Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  He would have died, Rosemond.

  Better him than you.

  “He’s young and strong,” I said to Amalia. “As long as infection doesn’t set in, he should recover. Monique and Jesper are caring for him, and doing an excellent job following my instructions on keeping his wound and bandage clean. I’m going by later to check on him.”

  “I feel I should warn you,” Lily said, leaning forward and dropping her voice. “You’ve raised some eyebrows, Helen, showing up Dr. Hankins like that. I assured Mr. Diamond you didn’t mean anything by it, but he wasn’t moved. He doesn’t like you for some reason,” Lily said, puzzled.

  Rosemond and I glanced at each other, knowing full well why Harry Diamond didn’t like me. “I have that effect on men,” I said.

  “Enough chitchat. Let’s get to work,” Amalia said. “Do I need to go through your job here, Helen?”

  I looked at the table full of jars of candy from Amalia’s general store. “No. I imagine I can muddle through selling penny candy.”

  Amalia nodded curtly and walked off, Lily in tow. “Are you sure you can handle this grave responsibility on your own?” Rosemond teased.

  “It will be a struggle, I’m sure.”

  Rosemond waved at a new arrival who entered the tent. “There’s the governor’s wife. I am determined to get her commission today. Excuse me.”

  Rosemond sashayed away, leaving the faint scent of lavender in her wake. Portia and I watched her go, both more than a little awestruck.

  Rosemond had thrown herself into earning respectability with an enthusiasm I frankly didn’t expect. Gone was the cagey, calculating whore. In her place was a woman who fit so easily into Cheyenne society no one challenged her right to be there, or her new identity. It was the territory capital, after all, and Rosemond had been a favorite of many of the politicians and businessmen for years. Rather than expect to continue their commercial relationship, the men were eager to pretend the history didn’t exist, especially if their wives were Cheyenne residents. Rosemond’s civic participation gave many a married man heart palpitations until they realized she had no intention of revealing her previous occupation or their support of it. Portrait business started to flow toward Rosemond, so much so that she was in a near way to be out of the sign business altogether. A small voice in my head said there was a connection between her willing silence on her clients’ pasts and the blooming portrait business. I was torn between admiration and judgment, with admiration winning more often than not.

  I had been enveloped into society by way of her dragging me along to every bridge game, church service, women’s committee meeting, and philanthropy effort Cheyenne had to offer, and they were innumerable. The men wanted to capitalize on the West; the women wanted to civilize it. A theater, symphony, and opera were all on the drawing board, though years away from fruition. Modernizing the hospital—which I’d avoided; I knew myself well enough that I could not walk into a hospital without giving away who I was—and starting a library were more immediately attainable and easier to sell to the philanthropic public.

  I’d gone with Rosemond willingly—it was my job to help her settle in, after all, and I had my own project I wanted to see to fruition: teaching prostitutes and Negroes to read. It soon became apparent that Rosemond got along with the society matrons of Cheyenne very well without me, and that no one was terribly interested in educating whores and former slaves. Though I found all of the causes worthy, I could barely stand most of the women involved in the various committees. I’d never been able to stomach the obsequiousness of society women and their good deeds, suspecting that many of them cared not a whit for the deed but only how managing it or participating in it made them, and by extension, their husbands, appear to the world. Which, I came to realize, fully explained why none of these women were interested in my cause. Since no one would help me publicly, I decided to throw myself into the one committee that I could possibly manipulate to achieve my goal: the Cheyenne Public Library. Which explained why I was selling penny candy at a fund-raiser barely four weeks after arriving in Cheyenne.

  “Where is the Reverend?” I asked Portia.

  “Saturday morning is his devotional time, when he readies his sermon. He will come later.”

  “Has he come around on our project?”

  Portia looked across the tent and shook her head.

