Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Make it a long bit, then,” Frank recanted with an edge of annoyance. “Let’s see how far you can make fifteen cents last.”

  “Not as long as he’s got left in the saloon,” Grenville Parks guffawed. “Viola expects you home at nine o’clock. You’ve got two minutes to drink your fifteen cents’ worth and get on home.”

  Pap’s easy gait to the bar was light and enthusiastic, and a smile inched up the sides of his mouth. He rounded the corner with a little hop, then addressed Ed Vining, who stood at the end of the counter.

  “Will you drive a nail in your coffin this evening, good sir?”

  “A pair of overalls,” Ed replied, going along with Pap who knew damn well who he was.

  “Ah, two shot glasses of straight rye. Definitely coffin nails.” Pap glanced at Frank. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got something to do.”

  Pap’s brows lifted. “If he’s got something to do, it has to involve a woman.”

  Frank made no comment. If Pap O’Cleary knew he was going to have a talk with Amelia, he’d bust a seam. Pap still had wedding bells in mind for Miss Marshall. If only he’d get over his stage fright and ask her to the Fourth of July picnic, he might be able to start something with her. But for some reason, Pap acted like an imbecile around the piano teacher.

  Parley Hawkins, one of the young cowboys who herded cattle for the big ranch north of town, sat at a table with six of his companions. All of them had baby white foreheads above their brows; and their skin was sunburned and leathery below.

  As Frank dumped the rest of his tea into the dishpan, he called to Parley while he remembered. “Quit whittling on the wooden posts upholding the awning above my boardwalk. I’m going to have to replace them if you don’t.”

  One of the boys at the table ribbed Parley. “He’s making hearts with Earline’s name in it.”

  “Shut up,” Parley cautioned.

  “Both of you shut up,” came a third voice from a table in the corner. “We’re trying to look at something here.”

  “What?” someone from Parley’s crowd asked.

  “Orlu Blue brought in a stereoscope,” was the general reply.

  “Big deal,” Parley snorted, drinking the chaser of cold beer for his shot of whiskey. “Who wants to look at National Parks from the Monkey Ward catalogue?”

  “It ain’t parks we’s looking at.”

  “But it’s got hills and valleys,” chimed another with a deliberate laugh.

  “What is it?” Parley asked, a spark of inquisitiveness in his tone.

  “Naked ladies.” The man lifted the viewer by its folding handle. “This’n has a woman with a pair of bosoms that look like two gingersnaps.”

  “What?” blurted the six men in unison, scraping their chairs back so quickly, several toppled over. They stampeded to the neighboring table like cattle in search of a watering hole after a long trail drive.

  The others in the room converged in a shuffle of boots, Pap O’Cleary included, all elbowing each other to get a better look at Orlu’s girlie cards.

  Shaking his head, Frank pulled the strings on his white apron and laid it on the counter. “Pap.”

  “What?” Pap replied without turning, standing on tiptoe for a look-see over the other men’s heads.

  “I’m going now.”

  “Yeah, Frank, I got everything handled.” He absently waved. “Goddammit, Parley, you’re stepping on my foot.”

  Frank pushed the crystal glass bat-wing doors and stepped onto the boardwalk. Rather than go straight down Divine Street to Amelia’s house, he went through the narrow alley between his establishment and Titus Applegate’s Furniture and Undertaker Emporium. He hadn’t wanted Pap, or anyone else, to see what he was retrieving from the porch off his bedroom at the rear of the saloon. After he collected a long box, he headed for Amelia’s.

  He didn’t bother opening the lid to check the contents in the box; the pungent smell of freshly cut cattails told him the boys had done their job. Jakey Spivey and Daniel Beamguard had been hanging around the Moon Rock all morning, pestering him while he was cleaning. After lunch he’d had enough and told them to go and pick some cattails for him. They’d asked what he needed the marsh reeds for, but he wasn’t about to tell Jakey and Daniel he intended to give them to Amelia as a present. He’d said he was partial to cattails. When they didn’t readily believe him, he’d had to embellish by saying he was thinking about setting up a frog terrarium.

