by Susan Patron
My head must have disturbed a cobweb near the shed door. I brushed at it and just then a question came to me, like a spider that had been waiting there in hiding. “Ellie, how did you find out about this? How did you know to look inside the old box, and to dig under all the other things, and to pull back the layer of cotton?”
“You already know, Angie, don’t you?” Her blue eyes burned through the dust-filled light from outside. “It was the ghost child. She led me here.”
Sunday, July 4, 1880
Dear Diary,
Since today is Sunday, we Bodieites will celebrate our country’s birthday tomorrow with many festivities including the Grand Fourth of July Ball. To get Eleanor away from the disturbing sadnesses in her house, I invited her to spend this afternoon with Momma and me. We aired our dresses and cleaned our shoes. We washed our hair and sat luxuriously in the sun until it dried. Momma discovered three gray hairs and rubbed into her roots a wash made of three drams of pure glycerin and four ounces of limewater. She said this helps prevent more gray hairs, which are an indication that the hair-producing organs are weakening. We teased her good-naturedly, as she looks young enough to be my sister and is often mistaken for such.
I pray that the ball will be festive. Just for that one day and night, I hope we will celebrate and dance with light hearts, leaving our many cares and worries out in the dusty street.
Tuesday, July 6, 1880
Dear Diary,
Yesterday’s grand ball to celebrate Independence Day included startling surprises and revelations, a mystery solved, a standoff, an unmasking, an election, and almighty heroism. It will never be forgotten by any of us, for as long as we live, and this is not a schoolgirl exaggeration.
The Miners’ Union Hall was patriotically decorated and crammed with us Bodieites as well as visitors from all over. It was smoky, stinky, loud, crowded, rowdy, hot, and magnificent. Ellie and I were having the most thrilling night of our lives!
We smiled when the widow Babcockry, resplendent in black mourning satin and trailed by many suitors, stopped to admire us. She said, “Oh, my heavens, you are the sun and the moon! How clever!” I wore a silver-gray dress with my white mask; Eleanor was in golden yellow, with a matching purse made from the same fabric. We fancied that I was mysterious, beguiling, and enchanting. She was aglow, brilliant, and fiery. We’d embroidered moons on my bodice and suns on hers, using silver and gold silk thread.
Like all the women, Momma and Eleanor and I were in great demand as dance partners—not for any special talent but because there are ten males to every female in Bodie. The Horribles, disguised as devils and demons in red vests and horned masks, were the most persistent suitors. We danced for hours with an endless number of men, some in costume, some not—young, old, light-on-their-feet, and toe-stompers.
One dress stood out from all others and provoked a lively round of betting among the men—who also lined up to dance with her—as to the identity of its graceful wearer. It was a splendor of deep green silks, with ribbons all tiered and layered, showing a tiny waist and curves, yet not vulgar. Everyone watched when she danced, for the dress floated about her as if it were made from fragile dragonfly wings rather than fabric. The matching green silk mask, the sumptuous wig, the fine kid gloves, all indicated a woman of breeding and wealth. I will for the rest of my life desire to possess a dress exactly like that one, for I’m sure it would give me a magical, mysterious beauty that I otherwise completely lack.
It was no surprise, then, at midnight, when the Most Beautiful Costume Committee (none other than Mrs. Fahey, Mrs. McPhee, and Mrs. Rawbone) announced the winner of the blue ribbon. The lady’s green silk shimmered as she curtsied; the room exploded with applause and shouts of “Who are you? Off with the mask!”
I heard a loud “Ha!” at the back of the room. I guessed who it was, even before he bounded to the platform and triumphantly removed his own and his wife’s masks. The room erupted with cheers and whistles. Hats flew in the air.
Eli and Lottie Johl had been gone for nearly a week, and no one, it seems, had supposed they would return for the ball.
Meanwhile, I watched as the Most Beautiful Costume Committee conferred in a matronly little circle. Eleanor leaned in to whisper, “Angie, you don’t think they’ll change their minds, do you?” Her blue eyes threw sparks from behind her sun mask. I nodded. Yes, I was sure they would. Suddenly Momma appeared beside us with Mrs. O’Toole.
