by Susan Patron
“My joke teller, Mr. Silus Smith—a carpenter with more fine wood shavings on him than dust on a burro, but otherwise a fine clean man in his habits—he said, ‘Everyone knows no one in his right mind would murder Pat Reddy because Pat’s the only lawyer could get him acquitted for it. Maybe the sheriff should go arrest someone in the San Francisco asylum for the insane.’”
Even Momma laughed at that, but then she turned serious and shocked me by admitting how weary she has become of Bodie shenanigans. Did she mean Papa? But then she said if it wasn’t for Papa and some of his friends, the town would be ruled by backbiting and corruption and thugs.
“Well,” said Sally O’Toole, “sure in some ways it already is, and thank God the Reddys are on the side of justice.” She meant both Papa and Uncle Ned, who is in Leadville, Colorado, looking for silver.
I am almighty proud of having such a famous father and uncle, and I have saved every newspaper story written about them—of which there are plenty. Papa is the more handsome of the two brothers, but Uncle Ned the more jolly; neither of them is afraid of a fight, though both prefer a fair game of cards to settle an argument. I believe the only thing either of them ever fear is hurting Momma or making her mad.
I got Momma and Mrs. O’Toole talking about the Fourth of July masquerade ball, and Momma said she intended to go, whether or not Papa had decided to return to the land of the living.
“Oh, my dear, you will have tongues wagging,” Mrs. O’Toole said. “But if your husband is behind this supposed murder of his own self, would he not want you and Angeline to make believe he is truly gone?”
I started at that, for Papa had never asked us to lie or pretend. Momma seemed equally taken aback. “Oh, no,” she said. “Patrick would never expect us to fake widowhood and mourning. I’m certain he’s trying to confuse his enemies.” She looked bemused. “Anyway, it’s well known that we pay no attention to gossip and innuendo—people already consider us a bit scandalous. For Angie and me to attend the ball may be shocking, but it won’t surprise anyone.”
My hands tingled a bit as if in memory of the paddling by Miss Williams. Oh, how I hope that Papa will be back in the land of the living for our country’s birthday!
“And if you wish to be mysterious,” Mrs. O’Toole said, “just wear a mask.” She told us she is making her own—a hen with an elaborate feathered headdress (which I believe suits her perfectly). Momma and I have not decided what masks we’ll wear with our best dresses. Mrs. O’Toole smiled at me and said a masked ball gives a shy girl a chance to be someone she ordinarily is not, someone daring and adventuresome!
Then Mrs. O’Toole kissed our cheeks and cheerfully offered to help us wash the dishes. But we would not allow that, of course. Before Mrs. O’Toole left she presented the intricate and finely woven Indian basket as a gift, which gave Momma the greatest pleasure.
After we tidied up and put everything away, I decided to ask the question that haunted me. “Momma,” I began, “did you know that the door of Papa’s antechamber was locked the day of his supposed murder?”
She did not. So Papa must have locked it himself before he got murdered, and then he had the key brought to me. I told Momma about Ling Loi’s delivery of his “message,” and that I subsequently went into the room. I did not mention the envelope I discovered that first night, or that I returned with Eleanor Tucker. I longed to tell her of the terrible vision we saw, but I knew she’d be overcome with horror and worry. Instead I said, “Ellie Tucker visited here Friday while you slept. I like her.”
Momma looked at me closely. “So you have become friends with her. I hope you remembered not to tell her anything of the past. It would do her no good to learn from you that her father has been keeping what happened a secret.”
“Not a word of it, Momma,” I said. “Eleanor and I saw him at Ward’s and he had a strange, painful kind of attack—but then he was all right and didn’t want a doctor. But—” I broke off, wondering if I ought to tell her.
She knows me too well. “‘But’? What is it, Angie?”
“Well, I took Ellie with me to look inside Papa’s casket again. This time there was a stranger in it. Now Ellie knows Papa’s not dead, too.”
Momma shrugged. “No one seems to care that his own wife and daughter don’t believe in that cooked-up murder. I guess it doesn’t matter.”
I was relieved that she wasn’t angry. “But, Momma, it’s all madness. Do you think it would help Papa if we tell the sheriff all that we know?”
