The Woman Who Loved Jesse James

by Cindi Myers

  “No one knows we’re here.” He kissed my shoulder and smoothed his hand around the curve of my hip.

  “Y . . . you don’t think anyone will hear, do you?”

  I felt his mouth curve in a smile. “What if they do? We’re a man and wife.” He moved his mouth to the top of my breast. “Nothing we do here is illegal or immoral.” He sucked my nipple into his mouth and I gasped and closed my eyes, surrendering to the pleasure of the moment. Jesse knew my body so well, but today he seemed determined to learn it anew. He took his time exploring every inch of my torso, touching and tasting, gauging my response.

  All the tension and worry of the preceding months and weeks melted away in those moments. There were no lawmen hunting Jesse, no angry mobs intent on lynching him, no aliases to remember or lies to keep straight. We were simply a man and a woman in love, taking pleasure in being together.

  I ran my hand up and down his back, reveling in the solid reality of him. He was still thin from his ordeal after Northfield, but there was nothing weak about him, the muscles hard beneath taut flesh. He wore a full beard these days, and I liked the way it felt against my bare skin, soft as washed linen, yet tantalizingly masculine.

  We came together with heat and fervor, joyous and playful, without the guilt we’d fought as children or the weight of our responsibilities as adults to hamper our pleasure. I shrieked my delight as my climax overtook me, unmindful of being overheard by strangers in neighboring rooms. Jesse shouted his own satisfaction, and we grinned at each other and laughed, collapsing into each other’s arms, still locked together, “two become one” in a way that felt new and whole all over again.

  We slept the rest of the afternoon, then changed and went downstairs and around the corner to a restaurant where we dined on broiled steaks and creamed potatoes and delicate white cake with strawberries. Jesse insisted on taking me to an opulent gambling hall, where I sipped mint tea and watched while he played faro. He won and called me his good luck charm. When we returned to the hotel, we made love again, and I fell asleep smiling.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning we were at the gates of Fairmont Park by ten o’clock. Jesse paid our admission of fifty cents each, and bought a guidebook for twenty-five cents. The day was clear and sunny, not too cold, and visitors crowded the lavishly landscaped grounds. I held tightly to Jesse’s arm for fear of being separated in the crush of people.

  If he was nervous about the crowd, he gave no sign of it, but strode forward with confidence, his alert eyes taking in every detail. His ability to be as at home here as in the Missouri countryside impressed me. Then again, he had always been a person who made a stronger impression on his surroundings than he allowed his surroundings to make on him. Whether conversing with a small town shopkeeper or making his way through a crowded city, Jesse commanded attention and respect.

  The park had been transformed into a magical city within the city, with its own police force, water works and transportation system. Over 200 buildings representing various industries and nations were arranged over 285 acres of wooded parkland. A narrow-gauge railway encircled the grounds, while overhead, a monorail zipped between stations within the park.

  Our first stop was the Machinery Building, to see the giant Corliss Steam Engine we had heard so much about. This wonder rose forty feet over us, the enormous flywheel spinning at a dizzying rate. It provided power for almost every other machine at the fair, and required only a single man to keep it going—and he seemed to spend all his time sitting in a chair on the machine’s platform, reading a newspaper.

  “It’s amazing,” I said, craning my neck to see the top of the behemoth. “It says here in the guidebook that this machine can do work formerly accomplished by dozens of men laboring over boilers and burners.”

  “I wonder what all of those men are doing now?” Jesse asked.

  “Maybe they have jobs building new machines like this one,” I said.

  “Come on,” Jesse took my arm. “I want to see Mr. Bell’s new speaking phone.”

  We made our way to the exhibit for Mr. Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone. “With this astounding invention, a person can be standing in one location and converse with a person hundreds of miles away,” a handsome young man in a blue suit informed the crowd. He picked up the bellflower-shaped earpiece and spoke into the speaking tube. “Hello? Would you please connect me to Mr. Bell’s laboratory in Menlo Park, New Jersey?”