“They are not taking back that winning ribbon!” Sally O’Toole declared, shaking her head. Feathers from her mask and headdress became unglued and floated around us.
Momma agreed. “Just let them try!” she said.
Like me, Momma was wearing her best outfit. Hers was honey-colored linen to which we’d added delicate lace bands at the wrists and throat. Her mask, borrowed from Mrs. Babcockry, was rimmed in tiny pearls. Pink had returned to her cheeks, and except for the sad, missing-Papa look in her eyes, Momma was beautiful. I felt a thrill of pride when she and Sally O’Toole, arms linked and feathers wafting, marched over to stand with the Johls.
It was then that Mrs. Johl said she had an announcement. The room grew still, the musicians resting their instruments. Mrs. Johl said, “I danced with every man and boy in this room tonight and I have the sore toes to prove it.” We all laughed. In a gesture both natural and scandalous, both graceful and awkward, she raised one foot and massaged the toe of her elegant green silk shoe. The room watched, got a glimpse of her slim, silk-encased ankle, and sighed. My own toes ached in sympathy, but she was smiling and so was I. She steadied herself with a hand on her husband’s arm. “Anyway, I danced with the three men who robbed us. I can identify them even though they were wearing masks during the robbery.”
That brought a wave of murmurs. Eleanor and I stood on tiptoe and peered around fancy coiffures.
“Where’s the sheriff?” someone shouted.
Another man answered, “Outside having a snort. He took off the badge again tonight.”
“But I’m wearing it now,” a loud, insistent voice called out. We all heard the distinctive tapping of the sheriff’s nail-studded boots, like hammers pounding tin, as he made his way across the room. “Far as that one dancing with the highwaymen, it ain’t possible. I arrested the mastermind of that robbery, Antoine Duval, this morning. He’s in jail.”
I felt such shock and confusion that at first I didn’t notice when someone from the midst of a cluster of Horribles strode forward. He said conversationally, “Point of fact—Duval is not in jail. He’s out on bail. I’m representing him as his lawyer.”
He was wearing a serge suit, a red brocade vest, and a narrow black necktie. The legs of his trousers were tucked into polished black boots. The horns of his red mask curled inward. I recognized his faint, ironic smile, though not the waxed mustache and clean-shaven chin.
And even before I noticed his left sleeve, which was tucked into his belt, even before he whipped off his mask, I realized it was Papa.
Since I knew he hadn’t been dead I wasn’t too shocked, but some of the crowd like to die themselves at the sight of him, who they thought had been buried for some time now. They gasped as if from one huge throat, and a couple of women fainted and had to be caught before they dropped to the floor. Someone called, “Hey, it’s Patrick Reddy, who got murdered a few weeks back! He’s never missed a Bodie ball yet!”
I glanced at Momma, still standing with Mrs. O’Toole near the Johls. She grinned, acknowledging Papa’s love of dramatic entrances; she didn’t seem the least surprised to see him.
“Now, Mrs. Johl,” Papa said smoothly, as if he were in court. “I’m sure we’d all like to know the identity of the actual robbers. Was this man one of them?” Papa gestured toward another devil-dressed Horrible, who was tall and lanky, with black hair curling at his neck and a spiked red tail. He removed his mask and faced Mrs. Johl. It was Antoine Duval.
Sheriff Pioche Kelley drew a large pistol and trained it on Papa. Everyone except Antoine mo
ved back and away from the sheriff’s line of fire.
Sheriff Kelley said, “You shoulda stayed dead, Reddy. This town was finally settling down, without you poking your nose into everything. Going behind my back to the judge in Bridgeport with his bail money. Givin’ all the cutthroats and vermin free legal help. Hangin’ around the jail to spy on me and Constable Kirgan.” I began to understand why Papa had pretended to be dead. It gave everyone a chance to see how the sheriff would run things if no one stopped him. He rubbed a thumb across his badge, as if to polish it, and then continued telling Papa off.
“You been here five minutes and already ruined this ball. I want you out—out of here and out of Bodie. You got twenty-four hours, you and your family, to leave. Fair warning.”
