Bordello Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  As they waited for their dinners to arrive, she appraised Sam. He looked tired. His skin was slightly sallow, and she noticed dark smudges under his eyes.

  She reached out and took his hand. “You doing okay?” she asked softly.

  He threaded his fingers between hers. “Just tired.”

  “One more day,” she said.

  He nodded. “I would like to drive up to Tuba City on Friday, since we’re so close. See Gabe and Roxanne, and Grampa.”

  “Of course,” she agreed immediately. “It’ll be good to see everyone.”

  “Yeah.” He let out a long sigh of relief. “We can just relax for a couple days.”

  She nodded, and sincerely hoped that would be the tonic he needed to bounce back from this drain on his soul.

  ~~~

  TWELVE

  By morning, her concerns rose dramatically. Sam had had a much less than restful sleep, tossing and turning, alternately hot and cold, and his cough had worsened. When they got up and she got a good look at him, alarm bells went off.

  “Sam,” she said, “you’re really sick.” She put a hand to his forehead. He was warm, but not hot. “Are you sure you want to do this today? You look like hell.”

  He smiled grimly. “Such sweet words of love,” he joked. “Yes, I’m sure. We need to finish. Then we can go.”

  “All right,” she said, “but how about we drive to Tuba this afternoon, as soon as we’re done? We don’t need to wait until tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “Good idea. I’ll call Gabe and let him know.”

  It was slight comfort to her that they would be putting distance between themselves and Jerome sooner rather than later. Over breakfast, Sam coughed repeatedly, hardly touched his food, and still looked tired. After breakfast, they returned to their room and packed hurriedly, loaded the car and checked out.

  Lacey gripped the wheel as she drove. Some clouds had drifted in overnight, and had huddled atop Mingus Mountain above Jerome. There was a chill to the air, no doubt the result of the extra moisture. She glanced upward, wondering if it might rain.

  Sam shoved his hands in his peacoat pockets, even with the heater on.

  They arrived in Jerome at 9:30, and Lacey parked in front of the archives. It was up closer to the Grand Hotel, but she figured a few minutes of proximity would be easier on Sam than the boatload of stairs up from Main Street. She was about to switch off the car, but thought better of it.

  “I’ll leave the heater on for you,” she said, reaching into the back seat for Zane’s book.

  “No. I’ll go with you.”

  She looked over. “Are you sure? It’ll just take a minute.”

  But he was already opening his door and sliding out.

  Blowing out a breath, Lacey shut the car off and followed.

  There was no one inside the archives. They crossed to the counter, their shoes tapping on the floor in the stillness. Just as they reached it, Zane emerged from the side office.

  “Hello,” he said, his welcoming smile taking in both of them.

  “Good morning,” Lacey said. She laid the book on the counter. “Zane, this is Sam Firecloud. Sam, Zane Dick.”

  The men shook hands over the counter. “Nice to meet you,” Sam said. “That book was very helpful.”

  “Oh, good,” Zane said. “I’m glad I could help.” He slid the book his way. “So have you already… done your thing?”

  Lacey shook her head. “We’re meeting Lorraine at ten.”

  Zane stood hesitantly, as if not sure if he wanted to go put the book away or stay at the counter. Finally he grinned sheepishly. “I was wondering…”

  Lacey laughed. “You want to come?”

  Zane’s eyes lit up and he glanced hopefully at Sam. “Could I? If not, I understand.”

  “Sure.” Sam shrugged. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with Lorraine.”

  Zane’s brow creased. “Do you think…?”

  “I don’t see any reason why she’d mind,” Lacey said. She glanced toward the open door of the side office. “Can you leave?”

  Zane slid the book down to a shelf behind the counter and called through the door. “Doris, I’m taking a break. Be back in a bit.”

  “Okay.” The muted female voice drifted from the interior.

  Zane came around the counter, anticipation bright in his eyes.

  “We’re parked out front,” Lacey said as they exited the building.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Zane said.

  True to his word, by the time Lacey drove around the block and parked in front of the Crystal Slipper, he was already there with Lorraine. She unlocked the front door and Zane waved them in, obviously cleared to attend.

  They assembled in the break room. Sam pulled two smudge sticks from his pocket, along with his lighter.

  “Which one first?” Lacey asked, trying to gauge his strength.

  “Cookie first,” he said. “Then, Lorraine, if you don’t mind, we can warm up here before we go up to Shorty?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll set a pot of coffee going right now so it’ll be ready for us.”

  Sam nodded, his jaw tight. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They trooped back outside. Sam flicked his lighter and put it to the smudge stick while Lacey prepared her phone to video.

  “Ready?” he asked. She nodded.

  He shoved the lighter into his pocket and raised the smudge stick, approaching the outside corner of the building.

