Portraits

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Portraits Page 13

by Stef Ann Holm


  She’d read in one of her magazines that in trying to persuade them to use the whole space of a picture, a photography teacher pointed out to his students that a peanut in the bottom of a barrel was merely a spot, whereas a peanut in a penny matchbox was a piece of sculpture. Wyatt was that sculpture. He emerged from an overgrown background of giant and towering trees and a wide river with rushing power, yet the strength in the scene was his.

  When the sun lowered, Leah was sorry when he said he had to ride back to town.

  “I want to pet your horse good-bye,” Rosalure said as she hopped down from the log.

  Not to be left out, Tug sloppily reeled in his line and rushed to say, “Me, too.” Juggling his pole and creel packed with the three rainbow trout he and Mr. Holloway had caught, he traipsed after Rosalure via the shore route that got the bottoms of his denim overalls soggy. One of his turkey-red suspenders was missing a button again—the third she’d replaced in a month.

  “Come on, Momma,” Rosalure said. “You should see Mr. Holloway’s horse. He’s awfully pretty.”

  Leah wasn’t too keen on fording the river. She lacked a confident balance when it came to crossing on rocks.

  “Yeah, come on, Momma,” Tug hollered, sloshing toward her.

  Leah rose and mustered her courage. “Okay.”

  The children had no problem getting from one side to the other. Mr. Holloway held back, looking over his shoulder at her. “Do you need a hand?”

  “Go ahead,” she called. “I’m all right.”

  Mr. Holloway braced his foot on a boulder, then started to cross. Leah hesitated. His method called for coordination—something she lacked but was loath to show him. She positioned a bare foot on the top of a rock. Its surface was warm from the sun, and thankfully, dry and secure. Holding her arms out a little for stability, she crossed the river without mishap—until she got to the last anchoring stone and slipped. A dragonfly dove straight for her. She shooed it and lost her balance.

  She hoped Mr. Holloway hadn’t noticed, but from the groan and splash she’d made as her feet hit the sandy bottom, how could he not? He turned around, saw her standing ankle deep in water, then checked his smile.

  Leah couldn’t say why exactly, but she’d wanted him to laugh. So what if it was at her expense. Hearing him laugh made her happy.

  “Yes . . . well . . .” She gave him an airy wave of her hand. “I’m not much for sports. I always lose at lawn tennis and croquet. I can’t even pitch a ball a foot away.”

  “I’m sure you have other outdoor talents, Mrs. Kirkland.”

  It made her feel better to know that he was trying to point out her adequacies. “Thank you, Mr. Holloway. That was very kind of you to say.” She drew up alongside him with a giddy sense of relief. “Mr. Holloway, might I suggest that since we seem to be heading in the direction of a friendship, that we drop formalities and address each other by our given names. My friends call me Leah.”

  He said nothing immediately, and Leah thought she’d made a terrible mistake by her assertiveness.

  After a few second’s thought, he said, “My name’s Wyatt.”

  She smiled at him, delighting in standing next to a man and not having to be at eye level with him.

  Tug had dumped his fishing gear by the bank, and he and Rosalure fed Wyatt’s horse handfuls of grass. The black chewed and shook his head when a fly landed close to his eye.

  “Wyatt, could I sit on your horse?” Tug asked.

  Wyatt turned to Rosalure. “Do you want to sit on July, too?”

  She eagerly smiled. “Yes.”

  Reaching down, Wyatt lifted first Tug then Rosalure into the saddle and let them sit astride the horse while he untied July. He moved the black out, and Rosalure slipped her arms around Tug’s middle to keep him steady.

  “A short trip around those junipers and back,” Wyatt said.

  The horse’s swaying gait made the children giggle. They’d been on few horses in their lives. Anywhere anyone wanted to get to in Eternity, they could walk to. And for farther trips, Leah rode in a buggy with an experienced driver at the reins. But she could see that Tug was fascinated by horses, because he wanted to be a cowboy. And even Rosalure enjoyed the ride.

  The moment was too monumental to let pass by. Leah slipped her hand into her pocket and took out her Kombi. The camera was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, and she brought the viewfinder to her eye. Aiming at the trees where the children would come around and out, she anticipated their appearance so that she could snap their picture with Wyatt.

