Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  So where had he been? He must have some upbringing, because he had said something biblical when he'd been so mad about the judge's ruling. He'd referred to Solomon, dividing that poor babe in half. What sort of Christian man turned out so… hard? The bible said there's good in all men, but she had yet to see any in him. It could be that she was being unfair. Somewhere in that long, lanky black soul was some good.

  The Christian in her was trying to think of something good about the man while she absentmindedly looked into her uncle's viewer.

  "Good God!" She whipped it away from her face and stared at it as if it was something foul. She threw on her spectacles and looked again. This time she gasped. With her eyes never leaving the eyepiece, she felt around on the table for the stack of glass slides. She examined each and every slide, all the while becoming more and more stunned. No wonder he'd been fascinated. They were not travel slides, not slides of exotic animals like elephants and zebras. The slides were of women, naked, buxom, women.

  It was then Addie realized that Mr. Creed's long, lanky black soul held absolutely no good.

  Chapter 7

  Two days later Addie pedaled down the dirt road toward home, her cart bouncing along behind her, the charming chirps of two hundred, week-old baby chicks echoing in her wake. This was it, the first day of her new venture. She looked over her shoulder at her large brood and smiled. They were the cutest things she'd ever seen. They were all toasty-brown balls of fuzz, with little round heads and tiny beaks. Buying them from that nice old woman and her son was the smartest thing she'd done, although she'd let the son talk her into twice as many as she had planned. But then she'd also saved twenty-five dollars.

  Levi had told her of a chicken farmer in Pleasanton who sold his broods and was very reliable, but Addie had done better. She'd seen a big old place off the Livermore road that had chickens everywhere. Granted, it wasn't as well equipped as she'd have had her place, but there were sure enough chickens. So many roosted on the outbuildings that at first glance she had thought the buildings had red roofs.

  A gnarled old woman had stood near the road, and Addie, starting to feel like a real Californian, had stopped to chat. When she mentioned she was off to buy chickens from the Sycamore Ranch in the next town, the woman, a Mrs. Potter, told her, gesturing to the dilapidated farm behind her, that her son had more chickens than he knew what to do with. So Addie, thinking she should at least take a look, had followed the woman, and an hour later left with her chickens.

  Pedaling down the dirt road with renewed vigor, she hummed "Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho," feeling quite proud of herself. By purchasing the chicks from the Potters, she had cut five miles off her trip and gotten two hundred chicks for the same price she'd have had to pay for one hundred fifty at Sycamore Ranch. She had done well, just like Mr. Wendell T. Gates.

  She could see it now. The huge sign she'd have on her farm someday, touting her prosperous business. Addie's Chicken Ranch. No, that didn't sound right. She pedaled faster, her mind working with the same speed as her feet. Maybe Pinkney's Perfect Fowls? That wasn't right either. It reminded Addie of baseball fouls, which in turn reminded her of the Chicago Cubs, who hadn't won the National League pennant since 1886. She was mad at them, so to name her future million-dollar endeavor after them didn't sit right with her.

  California Capons. She swerved to miss a rut. Too stuffy, she thought, shaking her head.

  Ah-hah! She had it. Pinkney's Pullets. It was perfect!

  It was a few moments later when she reached the drive. She jammed her heels into the gravel to stop the bicycle and she stood back, staring at the entrance to the farm and imagining what it would look like someday.

  Oh, she could see it now. The huge barn painted red with crisp white trim, and in bold letters across the facia would be Pinkney's Pullets in letters a full yard high. The farmhouse would be expanded, a second and even third story added with some lovely turrets and gables, maybe even a round window. She loved round windows. They were so… not square. She'd always liked light, so maybe she could add some of those glass skylights that had become so popular recently. Everyone in Chicago had been installing them.

  Nestled in the third story would be a sewing and workroom. There would be a Kruse New Crown sewing machine—the one that was completely enclosed in that lovely burl cabinet. Montgomery Wards in Chicago'd had one, and she'd fallen in love with it on sight. She could have a big oak table where she'd cut out dress patterns, and she could use it to make some of those lovely tissue-paper flowers, in all colors. Then she'd put them everywhere. She could even make some to match her aunt's majolica vase, the one the toad hated.

