Leaden Skies

by Ann Parker

  The door darkened as four more men and another keg came through and thundered off the plank landing. The men floundered momentarily in the mud before gaining their footing and heading toward the back of the brothel. Lynch stepped out onto the plank landing, wiping his hands on the rag hanging off his apron. His attention swerved from the keg brigade to the woman swaying in the mud-splattered robe, half visible in the shadows of the alleyway.

  “Lizzie, Lizzie.” His previously loud voice was now soft. Affection, rough from disuse, colored his words. “What’re you doing out here? Like this? Come inside, warm up by the stove ’til Flo can fetch you. Come along, dearie, that’s a girl.”

  He stepped down the porch steps and gingerly into the liquefied alley, the surface pocking with intense raindrops. “You’re going to catch your death out here dressed in nothing but a wee gown like that.” He advanced, hand outstretched.

  Lizzie reared back.

  Watching the scene unfold from the shadows, Inez saw the whites of her eyes, desperate, like those of a wild animal scenting the hunter.

  Lizzie pitched her bottle at him.

  Despite Lizzie’s inebriated state, her aim could not be faulted. If Lynch had not thrown up an arm, the bottle would likely have hit him in the forehead. Instead it hit his forearm, and fell into the ooze at his feet.

  “Bastard!” she shrieked. “I’ll bet you’d like me over there. Warm up by the fire. Catch my death. Wouldn’t you like that. Not bloody likely!”

  With an alacrity that Inez would not have believed possible from someone who had drained a bottle of—Inez glanced at the label, face up and barely visible in the mud—Angelica wine, Lizzie tore up the alley toward the Silver Queen, robe hiked high, mud-splattered white calves flashing, like a besmirched ghost fleeing in and out of the gloom.

  Lynch took two steps as if to follow and then spotted Inez, who had moved out of the shadows.

  He stopped, shook his head. “Drunk. And crazy, too. Poor soul. Don’t know why Flo keeps her on.”

  He seemed to straighten, inflate his chest. “Never let it be said that Frank Lynch wasn’t a man to extend a helping hand, even to those more sinning than sinned against.”

  Smoke obscured the alley. Inez was seized by a fit of coughing.

  “Ah, good,” Lynch said, somewhere behind the screen of smoke. “Fire’s near out. ’Twas piss-poor beer, that’s true, but still, I wasn’t lookin’ forward to seein’ it all go up in smoke.” Then louder, “I’m a man to keep my word! Free drinks for those who saved the day and for all the pretty ladies next door!”

  The crush of men around the damaged pleasure palace reversed itself and swept toward Lynch’s saloon, a jostling of hoarse voices, mud-slathered boots, soaked hats, looking for the promised free drinks. Inez stepped away from the stampede lest it carry her into the saloon. Once the thirsty tide had receded, she squelched forward to Flo’s, intent on finding the reverend and assaying the damage to the building up close.

  Bobbing lanterns moved through the thick night, their carriers invisible in the pressing dark and murk. The wavering spots, crossing, recrossing, seemingly random in their movement, reminded her of the lightning bugs from her childhood. And like the insects she used to hold, one by one, cupped in her hands, they illuminated little, beyond their own small shapes.

  She made out a knot of women, mostly by their white limbs and shifts, stirring nervously in the gloom. High-pitched coughs and crying were threaded by the soothing murmur of Sands’ voice. She sloshed closer. By the structure’s charred but still miraculously intact back porch, the mud was churned knee-deep from recent turmoil, water, and beer. Sands held one lantern high. Flo stood by, arms crossed tight, holding her elbows. Inez climbed out of the sucking muck in time to hear Reverend Sands say, “You’re welcome to use the mission for shelter.”

  Flo shook her head, face and platinum locks layered black with soot. Tears or sweat had cleared small tracks of white down her cheeks. “Lynch offered me and my girls a couple of rooms upstairs for the night. He’s going to move his own whores into the backroom, for now. Danny’ll guard the house. He’s got orders to shoot first, ask questions later. No one’s going to sneak off with the silver or the booze if I have anything to say about it.”

