by Pamela Morsi
There was no emotion in his voice. He spoke the words almost dispassionately, as if he were reading them from the story of someone else's life.
"I learned to sell my mama, Queenie. I went out and sold her body myself. When she'd be too drunk to get herself a Joe Poke I'd go around to the bars and hustle her business. I was about eight or ten, I guess."
He raised his eyes to Queenie's, his voice mimicking that he'd once had as a child.
" 'Hey fellah, you wanna meet my sister?' I'd say. It was always best to pretend she was my sister. To make the fellahs think she was younger than she was. 'My sister, she likes it all; suck, pull, or pump and you're guaranteed to fire, sure as a gun.' That's what my boyhood was like, Queenie. That was what I did with my childhood."
Queenie squeezed his hand, wanting to offer whatever comfort she could. "I'm sorry, King," she whispered. "I'm very, very sorry."
"It was a long time ago," he said. "It was a very long time ago. She's dead and I'm . . . I'm the King Calhoun."
"You are the most wonderful man that I have ever met," Queenie assured him. "And the things you been through only make me love you more."
He nodded. "That's my point, Queenie. I had a terrible mother, no father at all, and a really bad start in life. I've lived things I don't want to remember and done things that I can't forget. But I'm not ashamed to be who I am. Even with all of that, I've turned out all right. I've worked hard, made something of my life. Maybe this child, our child, could, too."
She looked at him questioningly.
"This Palace is not such a bad place for a boy to grow up. It's warm and dry and . . . and he would know that he was loved. You'd be a wonderful mama for any boy."
Queenie eyed him suspiciously. "You want me to have this baby, King? Even after what you just told me about your own life, your own shame."
"But it wouldn't be like that for him."
"He or she might well think it is," she said. "No matter how clean and legal the saloon is, King, it's still a saloon. And I may not be a gin-crawler, but I'm as much a whore as your mother."
"You haven't whored in ten years, I'd swear it."
"What do you call last night?" she asked.
"Last night?" King was momentarily nonplussed. "Last night you made love with me."
"Is that what you'd call it?" she asked.
"I certainly would."
"Well, our child might hear it called otherwise. Every decent soul in Burford Corners would be quick to tell him that his mother is a barroom prostitute and his daddy a whoremonger."
"Queenie . . ."
"You're not the only one who's been trying to see a way out," she told him. "I've hardly been able to put my mind to anything else. But what you're thinking just won't do. You've turned out to be a good man, King, a fine, gentle, tender man, despite who your mother was and what kind of life you were born into. But I've seen otherwise, King. I've seen boys and girls who could break my heart. Innocent children jerked into the world and left to fend for themselves in the shadow of the bar or the bordello. Hungry, dirty, beaten, and broken, all they get from life is a harsh word and a slap in the face. I won't do that to a child, King, not even one that I want as much as I want yours."
His expression was immediately crestfallen.
"Then there is no way?"
Queenie looked into his eyes, loving him, wanting him, wanting his child.
"I wish ... I wish . . . hell, I've even prayed for a way, but I just can't see one, King. I just can't see one."
The quiet evening at home on her wedding night was one of the longest and most nerve-racking that Princess could ever remember. Gerald had taken the team back to the livery and she was jumpy as a cat the whole time he was gone. She tried to organize a lovely dinner for two, but she was so nervous and almost giddy that she simply could not think straight. Mrs. Marin had graciously taken up the challenge of their wedding feast as if a gauntlet had been thrown. They sat in the dining room for what must have been hours.
Princess was so anxious and edgy she had no appetite at all. Still, it was an impressive display of culinary excellence. The formal dining table was set with the snowy handloomed linen table dressings. The rose china was hastily unpacked and washed. And a simple pork roast dinner miraculously blossomed into a veritable feast of a thousand courses.
Cessy had no idea what she ate, but she was extremely aware of every bite that Gerald took. She sat at the far end of the table from him and barely a word passed between them during the meal. Yet she was aware of every movement he made. Every breath he took. Strangely, it made her tremble.
Howard had managed to unearth a dusty bottle of wine. Although Cessy had never cared for spirits, she found herself nervously bringing the rim of the glass to her lips time and time again. Gerald drank very little, but as they rose finally to leave the table, he drained the contents of his glass and urged her to do the same.
"Shall we withdraw to the sitting room, Cessy?" he suggested.
She agreed, and they spent a very long, uncomfortable evening making stilted conversation as they sat next to each other on the silk damask tete-a-tete. They had always talked so easily together and been so in tune. Why now that they were man and wife could they not seem to find one interesting thing to say to each other?
Cessy knew the answer. They couldn't enjoy a pleasant evening together without thinking about the inevitable night that followed it. She had felt so free, so alive and cheerful in their ride home from the school. But now, looking at the man that was now her husband, the niggling doubts that she had deliberately refused to give credence to had begun to creep into her thoughts.
Muna clearly did not trust him. And Reverend McAfee seemed disturbed by her choice as well. Ma suggested that it was very strange for such a man to live in town for no reason. And then there was the letter, the strange, nearly illiterate letter from a Yale graduate.