  When I finished bandaging Drummond’s boil, I’d gone to make amends with Portia and the Reverend. On the walk to their house, I’d kicked myself for arguing with the one other person, besides Rosemond, in Cheyenne who knew my identity. My mouth had always gotten me in trouble. I had to pray this time it would get me out. The Reverend had been easy to coerce back into my good graces. I spoke of having time to see the error of my ways, and of course the natural course of things was for the man to be the dominant mate. I’d almost choked on the words, and when I glanced at Portia, I could tell she saw right through my lies. I’d thought she would once again look upon me with puckered disapproval but was gratified when her face relaxed into a smile so faint, her husband was too obtuse to see it.

  I mentioned my idea about teaching the soiled doves to read and write and almost lost all of the Reverend’s goodwill. He launched into a diatribe about how Wyoming territory made a colossal mistake giving women the right to vote and own property. Five minutes later, when he transitioned into the four horsemen of the apocalypse and Revelation, I’d had enough. I started to rise, but Portia put her hand on my arm and shook her head, her eyes never leaving her husband, who’d long since stopped seeing us and instead saw the world burning down around him.

  When he at last ran out of steam, Portia spoke. “Of course you’re right, Oliver. But think of how a literate wife might be able to aid her husband. Many miners and farmers aren’t, and would find a literate woman, who had the appropriate deference for the man’s superiority, a great solace. We wouldn’t teach them to read so they get ideas above their lot, but so they may be of greater use to their husbands. Isn’t that right, Helen?”

  In that moment Portia and I became, if not friends, at least comrades. I swallowed my retorts and agreed. Portia, being a former schoolteacher, took the lead on teaching the women to read. I focused on their physical well-being and the Reverend focused on their souls.

  I turned to Portia. “Did you educate the prostitutes back East? Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask: where are you from? I’ve never known.”

  “No. The madams were protective of their charges, and many of them knew how to read. Excuse me.”

  She made her way quickly across the tent and was soon lost in the crowd.

  I set about straightening the candy jars, and opening the lids and smelling the candy, wondering who in the world I was going to sell hard candy to, and why Portia had avoided telling me where she was from. I looked around the tent: Amalia and Lily Diamond manned the booth with the auction items, explaining and talking up all the good the money would do for the community; Rosemond seemed to be trying to shake hands with every prominent citizen Cheyenne had to offer. I snatched a lemon drop from a jar, turned my back to the crowd, and popped it in my mouth. When I turned around, a swarm of wide-eyed chattering children descended on my booth, eager to spend their pennies on the brightly colored confections.

  I spent a solid fifteen minutes trying to calm the rambunctious children, excited and indecisive with so many options to choose from. They asked questions of me and one another, discussed the options, argued about which flavor was the best. They all decided at once, and changed their mind two or three times. I would serve one, and two would take his place. It was like chopping off Hydra’s head. At the height of it, I spotted Amalia across the room, watching me with a small smile on her face. I pushed an errant strand of hair from my eyes and continued serving the never-ending stream of children.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, the children had disappeared, and I was left looking out at a sea of adults—politicians, farmers, miners, prostitutes, and wives. If I didn’t
have the half-full jar of pennies and the half-empty jar of candy as proof, I would wonder if the last few hours had been a nightmare.

  “Why do you look so dour?” Rosemond sidled up to my booth, a large, teasing smile on her face.

  “I’m eating a lemon drop. Don’t tell Amalia I’m sampling the goods.”

  “Your secret is safe with me. I’ve come to help you.”

  “Now that the rush is over? I didn’t know there were so many children in Cheyenne.”

  Rosemond laughed.

  “I suspect Amalia gave a penny to every one. I think she still holds the gun against me.”

  “You did steal it.”

  “I’m paying her for it, at an exorbitant rate, I might add.”

  “Oh, stop griping. It’s for a good cause.”

  “Amalia better make good on purchasing the first readers for the collection, and a Brontë or two.”

