by Pamela Morsi
Allowing her gaze to wander the room, she smiled with what she hoped passed as serenity, gratified as the eager welcoming expressions of the finest ladies of local society beamed back at her. It had not always been so. These same admiring faces had gazed at her in the past, occasionally in censure and sometimes in pity. But not today. Today she was their favorite daughter, the girl next door, the homegrown heroine who made good. Winnifred Beauchamp's unexpected demise had thrown open the most auspicious position of Rose and Garden Society president. And from the day of the funeral Prudence had prayed, hoped, finagled to have it. An interim president would serve out the rest of the year. But it was almost certain that without any unforeseen difficulties, that person would be selected in January to a full two-year term.
Prudence turned to her rival, Bertha Mae Corsen, and with a palms open shrug, attempted to portray her win as unexpected and unsought. Bertha Mae Corsen was clapping politely along with the rest.
In truth, Bertha Mae had been the natural choice for the office. She was a founding member of the club. She had served as vice president under Mrs. Beauchamp for several years. And Bertha Mae, a kind, even tempered woman in her early fifties, had a flower garden that was greatly admired. She was a longtime member of local society. But to be president, one's decorum must be perfect. And like most creatures on earth, Bertha Mae had her weaknesses. Unfortunately, her chief one being the telephone.
Her son, Elmer, had the newfangled machine in case of emergency. However, for Bertha Mae, it was love at first sight. The lonely widow discovered, in short order, that it could fill her long and empty days with friends and conversation.
And gossip.
Giggling behind her back the younger set began referring to her a “Bertha Mae Central”. There were only fifteen telephones in the whole community, it was joked, but at any given moment, night or day, Bertha Mae was talking on the other end of one of them.
The story always evoked a chuckle, even from Bertha Mae's closest friends. The telephone, it was generally agreed, was noisy and crass and should be avoided when at all possible. One might even consider it as a danger to propriety. With one ring of its loud bell a decent woman might shockingly find herself speaking to a man to whom she had never been introduced. And no ardent declaration of "Wrong number!" could heal such an etiquette breach.
There was no question about it, the telephone had cost Bertha Mae Corsen the presidency.
Prudence Belmont was kindhearted enough to feel a pang of sympathy. But the truth was Bertha Mae didn't need the Rose and Garden Society. Bertha Mae was a widow, a coveted position it seemed to Prudence. And she was the mother of two grown children. She owned her own house and land and was firmly ensconced within the hierarchy of the community. No, Bertha Mae didn't need the Rose and Garden Society, but, Prudence did.
Prudence had none of those things. Prudence Belmont was unwed. And since among the ladies of Chavistown, Texas, a woman's consequence was measured by how well she married, a spinster remained forever inconsequential.
Pru glanced over at Aunt Hen, who was looking pleased and proud in her fetching new strawbraid hat. Like herself, her aunt was long and rawboned with large, almost mannish, features. While such a plain appearance was unfortunate in the first bloom of youth, it aged well, and even now, well into her middle years, Aunt Hen might correctly be described as a handsome woman. Unmarried herself all her life, it was Aunt Hen who had taught Prudence that a woman can rise above her circumstances.
And now, at long last, she had. It was her moment of triumph. With her gloved hand upon her heart, Pru rose to her feet and took her place at the center of the group.
"I am overwhelmed," she said.
Her breathless appreciation so impressed those present that she was applauded once more. She allowed the praise to subside before she spoke again.
"And I am so flattered at your confidence in me," Prudence told them. "The Rose and Garden Society is by far the most prominent ladies' organization in town. To be chosen its president is the highest honor ever bestowed by the women of this community."
A murmur of approval rustled through the crowd. Among the ladies of Chavistown, it was modesty that was the best policy.
Prudence glanced down nervously and caught herself rubbing her palms and picking at the thumb seam of her cream silk gloves. Deliberately she hid her hands in the folds of her skirt.
"I want to take this opportunity to thank my aunt, Henrietta Pauling, a founding member of this club and a lady of gardening much to be admired."
Blushing uncharacteristically, the older woman attempted to wave away the kind words.
"Aunt Hen has taught me everything that I know about roses," Pru said. "I know that your faith in me is due in large measure to her own."
The ladies cooperated in a polite ovation. Prudence joined in. In truth, Pru was a voracious reader of gardening pamphlets and naturalists' texts, acquiring much of her knowledge of plants and soil from her own study. But it had been Aunt Hen who had first introduced her to the soul pleasing pleasure of watching flowers grow.
Pru had been only a tall, gangly, thin, motherless girl of unfortunate circumstances and twelve years of bad luck when she came to Chavistown and her Aunt Hen.
Pru had always been grateful to her. Aunt Hen had seen to her schooling, her deportment, her launch into small town society. Aunt Hen taught her to be self-reliant and to hold her head up high. And Aunt Hen had dried her tears when she had fallen hopelessly in love with the wrong man.
That was all behind her now. Today, this very day, September 12, 1895, with the ballots cast and counted, it was Prudence Belmont who was chosen as best able to lead the Rose and Garden Society into the twentieth century.
Clearing her throat, Pru steeled herself for the acceptance speech that she had practiced a dozen times in the barren privacy of her bedchamber.
"My dear ladies," she began, "the leadership of the Chavistown Ladies Rose and Garden Society is an honor and a challenge that I take up gladly. I will strive to prove myself worthy of your trust and to truly serve the membership from this office. I will endeavor to do my part to make the Rose and Garden Club the ..."
A loud clattering in the hallway erupted.
"Ah ... to make the Rose and Garden Society . .." Pru tried to continue.
The voice of a housemaid could be heard calling out.
"You can't go in there!"
The parlor door came flying open and slammed back against its hinges. A dirty, disheveled boy, missing his jacket, as usual, stood in the doorway.