  She smiled. Maybe she'd order about six or seven of those vases from Montgomery Ward and place them everywhere he could see them. She could get giant majolica urns, the ones that came up to her waist, in the brightest colors around, and put them right in front of her bedroom windows, for privacy and just to irritate him. She'd even set some on the front porch, right across from his tree, where he would have to look at them all the time. She giggled; that's exactly what she would do. In fact she might just order them tomorrow.

  She checked the chicks, all snug in the cart, her deep plum, knitted shawl tied over the top to serve as a tarp and protection from the dusty road. Then she pushed her bicycle down the drive, heading for the chicken yard and the beginning of the prosperous venture, Pinkney's Pullets.

  She leaned her cycle against the wire fence that surrounded the chicken yard and untied the cart, rolling it through the gate and over to the short wooden ramp that led to the henhouse. It was dark and stuffy inside, so she opened the west window to help ventilate the small wooden room. Fresh straw covered the raised wooden floor, and the room smelled grainy from it. Addie had cleaned the building yesterday afternoon and filled it with nice, clean straw. Mr. Wendell T. Gates had advised that cleanliness was an important factor in chicken keeping. No diseased chickens for her, no sirree. She was going to have the cleanest, healthiest chickens in Northern California, maybe in the whole darn state!

  Her little chicks sang from beneath her shawl, and she untied it and began lifting out the fluffy little darlings. As she set each one down on the floor or in one of the nests, she cooed and stroked the little dear as if it were her own child. She smiled at them—her little babies.

  She filled the small waterers made from quart jars inverted into tin bowls, and the narrow tin feed trough that ran floor level along the south wall. She had found these items when she'd cleaned the henhouse, and it had been a lucky find because it seemed that Mr. Gates had neglected to explain how to make either the waterers or the feed hoppers. Addie scattered handfuls of feed throughout the straw, just as the wealthy Mr. Wendell T. Gates had instructed. She turned to leave, pausing to take another look at her chicks. There were a lot of chickens. In fact, there seemed to be chickens everywhere; so, very carefully, she tiptoed to the door. It wouldn't do to squish one. Then she shut the large wooden door, leaving open only the small chicken door that was cut into the base of the henhouse door. She crossed the chicken yard and went through the gate, latching it behind her.

  An hour later Addie sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the smells of her dinner—black-eyed peas and ham—while it simmered on the stove. With pen in hand she opened her poultry ledger—the one that would help her keep track of her hens, eggs, and profits. According to Mr. Wendell T. Gates, it was important for a businessman—or woman—to keep good records. So she entered: 14th of April, 1894; 200 chicks purchased, $75.00; one bag of chick-grain, $1.40; yield, $.00, but just wait! A. A. Pinkney, Pinkney's Pullets, est. 1894.

  Montana stood and dug through the pocket of his pants. He flipped the man a quarter, picked up his bundle and left the Bleeding Heart Barberorium. He went to the hitch post and put his bundle of dirty clothes into his saddlebags. It wasn't hot today. The air had cooled the night before and a breeze had started to drift in from the west. He looked skyward, searching for clouds. Only a few white ones
moved across the sky. At least it wasn't going to rain, he thought. Jericho turned and stared at him for a long moment.

  "What's wrong, old boy? Don't you recognize me?"

  The horse snorted, dipped its head in recognition and turned back around. Montana rubbed his smooth cheek. It felt good to be clean-shaven, although what the hell had possessed him to cut off his mustache was something he didn't want to think about. He'd had that brush of hair on his lip for over two years, then suddenly he'd looked in the mirror and told the barber to cut it off. There was nothing he could do about it now. The hair on his face was gone. He mounted and shook his head, his trimmed brown hair now brushing his shoulders. He still wore his hair long, the way he liked it.

  Bathing had been the best of that day's pleasures. You just couldn't wash right from a bucket. It was better to sit in a big old tub, and that was exactly what he'd done too, sat in that tub for over an hour. He had propped his long legs against the end of the tin bathtub and smoked a whole cigar. He couldn't remember when he'd last allowed himself those pleasures. Now there were only two more pleasures that needed tending.

