Prospects of a Woman

by Wendy Voorsanger

  “I have its power now,” he said.

  Gripping the dead bird in his fist, he stumbled back down next to Álvaro lying lifeless. She shook with silence, stunned and spent by the bloody mess of killing and death raining down upon them. A group of men walking up the trail found them: dead Álvaro, Nemacio kneeling beside, still holding the bird by its wrung neck, Elisabeth keeping guard over Tom, and the baby bear curled up by its dead mama. The men hollered, and the menacing birds flew up in a whoosh of wings to circle overhead. Someone roped the baby bear and dragged it off by its neck, howling. Another man gave Nemacio an old blanket to wrap up dead Álvaro. Nemacio carried him over his shoulder the rest of the way to Coyoteville, while he dragged the bird by the neck, its talons carving grooves into the dirt its talons carving grooves in the dirt. When someone offered to help lighten his load, he kicked and shouted.

  “No!”

  She had the sense to grab their sack of gold that had rolled under a bush, slinging it and Álvaro’s cracked guitar over her shoulder. She picked up her Hawken and satchel, struggling the rest of the way into town under the heavy load. Several men offered to help, and she let them carry her satchel and the guitar, but she held on tight to the sack of gold with that big nugget inside.

  As they walked into the streets of Coyoteville Nemacio searched for a priest, cradling dead Álvaro over his shoulder, his head hanging limp down Nemacio’s back, blood leaking through the blanket, staining it wet. In a stupor, she followed him into the El Dorado, where he placed dead Álvaro out on a table and yelled out for someone to find el padre. He flung the huge bird on the oak floor with a thud, and all the men hushed. He drank, and Luenza came over and hugged Elisabeth, saying something sad and somber she couldn’t hear. Luenza placed food in front of them, but she didn’t eat, just suffered empty. She couldn’t believe that lump on the table wrapped up tight was Álvaro, dead. She couldn’t believe his days of playing guitar and singing and laughing and joking and digging alongside them were done. Done so quickly, and with such savagery.

  Nemacio cut his meat deliberate and graceful, even now with his hands still smeared with Álvaro’s blood gone dry. He downed shot after shot of whiskey; someone kept filling up his glass. Descending into a stupor, he struggled to maintain decorum, pausing to wipe his lips clean with a napkin, then calling out again impatient and slurring for el padre who wasn’t there. She couldn’t see what difference it made: el padre or a reverend. No religion would help Álvaro now, his luck run out after finding such a fortune. She pinched her face, hoping it was all a dream, some sick nightmare, with her mind playing tricks. The pinch hurt. It was real.

  They were a strange pair, the Californio and Mrs. Parker, sitting in Luenza’s El Dorado Hotel now fancied up far beyond that clump of tents she’d started with the previous summer. Elisabeth’s smelly clothes were worn to tatters, and out of place in the real wooden building with two stories and windows and crimson velvet drapes and flowered wallpaper, and a long oak bar with a gilded mirror and paintings of nude women hanging on either side. But the diggers didn’t give a hoot about her appearance, gathering around, buying more shots for Nemacio to honor dead Álvaro and drinking along in sympathy. The piano man played something sweet as word spread around about the bear mauling. Many of the men had played monte with Álvaro, and now they toasted his considerable skills, his generosity and humor. Nemacio didn’t console Elisabeth over what happened but kept drinking and slipping farther away from her, mumbling to himself in both Spanish and English, and yelling out like a lunatic for el padre.

  “Dónde está el padre?” he asked, slamming his fist down on the table. “Damn it! Get me the priest!”

  Someone came to fill Nemacio’s glass again; it was Luenza’s youngest, Tyler. Elisabeth stole the drink, gulping it down. When Nemacio didn’t notice, she did it again, not minding the taste of whiskey one bit. Little Tyler brought her a glass of her own and kept filling it while he held her hand, and she drank until she became light itself, gazing at the windows sparkling with light streaming inside as the sun sank and the dust fairies started dancing in a radiant stream, glowing all around. Her mother had told her about those dust fairies, the little people, sometimes visible in afternoon light. If you looked real close, she said, they came out to say hello and bring luck. She’d believed the story when she was young, and wanted to still. Perhaps Álvaro danced among the fairies now. She reached out, grabbing at the light stream. Eluding her grasp, the fairies disappeared through her fingertips as Tyler poured again and she drank, wanting to soar with the fairies light and carefree into another world. As darkness loomed, the fairies disappeared, leaving her alone and bereft.