  Wyatt came into view first, then the horse. She had Tug and Rosalure in focus when Wyatt turned away and pulled his hat brim low on his brows just as she clicked the shutter.

  Lowering the camera, Leah spoke in jest. “You decided to fix your hat the moment I took the picture. Now I’ll have to take it over.”

  “Don’t bother.” He kept his chin down. “I don’t like being photographed.”

  “A lot of people don’t like being photographed. I’ll be kind,” she assured with a smile.

  “Please don’t take my picture.” His frank eyes met hers, sending the message that he meant what he said.

  “All right,” Leah replied quietly. “I won’t.”

  Wyatt brought July full circle, ending up where he started. “Ride’s over, kids.” He set Tug and Rosalure on their feet.

  “Nice horse.” Tug gave July a final stroke on the velvet of his nose.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holloway,” Rosalure said.

  Wyatt nodded, placed his boot in the stirrup, and swung his leg over the saddle. “I’m beholden for the root beer.” Then he tipped his hat and rode off.

  Disappointment left Leah with an inexplicable feeling of emptiness, and the day seemed to fade into the churn of dust kicked up by July’s hooves.

  8

  Money comes like earth scooped up with a needle; it goes like sand washed away by water.

  —Chinese proverb

  When Leah invited Wyatt to her daughter’s birthday party on Sunday, his first inclination had been to say no. But he remained quiet as Leah went on about how her mother-in-law would be there and how she hoped he wouldn’t be put off by her. She’d said that she understood if he didn’t care to be subjected to Geneva’s snobbery, but she’d love to have him attend. Other people besides family would be there and he’d be able to make new acquaintances. And bringing a gift wasn’t necessary. Wyatt had told her he’d have to think about it.

  He hadn’t been to a celebration of any kind in ages—not counting the fireworks he’d seen from his boarding-room window in Boise City last month. That had been a sight to behold, and he had been all the more reverent because it marked his own independence. The lights in the sky as they rained brilliant color against the darkness had been his inspiration for naming his horse after a month filled with meaning for him. But other than recently, Fourth of Julys and Christmases as well as other holidays had dissolved from his life. There were no exchanges of presents. No birthdays observed. Each day had been the same. Nothing days. Days of gray. Lonely hours and lonely times. He longed to hear singing. To witness an innocent moment of pure happiness, no matter how fleeting he’d be allowed to share it.

  Wyatt figured Leah had swallowed her pride to ask him to the party after he’d told her not to photograph him. He trusted that she wouldn’t try to again, but she probably had thought up a half-dozen convoluted excuses for why he didn’t want his picture taken. Whatever her conclusions, none of them would have been correct.

  The honest truth was, Wyatt couldn’t chance anyone seeing a likeness of himself, no matter how far-reaching the possibility. Though his body and face had gone through changes of hard years, he could still be recognized. He didn’t want the boys finding him. Not after what Manny had told him about their thinking he’d deceived them. For that, Wyatt could never forgive the other three.

  The closer the party came, Wyatt caught himself thinking more and more about it. If Geneva Kirkland wa
s going to be there, Hartzell would be there, too. Wyatt needed to talk with the banker about his land without being obvious. A party would be the perfect setting.

  Sunday came, and Wyatt found himself getting spiffed up in a brand-new double-breasted blue shirt. The cotton smelled pleasantly of dye and the faint odor of store-bought, not supply room. His pants were clean. He’d washed them himself in the bathtub, scrubbing until the water had run clear on the rinse. With a damp towel, he’d buffed his boots, wishing he’d had some polish to give them a nice luster. To suffice, the day before, he’d rubbed some campfire soot on them to lessen the scratches in the black leather. He hadn’t been able to afford a new hat, so his old one had been slapped against the iron footboard of the bed to swat off the dirt.

  He’d taken a shower bath, then tried out one of those double-edged Gillette razors with blades that you threw away after thirty close, smooth, comfortable shaves. He got the closest shave he’d ever had. For years, all he’d been allotted under strict supervision was a straight razor that chewed up his face after months of reuse. Wyatt had combed his hair away from his forehead after a thorough shampooing, then reached for his hat. He was ready to go.