“No. First, because the sheriff is a fool, as Mrs. O’Toole made clear, and second, because your father does not wish us to, and we must trust that he has his reasons,” Momma said. “You are not to interfere, Angie, no matter how mad it seems to you.”
“But, Momma—” I was going to explain that Papa surely needed my help, or he would not have sent the key to me, but for once I stopped my tongue in time. Papa must not want to worry her; he must want me to act in complete secrecy. This I resolve to do.
Thursday, June 17, 1880
Dear Diary,
Momma has been caught in an uncharacteristic lethargy these past days, as I believe Papa’s absence weighs on her as much as the lingering infection. Each day I have accomplished my usual tasks and most of hers as well, with the result that I haven’t had the courage, dear diary, to be faithful to you in many days. Yesterday, wash day, I rose at 4 A.M. to start the fire, haul water from the well, and set it to boiling in the great tub. I washed sheets and linens and clothing until time for school, leaving the great, wet, wrung-out bundles to be hung when I returned. Still the day was exceedingly warm and windy, so once I got the laundry on the lines, all was dry by sundown. This morning I ironed for several hours but more awaits tomorrow, as I had to quit to bake bread. I count upon Momma’s full recovery soon, not only for her sake, but, ungenerously, for my own.
Now, however, I confront yet a more difficult task, for the Committee of Arrangements for the Fourth of July Ball and Parade is holding its second meeting this evening and, long ago, Momma had pledged her help. Since she is still not herself, she asked that I go in her stead and I could not refuse her.
I wore my school calico and decided to curl the short fringe of hair over my forehead. But I allowed the tongs to get too hot once again, and thus ended up with singed, burnt-smelling bangs. I borrowed Momma’s hat to conceal this and set off for Sally O’Toole’s boardinghouse, where the meeting was taking place. Eleanor was also attending with her mother.
All the ladies offered condolences for Momma’s difficulties, and expressed dreadful sorrow for the loss of my father. I thanked them, for it is impossible to continue to explain that a person is not dead when all the rest of the world attended his funeral and believes he is.
From leftover wallpaper folded accordion style and discarded slats of wood, Eleanor had made two beautiful fans; she presented one of them to me as a gift. I believe they transformed us from schoolgirls into women as we gave languid glances to each other from behind them. This planted an idea about masks we needed for the masquerade ball; I resolved to ask Eleanor about it later.
Mrs. O’Toole got the meeting started right away, the sooner to return to her labors of cooking and cleaning for her boarders. She began by reminding us of the committees: There was the Invitation Committee, the Reception Committee, the Entertainment and Band Committee, the Floor Directors Committee, and the Most Beautiful Costume Committee. Each committee required a volunteer to supervise it and many hands to make the work lighter.
Eleanor gave me a devilish look and whispered, “There should be a Grace Hoop Committee!” A small corner of my mouth smiled at her, because I’d been thinking the same thing: the secret thrill of the game of grace hoop. I’m determined this year to be bold enough to participate, and to join the circle and catch one of the barrel hoops with my two sticks—as long as the boys play fair and do not all throw their hoops at the same time. The reward if you succeed—by sending the hoop back to its sender—is a kiss. I wo
ndered if Antoine Duval would play the game and then I wondered why I wondered that! Behind her fan Eleanor whispered, “Dare you to volunteer!” and I rolled my eyes at her. She knew I would never have the courage to speak at this meeting unless spoken to, much less mention a game for which the prize is a kiss.
So then Eleanor and I conferred seriously and agreed to work on the Invitation Committee. Momma had asked me to volunteer her for the Reception Committee.
As this was being discussed and we all signed our names to duty rosters, Mr. Eli Johl quietly slipped inside, his huge butcher’s hands making the cap he clutched look like it belonged to a boy. He had very little hair on his head but a great deal on his face—big muttonchops, a thick mustache, and huge bushy eyebrows.
I guess most everyone knew him and surely everyone liked him, as Momma and I did. Yet several ladies opened their fans and murmured together behind them. “What is everyone whispering about?” I asked Eleanor.
