The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  At the end of the bed were a painted chamber pot and a funny bottle called a pig, which, when filled with hot water, kept Mama Min’s feet warm. To the right was a folding screen with scary painted dragons. A beaded corset bag hung from a nail, and a frilly petticoat had been flung over the screen.

  Against the wall was a mirrored vanity. On top were bottles and tins of store-bought remedies: White Lily Face Wash, Dr. Worden’s Female Pills, English Lavender Smelling Salts and La Dore’s Powder de Ritz. Next to the powder were a curling iron and the jewelry box.

  Flo loved the jewelry box. When you turned its thin handle, no longer than Flo’s pinkie, music sounded and a tiny ballerina twirled. But Flo hated the vanity mirror, which showed how fat and ugly she was.

  Mama Min oft talked about Flo’s dead mama, Blueberry, who was slender with a pretty smile and big sad eyes.

  Nugget Ned Lytton was a looker, too.

  Thinking ’bout her father made Flo red-hot. When grown, she’d ride her horse into Nugget Ned’s house and shoot him between his lickspittle eyes.

  The pink cherub coverlet shifted. Sleepy brown eyes appeared, then a freckled nose, then a mouth smeared with lip paint.

  Mama Min’s so pretty, thought Flo. Too bad she ain’t my real mama. I was born with Nugget Ned’s black hair and Blueberry’s eyes, but then God forgot what he was doing and finished me up wrong.

  Flo understood how God could forget since it happened to her all the time. She’d be sweeping the floor when she’d think of a story and she’d start dusting furniture before she finished the sweeping. Hummingbird Lou said Flo’s head was in the clouds.

  God lived in the clouds. He had forgotten she was Nugget Ned and Blueberry’s little girl and given her someone else’s too-plump body.

  “What’s that powerful smell, child?”

  Oh, spit! “I’m sorry, Mama Min. I spilt your scent. But I didn’t break the bottle. See? Should I fetch Gingerbread? She can clean it up with her tongue.”

  “I don’t believe your cat will take kindly to French perfume. Leastwise, it covers up Snuffy’s smell.”

  “I like Mr. Snuffy’s smell.”

  “You do? Snuffy smells like them stogies he smokes. Open the window, Flo. Snuffy puffs them dang cigars ’cause he thinks it’s de rigueur for a newly rich man.”

  “Derig what?”

  “You’ll learn that word when you’re grown. Madam Robin expects her Angels to talk with important gents, so I’ve had to pick up my education right here at Little Heaven. You’ll learn lots of twiggy words when you get schooled in Denver. Fools Gold Smith! You’re still in your shimmy! Why ain’t you clothed?”

  “Why ain’t you?”

  “Never mind me. I’m not eight years old. Snuffy left with the rooster’s crow. Before he took off, he insisted I give him some sugar, and the sun not even high enough to witness his fun. Men!” Minta’s gaze darted around the room, coming to rest on the crumpled brown wool. “What’s your dress doing there on the floor? Hatching eggs?”

  “I don’t like that dress. It’s hot and ugly. I’d rather wear your petticoat.” Flo walked toward the hinged screen, yanked the undergarment down, and slid it over her head until the waistband fell just below her chin. Bending slightly, thrusting her rump backwards, she sauntered across the room.

  Minta’s braying laugh interrupted the serious performance. “Put your dress on, child, then go outside and let the breeze blow away some of that spilled scent.”

  “Can I wear your petticoat?”

  “A lady doesn’t show her undergarments in broad daylight.”

  “You do.”

  “Get dressed or I’ll spank your be-hind.”

  “Spit!”

  “Don’t use that nasty word.”

  “Sorry.” Flo donned the shapeless wool. Then she tugged black stockings up her legs and buttoned her shoes. “Is Fanny still in jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard Dee say she carved her gentleman up good. He had six marks on his body made from a razor, and Fanny peeled the skin off one of his fingers with her teeth. Dee said he had tooth marks on his nose, too. Why’d Fanny do that?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Did the gent hurt Fanny? Did he want soixante-neuf and not pay?”

  “Don’t use that word!”

  “Why? It ain’t spit.”

  “You’ll eat soap for breakfast, that’s why.”

  “I’ve already had my breakfast.” With an impish smile, Flo raced from the room.