  When el padre finally came, Nemacio slung dead Álvaro over his shoulder and stumbled toward the door.

  “Vámanos, Elisabeth. El cóndor,” he said, pointing.

  She stood, swaying slightly, looking into the unseen spaces of the room. She picked up the dead bird and Álvaro’s mangled guitar, and concentrated on walking straight toward the door. Outside, the cool air filled her nose, reviving her a bit, but she was drunk, and the wrung bird felt much heavier than she’d expected, maybe thirty pounds or more. She followed him to the graveyard on a little hill behind the town, dragging the bird behind her while the motley group of men from the El Dorado followed as a drunken death procession, with torches gleaming through the night.

  A shallow hole waited for dead Álvaro. Nemacio leaned down and placed his friend in the dirt, tucking the bloody blanket around him tighter, as if that’d keep him extra warm underground for eternity. El padre wasn’t a Californio, rather Father John Shannon of the new Catholic church being built on the hill. Elisabeth couldn’t understand his Irish brogue, but it made little difference. All manner of God’s grace had escaped her, like river sand slipping through her rough fingers. She’d as likely look to the California sun for comfort, which had made her far happier in recent days than God. Or the river, where she’d known real love for the first time.

  Nemacio knelt alongside the hole, pushing the dirt over dead Álvaro with his bare hands for long while. When the men tried to help with shovels, he swatted them away. Elisabeth looked up at the little white stars above, flowing and blurring together in the darkness, making her dizzy, as Nemacio patted around the mound. He took the bird from Elisabeth, who hadn’t realized she still held it. When Father Shannon started to pray over dead Álvaro, Nemacio staggered away, like he’d forgotten about his urgent desire for a proper burial. She didn’t understand why he left and ran to catch up, wanting to share their sorrow. She followed him toward a fire ring tended by miners down at Coyote Creek, where he skinned the bird whole without plucking it, and threw its bloody carcass crackling onto the fire and stuffed the skin and the feathers and that nasty beak into the sack with the gold. She followed him to the livery after, where he bought a donkey and gave a man directions down to the Goodwin Claim.

  “Bring Nate Parker up to town, and I’ll pay the rest. I’m at the El Dorado.”

  He seemed slightly sober now compared to her wobbling.

  “I don’t want him up here. He’s not my husband,” she mumbled.

  Nemacio didn’t regard her comment, just plodded back to the El Dorado, and up the stairs. She followed him toward a door at the end of a long hall. He opened it.

  “We’ll settle up the shares later,” he said.

  She threw her arms around his neck, but he didn’t move. She pressed up against him, but he didn’t hug her back, leaving his arms by his side.

  “Come inside,” she whispered heavy, not letting go. “I want more loving. I need it.”

  “One night is not enough,” he said, standing still.

  “Then stay. You can have me, for always.”

  He peeled her hands off his neck like she was a child and took a step back, away from her.

  “You’re eating my soul . . . making promises you can’t keep.”

  “I won’t beg,” she said, slurring slightly.

  “I can�
��t do this to Nate.”

  “He’ll try to get with you now.”

  “God is punishing me.”

  She wanted to say God didn’t kill Álvaro. It was the bear, but she couldn’t form the words.

  “I’ll have Luenza bring you hot water for a bath and clean clothes. And a comb.”

