Death of a Rainmaker

by Laurie Loewenstein

  The air grew heavy with the dust of panicked animals, the crush of bones, the agonal shrieks. Temple, who had seen his fair share of mangled flesh both after the Johnstown flood and as sheriff, winced. Years of anger, loss, and hunger bubbled up in that bloody pen. A jackrabbit, its back legs crushed, crawled toward Temple’s feet, mewling pitifully. He turned away. It took another twenty minutes before the last of the rabbits had the life beat out of it.

  Then the drivers flung the limp bodies into a heap, to be carted off later and ground into livestock feed. The citizenry cheered. Men and young boys boasted. Someone brought out a camera. Folks clustered around the mangled remains to pose. After a bit, everyone started drifting back to the Campbell farm. Temple stepped inside the pen and squatted by the pile. Most of the rabbits had their skulls bashed in; concave wounds thick with clotted blood. Not so different from Coombs, he observed. The sheriff gazed back toward the farm. A lot of fury to unleash on a pitiful heap of fur and flesh.

  Eventually, chores called most people home. Those who stayed proceeded to get liquored up. Temple’s gut told him to hang around for a while to ward off a whiskey-fueled brawl. And who knew? He might get a lead on Hodge and the Coombs killing, although he couldn’t think what that might be. He settled on the wagon bed with a stick and a whittling knife, tuned to the various conversations washing past his ears. There were the usual complaints about the drought, the gov-mint, about tick fever and screwworm. Temple was on his second stick, with a pile of shavings beneath his feet, when Doll, who had been powwowing with his cronies under the sassafras, approached.

  “Best get yourself up. One of the fellows has had too much to drink.”

  Temple cocked his head, smiling lightly. “That was the idea, wasn’t it?”

  “And he’s pissing alongside the barn over there, exposing himself to the ladies.”

  Temple looked over his shoulder and saw that, indeed, a fellow was watering the weeds. He tossed the stick and hopped down from the wagon. “I’ll take care of it. But you need to cut off the source. Time this shindig is over anyway.”

  “Don’t know if the men will go for that.”

  Temple wanted to say, That’s the way it is with being a lawman: telling people to do things they don’t want to, but thought better of it. By the time he reached the offender, the man was already zigzagging his way. It was Trot.

  “All right, let’s get you home,” Temple said. “And jeez, man, close your fly.”

  As Trot bent to comply, he stumbled forward. The sheriff sighed. He doubted that if Doll were sheriff he’d stoop to nursemaiding drunks. Temple buttoned Trot up, grabbed him under the armpit, and steered him toward the Packard.

  Trot’s soddie was not more than three miles away, and as they bumped along, Trot commenced humming. After a bit, the humming became singing. He garbled the words and Temple didn’t know the song. Only bits and pieces of the verses made it past the drunk’s lips:

  “Jesse James was a man that killed many a man,

  He robbed the Danville train,

  (Mumble, mumble, mumble) . . . and a brain.”

  But the chorus came through strong:

  “Poor Jesse had a wife who mourned for his life

  And three children, they were so brave.

  But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard

  Laid poor Jesse in his grave.”

  Trot sang continuously until they pulled up to the soddie, where he abruptly nodded off. Temple carried him inside and laid him on the tick mattress. It was then he noticed that Trot had a Vote For Doll button pinned to the buckle of his overalls.

  “I’ll be damned.” Temple shook his head and grinned.

  Driving back to town, he found himself singing Trot’s ballad, giving particular attention to a funereal baritone on “Laid . . . poor . . . Jesse . . . in . . . his . . . GRAVE.”

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chester was battling against the clock to ready the Jewel for Dish Night. A case of the jitters woke him before dawn and had stuck around all day—a pugnacious jockey whipping his flanks.