  Minta belted her robe and walked toward the open window. It would take all day to clear out the perfume stench. I should have punished the child for her clumsiness. Flo had to be more careful. Suppose she knocked over Madam Robin’s perfume bottle?

  Flo’s pudgy homeliness made her thin-skinned but she rarely cried. Instead, she hid her tears with a bravado worthy of Wilbur and Orville Wright. Last night Snuffy said the Wright brothers had tested their second full-scale glider. It crashed, of course. Only men were foolish enough to believe they could fly.

  Wilbur and Orville reminded Minta of Irish Mary’s rainbow pots filled with gold. Blueberry had believed Mary and look what happened? Blueberry’s daughter would have to learn that birds flew, not people.

  Minta shook her red curls. She should have scolded stronger for the crumpled dress, too, yet she really couldn’t blame the child. The dress was hot and ugly. But she’d put off sewing another since Flo grew so fast.

  Too fast. Men admired plump ladies, but Flo, only eight, weighed a hundred pounds. At this rate, by age sixteen she’d weigh double.

  Minta tried to curb Flo’s appetite but Hummingbird Lou thwarted every attempt. The heavy cook shared leftovers and desserts with Flo, stuffing the child like she’d stuff breakfast sausages.

  While Madam Robin wasn’t mean-natured, she did insist that Flo empty chamber pots, and Flo said a piece of candy helped ease the stink.

  Early in an evening, Flo entertained. Her voice was grown, said Washman, the colored piano player. Last night she’d sung a new tune about someone named Bill Bailey, and Minta had been reminded of Blueberry. Ned Lytton, won’t you please come home, you two-faced bastard!

  Flo slept on a pallet inside the kitchen. At cock’s crow she lit the black enameled steel range and prepared coffee.

  “It’s easy,” she had once bragged. “I stand on a chair, fill a big pot with boiled water and roasted mocha grounds, add the white of an egg, or a few shavings of isinglass, or a dried bit of fish skin. Ten minutes later the coffee’s ready. Hummingbird Lou lets me do it while she starts the all-day roasts. She says I cook coffee best.”

  Minta would be willing to wager all she owned that Ned Lytton’s other children didn’t rise with the sun. Their little hands weren’t red and chapped from washing clothes. Nugget Ned’s other children hadn’t watched the free-for-all in the street after a drunk miner stole a bulldog puppy from the crib girl, Brown Mollie, and gave it over to Little Heaven’s Maryanne. The police had arrived, tied Mollie up, and hauled her off to jail in a dray wagon.

  Ned Lytton’s other children didn’t have to witness Cassandra coughing her life away, nor did they shoot craps with mean-tempered Fanny, hired after Cassandra’s funeral. No, sir. Nugget Ned’s other children didn’t “cook coffee.”

  Minta heaved a deep sigh. Every morning Flo would hand out hot steaming mugs, and gents would give her gold dust and coins. Minta turned the dust over to Robin, receiving coins in exchange. She didn’t trust banks, so she hid her money inside one of her pillows. Soon that money would go toward schooling Flo in Denver. If Minta had one breath left in her body, Flo would never spread her legs for a miner’s pleasure.

  Only last week a parlor girl down the row had died from morphine. Three small bottles and two hypodermic syringes had been found on her vanity table, right next to a tin of Dr. Hammond’s Nerve and Brain Tablets.

  Yes, Flo must escape, but freedom required money. Minta made a goodly amount from the wealthy customers at Lit
tle Heaven, however most went to Madam Robin, who paid monthly fees for doctors’ visits, certifications of cleanliness, and legal fines since prostitution was illegal in Colorado.

  Material for the gowns Minta wore every evening cost dear. She earned extra by stitching gowns for the other Angels, yet there wasn’t much left at month’s end. With a sigh, she gazed out the window. In the distance, dark-rimmed clouds were interrupted by flashes of lightning. Flo had maybe an hour to play before it rained. Right now the sun shone fierce.

  Minta reached for a bonbon from a box of chocolates. She chewed gingerly, ignoring the pain from a sore tooth.

  *****

  Earlier, Flo had eaten slabs of Hummingbird Lou’s fresh-baked bread. The colored cook had also served apple quince, pungent cheese, almond custard and a mug of Flo’s own coffee, diluted with milk and sugar. Although it was past noon, Flo wasn’t hungry. But just to be safe, she had filled her dress pocket with peanut brittle.

