The woman, well, girl almost, was smaller than Mei-Ling. She knelt, but Tipton imagined her feet were tiny like Mei-Lings and her hands, if they hadn t been cupped inside wide silk sleeves, would surely have been small, too.
Tipton opened her mouth, but the girl quickly pulled her hand out of the silk and pressed her finger to her lips. Tipton nodded, lay back down, staring into the darkness. What had Nehemiah said once? That God often finds us in the morning darkness when we're less distracted. She was half asleep. Maybe it was a dream. But the girls breathing could still be heard, raspy and wounded. Tipton winced, remembering the sores on her face too. And the Celestial was so thin, so alone. Tipton led a charmed life by comparison. She'd only been ill from her own poor choices, only been displaced by the imaginings of her distant mind. Even her brother would be no real threat if she would allow Nehemiah to truly be in her life, to love and protect her.
Shame flooded over her. She had been given so much, and still she put herself and her baby at risk, just because she thought she deserved more. What a mess she'd made. Nehemiah would be a fool to take someone like her back.
She crept out of the wardrobe. After making her way upstairs, she brought the water bucket and some rags back down. “Let me help,” she told the Celestial, whose eyes widened in fear when Tipton kneeled beside her. Weak, the girl eased back, nodded yes. She wiped blood caked at the side of her face and tan flesh in the palms of her hands. Tipton began washing the girl's wounds.
Eventually Tipton returned to her wardrobe and slept. When she awoke, there was no sign of the Celestial, nothing at all to indicate she'd had a visitor in the theater. But somehow Tipton knew there would be more. Someone brought her, and someone else came to whisk her away. Many needed tending. She saw their presence as a gift.
She filled her days sewing buttons on costumes, repairing flounces on dresses, hemming men's pants. The thick wax makeup used to make the actors'—and sometimes actresses'—faces look larger so their audiences could see their expressions, also caked onto their collars and cuffs. She scraped it off with a slender knife, even rubbed spots clean with sand. She'd planned to launder them, she would. But the thought of a steaming tub of water still made her ill.
Once or twice she'd watched a production, was captivated by the costumes and characters. “What did you think of our little play?” Flaubert asked her later.
“Lovely,” she said.
“Maybe you will perform sometime?”
“My whole life's been a performance,” she said. “I'm learning it's what goes on backstage that really counts.”
She'd met Mrs. Henry Ray, the co-owner of the theater company and so far, the proprietress had found her work for Flaubert so satisfactory, she had hired her as “the official wardrobe keeper.” It meant a wage. It meant meeting and talking and helping the actors. Her tending them kept other thoughts at bay.
The Rays would take the troop to San Francisco soon. Tipton had heard them discussing it when she watched them rehearse The Wife and Charles II, two plays that won them recognition when they'd performed them in San Francisco four years before. Tipton listened to the actors rehearse their lines, watched in fascination as the costumes and makeup and sets transformed not just the actors and actresses but the audience as well. Dozens of spectators hovered in the pit down front, hung over the balcony, or squeezed in with their glasses of ale on the wooden benches avoiding drips of candle wax on hats and capes as the night wore on. They listened, totally consumed by the extravaganza.
“Everyone needs to be transformed, to forget one's woes, if only for an evening,” Henry Ray said. “That's what the theater does. And so they leave refreshed, the lowly and the royal, refitted to perform their tasks anew. It is the essence of art.” His wife had nodded her agreement.
They spoke of things in front of her as she pinned a waistband or mended a tear. It was as if she wasn't there, as if she had gone away and yet she stayed. Listening, she learned. Mrs. Pay complained one day about the European actors. “They absolutely falter if the audience cheers or claps,” she said. “'Tis the strangest thing.”
Flaubert told the woman, “In France one only receives applause as a prelude to tomatoes.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Ray had said.
Tipton thought of that, how an action in one place could mean something quite the opposite somewhere else. No wonder people who came from different countries had trouble understanding each other. No wonder husbands and wives did too, she considered. They came from different families, different places. Only talking about their differences would lead to understanding. Only staying mattered, or coming back, giving, taking, simply holding.