  The boys bought the lie for a dime apiece, and he’d finally been able to get rid of them for a good two hours. When they returned, their smudged faces proud, they told him they’d gotten extra special cattails just because they liked him so much. It had been opening time, so Frank hadn’t questioned them about their exact meaning; he’d paid the boys and sent them home.

  As Frank walked, he listened to the sounds of insects filling the warm night air with songs. He felt a certain contentment in the evening. He liked summer most of all because he wasn’t a constricting clothing man—the less worn the better. On the job, he never succumbed to a coat but only went as far as a vest. Tonight he’d chosen a fancy red brocaded vest; underneath, he’d put on a pristine white shirt, his sleeves held up by women’s garters. This particular pair of silk elastic garters with solid silver clasps had come from a pretty waiter girl named Kate in the El Dorado.

  As Frank walked, he thought about the men who were converged in the Moon Rock. One thing about his saloon, he pretty much knew every patron by name now; he couldn’t boast that same fact for the El Dorado, where a man’s face could be as fleeting as his prospects. It was a good feeling to be able to call a man by his name instead of mister. He’d never had the opportunity to do so before.

  Weeping Angel had its advantages in being a small, close-knit community; but by the same token, it had its disadvantages. In a town this size, most people knew what their neighbors were doing and with whom. It was that thought making him shy away from Emmaline Shelby. He wasn’t the right man for her, and any hopes she was apt to pin on him were wasted hopes. He was willing to take full blame for the situation and back off, but Emmaline had other plans.

  Yesterday when she’d caught him trying to talk with Amelia, it had been apparent Emmaline knew there was more between him and Amelia than a casual disagreement. The tension surrounding them must have been as noticeable as sparks because Emmaline shot hers right back. Not by way of fire, but rather, with a smooth sugary persuasion that he would have had to be stupid to ignore. Under all that sweetness lay sour grapes. He knew if Emmaline thought he were interested in Amelia, Emmaline wouldn’t let him go.

  He’d done his best to appease Emmaline in the laundry shop, but he hadn’t touched her. He wouldn’t anymore, and he felt bad he’d ever done so in the first place. She’d gone on some about the damn Founder’s Day picnic on the Glorious Fourth, and he let her talk because talking about him going was the only connection he’d have with the town gathering. There was no chance in hell he was showing up, pretending to be a regular member of the community.

  A pig’s low grunt caught Frank’s ear. The streak of white on Hamlet’s haunches tipped Frank off to the boar rooting through the Applegates’ flower bed as he passed the home. The lights on the lower level were extinguished; only one remained lit on the second floor, and Frank figured the mister and missus were getting ready to retire while their boy’s Hampshire boar wreaked havoc in his mama’s pansies.

  Hamlet lifted his chunky black head and snorted at Frank in recognition; then the pig went right back to nosing in the flowers. Frank had fed the pig his leftover scraps when Hamlet came sniffing around the Moon Rock. Having a three-hundred-pound swine as a pet never would have been Frank’s first choice, but he did think the boar had character a dog didn’t.

  Frank unlatched Amelia’s gate and let himself into her yard. The lawn was looking pretty high for a Saturday, and he knew she’d have a hard time mowing it come Monday. He couldn’t understand why she let Coney Island A
pplegate go. Women like Amelia didn’t get the calling to do hard labor. Women like Amelia puttered in gardens and arranged flowers. They didn’t shove an Acme mower across an acre of turf for the enjoyment of it. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t second-guess her.

  Approaching the steps, he quietly took them, not wanting to announce his arrival but not wanting to scare her either. He needed a minute to figure out what he was going to say to her and how he was going to say it.

  Frank deposited his parcel on the porch, noticing lamplight spilling out the parlor window. He tread lightly to the medium olive-trimmed window casement. Feeling like a young degenerate didn’t stop him from peeking inside. He couldn’t see much through the screen because her forest of plants occupied most of the view. He’d never known a woman to grow so many houseplants. And grow them well, too. He had to peer through a jungle of orchids and ferns just for a glimpse of the sofa, and then the pink cushions were empty anyway.