  Now, in late afternoon, with doors set to open at seven sharp, the Jewel wasn’t close to ready. Chester had, with trepidation, recruited two of Maxine’s friends to help along with the cashier herself, and the same Jimmy Clanton who Mitchem’s Hardware called on when extra hands were needed. Still, with all this help or maybe because of it, almost nothing had been accomplished. That night’s giveaways, teacups, remained nestled in their excelsior nests. The podium from which Chester was to give introductory remarks was not on stage. Nor had the easel been found to display the illustrated poster. And the poster itself was missing. The banner welcoming ladies to Dish Night languished in the balcony.

  Chester was drilling Jimmy on how to sling the bunting from the marquee when Maxine sprinted out, yelping that something was amiss with the place-setting display.

  Suddenly Chester’s nightmare that the Dish Night premiere might fizzle out seemed a real possibility. When the doors opened, the patrons would encounter not an elegant soiree but an amateurish effort not even rising to the level of a church potluck. On top of that, in the past several days it had become clear that, as more bills rolled in and receipts continued to spiral downward, this campaign was his last chance to save the Jewel.

  All these terrible thoughts rushed in at once. Quickly he turned away, stumbling toward to his office stairs, leaving the girls to their paper chains and chewing gum. Halfway up, he sat down hard, head in hands. Tears dripped on his trousers. In his protracted scramble up through the darkness, he’d never admitted failure was possible. His entire life had been devoted to erecting and maintaining the illusion of sight. Every movement, from lighting a cigarette to counting out change, was drilled over and over until each could be executed without a false movement. And yet, none of it mattered a wit if he lost his livelihood. So what if he could make sure his socks matched if he didn’t own any? If his feet were scraped raw inside busted shoes and he was nothing but a sightless beggar with a tin cup? He sat woodenly until the understated voice of a woman, mingling with adolescent chirps, touched his ears. It was Lottie. Lottie! His spirits lifted and, swabbing the tears from his face and blowing his nose, he sailed downstairs.

  “Lottie, thank God you’ve come,” he blurted out.

  There came the moist sound of her lips parting in a smile. “I thought you might need help.”

  “Oh yes. I can’t tell you . . .” Chester leaned toward her and she pressed her cheek against his mouth. For several moments they lingered, catching their breaths.

  Finally, pulling away, she asked, “So, what needs doing?”

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, as Lottie and the girls admired their handiwork on the display, someone tapped on the lobby door. Lottie was surprised to see Etha’s earnest face behind the panes. And then she made out the crush of women behind her friend and gasped. At least thirty ladies were crammed into the small space shaded by the marquee, and beyond that, many more hats pressed forward. As Lottie unlatched the door and Etha squeezed inside, several matrons tried to push their way in after her.

  “Sorry, ladies, doors open at seven,” Lottie said in a polite but firm tone. The shoulders of the eager crowd slumped. Lottie clicked the dead bolt into place.

  “Goodness!” Etha exclaimed. “There are at least two hundred women out there. The line stretches past the Idle Hour. Can I help?”

  Etha was assigned the chores of counting teacups and tracking down the errant poster. At six forty-five, Lottie marshalled everyone into place. Maxine was snug in the booth. Lottie herself stood erectly at the ticket canister ready to collect the stubs. She positioned Chester to her left where he would greet the ladies and present them with the teacups, passed to him by Etha. Maxine’s pals June and Harriet stood at each doorway ready to escort the ladies to their seats.

  Lottie gave Jimmy the signal to unlatch the doors.

  The women pushed in, bringing with them excited chatter and t
he click of pumps on the lobby floor. Many were from town. Their faces fresh under Sunday hats. Some towed youngsters in short frocks. But most were from the farms. Their complexions tawny and tight from too much sun and too little food. Each, however, wore a freshly ironed dress and a fragrant coating of dusting powder.

  Etha watched as the ladies handed their tickets to Lottie, who greeted them with a warm smile. Chester was at his best—suave and professional in a pinstripe suit. It was well known that a number of married women had secret crushes on the theater owner.

  “Welcome to the Jewel,” he said, handing each a glossy bone china cup.