She hoped the Rays would take her with them when they went to San Francisco. The trip was scheduled for late May. So was Baby's arrival.
She knew the Rays would not be pleased to know their “chubby wardrobe mistress” not only worked there by day and helped with the performances at night, but used the theater for her living quarters. She was always the “last to leave,” Mrs. Ray commented, commending Tiptons dedication. Once Baby came, Mrs. Ray might have other words for it. She was rarely at a loss for words. Tipton wouldn't think about what word the arrival of Baby would prompt.
Every now and then, Tipton would awaken to yet another Celestial sitting like a lily pad quiet on the pool. The theater was a waiting room. For what, Tipton did not know, but she tended them, sometimes just sitting beside them until she heard sounds of those coming to move them to the next place, wherever that was.
It was her. Even in the darkness, Tipton knew. The tapping of a cane, the scent of lavender, even the swish of crinolines made her sure it was her. And then a woman had shouted down.
After the blind woman returned upstairs, Tipton followed. What business could Suzanne have here? Then she thought she recognized Esthers voice. On her hands and knees behind the bar, Tipton peeked out. She stumbled forward.
“Tipton!” Esther said.
She took it as her cue.
They took a room at the Crescent City Hotel, right next to the Table Rock Ten-Pin Bowling Saloon in Jacksonville. “I didn't expect to see a hotel named for a California city here in Oregon,” Mazy said. She untied the overskirt, shook the dirt, then laid it across the saddle.
“And it's on the corner of California and Oregon Streets,” Seth noted. “Hmmm. Smell that,” he said.
“Smells like a French bakery,” she said.
“There's another aroma coming from around that corner,” he said. He walked the short distance to the corner of Third and Oregon, craned his neck, then came back. “It's a bakery and coffeehouse,” he said.
“Mother would be in heaven.”
They'd seen the steeple of a church when they'd rode in and, by all accounts, Mazy thought the town needed it. Shouts and curses blasted from the Palmetto Bowling Saloon where she heard ten pins roll and smelled malt whiskey, too. Other places announced faro and monte, tobacco and tunes. “It's a boom town, all right,” Mazy said.
The proprietor squinted and frowned at Naomi as they entered the wood-framed hotel, but Mazy had already decided about what she'd say. And with Naomi's approval having been previously given she said, “This is my sister. The baby is my niece. We will be sharing a room, if you please.”
“Might be more comfortable at the boardinghouse next door,” the clerk said.
“If you have rooms, we'll be fine right here.”
“Yes ma'am,” the clerk said. The look he gave Seth pleased her: A look of pity for his having to travel with such a full-chisel woman.
In the morning they stopped at the desk to ask where Ruth Martin might be living and learned, surprisingly, that Lura and Matthew were south of town with them. “We must have ridden right by,” Mazy said. “And never even knew it.”
The agent followed them out of his office, and Mazy walked to free Pig from the stables. Seth saddled and led the mounts around to the front where they could see Naomi waiting with Chou-Jou. A man of Mazy s height leaned in toward
the child.
“I should have stayed,” Mazy said. “Someone's already harassing her. I hope bringing Chinese here will work, Seth.”
“All in its own time, Mrs. Bacon,” he said.
“Some things cant wait,” she said. Mazy marched up and stood behind the man and cleared her throat. “This is my sister. May I help you?”
He turned, Chou-Jou in his arms.
He was not a handsome man. A large nose in a wide face. No beard or mustache. Hair curled at his coat collar. But Mazy was stunned by the color of his eyes. Hazel, with white flecks like snowflakes. They stared without reserve into her eyes. With one hand, he swept his hat from his head. “Ma'am,” he said. “I meant no offense. I'm partial to babies, I'm afraid.” He held the child with one brawny arm, without bouncing her. He turned to Chou-Jou then, gave her his full attention.
Mazy cautioned her tone. “She is a beauty, isn't she? Naomi? Are you all right?” She leaned in to touch the woman who nodded.