  Nemacio closed the door, leaving her reeling in the center of that fancy room. She didn’t touch a thing, only looked around at the cast-iron tub and the fluffy bed with a white lace spread and the glass vase with little bluebell flowers set on a table, smelling like perfume powder and happiness, and she drowned deeper in drunken sorrow. It was too luxurious for her alone, and far more than she needed. She missed Tom sidling up, nudging with his wet nose, even though he would’ve stunk up the fancy air something awful. She missed Álvaro. She wanted to rewind the days, give the gold back to the earth, and listen to her dear friend playing his Spanish guitar by the river, singing and laughing true. She balanced the smashed-up guitar in the corner and sank to the floor in a slump, thinking she should’ve told him how much she loved his music.

  23

  “Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.”

  “I don’t care if his mama is the Mother Mary herself, I don’t register no foreigners or no women to any claim in this county. And by the looks of it, I’d say you owe me twenty dollars in foreigner tax for every month you were digging down there,” said the assayer in Coyoteville.

  Elisabeth laughed out loud right in the assayer’s office, inappropriate and brash. Nate glared at her, but she didn’t care.

  “I’m no foreigner,” said Nemacio.

  “You look like one. And that name—Nemacio Gabilan,” the assayer spit. “That’s a Mexican name.”

  “You are the foreigner, sir. I am Californio, with American citizenship. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo promises me full rights,” Nemacio said.

  “I didn’t promise you nothing,” said the assayer.

  “Sounds to me like you don’t understand the law in California,” said Elisabeth. “All citizens can register names on a claim. Even me.”

  “Only your husband can sign, Mrs.,” said the assayer. “That’s the way it’s always been. You got no legal rights apart from your husband.”

  Elisabeth had done her research. Millie over at the Stamps Store had finally gotten her hands on last year’s issue of the Mountain Democrat with all the details of the California Constitution and shared it with Elisabeth. She’d read through twice, studied the particulars before making up her mind.

  “There’s where you’re wrong,” she said, wagging a finger in his face. “Out here in California I got all sorts of rights. I can own property, take custody of my children, if I had any. Hell, I can even sue if you do me wrong.”

  “No need getting your dander up, lady.”

  Nemacio stepped up to her defense, patting his hand on the claim certificate.

  “A woman needs no permission to file a claim or own land in California. My mother holds fifty thousand acres in her name alone.”

  “That was before. We’re in California now,” said the assayer.

  The assayer turned away from Nemacio and spoke to Nate like he was the one in charge.

  “You giving your lady permission to sign?”

  Before Nate could answer the assayer, Elisabeth yelled, all worked up at the man’s ignorance.

  “I don’t need permission from him!”

  “Calm down, darlin’. All I’m saying is, why bother putting your name on a claim, when you got a husband here to take care of all that trouble for you?”

  “I’ve taken care of most of the trouble so far. I’m an equal partner, and don’t need anyone to sign for me. I can even divorce, and you’d still have to let me sign.”

  Nate stared over at her, horrified. But Elisabeth turned toward Nemacio, looking for his reaction. He gave way to none, just kept staring down the assayer.

  “I’ll let you, if it’s all right with your husband. But I still ain’t registering no foreigner on this claim,” said the assayer, pointing to Nemacio.

  Nemacio grabbed the assayer around the collar. The assayer’s assistant reached for a pistol out from under the counter, pointing it at Nemacio’s head. The click of the pistol cocking echoed off the bare wood walls. Nemacio put his hands up. Nate stepped in between the gun and Nemacio.

  “Settle down,” said Nate. “We don’t mean trouble. Just want to set the claim title correct.”

  Nate placed a reassuring arm around Nemacio’s neck.

  “Why don’t you go wait outside while I get this all straightened out,” said Nate.

  Nemacio slammed his fist on the counter and stormed out. The assayer slid the claim registration form to Nate as his assistant holstered his pistol. Nate signed the form, and Elisabeth grabbed the paper away before the ink was even dry and added her name. Their gold chunk weighed 6.9 pounds, worth $2,040, and the sack of seven thousand they’d dug up all spring. Álvaro would’ve won the bet after all, leaving Nate crutchless.

  “You lost the bet!” Elisabeth said to Nate, laughing.