  Most of the patrons, after gushing their thanks, stopped to admire the pattern and had to be urged to move on by Etha. The lobby filled with exclamations of pleasure as more women pressed inside. Even Ruthie-Jo, Cy Mitchem’s reclusive wife, was in attendance. She stood in line, pocketbook pressed against her sturdy body, her clever eyes alight with determination. Once she had a cup in hand, she pivoted abruptly and marched back out.

  Several times Lottie glanced Etha’s way and mouthed, How many left? The supply of china seemed limitless, but so did the patrons. About ten minutes into the crush Etha spotted Viviane approaching. “Nice to see you,” Etha said.

  Viviane smiled. “I brought my mother.”

  The woman was a wisp of a thing with limp pale hair and gray eyes bleached with fatigue. When Chester handed her a cup, she covered her mouth and broke into tears. No one noticed except Viviane and Etha. Etha guessed the china was the first pretty thing this woman had ever owned. Viviane gently guided her mother toward June, who smiled brightly and led them into the darkened theater. At last the long line dwindled. Only six cups remained and Harriet reported that there were no more seats. Etha had been watching for Mrs. Hodge but she must have stayed home.

  Now it was time for Chester to address the audience and he turned to Lottie. “Please do me the honor,” he said, crooking his arm so that hers could slide inside. Together they marched down the aisle, mounted the steps, and took the stage. Everything was waltzing along perfectly and he didn’t want a single clumsy movement to spoil it. With this crowd, he’d be able to pay the bills and keep the Jewel open for at least another month. Why had he fought against Dish Night for so long?

  He stood behind the podium, Lottie at his side. “Thank you all for making our premiere an unqualified success. Each week that you attend on promotional night, you will receive another piece of fine china to add to your collection. So you won’t want to miss a single show!”

  The audience enthusiastically beat their gloved hands.

  “And I want to also thank Lottie Klein for helping me prepare the Jewel for opening night.” Chester nodded to Lottie, who stepped forward, smiling and bowing to applause, before returning to his side. “And now, without further ado, on with the show!” He waved to Jimmy, who threw the switch on the newsreel.

  After retreating to the lobby, Chester closed the quilted doors. He and Lottie immediately slumped against them.

  “My God,” Chester said. “Without a hitch. If I were a betting man, I’d have never thought we could pull it off.”

  Lottie squeezed his hand. “But we did.”

  Etha joined them. “I just talked to Maxine. Two hundred and twenty-five tickets sold! And Chester, I wish you could have seen the faces on those women. Especially the farm wives. Having those sorts of niceties in their homes means the world to them. I know you were against the dish promotion, but I’m glad you went ahead. You did a lot of good tonight.”

  Chester laughed. “An unexpected bonus, to be a do-gooder and pay my bills! Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I must take over the projectionist duties from Mr. Clanton.”

  Lottie turned to Etha. “I need a cigarette.”

  “Me too.”

  They stepped into the sultry evening. In her cage, Maxine was wrestling nickels into paper tubes.

  Lottie said, “Did you hear that? Chester said we pulled it off. We! I’ve got goose bumps. Feel.” She extended her arm. Then she glanced at Maxine, who might be eavesdropping. “Guess we should find a private place for our smoke.”

  Etha chuckled. “Who’s to see us? They’re all inside.”

  “True. But I’d feel funny.”

  The women strolled around the side of the building and into the alley. They lit up and leaned against the brick wall. Lottie continued, “It’s just as I dreamed—Chester and I working together.”

  “You must be relieved. Back to the way things were before he blew up.”

  “After today? He’ll be proposing within the next couple of weeks. I know it.”

  Etha had her doubts but didn’t want to dampen Lottie’s spirits when her friend had been so low earlier in the day.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Lottie said, “when the Dish Night pitchman was here he mentioned being up in St. Joe. Described a salesman he ran into who sounded like it could have been Coombs. Seems the fellow got into an argument with another boarder and a gun was involved. Might be something for Temple to check out?”

  Etha perked up. “I’ve been trying to get him to cast the net wider.”

