she could tell, babies did not look like anybody. They were just bits of squirming flesh. However, as Loren said the baby looked like him, she was willing to say this too was wonderful.

  “And born on Thanksgiving Day!” said Loren.

  “Perfectly right,” said Marny.

  Loren agreed.

  Marny would have liked to stay at the bar longer and chat with him. Such happiness as his was catching. But she saw that the Harvard man at the twenty-one table was growing impatient. He did not know what news Loren had brought, but he was sure it was not as important as his own Thanksgiving dinner. The turkeys had been brought over live from Honolulu, not too many of them. Like Wilfred the bartender, the dealer feared that if he did not get to the restaurant soon he would miss his share. Marny said it was time she went to work.

  Loren said he had to get back to Kendra and his son. But first, he walked over to the piano and stood waiting till Rosabel finished the piece she was playing, so he could tell the great news to Mr. Fenway.

  45

  BEFORE SHE WENT TO see Kendra, Marny took Troy Blackbeard as her escort and walked down to Chase and Fenway’s new store to buy a present. The day was clammy and dark, but there was no rain. Holding her cashmere shawl close around her, Marny made her way along the plank sidewalk, with Troy keeping his hand on his gun and glowering at men who would have liked to accost her.

  Montgomery Street was a barbaric mixture of dirt and splendor. Rats were feasting in the garbage, and Marny’s nose met every nasty smell she had ever heard of. But the stores had glittering windows, where she saw bonnets and laces from New York, silks from China, French wines and perfumes, formal apparel for ladies and gentlemen of fashion.

  At Chase and Fenway’s they found a little plank bridge leading from the sidewalk to the door, so customers could go in without soiling their shoes in the mud. While Marny stood admiring such luxury Blackbeard opened the door. As they went in she looked around with more surprise. The lumbery old store was really gone. The new store had a carpeted aisle down the middle, and on either side glass-fronted counters, and cabinets flaunting more displays. The salesman who approached was a dapper young man, bowing with practiced ease no doubt learned at some emporium in the States.

  “Good morning, sir and madam,” he greeted them. “Can I be of assist
ance?”

  Marny was not in a spendthrift mood. The man who had cashed his steamer ticket for gambling money had been lucky, so lucky that he had won enough to buy back his ticket at full price and still walk out with a pokeful of gold. This was the hazard of gambling, of course, and Marny tried to be a good loser, but this loss was hard to bear. Big winners had a way of getting flushed with success, and coming back and playing till they lost again. But this man had boarded the Unicorn and was now on his way home. What she had lost to him was lost forever.

  But Marny was fond of Kendra and she meant to prove it. She chose a robe of quilted satin from China, hyacinth blue with silk embroidery in many colors.

  “Warm and useful and a work of art,” she said softly, stroking it with pleasure. Marny loved the feel of fine silk under her fingers.

  Still guarded by Troy, she walked up the hill. At Kendra’s home, Serena opened the door.

  Serena told them Mrs. Shields was fine. Dr. Rollins was with her now. Not that she needed a doctor any more, but you know Mr. Shields, he couldn’t be content unless Dr. Rollins came over every day to say she was all right. Mrs. Chase was here too. Such a nice lady, so friendly and kind. And there was coffee on the stove, and a cake in the cupboard. Of course, said Serena, her cooking wasn’t as good as that of Mrs. Shields, but if Mr. Blackbeard would care to try a piece of cake he’d be mighty welcome.

  Troy happily followed her into the kitchen. Marny, carrying the robe, went up the staircase that led to Kendra’s room. On the landing outside the door Mrs. Chase was waiting for the doctor.

  Mrs. Chase, who was not as stiff-minded as her husband liked to believe, smiled at Marny and said Kendra would be glad to see her. A moment later Dr. Rollins came out. A hearty soul with a genuine liking for the human race, the doctor had visited the Calico Palace several times, and he paused to exclaim, “Well, well, Marny! How are you?”

  “Fine,” said Marny. “And Kendra—she’s really had no trouble?”

  “Trouble!” he scoffed genially. “Never saw an easier delivery in my life. Nothing to it. Like shelling peanuts. Well, I guess I’d better get along.” He rattled down the stairs toward Serena’s cake and coffee, while Mrs. Chase looked after him with half humorous exasperation. Giving Marny’s arm a squeeze she exclaimed,

  “Don’t you hate men sometimes?”

  The force of her remark was largely wasted on Marny, who had never had a baby, had no intention of having any if she could help it, and did not hate men at all.

  Mrs. Chase tapped on the door. She said, “Kendra, Marny’s here to see you.” She added that she would step downstairs for a cup of coffee before going home.

  Kendra lay resting against a pile of pillows, in what was probably the coziest bedroom in San Francisco. Near the bed was the crib, where the baby was asleep under a white cover. In the grate a fire was snapping, while the windowpanes reflected a ruddy light that belied the fog beyond. On the bedside table were copies of the Alta and its recent rival, the Pacific News; several new books, a brush and comb and hand mirror, and a bell to call Serena if she was needed. Kendra’s eyes were alert and her cheeks rosy, and she did look well.

  Marny said so, and gave her the quilted satin robe. At sight of it Kendra gasped with such pleasure that it almost, if not quite, consoled Marny for her loss to the man who had redeemed his ticket on the Unicorn.

  “Look at my baby,” Kendra went on. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  Marny bent over the crib and obediently said the baby was beautiful, though in fact she thought his little face looked like a piece of used soap. She took up one of his hands from the coverlet.

  “Babies are so little!” she exclaimed.

  Kendra gave her a puckery smile. “He felt about the size of a clipper ship,” she said, and Marny refrained from telling her the doctor had said the birth was like shelling peanuts. But Kendra was adding, “That doesn’t matter now, it’s over, and—Marny,” she said earnestly, “I’m so happy about him!”