Papa laughed. Behind him, one of the Horribles performed a little pantomime. The gigantic tin sheriff’s badge I’d seen before suddenly appeared on his chest. He puffed himself up and made his hands into guns, like kids do, “shooting” wildly. He “tripped” and turned a somersault, to wild applause.
The sheriff, however, was not amused. Papa remained silent, waiting for what the man would say next.
“This ain’t no courtroom. You can’t conduct no legal matters in the Miners’ Union Hall.” The sheriff didn’t have a big voice like Papa, but one he had to push at you like a punch.
Papa replied in a mild way, “That’s like saying you can only pray in church.”
The sheriff looked like he was trying to figure that out. Several people around me laughed, which seemed to infuriate him. “I’m taking my prisoner back to jail,” he announced. “I ain’t seen no papers on him and it’s plain he escaped. He figured I’m about to arrest his cohorts in the Johl robbery. The three of them loose”—the sheriff shook his head at the thought of this imminent danger—“means decent citizens could get murdered in their beds, children kidnapped, horses stolen, and every saloon in Bodie robbed.”
“You forgot to mention tracking dirt in on the rug,” Antoine Duval said in his growly-bear way.
When the laughter died down a bit, Mr. Ward waved an arm in the air. He was dressed as an undertaker and wore no mask, a costume that must be admired for its simplicity if not imagination. “Tracking in dirt, yes,” he said, staring hard at the sheriff. “Dirt.” He let the word hang there a moment. “But escaping?” He shook his mournful head.
“Such logic escapes me,” Antoine agreed. “No sense to it, nor dollars, either.”
Mr. Ward added, “I say let Mrs. Johl tell her story, and let us get back to our ball.”
The sheriff ignored Mr. Ward, threw Antoine a threatening look, and motioned with his pistol. “Get back, Reddy. I don’t want to have to shoot you ’cause you’re interferin’ with the duties of a sworn officer.”
Papa did not move aside as ordered. Just then a girl I took to be one of the Higgins sisters darted in front of the crowd, skipped past the sheriff, and, with her back to him, curtsied before Antoine. “Won’t you please dance with me, Mr. Antoine?” she asked sweetly.
Everyone laughed nervously. With the whiskey-reeking sheriff waving his pistol and shouting threats, I decided she must be either very brave or very foolish. Mr. Duval bowed, kissed her forehead, and said, “Chérie, there’s not a thing I’d love better. Why don’t you go ask the fiddler to play us a waltz?” As she flounced off toward the musicians, I admired her light blue satin dress with its little apron and matching mask. Her hair had been done up in a chignon and was covered with a blue tulle net, and I could not tell which sister it was.
By custom and agreement, none of the men had brought their firearms to the ball (except, of course, the sheriff) but suddenly Antoine’s outstretched hand held a tiny handgun. He pointed it at the sheriff. The derringer was all but swallowed by his hand, yet his intention was clear.
Sheriff Kelley swore violently and then said, “Put the derringer down, Duval.”
“Certainly,” Antoine answered. “Right after I lodge its bullet in your miserable excuse for a heart.”
I am sure, dear diary, that no one there doubted he would do it, or that he could.
I watched as a man with shoulder-length straw-colored hair and a big porous nose made his way through the crowd. He jammed a Stetson onto the back of his head and elbowed his way toward the door.
Papa looked up. “Oh, Constable Kirgan, would you mind waiting just a moment or two? Gentlemen, would you secure the door, please?” Several “demons”—big ones—formed a human barrier in front of the door and a wedge around the constable.
Mr. Kirgan locked eyes with Papa. His voice was tense and hard. “I need to get to the jail right now, Reddy.”
“Ah, another escapee requiring your presence this time?”
Everyone laughed, and Mr. Ward said, “Stick around a while, Constable. It is we who require your presence.”
A piercing scream interrupted this stalemate. It was the girl in the blue dress, now with her arms being twisted behind her back by Con Williams, who wore no mask. “She snuck him the gun!” he shouted. “I saw it—she had it under her apron!” He pulled the silk cord of her mask, which fell off to reveal not the Higgins sister I’d expected, but Ling Loi.