  As she descended the staircase, she heard the piano. On tiptoe, she entered the parlor and saw Swan’s body draped over the piano, her fingers running up and down the keys. Swan wore a soiled silk nightie. One strap had fallen, showing her nipple. Swan’s black hair hung in its neat curtain, but her eyes looked funny.

  On top of the piano lay a crumpled newspaper, so Flo knew Bobby had paid Swan a call. Bobby brought the paper. Swan would give him a playing card—a Jack of Spades or a Ten of Clubs—and a dollar to keep for himself. Then the newsboy would run lickety-split to a drugstore, show the card, and return with Swan’s order.

  Flo wished she could be a runner but they only used boys, which wasn’t fair. Someday she’d cut her hair or hide it under a cap. She’d pretend to be a boy and get dollars like Bobby. But she couldn’t tell her secret plan to Mama Min, who hated drugs.

  “Morphine can kill you,” Mama Min had once said. “If I catch you touching a package, even in fun, I’ll spank you good.”

  Flo stared at the piano. Swan’s medicined herself on morphine again and there’s throw-up on the floor. Wait till Madam Robin saw Swan’s nipple. A lady didn’t show her nipple in broad daylight. There’s gonna be a hullabaloo.

  Hullabaloo was one of Flo’s favorite words. Maryjane said grown-ups used it in the sixteenth century to hush children but Flo liked it just the same.

  She stepped outside and walked one block north to Bennett Avenue. Gusty wind whipped her hair into her eyes, but her dress felt hot and sticky. Strolling past a bookstore, she retraced her steps, pressed her nose against the window, and sniffed. Except for Mr. Welty’s livery stable, Flo’s favorite smell was book. She loved to turn the pages and see the printed letters become people or animals. Her favorite books were Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. She adored Dorothy, who had killed a witch, though not on purpose.

  After Flo killed Nugget Ned—on purpose—she’d escape in the Wizard’s hot-air balloon, riding high above Pikes Peak.

  She darted inside the National Hotel’s lobby. The hotel had been built of brick after the Cripple Creek fires. “Scoot, little girl,” the doorman scolded. “You ain’t allowed in here.” Flo hesitated, stuck out her tongue, dashed outside.

  She skipped along the walk then stopped to stare at a window arrangement. Melting sugar oozed around strawberries and fresh-cut flowers. She didn’t know why the display gave her the shivers, but it did.

  It looks like a pretty picture, she thought. No, I’m addled. Pictures were set in frames, like the naked lady hanging above Madam Robin’s fireplace. Pictures were painted by Jack Gottlieb.

  Flo smiled. Jack could be found in the hills with his funny piece of furniture that looked like the letter A. Jack said it was called an easel. Sometimes he let the children play with his paints and brushes.

  Turning away from the window, Flo walked over to a buckboard and scratched the fuzzy muzzles of two golden horses.

  “Ain’t you ’fraid they might bite your fingers off?”

  Flo stared up at the buckboard’s seat. “Not hardly, boy. Horses like me. Mr. Welty says I talk their language. I love all animals. I’ve a cat and her name’s Gingerbread and she’s gonna have babies.”

  “Kittens ain’t special.”

  Flo stared into green eyes. The boy’s hair was the same color as hers and he looked to be the same age, too.

  “We got kittens on our ranch,” he continued, “and Starr had new pups, even though she’s near nine years old, and my mama’s horse had a colt, and I once saw a cow birth a two-headed calf . . .” He paused for breath.

  “A two-headed calf? You’re fibbing, boy!”

  “Mama fainted when she heard. Then she prayed. Mama said the calf was a free-ache of nature and brung by the devil. It died. What’s your name?”

  “Fools Gold Smith.”

  “Now who’s fibbing? Nobody’s named that.”

  Flo fisted her fingers. “Don’t you call me no liar, boy. You come down off that wagon and take them words back or you’ll be puking up teeth.”

  “I can’t leave the wagon. Papa said to stay put or he’d belt my bottom good, and he’ll be out from the store any minute. We ate lunch at the National Hotel. You ever been in there? My papa’s buying flowers for my mama ’cause she’s sick. Her belly got big. Then last night she screamed and screamed and a doctor rode to the ranch and this morning Papa looked sad, so I guess my new baby brother died, just like that two-headed calf. Come sit next to me, if you ain’t scared.”