  He led Jericho through town, heading for the Enchantress Saloon, a place that should fill both his needs. A few minutes later he was sipping a whiskey, his arms resting on the dark mahogany bar. Seven tule elk heads hung on the bar wall, and cobwebs draped down from the antlers. He rested his foot on the bar's brass foot rail. Like most saloons, the rail was tarnished with street muck left from the patrons' boots. He kicked the rail and some of the dried soil flaked onto the plank floor nicked from too many years of spurs.

  He'd been in enough saloons in his day, but this was one of the shabbiest he'd seen. Beneath the elk heads was a wide, wood-framed mirror dingy with grime and hanging drunkenly. The assorted liquor bottles lined up on the back counter were coated thick with dust, and the lamps hanging from the rafters were so gray he doubted if they'd give off any light at all. The floor was covered with cigar butts, ashes, and brown gunk. He glanced around the corners of the room. There was no spittoon.

  A tinny piano sat by a small wooden platform that served as a stage, and a man was passed out on a nearby table, snoring. Montana turned back to the mirror and stared at his foggy reflection. He removed his hat and placed it on the dingy bar, next to his drink. How could his upper lip have thinned? He didn't remember looking like this. He ran his fingers over his square jaw and examined his chin. That blasted hole was still in it, the one that gave him hell when he shaved.

  A door slammed and, at the scrape of a wooden stool, he turned toward the stage. A small, crowlike man in a red shirt and brocade vest began to beat out a tune on the piano. It sounded like glass breaking. Then a woman in pink satin and feathers strutted across the stage. She burst into a lusty rendition of "I Have a Wild Yearning for You."

  Montana changed his mind. She sounded more like glass breaking. She clumped across the stage and threw in a few can-can kicks, not once coming close to keeping time with the music, either with her legs or her lungs. He turned back to his drink, hoping it would help drown out the racket. The woman screeched out two more songs, plucking feathers from her pink fans and tossing them in his direction.

  Then she moved in for the kill. As she came closer, Montana decided she looked as if she'd canned one too many cans. Her eyes, what he could see of them through all the black goop, reminded him of an old hound dog he'd once had. They drooped. He eyed her body. It drooped too.

  "Buy a drink for a thirsty lady, stranger?"

  "Give her what she wants," he told the barkeep, digging into his pants pocket and throwing a coin on the counter. The man poured her a whiskey and set it on the bar.

  She snuggled closer. "You're what I want." She rubbed her shoulder up against his chest.

  He laughed and shook his head. It was just his luck to stop at a saloon with the most sorrowful-looking whore east of the Pacific Ocean. "Sorry, Miss…''

  She fluttered her droopy lids at him. "Jessie Joan."

  "Well, uh, Jessie Joan, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to pass." He turned back to his drink.

  She was silent for a moment, and he expected her to leave, but she didn't.

  "Why?" she asked a moment later, all the forced seductiveness gone from her voice.

  He looked at her, surprised by her directness.

  She stood back a bit, her hands on her hips, her sad eyes drooping more. She stuck her lower lip out. "Ain't I good enough?"

  She looked up at him the same way that old hound dog did, whenever he hadn't gotten a bone. Her eyes were moist, looking more than rejected. She looked hurt, and he felt sorry for her.

  "It's not you, Jessie Jane—''

  "Joan. Jessie Joan." She blinked back the moistness.

  Jesus Christ, he panicked, don't cry.

  Her shoulders started to shake. Montana rammed his hand in his pocket and fished out a bag of gold coins.

  "Aw, don't cry. Please don't cry." He pressed the coins into her shaky hands while she gazed up at him, tears running from her wrinkly eyes.

  "It's not you. You're… you're very pretty," he lied. "It's me. I have a problem." His mind searched for some excuse to fend her off without hurting her pride.

  "A big, tail bull of a man like you?" She sounded doubtful.

  A bull… That was it. "It was a bull that did it to me. Pinned me up against a wall, and I haven't been right since," he said, thankful that he was a fast thinker.