  Straightening, Frank went for the front door. He found the bell and turned the handle twice. From within the house, he heard footsteps on the bare floorboards. It took a while for her to reach the door, and when she opened it, she only did so a marginal crack. She put her face close to the thin space to see who’d come calling past nine on a Saturday evening. Even with the interior glow of a lamp behind her, he couldn’t tell what she was wearing; but from the dismay in her eyes, he doubted she was dressed for callers.

  Recognizing him, she went to close the door without a word, but he shoved the toe of his boot in the way.

  “Amelia, let me in.”

  “I will not,” she whispered, as if someone would hear her—hear them.

  “I’ve got something to say to you.”

  “I can’t talk to you right now.” She put pressure on the door. Slight as she was, he hardly felt the movement, but he heard her breath go oomph as she tried to smash his toes. “Remove your foot immediately.”

  “I could force my way in, Amelia. I don’t want to, but I’m not leaving until you’ve heard me out.”

  “I’m still too upset about my piano to hear you out. Go away.”

  “Then the Applegates will have to listen in because I’ll be yelling at you through the door.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would. Now let me in.”

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth. The door’s force on his instep didn’t ease up when she said, “I’m not decent.”

  “Neither am I, but I promise to behave myself.”

  “I meant I’m not properly dressed.”

  “And I meant I’m not proper.” He wedged his foot in farther. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here at your bedtime. But for you, sweetheart, I’ll remind myself I’m in the presence of a lady and conduct myself accordingly.”

  Amelia opened the door a fraction wider, enough to poke her face through and glance toward the Applegate residence. “Did anyone see you?”

  “Yeah, but he won’t talk.”

  “Who?” she asked in a voice tight with dread.

  “Hamlet.”

  “You pig.”

  “A pig.”

  “No, you’re the swine leading me to believe you were seen.”

  “I will be if you don’t let me in.”

  At that moment, Titus Applegate ran the sash up the second-story window, stuck his head out, and bellowed an expletive at Hamlet.

  Amelia withdrew, stood behind the door, and opened it barely enough for a cat to fit through. “Come inside. Quickly.”

  Frank nudged the entrance with his shoulder. The hard edge rammed into his upper arm as Amelia practically shut the door on him as soon as he’d stepped inside.

  The linen shade over the lamp on a stand in the entry didn’t lend much light to the small receiving space. She’d already turned the wick low and made no move to bring it back up. She eyed him with a critical squint, but he barely noticed. All he could do was stare at the waves of burnished brown that tumbled to her hips.

  Amelia Marshall had very long hair.

  He must have caught her in the middle of brushing it. Her hair was parted in the center and very full on either side of her face. He couldn’t imagine how she managed to pin all that volume up underneath a hat.

  “Let’s go into the parlor,” he suggested, not because that was the general room for conversation but because he wanted a better look at her unbound hair. Hers was the kind he fantasized about having spread across his pillow.

  “No. I’d rather stay here.”

  If she’d wanted to keep the intimate details of her attire hidden from him in the half dark, she was fooling herself. Here, in the veiled light of the foyer, she looked far more provocative to him than she would have in a bright, open room.

  She wore a wrapper of a light and sheer material imprinted with pale pink flowers. The collar was wide and reminded him of a sailor’s, only with a point directing his gaze to her slender waist. The sleeves were large and gathered in at the wrist, with fancy trimming and wide flowing cuffs edged in lace.

  “Well?” she prompted, the toe of her felt house slipper tapping an even meter like that metronome thing she had for the piano. She crossed her arms over her bosom, as if to shield them from his view. Even without a corset, she had a nice shape; her breasts didn’t sag, nor did her waist seem too plump—a hand span at the least, nor were her hips too wide or too narrow. Miss Amelia Marshall was full of surprises.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Frank shrugged, then crossed his own arms over his chest. So it was to be a standoff. She’d make this as difficult as she could for him. “Did you talk to Tindall and send another letter to Boston?”