  “Kat Brooks,” he began. “Cookie Brooks. We know who you are. We know the name you chose. We know the life you chose.”

  He moved his arm slowly, allowing the smoke to paint the side of the building.

  “There’s no shame in it. It was one of a few ways women in your time could be independent. It took guts, and strength, and courage.”

  He leaned down and waved the smoke across the ground—the ground where Cookie died.

  “Your only transgression was lying, breaking your contract with McKinney, taking more money than agreed. You tried to game the system, and you got caught. You gambled… and you lost.”

  He stood tall again, the smudge stick held high. Lacey noticed the sluggish way the smoke rose, almost as if the brooding sky were weighing it down.

  “Cookie Brooks,” Sam continued. “You paid the price for your dishonesty. You paid the price for your obstinance. You’ve raged here against the consequences of your actions for over a hundred years. It’s time to let go. It’s time to leave this frozen tomb behind you and go on to the next plane.”

  Sam turned slowly, dragging the heavy blue smoke into a lazy circle around him. “Cookie Brooks, your stubbornness only hurts you. It imprisons you. Take the lessons you’ve learned into your next life. Take your strength, your courage, your independence, and create a new life, a better life, a happier life. Leave the past behind, Cookie Brooks. Go forward into the future.”

  For a moment, Sam stood very still, only the smoke moving as it dipped and whirled, rose and drifted. Lacey watched on the screen of her phone, noticing the heavy, lazy way the smoke lay on almost dead air. She was just about to click off the camera when a sudden gust of wind struck the smudge stick, and every ember flared to life. The smoke bounced around in the turbulence for a heartbeat, then coalesced into a well-defined column and pushed straight up into the air.

  It dissipated long before it reached the clouds.

  Sam bent down and stubbed the sage bundle out on the sidewalk.

  “She’s gone,” he said quietly.

  Only then did Lacey hear the chatter in his voice, see the chill that shook his hands and body. She slid her phone into the pocket of her jacket and took his arm.

  “Inside,” she told the others.

  While Lacey dragged Sam to the break room and pushed him down into a chair, Lorraine poured a cup of coffee and set it before him. Then she poured cups for the rest, and they all took seats at the table.

  Sam gripped his cup with both hands and raised it carefully t
o his lips.

  Zane’s wide eyes reflected his amazement at what he had witnessed—was witnessing.

  “That was the one that froze to death,” Lacey told him. “Every time Sam has connected with her, he’s felt that awful cold.”

  Zane nodded, still absorbing all that he’d seen. “But… that worked? That got her to leave?”

  “Yes,” Lacey said. “It’s weird when they leave. Sometimes there’s no outward sign at all, but usually you can feel it. It just feels… different.”

  Zane looked to Lorraine for some kind of validation and she nodded. “He cleared the one in the back yesterday. The room just felt… lighter. More open.” She shrugged. “It is hard to explain.”

  “That’s amazing,” Zane said. “I mean, we have all these ghost tours in town, and people say they see things, hear things, but this…” He shook his head. “This is the real deal.”

  “It’s all real,” Sam said, speaking up for the first time. “There are so many ghosts around here, it’s not even funny. I’m sure most of the ghost tours are as authentic as they can be, but even an uncredentialed one could still ‘scare up’ results for their customers.” He smiled grimly at the pun.

  Zane was thoughtful, sipping his coffee. “I guess I just kind of took it all for a joke,” he said finally. He met Sam’s eyes. “Not anymore.”

  “It’s pretty easy to dismiss if you haven’t been personally touched by it,” Sam allowed.

  “I certainly never thought I’d be in this situation,” Lorraine said.

  Lacey let the conversation drift without her, concentrating on Sam. She was relieved to hear his voice had its normal timbre, not the chattering quality it had held outside. His hands on the mug were steady, although he continued to press his palms around the curvature of the cup to get the maximum warmth. His color looked a little better, too.

  “So now we just have one more to go,” Lorraine was saying.

  “And this one is…?” Zane asked his question to any or all of the three others.

  “Shorty Stewart,” Lacey said. “Mrs. Ethan Stewart, shot in the forehead by her husband.”

  “Husband?” Zane echoed.

  “That was our reaction, too,” Lacey said. “We just assumed all the women were single.”

  “How did you find out?” Lorraine asked.

  “Well, it started with Zane, here,” Lacey said with a smile. She told Lorraine about the book Zane had loaned them, leading to the author, Francine Sawyer, which led to Dewey Huffman. “Thank God the man had a good memory.”

  “I think I remember him,” Lorraine said. “Used to live out on the west side, if I remember correctly.”

  “I think you’re right,” Zane said. He turned to Lacey. “Kind of tall and thin? Up there in years?”