  A little boy came up to the booth with a penny. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked down with a shocking amount of oil. His clothes were clean but worn at the edges, and his hands had the look of being freshly and savagely scrubbed. He took his time choosing, not out of excitement but with the mien of a child who wasn’t about to waste this unforeseen opportunity to treat himself.

  “How did you manage to finagle your way out of any responsibilities?” I asked Rosemond.

  “It’s a gift.”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  “You love me.”

  “I do not.”

  “Can I have a stick of peppermint, miss?” The little boy placed the penny on the counter and looked up at me with soulful brown eyes framed by long eyelashes.

  My heart clutched, and a wave of crushing grief and guilt at forgetting Kindle overcame me. Though I managed brief moments of forgetfulness, the loss of Kindle was always with me, brought forward in dozens of little ways, even in the eyes of a child buying candy.

  I forced a smile. “Excellent choice.”

  He clutched the thick stick of peppermint in a hand that would soon be red and sticky. He smiled and could hardly get his thanks out of his mouth before licking the peppermint. I dropped the penny in the glass jar that served as a bank.

  “Thanks for the penny, miss.” He touched his flat hat at Rosemond.

  “You’re welcome,” Rosemond said. She watched the boy walk off and turned a playful smile toward me. “What? Children deserve a treat every now and then.”

  “You’re the devil.”

  “I’m a Good Samaritan. Treating children”—she squeezed my arm—“and keeping you busy.”

  Warmth spread throughout my body. I felt stupid, and a little ashamed. I’d assumed Rosemond’s insistence that I attend every social activity had been to help her get a toehold in society. I was sure that was part of it, but another part had been motivated by her desire to distract me from my grief. If I was honest with myself, my desire to help the prostitutes was as much to keep my mind off Kindle as it was to balance out the scales of the lives I’d ruined in the last year. I wondered how much of Rosemond’s manic energy these past few weeks was her attempt to keep her mind off Dunk’s death. We never spoke of him, but his ghost was there.

  “Thank you,” I said. I kept my eyes on the crowd in front of me, lest I start crying.

  Rosemond sold a rope of licorice and dropped the penny into the jar.

  “What have you been doing?” I asked Rosemond.

  “Convincing men to bid on my services so I can paint their lovely wives.”

  “Are any of them afraid of the secrets you might tell?”

  “They should only be nervous if my donation isn’t the highest seller.” She smiled, and I knew she was teasing. “Honestly, your portrait is doing my job for me.”

  Across the way, people crowded around the sample of her work: me staring out a train window. As good as her word, Rosemond had managed to capture my expression of longing, as well as my grief. I could hardly look at it, no matter that it was brilliant.

  “Why don’t you take a break? Walk about a bit,” Rosemond said.

  “I shouldn’t leave my post.”

  “It’s not sentry duty. Here.” She pulled a nickel from her pocket. “They’re selling iced tea across the way. It’s so strong and sweet a spoon will stand up in it. Get us both a glass. Later, if you play your cards right, I’ll buy you some of Gustav’s sausages.”

  “You’re feeling flush,” I said.

  “I have a feeling I’m going to have at least four commissions after today.”

  “Did you get the governor’s wife?”

  “I did, and I have you to thank for it.” She kissed me on the cheek. “So go on, while I’m feeling generous.” She waved at someone and I followed her gaze to Portia, who looked disapproving.

  “She puzzles me,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Portia. There are times when I think she likes me, but she always seems to look disapproving around me.”

  “You have that effect on people.”

  “I do not.”

  Rosemond held her thumb and forefinger close together. “Maybe a little.”

  “And here I felt I was being conventional. For the first time in my life, I might add.”

  “Convention fits you like a glove.”

  I glared at Rosemond, though I couldn’t argue with her point. I’d been doing my best to stay beneath the town’s notice—helping the boy with the amputated foot was the exception—and had discovered how easy, and almost pleasant, an ordinary life could be. In my optimistic moments, I felt like a phoenix readying to rise from its ashes. Other times, I was put in mind of a snake shedding its skin.