  “I did. But I shan’t hope for a reply in anything less than two weeks.”

  “If we had a telegraph, it’d be a lot quicker.”

  Her ire was transferred to the lack of wire communication in town. “Weeping Angel will have telephones before we ever have a telegraph. Mayor Dodge doesn’t like that kind of progress. Why, we never would have had the Short Line spur if it hadn’t been for the fact he wanted a billiard table too big to disassemble for the Wells Fargo. If he wasn’t the citizen to foot most of the city’s bills, we’d—” She cut herself short. “Mr. Brody, I doubt it was your intention to come here and discuss the town’s lack of utilities.”

  “You’re right.”

  “What, then, have you been trying to explain?” Her hair fell across her cheek, and she had to unfold her arms in order to tame the rich mass over her shoulder.

  He darted his gaze upward to her eyes before she caught him staring at her unrestrained curves. “I know who Shelley is.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know who Mary Shelley is. She wrote Frankenstein. I read the book. I’ve also read Dickens, Cooper, Verne, Melville, Hawthorne, and Twain—just to name a few. I don’t care much for Emerson or Bronte. I used to tolerate Sand’s novels until I found out he was a she. Now I don’t have to like reading them anymore.”

  Amelia discontinued tapping her toe, and for a long moment, studied him as if deciding whether he was telling her the truth or not.

  “Just because I serve liquor for a living doesn’t mean I’m illiterate. You treated me as if I were, so I let you think what you wanted about Budweiser and Beam. If you recall, I never said outright they were men of the cloth who drank in my saloon. That was your idea.”

  “Do you want me to feel bad because I found out your little joke?” she asked, her voice a flat tone.

  “Hell, no. You had good reason to be mad at me. I can see now that I made light of something at your expense. But it’s like I said, you were treating me as if I were stupid.”

  A few seconds passed, then she raised her gaze to his. “I apologize if I made you feel inferior. It’s just that I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair, relieved they’d at least straightened something out. But there was one problem still standing between them. “I’m sorry the piano
was wrecked, Amelia. You’re more than welcome to use the one at the Moon Rock again until another one arrives.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I wish you’d give me the one you have,” she said softly.

  Frank shook his head, glanced at the floor, then back at Amelia’s face cast in shadows. “Sweetheart, you make twenty-five cents a lesson for thirty minutes’ effort. Right now, I’m making that in five minutes. It’s not as if you need the money. You have a fine house here.”

  Even in the gloomy entry, he could see her expression change to resentment. She wanted to pop him. Why, if she was only teaching the piano as an accent to her socializing?

  He decided to do something that could change their situation by way of flipping a coin to fate. “You tell me why you won’t pay a kid to mow your lawn anymore and that upright is yours.” He tipped his head meaningfully. “Right now, Amelia. One answer. That’s all it takes. I’ll have Pap and the boys bring it to you tonight. Just tell me why. Do you need money?”

  The muscles in her neck seemed to tense along with her jaw. Her nostrils widened a bit, and her breathing grew unsteady. For a minute, he thought she might just wallop him.

  “My aunt left me financially sound, Mr. Brody, so I most certainly do not need any charity from you.” She brought her arms down, her delicate hands clenched by her sides. She took a step toward him to reach for the doorknob, and he could smell the faint scent of some kind of floral perfume on her skin. “Now, if you’re finished—”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist and gathered her into his embrace. Holding her snugly, the diaphanous fabric of her wrapper felt like polished stone under his fingertips. The curtain of her hair teased the skin below his shirt cuffs; he entangled his fingers through the silkiness, rubbing the texture between his thumb and fingers. Before she could protest, he kissed her on the lips. Nothing lingering; nothing deep. Just long enough to taste the flavor of teaberry tooth powder on her startled mouth. Just long enough to make him realize a quick kiss wasn’t going to satisfy him. Just long enough for him to change his mind and give her something lingering and deep.