  A moment later, a thin voice sounded from the phone. “Mr. Bell’s laboratory.”

  “How do we know that’s really Alexander Bell?” a man in the back of the crowd demanded.

  “You can believe me or not, sir,” the young man replied. “But one day, everyone will have one of these in their home. You’ll be able to call your mother across the country or your wife from across town.”

  “What if I don’t want to talk to either of them?” the man retorted, and was awarded with a laugh.

  “The telephone is important not just as a matter of convenience,” the young man continued. “It will be an invaluable aid to law enforcement agencies and fire departments everywhere. One phone call will send fire brigades rushing to stamp out a blaze before it becomes an inferno. And robberies will be reported before the outlaws responsible have reached the edge of town.”

  Jesse turned away, frowning.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as we moved away from the exhibit.

  “You heard the man. An instrument like that will make it harder to slip past the sheriff’s deputies and police. It looks simple enough even the most incompetent bank employee could use it.”

  I squeezed his arm, but said nothing. I didn’t want to think about bank robberies or lawmen or any of those things ever again. Mr. Howard was an honest citizen, who raced horses and speculated on wheat and corn and never did anything to put himself and his family in danger.

  That morning, we also saw the Remington Typographic Machine, which printed words on paper at the touch of a button, and a working ten-foot long model of a steamship produced by the Hamburg-American Packet Company. We listened to mechanical canaries sing as sweetly as any live bird, and enjoyed a concert played on a Steinway Grand piano.

  We lunched at the Restaurant of the South, on black-eyed peas that were over-cooked and greens that weren’t cooked enough. “About what I expected of Southern food cooked by Yankees,” Jesse said.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s buy ice cream from one of the booths I saw near the fountain.”

  We found the ice cream vendor and purchased two dishes. “This may be the best ice cream I’ve ever eaten,” I said as we strolled around the massive Bartholdi Fountain.

  “It’s pretty good,” Jesse agreed. “What should we do now?”

  “There’s so much to see, it’s a little overwhelming,” I said. “But my feet are tired.”

  “Then madam, you should rest.” He took my arm and steered me down the walkway.

  “I won’t ride in one of those wheeled chairs,” I protested. “I refuse to be pushed around like an invalid.” The Fair offered wheeled chairs for rent for those who didn’t want to walk the long distances required to see everything.

  Jesse didn’t lead me to the chair rentals, but to the depot for the West End Railway, a narrow-gauge train that circumnavigated the park. From our car we had a wonderful view of all the buildings, from the Japanese temple to the Moorish Hall that housed the agricultural exhibit. “No express car on this train,” Jesse observed. “Though I wonder how they transport the payroll, and all the money from the various exhibits.”

  I nudged him with my elbow. “What do you care?” I asked. “You’re here on vacation.”

  He laughed, and I was happy his good mood returned. We left the train at Machinery Hall, and proceeded to an exhibit of 14-inch and 10-inch guns manufactured by the Krupp Company of Germany. My head could have fit inside the barrel of the first gun, and the ball it fired was the size of an apple. “I don’t like it,” Jesse said, backing aw
ay from the weapon as if he expected it to swing around at any moment and fix on him. “A bullet in a pistol or rifle kills one man at a time. A weapon like this could take out a dozen in one blow.”

  “This is the future of war,” a stern-looking man with a thick accent informed him.

  “Then I don’t like your picture of the future,” Jesse barked.

  From here we moved to a display that cheered him some: Tiffany and Company Jewelers had a booth filled with glittering diamonds, shining platinum and gleaming gold. Jesse studied a case full of men’s signet rings and women’s wedding bands. A gentleman in formal dress, noticing our interest, approached. “All of the items on display are for sale,” he said. “If you would like to examine something more closely, I could open the case for you.”

  Jesse studied the case a moment longer, then glanced at the armed guards stationed nearby. “No thanks,” he said. “I don’t see anything here that’s worth my time.”