  “Spit! I ain’t scared of nothing.”

  “Guess I can reckon why. You’re big enough to fight back.”

  Flo hesitated, her foot on the wagon spokes. Was this boy being nasty, funning her size like her schoolmates did? No. He’d sounded mannerly, almost prideful.

  Seated, she said, “A lady who lives at my house grew her belly, but she had a carriage and nobody was sad ’cause the baby was only a seed. Her name’s Dee and she’s got yella hair like mine.”

  “Your hair ain’t yellow, it’s black.”

  “The good witch told Dorothy if she wished hard—”

  “You can’t wish for yellow hair.”

  “When I’m grown, I’m gonna wed me a gentleman. I’ll wear pretty gowns and eat bonbons, and my hair will be yella. Want some brittle?”

  “Sure. I like your hair, and you smell good, like store-bought scent. My name’s John McDonald but folks call me Cat. Papa says I was named for two states, one city, and a cougar.”

  “If I had my druthers, I’d call me Horse.” Reaching into her pocket, Flo pulled out a piece of peanut brittle. Snippets of brown wool stuck to its glazed surface. She licked it clean and handed Cat the laundered sweet.

  “Who’s your new friend, son?” A man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “Papa, this here’s Fools Gold.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Gold.” He tipped the brim of his Stetson, separated a snapdragon from his bouquet, handed the flower over, and lifted Flo to the ground.

  Squinting up, she stared at Cat’s papa. “I’ve seen you at Little Heaven. You’re Dee’s gent.”

  “What were you doing at Little Heaven?”

  “I’m Minta’s girl and I cook coffee.”

  “Can Fools Gold come home with us, Papa?”

  “No, son, that’s out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “Your mama needs peace and quiet.”

  “We can play outside. I’ll dig up the two-headed—”

  “I said no!”

  Flo watched Cat’s papa toss the flowers into the buckboard, climb up next to Cat, and kick at the brake with his boot.

  He kicked awful hard, she thought, but dismissed Cat and Cat’s papa from her mind when she heard new hoofbeats.

  Clattering down Bennett was a white stallion with a yella-haired lady on top. “Oh, how beautiful,” whispered Flo, for once meaning the lady, not the horse.

  Skidding to a halt near Flo, the stallion nickered. “I’ll be hanged,” said the lady. “He
’s never done that before. What’s your name, little sorceress?”

  “Fools Gold Smith.”

  “I’m Sally Marylander.”

  Flo leaned forward to kiss the stallion’s velvety neck. Her nose met one of Sally’s boots and she stepped back, surprised. “You’re riding funny, ma’am. You’ve got both legs flung, one on each side.”

  “That’s right. Don’t cotton to sidesaddle. Why should I squeeze my legs together when men have the comfort of spreading theirs? Would you like to ride with Sally, child?”

  “Oh, my goodness! I ain’t been atop nothin’ ’cept Whiskey Johnnie’s burro, but he’s dead.”

  “The burro’s dead?”

  “No. Whiskey Johnnie. Mama Min talks ’bout him lots. Clementine’s alive but he’s old and swayback. Can I really ride your horse?”

  Sally smiled, kicked one stirrup free, hooked her booted foot over the saddle horn, and extended her hand.

  Flo dropped her snapdragon and tucked her skirt hem into the neck of her dress. She found the stirrup, grasped Sally’s fingers, and swung herself up behind the saddle. A seam in her pantalets split its stitches. Spit!

  “Stay very still, child,” Sally warned. “My stallion’s got a wild nature and it looks as if it’s about to storm.”

  At her words, thunder sounded and a bolt of lightning cleaved the sky. Stretching out his long legs, Sally’s stallion galloped to the end of Bennett and swerved onto the path circumventing Mt. Pisgah cemetery. Flo leaned sideways into the wind, tears of delight steaming down her face.

  Sally sawed on the reins, and the stallion’s speed lessened.

  Flo slid to the ground in front of the fruit and flower shop.

  “You weren’t scared a bit,” said Sally. “I don’t think you even know what the word means. Pull your skirt down, child. I hope we meet again. I’ll bet people say you’re a big girl but you’ve got good bones. I’d like to see how you look when you’re all grown up. You’d better scoot for home now, get out of the rain.”

  “Rain?” Flo looked down at the muddy street. Then she whirled about and sprinted toward Little Heaven.