“Naomi? A biblical name,” the man said, handing the baby back.
Seth came up, reins in hand. The horses behind him snorted. One stomped in readiness to leave. Ink bumped Mazy.
“Hey,” she said. “Watch your manners.”
“I've forgotten mine,” the man said. “Name's Burke Manes.” He shook Seth's hand, looked at her while Mazy introduced herself, Pig, Naomi again, and Chou-Jou. “And I took advantage of this baby's smile, I'm afraid. And her mother's kindness.”
“Someone told me once that a man holding a baby was as catching as a cold,” Seth said.
Burke laughed. “Could be true. Could be true.” He spoke with the deepest baritone that vibrated against Mazy s heart. “You folks planning to stay in the area?” he asked.
“Just visiting,” Seth said.
“And you, Naomi?” he asked. It was genuine interest and…compassion that Mazy heard.
“I stay with Ruth Martin.”
“Ruth Martin!”
“Do you know her?” Mazy asked.
“I do,” he said. “I live out that way. I'm heading back now. If you don't mind company, I can show you right where they are. I'm not always so good with directions, but I can lead you back to someplace I've been.”
They mounted up, together splashing across Daisy Creek at the perimeter of town. Mazy found herself strangely quiet, just listening to the men. She'd missed that, hearing male voices speak of the price of things, the weather, the status of politics, and the signs of a worthy horse. She could talk of those things too, had opinions, but she came to them from a different place, and she'd missed hearing the views of those with deep tones. Too many women always around tended to insulate. As though they always stood in the necessary circle and never moved away.
“Miss Martin's had some tragedy,” she heard Burke Manes say, and her ears perked. “Suppose you know?”
“No,” Mazy said. “What happened?”
“Jessie,” he said. “Little girl of Ruth's picked up something last fall. Left her legs weakened. She doesn't get out much. Miss Martin says she thought it came on earlier, having to do with a t ragedy last summer. You folks may already know about her father.”
“Oh, we do,” Mazy said.
“I try to stop by and entertain the child, as much as my preaching and farming allows.”
“You have a farm?” Mazy asked. And he's a man of faith.
Oh, I try at it.”
“Mrs. Bacon has a good-sized farm near Shasta City,” Seth said.
“Do you now? Do you have pigs? I'm on a crusade against pigs,” he added, though he grinned.
“What do you have against hogs?” Mazy asked.
“They destroy the camas bulbs,” he said. “This country is full of them as I suspect your Shasta area is too. Camas feed the Indians. It's the Takelmas' staple food, and the pigs just wipe it out.”
“I hadn't realized,” Mazy said. “I was thinking of adding pigs for a while, but my skim milk went for a better cause.”
“Camas-fed hogs aren't something we should profit from anyway. Changes the geography of a place forever.”
“Rewriting the landscape,” Mazy said.
“That's what the word geography means, all right,” he said.
“I actually mean writing the land.' Geo—'land' and graphy— ‘write.'“
He looked at her, that white fleck in his eyes like candlelight in the dark. “I can see that the stories of words are important to you, Mrs. Bacon,” he said.
“As they appear to be to you.”
“We have something in common then,” he answered, smiling full now, revealing a single dimple punched like a comma in the side of his cheek. Why had she just now noticed that?
Tipton resisted. “I can help here,” she said. “Make it safer for the…ones you bring. I had no idea you came and got them. Some are so sick. I help tend them.”
“Nehemiah is sick with worry,” Esther said. “Go home to him, child. We can help you.”
“I…want to be worthy before I go. He…1 don't deserve—”
“We can't earn forgiveness,” Esther said. “It's given.” “Yes, but…oh, now what?” Tipton looked disgusted at the stain deepening the color of her dress “I must have sat in some water.” “You're having your baby,” Esther said.
They'd whisked Tipton away to Suzanne's. Esther went for the doctor while Tipton panted. “Oh-oh-oh-oh, here comes another one!”
“You are surprisingly strong,” the doctor told her, “For one so tiny.”
“All the ironing and washing I did,” she panted between pains.