"Cessy, I believe that it is time for us to retire for the evening."
Gerald had leaned his head down more closely to her own to speak quietly in her ear. Princess was startled at his unexpected nearness. His voice broke into her rumination and she felt momentarily guilty and disloyal for her thoughts. It was simply nerves, she assured herself. Wedding jitters was what they were called.
"Are you ready to go upstairs?" Gerald asked with more concern.
"Oh! Whatever you think," she assured him hastily.
He stood and formally offered his arm. Princess took it.
"You are a bit fidgety tonight," he said.
"Yes, it's really quite natural. I'm . . . I'm not used to being alone with you," she admitted.
"What about all those dark nights on your front porch?" he asked.
Cessy blushed, remembering. She knew she had allowed him an inordinate amount of liberty with her person, but tonight somehow she was ill at ease and shy. As they climbed the wide staircase with its sharp angles and sturdy, austere design, she deliberately steeled herself against her fears.
"Tell me what to do and I will do it," she said.
Gerald's brow raised in question. "Has marriage turned my lovely lady who gives orders into such a biddable bride?" he asked.
"I . . . why yes, I suppose," she answered him, somewhat flustered.
"Then perhaps I shall be unscrupulous in what I ask of you," he said.
"Unscrupulous?" she repeated the word. Her heart was in her throat. He had spoken in jest, she assured herself. It was only a silly joke. So why were her hands shaking and her heart pounding as they stepped into the privacy of her bedroom?
Gerald set the lamp he carried on the bedside table, illuminating the room that had been hers alone since the day that they built the house.
Her room, which she'd always thought of as basically Spartan and practical, suddenly appeared to her as a girl's room. The wallpaper was pink roses and the window shades were trimmed in lace. Gweneth, her doll, sat gussied up and ready for play upon the highboy. The gleaming four-poster captured most of her attention. It
was not an overly large bed. Certainly it might accommodate two people, but when she had purchased it, she'd had no such thought in mind. This was her room, her things, her bed. And this . . . this stranger was here with her now.
Gerald moved behind to pull the heavy, ceiling-height walnut door closed. The metallic snap of the lock being engaged was inordinately loud. Cessy's throat went dry.
"We're all alone now," he said, a little too softly.
"Yes," she agreed.
"The two of us, man and wife, all alone," he continued. "And you, Cessy, you just promised to be my obedient bride."
"Well, I ... I ... of course, I just meant that . . ."
He was walking around her. Slowly walking around her as if she were some sort of specimen being examined. It was fear, genuine fear that welled up in her now. She didn't know him, not really. Her mind quickly ran through the stories he'd told about himself and his life. They were only pieces, tiny pieces, of what surely must have been a long and complicated life. She should have asked him more, more about himself and his past. They'd spent far too much time talking about life and the world and philosophy. She should never have married a man she didn't know.
Gerald continued to walk around her, looking her up and down as if she were something that he owned.
"I just meant," she continued more forcefully, "that I wish to be a good wife to you. I ... I have not said that I would do anything that you ask."
He stopped in front of her then. He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her critically.
"Cessy," he asked, "what is it that you think I might ask of you that you would not be willing to do?"
"What?"
"What is it? Tell me. What would you say no to?"
"I ... I don't know."
He continued to stare at her for a long moment.
"All right, then, what is it that you would say yes to?" he asked.
She clasped her hands together tightly to keep them from trembling. "I don't know that either," she admitted.
"I think perhaps you know more than you admit," he said.
His words surprised her, indeed shocked her. Did he think that she was not a virgin? Did he believe that she had been alone like this with another man? How could she tell him it wasn't so? She could never bring herself to utter the words of explanation.
"I've never . . ." she began.
He waved his hand to hush her.
"I'm not saying that you are experienced in love, Cessy. I'm saying that you understand more about it than you think you do."
Her brow furrowed curiously, unsure.
"Kiss me," he said.
With little hesitation she stepped forward to put her mouth against his own. It was a warm and sweet kiss. Not as intimate as some they had shared that afternoon, but very pleasurable.
"That was nice, Cessy," he told her. "That was very nice."
She smiled back at him, a little less hesitantly.
"Now," he said. "Please remove all your clothing and bend over the edge of the bed there. I plan to take you heifer style and we've wasted enough time on the pleasantries already."
"What?"
"You did hear me, didn't you?"
Her eyes widened in embarrassment. Cessy was totally scandalized. "I . . . I . . . you ... we can't . . . it's not . . . and . . . and . . ."
"And what, my biddable bride?" he asked.
"And . . . and I am not a heifer. And no, I will not!" she said, nearly choking with outrage.
Slowly, very slowly, he smiled.
"Are you laughing at me?" she asked, infuriated.
"No, Cessy, I'm listening to you prove me right."
She frowned.
"You do know what you do and what you don't want to do," he said. "And I hear you telling me so very plainly."
Her fear fading, her confusion magnified. "I . . . it's not that I don't . . . don't want to be intimate with you," she tried explaining. "But that . . . it's so unseemly and embarrassing and I could not simply just . . . just disrobe."
"Of course not," he agreed.