  Marny sat down in a chair by the bed. Kendra took her hand and spoke softly.

  “I didn’t know,” she said, “I never dreamed, how much a baby makes up for. I knew I was going to love him, but I didn’t know how much. It’s all so wonderfully surprising.”

  Marny told her how glad she was. This time all she said was sincere. It was the closest they had ever come to admitting the fact that Kendra’s marriage had its dull side. But Marny knew it did, and she had no doubt that Kendra knew she knew and was grateful to her for not saying so.

  A week after her visit to Kendra, as she finished a shift at her card table and stood up, Marny saw Hiram and Pocket waiting for her at the bar. As she had thought they were still in Sacramento, she was surprised. She was even more surprised by the looks of them. Not only did they both have brand new shaves and haircuts, but they were dressed like men of the world, in fine black broadcloth suits, white ruffled shirts, kid gloves, boots meant for city streets. They carried high-crowned beaver hats, and even the handkerchiefs trailing from Pocket’s pockets were sheer white linen. As Marny came toward them and they saw her green eyes wide with astonishment, both men began to laugh.

  Hiram held up his drink. “Join me?”

  Marny said a glass of champagne wouldn’t hurt her. Glass in hand, she led them into one of the private game rooms not occupied at the moment.

  “Now tell me everything,” she ordered as they sat down by the table. “When did you get to town? What are you doing here? Where are you staying? And where,” she demanded, sweeping her gaze up and down them, “where did you get all that elegance? And for the love of heaven, why?”

  Still laughing, they began to answer. They had come down from Sacramento on the steamer Senator, which had arrived yesterday. They had come down for several reasons. For one thing, San Francisco mud was bad, but the mud of Sacramento was worse.

  “That’s not possible,” said Marny.

  They assured her that it was not only possible, it was true. Hiram added, “You’ve had plenty of rain here, I know. But we’ve had more. Don’t argue,” he challenged her sternly. “I was there.”

  Pocket said Hiram was right. Not only was the mud frightful in Sacramento, but in the mountain passes it was so deep that a double mule team took twelve or fifteen days to drag a wagonload of provisions from Sacramento to the nearest diggings. There were thousands of men spending the winter at the mines, and Pocket, always concerned about other people, fervently hoped the trading posts had laid in a good stock of food before the storms began.

  Pocket and Hiram had taken a room at a new hotel called the St. Francis, at Clay and Dupont streets. Had she seen it?

  Not yet, said Marny. The place had been open only a week or so. But she had heard that the owners were going to see to it that the St. Francis was the most aristocratic address in San Francisco. They would rent no space for gambling games, and this would at least make the place quieter than the Parker House. Also it would be more expensive.

  Right, said Pocket. The St. Francis was the most expensive hotel in town. And it was a hotel such as he had never seen before. “Nor anybody else either,” Pocket murmured.

  They told her what it was like. The men who planned the St. Francis had bought twenty readymade houses and had put them together to make a building four stories high. The rooms were divided, not by cloth, but by wooden partitions. True, these partitions were made of boards split almost paper thin, so Hiram and Pocket did not have much more privacy than they had had at the Parker House, but still they were better off. Their room was eight feet by six, spacious for San Francisco; it had a shelf to hold a washbowl and soap, a hook on which to hang towels, and another hook for a looking glass.

  “You bring all those for yourself, of course,” said Hiram, “and if you’re wise you’ll also bring your own blankets. But it’s the best lodging place I’ve seen around here. Remember that, if you ever have to stay in one.”

  “Heaven forbid,” said Marny.

  They told her what they h
ad been doing since they reached town yesterday. First, as soon as they got off the boat they had gone to Chase and Fenway’s to put away their gold. Muddy and unkempt as they were, they had felt out of place among all those handsome exhibits, but Mr. Chase had welcomed them and Loren had hurried over to tell them about Loren Junior. They had bought new clothes, complete outfits from the skin up, and had asked Loren where they should stay and where they could get washed. He had told them about the St. Francis, and recommended a bath-house on Kearny Street.

  By this time it was late and they were tired, so they went to the St. Francis as they were and spent the night. First thing this morning they had gathered up their new outfits and had gone to the bath-house.

  “Not a bad place,” said Hiram. “Fire going all day, plenty of hot water. We scrubbed off Sacramento, we each got a shampoo and haircut and shave, and then we put on our new clothes and looked like gentlemen.”

  “And smelled like gentlemen,” said Pocket.

  “You are gentlemen,” said Marny, “and I love you both. How long are you going to be in town?”

  “We’re staying,” said Pocket. He chuckled and added, “We’re going to do gentlemen’s work.”

  Hiram spoke seriously. “Rockers are getting obsolete, Marny. Of course men are still making lucky strikes, but there’s less and less gold to be taken out with simple machines. Now they’re talking about quartz-crushers, and sluices, and wing-dams—”

  “What are those?”

  “I don’t know enough to tell you,” Hiram answered frankly. “But the placers are getting scientific. What I mean is, the frolic is over. Or soon will be, and Ning and Pocket and I thought we’d better change with the times.”

  She nodded her approval. “My congratulations, boys. As I’ve said before, the smart gambler is the one who knows when to quit. What is Ning doing now?”

  They told her Ning had used his gold to buy property in Sacramento. He had put up a big sturdy tent on one of his lots and was living there in what he regarded as luxury. When they quit making rockers Hiram and Pocket had wanted Ning to come to San Francisco with them, but he had declined. He said San Francisco was getting to be too much of a big city. Plank sidewalks, bath-houses, buildings three and four stories high—not for him.