  We ate supper at a café near the fairgrounds, and returned to the hotel, where Jesse spent several hours in the billiard room while I wrote letters to “Ben and Fanny” and to Zerelda.

  We had saved the foreign exhibits for the following day. We marveled at the Egyptian mummy and carved ivory from China, and stood amazed in front of a four-thousand-pound block of silver from Mexico. “I’d have hated to be in charge of getting that thing here,” Jesse observed.

  We admired stacks of coffee bricks from Liberia, and an intricately carved vase from Japan that towered over both of us.

  “We should travel more,” Jesse declared. “Maybe take a ship overseas and tour Europe.”

  “I might like that,” I said. “As long as Tim could go with us.”

  “I wonder what Buck would think of the idea? I bet they’ve never heard of bank robbers over in France and Italy.”

  Though I wanted to believe he meant he and Frank could easily go unrecognized in Europe, I half feared he was toying with the idea of introducing the rest of the world to the James brothers’ brand of outlawry.

  I stifled a sigh. No matter how much I wanted to believe that here, in this crowd of people, Jesse was like any other tourist, I knew that was impossible. Jesse James, by any name, would never be ordinary. Outside forces and his very nature had shaped a man who saw the world from a different point of view from the rest of us.

  And wasn’t that one of the reasons I loved him—because he wasn’t an ordinary man? As his wife, I could imagine myself exceptional also, if only by association.

  “What’s that over there?” I directed his attention to a line of people stretching out from an exhibit near the fountain.

  “It looks like a giant hand,” he said.

  It was indeed a hand, holding a torch, attached to a giant arm. A sign explained this would one day be part of a gigantic statue, depicting Lady Liberty, that would be erected in the harbor of New York City, a gift to the United States from France.

  We paid fifty cents to climb up the inside of the massive arm. Emerging on the balcony around the torch, we could see far across the fairgrounds, past the elevated railway and the turrets of the British Building, all the way to the spire of Independence Hall.

  “Can you imagine how inspiring it will be for new arrivals to our country to see that statue representing Liberty, greeting them in the harbor?” I asked as we walked away from the exhibit.

  “Liberty for those with the right political views, at least,” Jesse said.

  I ignored his cynicism. “Let’s visit the Government Building next,” I said.

  “You know I have no great fondness for the U.S. Government,” he said.

  “We’ve come all this way to the Fair,” I said. “We should see it all.”

  He relented, and we made our way to one of the largest and most impressive buildings at the Exhibition. Built in the shape of a cross, the U.S. Government Building boasted seven divisions representing the Army, Navy, Post Office, U.S. Treasury, the Agricultural Bureau, the Department of the Interior and the collections of the Smithsonian Institution.

  I knew we’d made the right decision when one of the first things to catch our eye inside the building was the exhibits of American firearms by the Colt, Remington, and Smith and Wesson companies. Jesse was like a child in a candy store, wandering from station to station, admiring intricate revolvers and repeaters, guns with carved ivory handles and engraved silver barrels. He discussed distance and trajectory, firepower and reloading speed in the tones of an expert, and soon had an admiring crowd of men gathered around him. He liked nothing better, and entertained them for as long as he was able, until one of the Centennial Guards approached—probably because he was interested in the discussion as well—but Jesse quickly cut off his speech and excused himself from the building.

  We returned to the hotel early that evening, and had supper in the restaurant on the first floor, dining on fresh oysters and roast beef, with lemon ices for dessert. Jesse talked of going out and gambling, but I persuaded him to return to the room with me. I intended to take advantage of our time alone—and that large feather bed—as much as possible.

  Our third and last day at the fair, we toured the portions of the Exhibition halls we had not yet seen, including the rest of the U.S. Government Building. In the Agricultural Hall, we sampled bread baked using Rumsford yeast powder and bought chocolates made right there on the spot by another machine. We gaped at a stuffed polar bear, snow white and rising ten feet high, with paws the size of skillets and a head as broad as a man’s chest; and marveled at a stuffed walrus, fifteen feet long, ivory tusks curving up like scimitars.