  “Also, if Temple . . .” Lottie paused, biting her lower lip. “If he loses, I could ask Papa about hiring you part-time. It wouldn’t pay much, but it would be a help.”

  Etha squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m hoping I won’t need to take you up on that. But thanks.”

  * * *

  That night, after the last of the patrons had drifted out into the quiet streets, Chester and Lottie plopped down in the back row and toed off their shoes.

  “A magical evening, don’t you think?” Lottie said. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Yes, in that I will be able to pay my rent and electric bills. If that’s magic, I’m all for it.” He scrubbed his face with a palm. “I’m exhausted.”

  “But also in how we worked together. A team.”

  Chester grunted.

  “And standing beside you on the stage and having all the ladies in town seeing us together.”

  “As I said, there is no way the premiere could have happened without you.”

  “I’ve missed you so much these last few days. Did you miss me?”

  There was a pause. Lottie thought he might be drifting off. Then he said, “I did.”

  She sat up. “I’ve thought a lot about what you said the other day. You always seem self-assured. I didn’t understand why you were angry at first. But now I see that, to get dressed every morning, run the business, all without knowing each time you take a step if there’s a hole waiting to trip you up, it takes a lot of gumption.”

  He smiled, his hand finding her shoulder. “And I regret losing my temper. I’m sorry for that. I tend to be closemouthed about a lot of things. I want you to know that I am pleased that you and I have set things right. There is nothing I want more than to forget that outburst happened and to go on as we were.”

  Lottie frowned. “As we were?”

  “Yes, lunches, dinners. I don’t know if I can afford the out-of-town trips for a while—”

  “But I thought, after all this, we’d be running the theater side by side. I was a huge help. You said so yourself.”

  Chester yawned. “And you were. I couldn’t have pulled off the premiere without you.”

  “But what?”

  He shrugged. “But there’s only one premiere. Why change our arrangement?”

  “Our arrangement? Is that what this is? I thought we were building something together—a life together.”

  Chester stiffened. “My dear, that is . . . Well, it seems we have a slightly different perspective on what—”

  Lottie jumped up. “Are you saying it never crossed your mind to marry me?”

  There was silence.

  “It didn’t, did it? You never even thought about it.”

  Chester reached for her arm and tried to pull her back down. “Let’s talk reasonably here. Two adults. Sit down.”

  Lottie
suddenly saw her ten years with Chester. Understood that those years had been nothing more than the desolate existence she’d thought she’d been taking steps to escape. Her future with him had always been barren. The air thickened, as if another suffocating duster was bearing down. Lottie slowly turned to Chester. “Not on your life, mister.” Her voice rose in anger: “My uncle who owns that store in Oklahoma City? He’s been begging me to come work for him for at least five years. You didn’t know that, did you? I kept putting him off, thinking that there was something here for me. But now I see there never was.” She gathered up her shoes and purse. “You’ve got my pity, but it’s not for the reason you think,” she said before marching up the aisle and out the lobby doors.

  Behind her, Chester sat alone, stunned at this rapid fall from the day’s triumphs. His throat thickened with tears. He tried to swallow them but realized it didn’t matter. No one was there to hear anyway.

  * * *

  After smoking a second cigarette with Lottie in the alley, Etha had hustled home, where she’d left a plate of cold boiled ham and cheese, covered with a tea towel, for Temple’s supper. Scurrying in, she saw that he had already set out the coffee cups. From the living room, a clarinet tootled on the radio.

  “How do?” she called out. “Do you want coffee in there?”

  “Sure.” There was a rustle as, Etha imagined, Temple folded the newspaper and set it aside.

  She carried in the tray and her husband helped her unload it onto the coffee table.

  “No pie?” he asked disappointedly.

  Etha sighed. “Actually, Carmine stopped by before I left for Dish Night. He’d hiked all the way here from the camp. He wanted to thank me for—you know.”

  “Etha, you got to remember that DiNapoli is still a suspect. The only reason he still isn’t in jail is that a thirteen-year-old girl lied to us.”