Con Williams spat on the floor. (This man poses a challenge to my faithful recording of events, as his speech is littered with the most appalling language. I shall indicate the intent of his words, dear diary, rather than the words themselves.) He said, “What the (foul-mouthed noun) is this (rude adjective) China girl doing at the ball? Who let her in?” Tears came to my eyes. I felt so many things: joy at seeing her again, exasperation at her foolhardy actions, fury at Con, and swooning admiration for her courage. Eleanor grabbed my arm as I started forward, saying, “Angie! Don’t become another target! It won’t help your father or Antoine if you do that!” Of course she was right.
Con Williams shouted, “Drop the derringer or I’ll (uncouth adverb) break both her arms, Duval.”
Someone in the crowd roared, “Take it outside! Leave the women and children out of it!”
And then came the earsplitting voice of Miss Williams: “Con! You let that child go, right now! You are behaving disgracefully and shamefully!” Miss Williams, costumed as a nun from the Middle Ages with an elaborate starched wimple, began to advance on her brother and I almost felt sorry for him. I knew that after his sister got done with him he would regret playing the big brave vigilante who savaged little girls.
I glanced at Momma, still standing by the Johls. Though the situation was horribly tense, she looked almost serene; she had every confidence that Papa would handle it. I, myself, was desperate with worry. The sheriff and the constable were angry and shamed and desperate, and whatever their plan was, if they had a plan, it was not going well.
“Now,” the sheriff said, striding quickly behind Momma so that she was between him and Antoine, “the next thing that happens concerns Mrs. Reddy”—he swung his pistol so that it pointed at Momma—“one minute she’s a widow, the next minute she’s not a widow, and the next minute her husband’s a widower. I mean it, Reddy—and you, too, Duval—drop the derringer or I’ll shoot her.” But his hands were shaking and his voice was strangled.
“I’m unarmed,” Papa said, walking deliberately to the sheriff’s side, “as well as one-armed. Not exactly an army.” But the sheriff wasn’t distracted by my father’s little joke. He cocked, pointed, and was pulling the trigger to kill Momma, when Papa reached out and thrust his one and only thumb between the hammer and cartridge, which prevented the gun from going off. He wrenched it out of the sheriff’s grasp and kicked him between the legs. The officer doubled over and fell, groaning, to the floor.
Momma flew to Papa, grabbed his face, and kissed him full on the mouth. She quickly bandaged his bleeding thumb with a handkerchief and then kissed him again, as if the whole town of Bodie weren’t watching—and clapping! How glad I was for my mask!
After a moment, Papa waved his hand above his head, Momma’s handkerchief like a delicate white flag, and th
e clapping died down. He said, “Looks like Bodie’s arm of the law suffered a setback today.”
The Chairman of the Ball, Herbert McPhee, pounded the floor with his gold-handled cane. “All right, Reddy,” he said in a commanding voice. “Enough theatrics. I’ll see these men get thrown out and we’ll discuss it later. Let’s resume the ball with some civility.”
Thrown out! The sheriff had almost killed Momma! I glared at Mr. McPhee’s soft face and opaque eyes.
But Papa wasn’t finished. “Certainly,” he said, “but before we do, there are a couple more legal matters that need settling. They concern you personally, McPhee. The unsolved crime of the Johl robbery.” He turned to me. “My daughter has something that may help us solve it. Angel, please give me the envelope I asked you to bring.”
I went to Papa and drew the envelope from my purse, the one marked “601” and sealed with wax.
“601,” Papa said, holding it up to display the boldly written numbers. “The secret group of citizens that is trying to run this town. I was told that this is a list of names. I have not broken the seal so I don’t know who is included.”
Eleanor’s father, Mr. Tucker, spoke up. He had been standing quietly with Mr. McPhee and a few other of the town’s most wealthy men. He said, “Anyone can write names on a piece of paper. Doesn’t prove anything.”
Papa smiled. “I’ve been assured that this list contains signatures of the members. In their own handwriting.” The envelope seemed to cause considerable agitation in the room. Several men took a nip from their pocket flasks. Many of the wives cast worried glances at their husbands.
Someone in the crowd shouted, “Let’s get on with it! Where did you get that envelope, Reddy?”
“It was given to me for safekeeping,” Papa said, “by a friend of someone very close to one of the signers. This person is not proud of what the vigilantes have done and what they intend to do.”