Eleanor glanced at her mother across the room, serving tea and little cakes, and then she leaned her mouth next to my ear. “His wife, Mrs. Lottie Johl, used to work in one of the brothels on Bonanza Street,” she said very quietly.
I looked at Eleanor and my wide eyes asked to know more. She leaned in and whispered, “Mr. Johl met her there and fell madly in love with her. It’s not that she is so especially beautiful, but she’s graceful like a dancer. And she paints landscapes—when you see one you cannot tell she is not a famous artist. And she can work as hard as a man and wins at any card game. They got married several years ago, and Mrs. Johl became a proper wife, working in the butcher shop with Mr. Johl. But my mother says some of the ladies claim she can never be respectable because of her past life.”
I was thinking about this when Mr. Johl cleared his throat.
“I come to make a contribution.” He peered down at his stained and bloody apron, as if realizing suddenly that he’d forgotten to remove it after closing his shop. “For the parade and the ball,” he continued. Mrs. O’Toole clapped her hands once, excitedly. Mr. Johl gave a slight smile, bowed his head, and went on. “A fine, large pig. I will roast it for the town picnic.”
Mrs. O’Toole said, “Oh, Mr. Johl! Sure this is most generous. Will we be asking a very small sum for each plate of food and donate the proceeds to the school? Miss Williams has been pleading for books and a blackboard. Grateful she’ll be, as we all are.”
In a discreet way for me alone to see, Eleanor turned one of her hands palm up and blew on it, recalling Miss Williams’s enthusiastic use of the paddle. Ellie can behave in the most shocking ways, thus her friendship is delicious like forbidden candy. I stifled a groaning kind of laugh by turning it into a cough. Then Eleanor and I shushed each other, for Mr. Johl was not finished. He produced a worn bill from within the brim of his cap.
“And … this. One hundred dollars in United States currency to hire the Vaudeville Combination from San Francisco,” he said. “Bring them here and let them try to outdo our Horribles.”
We all laughed, recalling town celebrations when the audacious Horribles lampooned the mine superintendents and other prosperous people of the town, including Eli Johl himself. Now that I had found their advertisement on the ground, I nursed a powerful ambition—but not, as Momma and Papa hoped, to become a nurse! It was to apply for the position of playwright, as soon as I finished my Bold Bad Boys. Of course, no one knew who the Horribles were, and one benefit of working among them would be to discover their identities.
As everyone clapped, Eleanor and I turned to each other in wonder. One hundred dollars was a great sum. The Vaudeville Combination advertised in all the newspapers, a famous troupe that provided much merriment with banjo playing, drama, farces, and dances. Our Bodie Fourth of July was going to be more spectacular than ever before.
Mrs. O’Toole said, “Blessings on you, Mr. Johl. It’s a grand donation, isn’t it, that tops all the other contributions combined. Sure you’re an inspiration and a fine example.”
Mr. Johl said, “Ha!” and laughed in a good-natured way and continued, “So: an inspiration? An example?” Then he swept his eyes over the room. I glanced around as well, and saw that many had picked up their knitting or mending, and avoided returning his gaze. He cleared his throat again and rubbed a meaty hand over his bald pate. “There is one favor. Invite my wife, Lottie, to join this committee. She wants … very much … to help. She is a hard worker and will do anything needed.”
Our hostess flushed deeply. “Well, of course—”
“Yes, of course—” Mrs. Ward, the undertaker’s wife, began at the same time.
“—of course Mrs. Johl would be welcome, but there are simply no more slots to fill,” Mrs. Rawbone, the dentist’s wife, interrupted. “Please do not make this difficult, Mr. Johl. You can see for yourself on these rosters that every possible opening has been signed up for by our experienced volunteers.” He took the papers she held out but only glanced at them before thrusting them back at her. He wiped his hands on his apron as if they’d been soiled.
Mrs. Fahey, an assayer’s widow, and Mrs. McPhee, wife of one of the biggest shareholders in the Standard Mine, folded their fans with the sound of two smart slaps. Mrs. Fahey declared, “Kindly allow us to respect our high standards of decorum, modesty, and morality while celebrating our country’s birthday.” And Mrs. McPhee added, “Exactly my sentiments. This is a respectable family event. Perhaps some other occasion would be more appropriate for Mrs. Johl’s participation. After all, there are some things you cannot buy.”