  If Álvaro had been alive he would’ve laughed too. He would’ve roared and roared and elbowed Nemacio and Nate, and bowed to Elisabeth, cheeky. So she laughed like his ghost was in the room. After all, if he hadn’t moved the claim stake that afternoon at Split Rock when he’d told her the tale of seeing the elephant, they would’ve never dug up all that gold.

  Álvaro had always given more of himself than expected, relishing in the simple moments with good friends and sweet music. Not even a week had passed since the mauling and she missed him terrible, with a hollowed-out ache draining her empty. She missed him more than her mother and father, and even little Lucy and Louisa. It didn’t make sense why she missed him so much, but she thought it might’ve something to do with how he’d truly understood her. God knows, he was plenty tolerant of her moods. He saw her honest and put up with her patient, even with her ugly finger picking and her dirty hair and her sore temper flaring up when she got tired. He’d been constant.

  After the assayer exchanged their gold for bills and coins, they sat down to a private, corner table at the El Dorado. Nate divided up their earnings of nine thousand in coins and bills, putting them in three separate hemp sacks. Elisabeth grabbed her sack of three thousand and stuffed it in her valise, gripping it tight in her lap, knowing even that much money wouldn’t go far out here. Over steak supper, she listened quiet as Nate talked to Nemacio about adding him to claim as an equal partner.

  “The definition of citizen is apparently now up for debate. As soon as we prove you’re an American, this whole mess will be settled. Do you have documentation?”

  “Criminal! These gringo laws,” said Nemacio.

  Nate suggested Nemacio write his uncle, asking him for the proper paperwork from the Accolades in Monterey. He assured Nemacio they were equal partners even without proof of his citizenship, drawing up a note guaranteeing his one-third ownership right then at the table from a page torn out of his journal. It wasn’t an official-looking document, but Nate said he’d honor it forever.

  With new money, the three partners looked altogether different from the week before, and entirely at ease in the fancy El Dorado with its polished oak bar and gilt mirrors and piano man playing a tinny tune. The men were clean-shaven, but Nate fashioned his blond mustache long and waxed straight out to the sides. He dressed in a new suit, with a white collar pressed rigid and a light blue silk tie. One leg of his pants fit short to his stump, hemmed up by the town tailor, not by Elisabeth. He wore a silk top hat that sat much too high on his head, making him look haughty. Not the best choice for digging. Nemacio wore new clothes, too, dark brown pants and a white shirt with a leather vest buttoned up to a brown necktie. He’d hung his new brown felt hat on a rack behind. Nate hadn’t bothered to take off his hat at the table.

  Elisabeth had taken a long, hot bath, washing off the dirt from the hard winter, scrubbing some of the woman back into herself.
She thought it best not to waste her money on that fancy yellow taffeta she’d dreamed of, but instead dressed in a simple flax calico dress buttoned up to a white lace collar. The dress wasn’t sunshine yellow either, but more of a light mustard. It reminded her of Tom. A size too big, the dress hung loose, but taking it in would be foolish. She planned to eat at least twice a day now that she was staying in town, filling it out with hearty flesh on her hips within weeks. She didn’t buy a new corset, and didn’t bother with a bustle either, cutting the bottom of the dress off just below her knees like she was used to wearing, and fashioning it with a neat ruffle. Underneath, she wore a pair of lady pants she’d made from a pretty lace petticoat, more practical for the muddy streets of Coyoteville. Her new woman boots fit perfect with no heel, buttoning up the side. She even bought a new lacy sleeping shift from Millie over at the Stamps Store, keeping it folded up at the foot of her bed upstairs in her room over the restaurant, in case Nemacio came back to her. She hadn’t bought a new hat. Eventually, she’d buy a simple straw one, sturdy and practical. For now, she planned to save her money. White gloves had seemed frivolous, but now looking down at her rough hands, she wished she’d bought a pair. A year digging and hunting and engraving had leeched her hands of all feminine delicateness. They looked like man hands now, with thick calluses and short jagged nails. She hid them in her lap underneath the table as Nate and Nemacio discussed plans for expanding the claim. She waited for a long while listening to them talk particulars. When Nate suggested they pool all their profits together and create a mining corporation, she finally spoke up, saying she was keeping her share.