  She looked at the building. “Danny’s checking the rooms. I’m missing two girls.” She bit her lip, her upper teeth showing white. “Zelda and Lizzie.”

  “I saw Lizzie outside Lynch’s.” Inez stepped into the fragile circle of light. “He was trying to talk her into coming inside.”

  The lines across Flo’s forehead deepened as she raised invisible eyebrows. “Mrs. Stannert? Is that you? Did you come down to help fight the fire? Why, I didn’t think you cared.”

  “I have no desire to see State Street go up in flames. That would be a catastrophe for us all.” Inez cleared her throat. Smoke wafting from the gaping back of the building coated her teeth and mouth, tasting bitter. “Your Lizzie seemed sound in limb when I saw her. Although quite intoxicated.”

  Flo sighed. “Lizzie.” The one word was heavy with worry and fatigue. “Well, at least she’s with Lynch. We’d better head over there before something happens. I never know, with Lizzie.”

  “She didn’t go inside,” Inez said quickly. “Lynch tried to talk her in, but she fled. Ran toward Harrison. She wasn’t wearing much.”

  Flo closed her eyes. “Shit.”

  “She’ll find a place to stay, or she’ll come back,” Reverend Sands said. “If nothing else, the police will find her, and she’ll spend the night in jail.”

  Flo nodded, eyes still closed.

  Soft sobs from the shivering women seemed to pull her from her thoughts.

  Her eyes flew open. She was suddenly all business. “I’ve got to get everyone inside. Zelda, well, she’s my newest girl. If she’s not inside, she probably went home. She’s got family in town. Nothing to be done about it now.”

  Sands glanced at Inez. “We’ll be going then, Mrs. Stannert and I. If you need anything, Mrs. Sweet—”

  Flo cocked her head, looking at Inez as if really seeing her for the first time. “Hmmm. Now that you mention it, Reverend…Mrs. Stannert, I’d like to talk with you further. About something that could benefit us both.”

  “Us?” Inez found the plural pronoun disturbing. She retreated a step, as if physical distance would dispel the grammatical embrace. “I don’t see where our interests intersect.”

  “Besides in keeping State Street from burning to the ground, you mean?” A corner of Flo’s mouth quirked up momentarily, then the smile disappeared—a small light blown out with the slightest puff of breath. “Let’s just say that it occurs to me that this particular cloud may have a high-grade silver lining. In the morning, but not too early, I promise, I’ll send Danny around and find out if you might have a moment to talk. Somewhere away from here. Somewhere discreet. Away from prying eyes and ears.”

  Without warning, she reached out and gripped Inez’s wrist, exposed between glove and half-rolled jacket sleeve. Flo squeezed, then released. As Flo and her girls turned to go, Inez glanced down, almost expecting to see the skin blotched red from the intensity of Flo’s grip. Instead, her wrist was encircled with soot, as if she was already manacled to Flo by an as-yet unspecified, dark oath.

  Chapter Six

  “What was that all about?” Reverend Sands asked Inez.

  Inez rubbed her wrist absently. The soot imprint would only be dispelled by a good scrub with soap and water. They were walking slowly up Harrison, from pool to pool of gas light from the street lamps.

  They passed the Clarendon, the front of which was now deserted, the grandstands empty. The crowds had dispersed except for numerous late-night revelers who seemed intent on celebrating the arrival of the former president and the first train into the dawn hours.

  “Flo’s invitation to talk? I have no idea. I suppose if I want to find out, I’ll have to meet her.” Inez’s wrist felt as if the mor
ning sun would find it bruised. “I’m not inclined to follow her dictates, however.”

  Inez and Reverend Sands strolled side by side. As a concession to her disguise, they forwent walking arm-in-arm. Even so, the sleeve of his coat occasionally brushed hers. When the reverend posed his question to her, Inez was contemplating how the various passersby had no idea of the frisson that jolted through her from that briefest and most accidental contact.

  “If she’s in search of charity, perhaps the church could help,” said Sands.

  Inez snorted. “You are one of the most gifted silver-tongued devils I have ever met, but even I have doubts that you could talk the church’s board into offering a leg up, so to speak, to the owner of a house of prostitution.”