  The day before, Wyatt had pored over the items in Corn’s emporium, trying to decide on the right gift for Rosalure. Despite what Leah told him, he’d never show up empty-handed. He knew he’d found the perfect choice when he spied a rosewood music box that played two melodies. Rosalure had told him Tug had disposed of her musical bird. If the boy got nasty again, this would be too big to fit through drainpipes. But the price tag was two dollars and sixty-five cents. Wyatt’s spirits had fallen. He barely had that to his name. Looking through the rest of the store, nothing had appealed him better than that music box. He returned to its shelf and took it down, damning the consequences of being short next week. There was nothing else he wanted to give to Rosalure.

  He would have bought her the most expensive music box in the store—thirty-five dollars—if he’d been sixty thousand richer. He used to be able to make anything happen just because he wanted it to. Only now he couldn’t. And not for the lack of trying. He’d devoted every morning to searching through the rocks, to no avail. Today, he decided to give his efforts a rest.

  Leaving the Starlight Hotel with the paper and string-wrapped gift tucked in the crook of his arm, Wyatt ran into Leo on the boardwalk out front. His boss balanced some empty crates in his arms.

  “Hey, Wyatt,” Leo greeted around the cigarette in his mouth. “Where are you off to all slicked up?”

  Self-consciously, Wyatt replied, “Leah Kirkland’s house.”

  “To Rosalure’s party?”

  “Yes.” Wyatt had seen Leo’s invitation at the restaurant and had presumed the other man would be there. But Leo was dressed in work clothes that were stained with garden soil. “Aren’t you going?”

  “Nope.”

  “I wish you were.”

  Leo made no reply, and the two of them walked down Main Street together, Leo inhaling and puffing on his Nestor with no hands. Though Wyatt wanted to go to Leah’s, he wasn’t looking forward to being with a roomful of people he didn’t know. His nerves needed quieting, so he followed Leo through the open gate that led behind the Happy City, taking a short diversion.

  A rectangular expanse of garden thrived in ten neatly furrowed rows. In the far corner, a scarecrow with an oriental mask as its face did the job of keeping unwanted pests from eating the fruits and vegetables.

  The ash from Leo’s cigarette fell into the top crate he held, and he set his boxes down next to a pile of dried manure.

  Wyatt rested his foot on the bottom step leading to the back door. “Why aren’t you coming to the party? You and Leah are friends.”

  “Our friendship has perimeters.” Leo pitched his cigarette in the dirt.

  Wyatt didn’t fully understand. “That are?”

  “I am who I am. Her family doesn’t care for me.”

  “You mean because you’re Chinese?”

  “I’m an American,” Leo said proudly. “They think I’m Chinese.”

  “But that’s not Leah’s way to draw lines.”

  “Things are the way they are. We’re friends at the restaurant. Nothing more.” Leo moved down a row of tall corn, checking the ears where the silks were beginning to brown. He twisted some free and motioned for Wyatt to take them. “Put these in that crate, would you?”

  Wyatt carefully set his package down and took the corn.

  “What did you get Rosalure?” Leo asked.

  “A music box.”

  Leo paused, his face half in shadow from the straw hat he wore. “She’ll like that.” He left the corn and walked the rows of low-growing, leafy vegetables. Wyatt trailed along.

  “Did you know Leah’s husband?” Wyatt ventured.

  “I saw Owen Kirkland around town, but I didn’t know him. He never came into the restaurant, and Leah didn’t go anywhere without him. She was a different woman then. Rosalure was an infant, and Leah stayed home a lot. Alone. Her husband wasn’t around much. He went on business trips for the bank.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Malaria.”

  “Jesus,” Wyatt whispered. “How’d he get that?”

  “The Spanish American War.” Leo walked to the crates and layered the corn and cauliflower, then reached for a bucket of strawberries on the back porch and laid them on top. “Did you have to fight in it?”

  Wyatt was vaguely familiar with the Spanish American War from an outdated newspaper he’d read. “No.”