  “Eighty years old,” Lacey affirmed. “Very thin, wears glasses. Nice man.”

  Zane nodded. “I believe he donated a few things to the Jerome Historical Society over the years. If I remember correctly, a couple of those are in the museum.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Lacey said, “since he’s at least the third generation from Jerome. A walking history book.”

  “We’re lucky to have people like that,” Zane agreed. “Without them, so much of our history would be lost.”

  “Well, he certainly came through for us,” Lacey said. “Without his help, we might not have gotten what we needed to help Lorraine.”

  Sam chose that moment to push his empty coffee cup away. “Speaking of which,” he said, glancing around, “why don’t we finish up?”

  Lacey might have wished for a bit more recovery time, but trusted his instincts. “Any time,” she said.

  He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  ~~~

  THIRTEEN

  The four of them trooped up the stairs. Sam led the way to the back corner and stopped to light his second smudge stick.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Zane said quietly, “what does that do?”

  Sam didn’t answer right away, focusing on the fire as it grabbed onto the dry plant material. One by one, the fibers took on the flame, glowed and turned to embers. Thin wisps of smoke spiraled up.

  “It cleanses, purifies,” Sam said. “Some say any negative emotions or evil spirits are swept away by the smoke. It neutralizes the air; restores balance.”

  “And it smells good,” Lorraine added with a laugh.

  Sam smiled. “Yes, it does.” The bundle of sage was burning robustly now, the smoke thickening. Sam clicked off the lighter and blew out the small tongues of flame, leaving only the smoking embers. He glanced at Lacey.

  “Ready,” she said to the unasked question.

  Sam turned to the wall and scanned the corner. Holding his arm out in front of him, he waved the smudge stick from one side to the other, painting the air in a space about ten feet square.

  “Julianne Stewart,” he said to the empty air. “Shorty Stewart. We know your names. We know who you are. And we know your story.”

  He stepped forward, closer to the side wall. “You left the life that had been prescribed for you: the husband, the children, the farm. The life that you never wanted; the life that was chosen for you. We know you escaped here, to Jerome. To this life: free, unfettered, independent.”

  He wafted the smoke over a narrow area and Lacey wondered if that were the spot where Shorty had died. At least, she thought, being shot in the forehead, the woman’s death would have been instantaneous.

  “You were constrained by the times you lived in,” Sam continued. “Your choices were limited—even non-existent. To your credit, you tried the way you thought you should go, but it wasn’t a good fit. So you broke free.”

  Sam trailed the smoke into the corner, across the short section of back wall, then stood in the center. “And you paid the price for freedom. You bucked the system, swam against the tide, and paid for it with your life.” He paused. “I have a strong sense that the price was worth the freedom you found. Even for only a short while.”

  He raised the smudge stick up toward the ceiling.

  “Now is the time to experience true freedom. Let go of these earthly bonds. Let go of the anger, the pain, the resentment. Let go and be free; fly to the stars. And the next time you face choices, choose for you. Choose first and foremost for you.”

  Lacey watched the smoke on her small screen, looking for a telltale breeze, a brief turbulence that might herald Shorty’s departure. Instead she heard a heavy exhale from Sam, saw him lower his arms and turn towards her.

  “She’s gone,” he said. “She’s free.”

  They proceeded silently down the stairs, not unlike a small funeral procession, Lacey thought. They made their way back to the break room and Lorraine found an ashtray where Sam could snuff out the sage. She poured fresh coffee all around.

  “That was wonderful,” Zane said finally. “When Lacey first told me you were here to clear out the ghosts, I expected some sort of… exorcism. A banishment. Not this. This was so… gentle. Nurturing.” He shook his head. “I had no idea.”

  Lorraine agreed. “After all this”—and she waved a hand toward the larger space out the door—“the cleansing, the purifying, I’m thinking I may just take the place off the market and start up my store again. I love this old building. And now I feel like it’s more special than ever.”

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Lacey said. “Sam has a small studio in LA where he makes and sells pottery. There’s a definite sense of satisfaction in creating something—or in your case, bringing things in from outside—and offering them to others to share.” She smiled. “I’ll just bet your store will do really well now.”

  “Pottery?” Zane asked, looking at Sam. “Have you been to Handmade Pottery?”

  Sam shook his head. “What’s that?”

  “A pottery shop. Well, they have other things there, too, but mostly pottery. All made right here in Jerome.”

  “Where is it?” Lacey asked. If it was anywhere near the Grand Hotel�
��

  Zane smiled. “About a half a block up on the other side of the street.”