  “Let those without sin…” Reverend Sands didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Instead, he added, “Flo has been very generous in her contributions to the church in the past. It’s not Christian to accept such gifts and turn a blind eye on the givers, no matter what their station or state of their soul.”

  “Stated like a true politician, Reverend. I think you missed your calling.” Inez spoke lightly, trying to stave off the exhaustion that seeped into every corner of her being. She was glad to turn the conversation away from Flo’s disturbing proposition. Even though she’d denied knowing what Flo’s offer might be, Inez had an inkling that she did indeed know what it concerned. Only a couple of weeks before, Flo had unexpectedly popped up at the back door of Inez’s saloon, hinted that she intended to move to a better part of town, and wondered aloud whether Inez might be interested in providing some financial backing.

  It would have to be a most profitable deal for me to contemplate entering the flesh trade, even at a distance. Although, as the good reverend said, Flo is a most astute businesswoman. I’d probably add more to my bank account in league with her than I’ve accumulated through some of my investments in the local mines.

  Return had been good until the recent miner’s strike in May. From thence forward, it had been a rocky ride, and Inez continued to watch, breath held, as stock prices gyrated up and down, dancing to the tune of East Coast investors and their nervousness over the stability of Leadville’s silver future.

  She sighed.

  The Silver Queen’s fortunes are looking up. That’s good. But I need something I can call my own. Something that has my name on it, clear and legal. I own a third of the saloon, but only verbally, and those words were spoken long ago, in another life. If the unthinkable happens and my husband returns, I’m not certain those words would mean anything at all.

  “Did you mean what you said earlier, about getting a divorce?” Reverend Sands’ question seemed almost as though he’d read her mind.

  They were at the corner of Harrison and Fourth, preparing to turn the corner and walk the long block to her home. She faced away from him for a moment, away from the lights on Harrison. Fourth Street was dark, quiet, its modest one-story homes, punctuated every once in a while with an ambitious two-story stand against the formidable cold of Leadville’s ten-month-long winters.

  “Of course I meant it.” She turned onto Fourth. Sands followed. “Mark has been gone a year. Over a year. I’ve had not a word, not a letter, nothing. He could be dead, he could be alive. He loved our son, so much.” Her throat closed as she thought about little William, almost two years old and living so far away, back east with her sister, Harmony.

  It was the right decision, to send him away. With his lungs, he’d not have lived through another winter up here. And I couldn’t leave Leadville then. I still hoped that Mark would return. That there was a reason for his sudden disappearance. An accident. Some unfortunate circumstance. But that was long ago. Now, the time is coming when I will be able to think about leaving. I swore, when I handed William to Harmony, that I would do whatever was necessary to get him back and move somewhere where we could live together. Making a deal with Flo would allow me the wherewithal to do that sooner, rather than later. William may never know his father, but he will know his mother.

  She coughed, forcing tears away, and continued, “When I visited the lawyer several weeks ago, he indicated I could sue for divorce on grounds of desertion. That’s exactly what I intend to do. And the sooner the better.”

  The sooner the better.

  Despite her verbal assurances to Reverend Sands, a lingering doubt still pulsed, like water seeping from a heated mineral spring in winter.

  What if Mark is alive? Not just alive, but here somewhere in Colorado?

  There had been indications. Possible sightings. Reported to her second- or third-hand. Not in Leadville, but in Denver. And again, in Central City.

  Best to finish the job. I can’t claim proper widowhood without proof of his death, but I can end this half-existence with a divorce.

  The societal backlash from a divorce was inevitable, but then…

  Better a “grass widow” here out West than home back East.

  They’d arrived at Inez’s small house. She reached for her key and then realized it was back at the Silver Queen. Reverend Sands pulled a small ring of keys from some pocket inside his coat and thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted. He inserted it, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

  She stepped inside, then turned to face him. “Are you coming in?”

  His face was invisible, unreadable, cast into shadow under his hat. His figure, no more than a black silhouette, seemed to blend with the pressing darkness of the overcast night, punished by rain.

  “Am I invited?”