  We ate sugared popcorn and drank soda water purchased from carts along the walkways, and sampled the free ice water from the Sons of Temperance Fountain. In the Horticultural Building, we marveled at tropical fruits and plants of every description. “Technology will soon allow us to grow fresh fruit and vegetables indoors, year-round,” a guide told us.

  “Imagine that,” I said as we emerged from the building. “Anytime you want a banana, you could pick one from your own horticultural building.”

  “I don’t know that food grown indoors like that is right,” Jesse said. “The Garden of Eden wasn’t under a glass dome, was it? Seems to me if the Lord had wanted us to eat bananas everywhere in the world anytime, he would have put them there for us.”

  At first I thought he might be joshing. Jesse had a sly sense of humor. But his expression was serious.

  Several newspapers had presses on the Exhibition grounds and printed special editions that were available for sale and posted for display each day. Jesse and I had perused these each day of our visit, stopping to read stories about the increasingly contentious presidential election.

  After lunch at the American Restaurant, we walked over to read the day’s papers. Six feet from the display, we froze, our eyes fixed on the headline: Younger Brothers Sentenced to Life in Prison. Below were the pictures of Cole, Bob and Jim, taken at the time of their capture. Wounded and exhausted, they scarcely looked like the friends I knew.

  Jesse’s hand tightened on mine, and I thought we might turn away. But he straightened his shoulders and held up his head. “They didn’t waste any time with the verdict in that trial,” he said, perhaps for the benefit of those around us.

  We walked slowly to the display and read the story. The Youngers had readily admitted their role in the Northfield Bank robbery, professing their guilt and their deep regret for their actions. None could be tied to the murder of the cashier, Heywood, since they were all reported to have been outside of the bank at the time. For this they were all spared the hangman’s noose and sentenced to life in prison in Stillwater, Minnesota.

  The paper reported their sentences might have been lightened further if they had been willing to reveal the identity of the other two robbers—the ones who had escaped. These men were widely thought to be the notorious Frank and Jesse James, and authorities were certain one of them was responsible for Joseph Heywood’s death. But to the dismay
of prosecutors, the Younger brothers refused to betray their friends, even at the cost of their own liberty.

  “God bless them all,” I murmured, my face pressed against Jesse’s coat. I put Mr. Heywood and the question of who had murdered him out of my mind. I cared only that Jesse was safe. Our home and family and the life that meant everything to me was secure.

  “Yes.” He bowed his head, as if struggling to collect himself. “And damn every man who has acted against them.”

  After that, the fair lost some of its luster for us. Instead of fascinating marvels, I now saw only how quickly the world was changing around us. New technology and an uncertain future were rapidly replacing all that was familiar and comfortable to me. What would become of us in a world full of labor-saving devices, instant communication and more and more power in the hands of manufacturers and moguls?

  We turned back toward our hotel. I struggled to distract our thoughts from the Youngers’ fate. “We saw so many marvels this week,” I said. “It’s hard to take it all in.”

  “Things are changing too fast.” Jesse let out a sigh. “Telephones and giant guns—and giant polar bears. I don’t know if I can keep up.” Gone was the cheerful, energetic man who had entered the city with me, replaced by this sad, brooding specimen, shoulders slumped with the burdens of the world.

  Tired from the week’s exertions, I fell asleep early that evening. But I woke once in the wee hours to the smell of cigar smoke. Sitting up in bed, I saw Jesse silhouetted in a rocking chair by the window. The tip of his cigar glowed like a single angry red eye, and the lights of the city shimmered through the wavy glass behind him. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  He didn’t turn from the window. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said. “Go back to sleep. Everything will be all right in the morning.”

  I thought of our time at the fair like a dream, one I wished could go on forever. If only I could hold onto those moments, to keep on sleeping, and never awake.