  ~~~

  FOURTEEN

  They said their goodbyes in front of the Crystal Slipper. Lorraine had given them heartfelt hugs and a check; Zane had shaken their hands with a new appreciation of things beyond his ken and for his town’s history.

  “I’m going to talk to the Board about maybe doing a special exhibit to showcase some of these stories,” he said. “The town’s history belongs to these women as much as the miners and settlers.”

  “Let us know how it goes,” Sam said.

  “Maybe you’ll come back?” Zane asked hopefully.

  Sam smiled crookedly. “Probably not.”

  Lacey had noticed his energy level flagging, the shadows under his eyes deepening. He tried to assuage the rawness in his throat by clearing it, but still coughed frequently.

  As the two of them turned toward the Handmade Pottery store, Lacey took his arm.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to leave now?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Ten minutes won’t kill me.”

  Promise? she thought.

  Zane was right; the pottery shop was literally six or seven buildings away, just across the street. The wooden sign hung above the sidewalk and welcomed them in.

  Lacey was immediately entranced. Pottery of all shapes and sizes filled shelves and display tables. Large, exquisite horsehair pottery dominated one area, while another display offered stylized horses or rabbits in varying colors. Some bowls had a delicate dragonfly motif that Lacey found particularly appealing.

  Above the shelves were paintings and prints, and figurines and inlaid wooden boxes were scattered among the pottery. Designs of nature and geometry mixed in a pleasing contrast.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?” A petite middle-aged woman with long, loose hair smiled at them. She wore a floor-length dress with a denim jacket over it.

  “These are wonderful,” Lacey said of the dragonflies. “Do you make these?”