“Do you want laudanum?” he asked.
She shook her head. She wanted to be present for this, no more drifting away. God had answered her prayers, hlany, many prayers. And she would never again seek refuge in potions or powders.
And then the child had arrived. Despite it all, her rash behavior, her willfulness and warped wishes, she'd been given a healthy child, eyes alert, staring, wanting to know Tipton as no other. “Let me see your face,” she'd said to Baby. “Let me see your face.”
Those first days, Tipton gazed in wonder at the sunrise-colored fuzz of hair, the tiny fingers gripping hers. She formed the O of the child's mouth, anticipated the smacking when she grazed the infant's cheek. She'd done what she needed to protect her child. But she'd also put the baby at risk. It had been a foolish thing, she realized. Baby needed her father, just as Tipton needed her husband. It would be good to have someone to walk beside her, especially when raising their child.
Clayton came in and signed something with his fingers. “What's he saying, Esther?” Tipton asked.
The older woman turned to look. “He'll tell you.”
“Can you say it?” Tipton asked him.
He sighed. “Want hold baby,” he said in his deep little voice. He grinned then.
“You sit. I'll put the baby in your arms, and we'll hold her together, all right?” He nodded, and she settled him on the chair, stood behind him to lay her baby in this older child's arms.
“I'm not certain that's wise,” Esther said. “He might squeeze her too tightly.”
“Oh, I think he'll be all right. I'm right here with her. I wish you could see his face, Suzanne. He's beaming.”
“I think I can, in my way,” Suzanne said. “There's something about joy that just seems to fire a hearth.”
“You're thinking of your sweetheart,” Esther said.
“I guess I am,” Suzanne said, and she blushed.
“It's still a little strange to think of you and Mr. Forrester getting married,” Tipton said. “Oh, oh, not too tight. Baby just wants you to be gentle.”
“I can hardly believe I'm to have something so wonderful,” Suzanne said.
Tipton lifted her daughter from Clayton's arms. “You did real well, Clayton,” she said. “She's hungry now. You run along and let Mr. Powder know how you helped while I get her something to eat.”
Clayton detoured to his mother, surprising her with his arms around her
skirts in a calico-crushed hug. Tipton listened to the click-click of his shoes on the wood floor as she felt the tug of her child at her breast.
“Did you ever…” Suzanne began, clearing her throat. “Did you ever, with Tyrell, worry that something would happen to interfere with your joy? That something would stop you from…the fullness of it? From even marrying?”
“All the time,” Tipton said. Her voice caught. Then, as though the infant knew of her discomfort, Baby shifted at her breast. Tipton smoothed her fingers over Baby's head. “And all my worry did me no good. Something did get in the way. I couldn't stop it. And instead of truly enjoying the time I had with him, I filled it with worry and wondering, and it turned out I couldn't stop a thing. Afterward I thought about it all the time. I felt…angry about what I didn't have for my future. Then I just…went away. I can't do that anymore.”
“You've grown up, Tipton,” Suzanne said.
Tipton wondered if she should tell Suzanne how one moment in a person's life changed everything. No, she suspected that was something Suzanne already knew.
“Some. I have amends to make. I've been asking myself what it is I really want for my life, for my daughter.”
“You have an answer?”
“A beginning. I've written to Nehemiah, hoping he'll come to us.”
Suzanne smiled. The ticking of the clock filled the silence. “I miss Seth,” she said then. “I worry that something will happen to him before we're allowed to have the happiness of marriage. Isn't that…I don't know. I don't think I ever worried like that over Bryce. I feel as though I'm cheating on Bryce a bit.” She adjusted her glasses.
“I felt that way about Tyrell too. Or did. I think that's why I…well, never mind that part. But now I know that giving your heart to someone or even something that matters is really all there is to do, even if it does mean some hurt will come when it changes. And it will change. People do…die. They go away. I don't understand it all. But loving them while they're here with us can be worth the pain of their leaving. The way I love Baby right now. Otherwise, we just go away. Or I do. Did.”
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