  The slight huskiness of his voice was all the indication she needed that their walk here, together, had served to turn aside his attention from the outside world and its recent troubles. That he was, like her, hoping for comfort and connection in the most human of blessings, the simple touch of skin to skin, breath to breath, heart to heart.

  Without a word, she took his hand and gently pulled him inside.

  Chapter Seven

  Zelda paused outside the two-room shanty on Chicken Hill, her breath visible in the still air, her toes squeezed tight and painful in too-small boots. She checked the precious bundle she’d carried all the way from town. It was still rolled up tight, safe under the shawl. Gripping the shawl close around her face and shoulders with the other hand, she turned to gaze on the eastern horizon, the dark now creased with dawn light. Mosquito Range stood out as a sharp, jagged shape, reminding her of the paper dolls she’d once cut out of dark paper in a childhood that had ended abruptly when her mother died.

  Despite the cold, she took a moment to shake out her long skirts, hoping the freezing early morning air would remove some of the smell of sex and smoke that clung to her. Usually, before coming to visit, she always scrubbed up, so Pa wouldn’t catch a whiff of all the men she’d passed the nights with.

  She rubbed the toe of one button-topped shoe against her calf, balancing precariously on one protesting foot. That cotton stocking would show a gray streak of ash against the red stripes, next time she lifted her skirts. But soon, maybe I won’t have to do that ever again. Leastwise, if I don’t want to.

  She tested the front door with a shoulder, knowing how tight it fit against the buckling raw planks of the floor inside. The door, unbarred, released its customary squawk and hiss as it scraped open across the floor. By the cast iron stove, a moth-eaten buffalo robe stirred, animated by an unseen force. A dull metallic gleam, snout-shaped, emerged from beneath the robe.

  “It’s me,” Zelda hissed. “Put the gun away, Zeke. You’re no pistolero.”

  There was a dull clunk of metal on wood as the sawed-short shotgun met the floor. A whine emerged next from beneath the robe. “’Tain’t no way to talk t’ your elders, Miss Zelda.”

  “You’re only elder by nine months, and a whole sight dumber. And watch your mouth and call me by my given name here at home.”

  “Zelpha, Zelda, it hardly makes a diff’rence. Don’t know why you’d pick a whorin’ name like
Zelda anyways, instead of Posey or something.”

  Zelda tiptoed over to a rocking chair by the stove and sat down with a sigh, holding the bundle on her lap. “’Cause I wanted somethin’ easy to remember. So, everyone still sleepin’?” She hiked up her skirt, slid a buttonhook from its holding place in her garter, and began unfastening the boots.

  The robe heaved off. “What yuh think, Zel?” Zeke stood up and stretched, long underwear drooping such that he looked like he had the butt of an old man. “Pa had the better part of a bottle last night, tryin’ to drown out the cheers of everyone welcomin’ General fuckin’ Grant t’ town. What Pa didn’t drink, Zed did. And your lover boy’s sleepin’ like a baby. How long’s he stayin’ here anyways?”

  “Long’s it’s my money that keeps a roof over your miserable head and beef and booze on the table to feed your sorry ass.” Zelda threw her shoe at Zeke. It connected firmly with that piece of his anatomy.

  Zeke threw a wounded look back at her. “Hey. Zed an’ me are workin’ too.”

  “And every penny you make muckin’ ore for Silver Mountain Mine goes to the sharps and girls on State Street.”

  Zeke’s nose twitched. “What’s that smell? Smells like, I dunno, you burnt your hair or somethin’.”

  Zelda bent to the other shoe, furiously digging the button loops off the buttons. “Fire at Flo’s place.”

  He scratched. “Thought it was brick or stone.”

  “Not all of it.” One of the loops had gotten twisted and wasn’t cooperating. “Back part, the kitchen and mud room, is wood. Anyhow, place filled with smoke so fast, I could hardly breathe. I hardly had time to grab shoes and shawl, and run out.” And got something else, too. “Leastways I was already dressed. Some of the other girls had nothing on but blankets or shifts. Looked like squaws, standin’ outside, all wrapped up. Screamin’ and pitchin’ fits.” She sighed, looking down at the second boot, now unfastened. “Nice shoes. Too bad they ain’t my size.”