  I waited in line for the tea and let the energy of the crowd infuse me with strength. Gustav was selling his sausages two booths down, but the amazing aroma of roasted meat was everywhere. My mouth watered and I smiled, looking forward to eating something I hadn’t cooked for the first time in weeks.

  “Helen Graham?”

  Whenever I met a stranger, my instinct was to determine whether he was a Pinkerton or a bounty hunter. The man who stood next to me was too respectable-looking to be a bounty hunter, and his face was too soft and open to be a Pinkerton. The cuff of his right sleeve was stained with a drop of blood and he held a well-worn satchel in the same hand. “You must be Dr. Hankins.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I figured you would come find me eventually.”

  “Yes, you can’t amputate a man’s foot without someone taking notice. It was a fine piece of work.”

  “You’ve seen Thomas?”

  “I did. The prettiest bit of suturing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, I am a woman. Sewing always has been a talent of mine. I’m going to check on him after the benefit ends. You are welcome to come along and take over his care.”

  I stepped up to the counter and ordered the two teas.

  “Have anything stronger?” Hankins asked the man, who nodded and drew Hankins a beer from a keg.

  “Stop being cagey, Mrs. Graham. Tell me how you knew to amputate his foot, and how you keep infection from setting in.”

  “I was a nurse during the war and saw my fair share of amputations. My father was a doctor, and I nursed for him after the war ended. He took me under his wing, so to speak. He knew I could never be a real doctor, but he thought it would serve me well to be able to do basic medical procedures when he was gone.”

  “I hardly call amputation a basic medical procedure,” Hankins said.

  “The amount of times it was performed in the war made it routine, don’t you think?” I continued. “Before my father died, he became obsessed with Joseph Lister’s work.” Hankins scoffed. “I thought Lister’s theories were logical and decided there could be no harm in using his guidelines if I was ever in the position to need them. I’ve made sure I have carbolic in my medical kit since.”

  Two iced teas and a glass of beer with a thick head were placed on the counter. Hankins put his hand out, said,
“Allow me,” and paid for my tea. The ice clinked against the glass. Hankins started walking behind the booth, expecting me to follow.

  “I need to take this to Eliza.”

  “It won’t take but a moment.”

  I sighed and followed, determined to get the scene over with.

  “It’s a good story, as far as it goes.” Hankins took a long pull of his beer and wiped the thick foam from his mustache.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ve never known a nurse to perform an amputation when a doctor is easily called and there is a hospital available.”

  “I was under the impression neither treated Negroes.”

  “Of course I would have treated such a grave injury if they had come to me. But they do not.”

  “Maybe you should ask yourself why.”

  Hankins lifted the glass to his mouth but stopped before he drank. He lowered the glass with deliberate slowness. “I know who you are, Miss Bennett.”

  I kept my face passive but internally kicked myself for baiting the man. “Who?”

  He set his bag on the ground and reached into his inside pocket. He removed a folded piece of paper and tried to give it to me. I lifted the sweating glasses of tea.

  “Aren’t you curious?” he asked.

  “I know what it is. What do you want, Hankins?” I said with a weary sigh.

  He tucked the Wanted poster in the top of my vest to mock me, but his expression regained its friendliness. “Now, Miss Bennett, don’t sound so dejected. Did you honestly think you could hide in the West? With the rapid communication we have now through the telegraph and the railroad? We get news from New York within the week, and your story has dominated the papers at different moments since last February. Everyone west of Saint Louis is on the lookout for a woman with unnatural medical skills. A thousand dollars is a fortune.”

  “I only intended to be a nurse.”

  “But you couldn’t let that boy die. Like a good doctor. You risked your safety to save him.”

  There was no point in trying to placate the man. He knew who I was. I was at his mercy and the worst he could do to me was to turn me over to the sheriff. The more people threatened me with it, the less I cared.