  She sniffed again and stared at his fly, as if she could gauge the damage. Then she glanced at the gold coins he'd pressed into her hand. He had to get out of there before she started bawling again. He grabbed his hat off the bar, holding it over his fly, and he started to back out. "And you know what? Right now, you're so pretty I don't think I can take being around here. It'll just remind me of my… affliction," he told her as he passed by the table with the drunken man.

  Montana turned, slamming his hat on his head. Then he bent down and lifted the drunk by his arms and walked him back to the tearful whore. He shoved the man at her along with a few more coins. "Here, you two have fun on me."

  The drunk draped his arms over the woman, burying his face in her neck. Then he snored again. A second later Montana was out the door.

  He rode Jericho out of town, heading back to the farm. It hadn't been in his original plan to go back so early, but now he didn't feel like drinking or carousing. His urge for female companionship was gone, long gone. He couldn't stand a crying woman. Their sobs always made his gut wrench, and he'd do anything to stop the tears. It was a real weakness, and one he'd learned to hate, because of the times he'd gone and done stupid things just to get a woman to stop. Hell, one gal in Placer County had almost had him up before a preacher, all because her tears had turned him to mush.

  No, he'd go back to the farm where he could think, and he'd plan his next round with the Pinky woman. He needed a good battle. And, he reminded himself, she didn't cry.

  The sun just settled behind the foothills when Montana heard it—a scream and then the most godawful wailing he'd ever heard. He spun around toward the sound.

  The Pinky woman ran toward him, howling like a jackass in a tin barn.

  "My chickens!" she sobbed. "My chickens! You have to help meeeee!"

  He looked down at her face, wet with tears, and his insides knotted.

  "Look at my babies." She held out her apron. "Look! They're dying!"

  He looked in her apron. It was filled with dead chicks.

  "What the hell?" He looked from her to the chicken yard, then ran toward it.

  Baby chicks were blindly stumbling everywhere, dropping to the ground faster than sinners at a revival meeting. He flung open the gate and told her, "Get me something to put them in!"

  She knelt down and emptied her apron, then ran for the house. He walked around the small chicken yard, trying to salvage some of the chickens. The back door slammed and she ran down the steps toward him, carrying a laundry basket and still crying for all she was worth. He cringed.
She was the noisiest crier he'd ever heard. It killed him.

  He entered the henhouse. There were a few dozen chicks inside and they looked salvageable. He closed the west window, cutting off the cool draft. She came inside hiccuping while she tried to catch a breath. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the basket out of her hands. "Help me put them in here."

  She got down on her hands and knees, her shoulders heaving and wheezing while she scooped up her chicks. The sound she made pulled from deep in her throat, and he hurried to get the rest of the chicks.

  It was so pitiful he couldn't take any more. He stood and said, "You get these and I'll see if I can save the ones in the yard."

  She nodded at him while squatting on the floor, her shoulders working up and down with her wheezes as she gathered her chicks. He ducked out the door and looked around the chicken yard, Shaking his head. There must have been near a hundred dead chickens, keeled over in the dust. What had possessed the woman to buy so many chicks, and too young at that? Hadn't she ever heard of a brooder? Christ! He walked around the yard and found about twenty or so live ones which he put inside his shirt to try to give them the warmth they needed. Then he went back to the henhouse. She was still at it.

  He stooped down and put his chicks in the basket, which was now filled with sick chickens, pecking and squeaking at each other. She finally lifted her quivering head and looked at him, her white skin all blotchy red and her huge, wet eyes full of pain and hurt and shame. It was like a fist in the gut.

  He turned away. "Go heat up the stove. I'll bring the basket."

  "It's al-al-read-dy h-hot," she sniffed. "I w-was c-cooking di—Hic! Din-ner."

  He tucked the basket onto his hip and anchored it with his arm. Putting his hand on her heaving shoulder, he guided her out of the henhouse. The minute she looked at the yard, it started again—the loudest caterwauling he'd ever heard. His hand clamped down on her arm and he almost dragged her out of the yard, up the stairs, and inside.