He reached out to take her hand in his own. She was still trembling, but the warmth of his touch reassured her somehow.
"Cessy," he said. "I am your husband. I have promised to love and honor you. As a husband, I will make demands upon you. But I don't want you to ever feel afraid of me. Cessy, you can always tell me no. About anything at anytime."
"Gerald I ... I am ... I am a little afraid," she said. "It's just all so fast and I'm not sure. I'm not sure that I . . . that I really know you."
"All you need to know, Cessy," he told her, "is that I am your husband and that I will cherish you."
"I'm sorry, Gerald," she said. "I suppose that I am hopelessly unsophisticated."
He grinned at her, seemingly delighted.
"Cessy, a person does not need sophistication to have good sex. This is one activity that is not at all confined to class."
He reached for her then, pulling her into his arms lovingly. "Romance is free and equal for everyone."
She nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."
"Then you will trust me on this, won't you."
"Yes," she said a little more easily. He was still looking at her in that very disconcerting way. But somehow it was as thrilling as it was unsettling. "Yes, I love you and I will trust you."
"Then perhaps you can change into your night-clothes," he suggested. "Please make use of the dressing screen if you like. I have no wish to inordinately embarrass you."
"Thank you," she said. Cessy forced herself not to race to the partial privacy behind the dressing screen. She was still nervous, but the shocking fright he'd given her had somehow calmed her worst fears. He was tonight the same gentleman she had been so eager to wed today. He was Gerald Tarkington Crane, her husband and the man she loved.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, turning back in time to catch him removing his coat. "I forgot that you have no nightclothes. I will get you one of my father's nightshirts."
He shook his head. "Don't," he told her. "I never wear them."
Wide-eyed once more, Cessy slipped behind the screen. He didn't wear any nightclothes? Was she going to step out to find him totally naked and exposed? The very idea of it took her breath away.
With nervous fingers and a bit of clumsy contortion she managed to undo the buttons at the back of her dress and to get it off over her head. She divested herself of her petticoat and ruffle-laden camisole and removed her corset. Seated upon the dainty little dressing stool, she unhooked the laces on her shoes and rolled down her stockings.
Stripped down to only her chemise and pantalettes, Cessy eyed herself critically. Her figure had never been one to turn heads, but she had long since given up worrying about it. Her failure to develop a curvaceous bosom had led her to purchase her camisoles heavily ruffled. And her backside was effectively augmented with a horsehair bustle.
Tonight, without the enhancements of the fashion arts, the man she loved would see her as she truly was. It was daunting. She was not ashamed of how she looked. She looked exactly as God had made her, but on this one special night she couldn't help but wish that heaven had been a little more generous with those physical traits that men seemed to so appreciate.
Determinedly she rose to her feet and unhooked her spectacles. If there was ever a time when nearsightedness could be an advantage, the wedding night must be it.
Princess discarded her remaining "frillies" and pulled on her prettiest nightgown. It was sleeveless gauze with a profusion of delicate blue ribbon hanging from the shoulders. She began taking down her hair, but she had neither her brush nor her pin box. She bit her lip, considering her options. Should she step out from behind the screen with her hair half up and half down and go sit at her dressing table? Should she wind it back up as best she could and re-pin it? Or should she let it all down and comb it the best she could with her fingers?
She decided on the latter course, but then stood unsure because she had no mirror in which to judge her succe
ss or failure. Finally, raising her chin high and mustering her courage, Cessy walked out from behind the screen, determined to be unintimidated.
Gerald sat on the edge of her bed wearing only his gray, knee-length cotton trunks. He stood immediately, observing the refined amenities even in this very awkward private moment.
Even with her faulty vision, Cessy could see that his shoulders were tremendously broad for a gentleman. And his bare chest heavily muscled. Princess thought that he must be very athletic indeed to develop and keep such a splendid physique. His abdomen was as rigid and defined as a washboard. And his waist was trim and his hips narrow. Beneath the covering of his trunks, a pair of long, sturdy thighs and masculine hindquarters were evident.
Cessy's eyes were drawn to five small buttons on the front placard of his trunks. Five small buttons were all that remained of modesty. And the manner in which the gray cotton clung to him in that area revealed more than she was ready to allow herself to imagine.
"I must tend my hair," she announced in almost a frantic tone, turning from him to hurry to the dressing table.
She seated herself hastily. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled for her delicate silver hairpin box, causing her to spill most of the ones she carried.
A creaking of the floorboard behind her caught her attention and she glanced into her mirror to see
Gerald had come up behind her. Wordlessly he took the round, plateback brush from her and began to draw it through her mess of tangles.
"Oh, you needn't do that," she told him. "I'm sure you're not familiar with ladies' hair."
"I'm familiar enough," he answered. "And I want to be very familiar with you."
His words soothed and skittered across her heart with much the same sensation as the Russian bristles that raised gooseflesh at the nape of her neck.
Cessy watched him in the mirror. He was intent in his task. Not overly gentle, but not hurting her either as he patiently unsnarled the length of her hair.
"It's pretty, you know," he said in a manner quite matter-of-fact.
"Is it?"
He held a handful up for her inspection. "It's thick and shiny and the color is nice."