The room filled with the hum of ladies murmuring to each other. I thought several of them looked embarrassed, some sad, others indignant.
Mr. Johl cleared his throat. He coughed and then he got a handkerchief out of his pocket and stood there by the door, blowing his nose. He seemed to go on blowing it for a long time, and none of the ladies looked at him except for a flicker here and there. Something was happening in the room that I didn’t quite understand, but it unsettled me. Without thinking about it, which Momma says is one of my gravest faults, I stood and began to move around the outside of the circle, making my way unobtrusively to Mr. Johl. I came up quietly beside him and patted him on his arm, for he seemed like a great big, very sad, very mad, little boy.
Softly I said, “You have inspired me, Mr. Johl.” The parlor had suddenly gone silent. I knew all were listening to me and the blood rushed to my face. Mr. Johl folded his handkerchief, and I noticed a bit of fancy embroidery: his initials. Did Mrs. Johl have any female friends at all to share her company while doing needlework? I thought how lonesome it would be to do such tasks by oneself. It was Mrs. Johl’s fine, lonely stitches that pricked at my awkwardness and made me continue.
“Surely the Invitation Committee would be pleased to have Mrs. Johl’s guidance and expertise as an artist,” I said. Mr. Johl stared at me in some amazement. Faltering only a little, I finished, “Please tell her that I will call upon her as soon as my mother is better.” I pulled Momma’s hat low over my forehead and tried to conceal myself behind a standing coat rack, as I felt all the eyes in the room fastened intently upon me.
He pulled aside his apron, returned the handkerchief to his pocket, twirled his cap, rocked back on his heels, waiting—it seemed to me—for someone else to say something. No one did. I felt as if I could scarcely breathe. “Miss Angeline Reddy,” he finally said. “My Lottie … my dear Lottie will be glad and thankful to receive you.”
Then Mr. Johl surveyed the room one more time, nodding as if to himself. “So. Now I understand your meaning when you speak of high standards. My fat little pig will be just right for the occasion. Roasted”—he looked straight at Mrs. Rawbone—“with respectability. Basted,” he said to Mrs. Fahey, “with morality. And served”—he caught Mrs. McPhee’s eye—“with modesty. Ladies, I hope you will each enjoy a large portion. Good evening.” He dropped the money on a small table, jammed his cap upon his head, and left us, closing the door with a thump.
Now all
eyes in the room were looking elsewhere than at me. Eleanor had gone to her mother, and the two of them seemed to be discussing something; then Eleanor looked up, clasping one hand tightly in the other. She smiled at me and I guessed she wanted to stand beside me. I smiled back at her and nodded slightly to show that I understood.
But the other ladies reminded me of one day with Papa in the Mercantile General Store at the time he was defending Sam Chung, accused of murder. The customers had turned their backs, murmuring. They shunned Papa as if he had broken some important rule. It made me faint and sick; I wanted to leave the store but Papa had laced my arm through his with no move to go. “Angie,” he had said, “‘Once more unto the breach,’” which I remembered came from Mr. William Shakespeare’s play Henry the Fifth. With those words, King Henry rallied his soldiers to gather their courage.
I wished King Henry or Papa or Mr. Shakespeare were there with me at the Committee for Arrangements meeting because “once more unto the breach” is almighty hard all by oneself. I folded my arms, which would have shocked Momma by its show of defiance—but in truth I was close to humiliating tears. “I shall leave now, too,” I said.
“Wait, Angie,” Sally O’Toole called, beginning to make her way to me. But the other women’s disapproval was like fire, flaming my cheeks and pushing me away.
As I reached for the doorknob Mrs. Rawbone’s voice stopped me. “Angeline,” she said, “please visit with Mrs. Johl if you must, but do remember that the Ball and Parade Committees are formed and organized only at our meetings here. You are not to engage Lottie Johl in our work. Undoubtedly she means well, but we do not need her help.”