  “Me neither. Bum leg.” Lighting another cigarette, Leo talked through the smoke. “Owen Kirkland was fool enough to enlist. His momma wept so loud at the stage, Doc Hochstrasser had to sedate her for a week after her baby boy went off to war.”

  Wyatt visualized Leah left with Rosalure, uncertain whether her husband would come back safely. Only to have him return and die at home.

  “Hey, tell Rosalure happy birthday for me.” Leo unlocked the back door and hoisted a crate over the threshold.

  “Sure, Leo.”

  Wyatt gathered his parcel and left with the thought that Leah Kirkland was a strong woman to have lived through what she had. He knew all too well about having to cope in hellish conditions and coming out of it a changed person. From what he’d observed of Leah’s confidence, he’d say she’d changed for the better.

  Reaching her house, Wyatt unhinged the gate and let himself inside the yard. He stepped up to the door and rang the bell, but no sound came out. His twist on the knob caused a noise that was more a sick grating than a ring. Voices drifted from the back of the house.

  He was late. The party had already started.

  Walking around the veranda to the side of the house, Wyatt saw a group of people dressed in fine clothes. Brightly colored paper lanterns dangled in trees. Streamers adorned the awning posts, making them look like pink-and-white barber poles. Ladies milled at tables filled with finger foods, and a group of gentlemen stood off to the side smoking. Children ran through the bushes, while others played a game on the lawn with balls and long-handled hammers.

  A screen door to Wyatt’s right opened and nearly banged him in the arm. He turned as Leah stepped out carrying a tall arrangement of flowers. “Wyatt!” she exclaimed in a startled greeting. “I’m so glad you came.”

  Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “I rang the bell, but nobody answered.”

  “The bell is broken.”

  “Yeah . . . I figured.”

  Wyatt couldn’t help staring at her. She’d done something different to her hair. It wasn’t so wispy around her face, except for one tendril that curved beneath her cheek and rested on the underside of her jaw. He wondered if she’d done that on purpose. The effect was provocative.

  Before he could say anything further, a robust man puffing on a fat cigar and wearing a twill suit appeared. “Who’s this, Leah?” he asked with a broad smile of intrigue.

  “Mr. Hartzell Kirkland, this is M
r. Wyatt Holloway,” Leah replied affably.

  “Holloway!” Hartzell laughed in jovial recognition, giving Wyatt no time to firm up his opinion of the banker. “You’re the one Marshal Scudder said was squatting on my mountain. Good grief, man, come and join the party and tell me why on God’s green earth you’d want to camp up there? Quigley,” he bellowed to a portly man sitting off to the side with a pudgy face red from the heat. “Come take this present into the kitchen.”

  Wyatt was relieved of his package and given the once-over at the same time. Hartzell Kirkland’s hand rested on Wyatt’s back like a lead paperweight as he steered him toward a throng of people who gave him furtive glances. His presence created a buzz of speculation that aroused his uncertainties. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in coming.

  * * *

  Leah ducked into the house and quickly walked to the foyer to check her appearance—a characteristic totally unlike her. But finding Wyatt on the porch had been a wonderful surprise and she wanted to make sure she looked her best. She’d been holding on to the hope that he’d come.

  She’d taken great care this morning to wear her best ladies’ jumper dress of green wale serge with its two rows of buttons that reached the floor and its narrow sleeves that tapered across her arms. She had wanted to look chic and sophisticated. But the reflection that greeted Leah was not that of a stylish New York woman.

  She’d laid open Vogue magazine on her dressing table and had tried to imitate the hairstyle of the model. Only Leah’s hadn’t turned out quite the same. She fussed with a loose strand of hair, trying to tuck it back in her chignon, but she had no luck and left off trying with a sigh. The heels of her Cleopatra tie oxfords clicked across the floor as she carried herself with a dignified walk back to the party.

  As Leah rounded the wide gallery to where the festivities had been set up, she paused. Hartzell had taken Wyatt toward the group of businessmen standing in the shady comfort of the gazebo with its pretty decorations of pink ribbons and fresh cuttings of Geneva’s royal-pink roses.

 

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