"Sharpy Kilroy!" Mavis Hathaway scolded loudly and crossly. "What are you thinking of, busting in here like that?"
"His name is Milton." Prudence corrected her automatically, but her attention was fixed upon the small boy with the wild look in his eye. "Milton? Milton, what is it?"
"Old Man Chavis done collapsed on the ginning floor. They're carrying him home now."
"Oh my heavens, no!"
There were startled cries all around the room.
Prudence, too, felt her heart fly to her throat. Peer Chavis was more than the landlord of nearly every foot of Main Avenue real estate, the owner of the cotton gin, and the city's most prominent citizen. Peer Chavis was the bulwark of the community.
Pru's gaze flew to Aunt Hen. The older woman was as pale as death itself, her eyes wide, her lips colorless.
“They done sent for Doc Phillips," Sharpy announced. "But Ollie Larson said it weren't no use. Chavis looks nearly good as dead now and weren't long for this world nohow. Mr. Larson said they'd save time and money to skip the doctor and just send for the next of kin."
A gasp escaped Pru's own throat.
In her moment of triumph, disaster.
Chapter Three
The cowboy was long and lean, sun browned and slit-eyed as he stepped off the train. He carried no gripsack or portmanteau, just a pair of worn saddlebags thrown over his shoulder and a well-oiled Winchester in his hand. From the weather beaten platform he s
urveyed the bustle of the busy little town for a long moment before easing his hat brim a bit lower over his eyes.
The train gave a long mournful whistle as it steamed heavily, indicating its readiness to leave.
For a moment he was tempted to leave with it. He could just get on the train and keep on going. There was nothing to stop him. Nothing to keep him here. Nothing ... nothing except old mistakes and some cold anger. His fingers went to the crisply folded Western Union missive in his pocket.
"All aboard!" the conductor called from behind him.
He didn't dare look back. He had come this far, he at least had to proceed one step farther.
Determinedly he headed down from the platform and along Main Avenue, the pegged heels of his trail boots making a distinctive sound against the planking. He was dressed in Western style. The sturdy weight denim trousers he wore were held up, not with suspenders or galluses, but with the cinched belt that allowed the easy movements necessary for a man who threw a rope for a living. His twilled cheviot
overshirt was indigo blue and unadorned by even so much as collar button. At his throat was no tech scarf or Windsor tie, but a paisley neckerchief, handy for covering the mouth and nose on a dusty trail. His appearance was incongruous in this place, but he was familiar.
Familiar but changed, he was changed. The town was changed. Eight years could do that. As he walked he noted both what was new and what remained as it had always.
The streets were still unpaved, but residents were now protected from the omnipresent mud or dust by raised platforms on either side of the street. Fenton's Dry Goods had a new front facade, but the front windows still hung, awkwardly mismatched. The shoemaker still had his little shop above the barber. And old Mr. Crane was still selling cigars where he always had, if the brightly painted wooden Indian in front of his doorway was any indication.
His eyes had grown accustomed to the long beige-and-gold horizons of the arid Pecos. Now he gazed almost lovingly upon the civilized green of Texas's Black Waxy Prairie in the distance. There was a feel of nostalgia to his stroll and a hint of dread in his step.
It was the same. Chavistown was the same as he recalled. But it was different, too.
When he'd left, the new courthouse in the square was still under construction and rimmed with scaffolding. Today it stood stately and majestic, the center of town both literally and figuratively.
Overhead wires crisscrossed in amazing patterns. Telegraph warred with telephone and electric lines in a weave as intricate as any spider's web.
There was a nickelodeon where the Straight Shot Saloon used to be. And next door to it was a soda fountain. He kept his face averted from the patrons of the latter as he passed. But the ne'er-do-wells spending their hard-earned nickels on peep shows were too occupied to notice him.
One youthful loafer did catch his eye. He seemed far too young to be hanging out in such a place, and yet he stood, legs spread, hands folded across his chest as if he owned the joint. When the little fellow, clad in ragged knee pants looked up, his shrewd expression immediately turned to youthful awe. Nothing was more certain to impress children than a real genuine cowboy.
He nodded to the child as he passed.
On the north corner of town square, the intersection of Main and Market, he spied Ollie Larson. He couldn't quite repress a grin. As always, a small crowd was gathered around the man as he stood on the raised platform created from a box of Pure Dreft Soapflakes. As in times past the unflagging pessimist spouted his latest dire predictions. The cowboy recalled diatribes against the gold standard and agrarian socialism. Today, however, the old man's theme was law and order.
"It is an onslaught of crime like none seen in Texas before," Ollie declared to the crowd. "No household in Chavistown is safe as long as this phantomlike burglar remains in our midst."
The cowboy kept his eyes down avoiding the chance for Larson to get a good look at him. He headed up the street without pausing.
A half block farther he chanced upon a shiny new saloon, the only one he'd seen on the street. Carefully lowering the brim of his hat once more, he stepped a little reluctantly through the brightly painted green shutter doors.
The interior was exactly as he expected. He'd been inside hundreds of joints just like this one. All a little dark and a little dusty, with the distinct smell of drink hovering over the place.
He glanced around at the customers. There was a table full of poker players intent upon the game. One tired, sort of half-pretty woman looked up hopefully and pulled her feet out of the wooden chair next to her. He didn't even bother to meet her gaze. A couple of rowdy farmhands looked to be starting early on a weekend drunken spree. A few other men were drinking calmly as if it were their business, no one that he recognized.
At the near end of the bar a dandied-up gentlemen in a plaid coat and summer derby sat alone, his well worn traveling bag at his feet.
The cowboy almost smiled. If there was anyone unlikely to be a local, it was a drummer in a plaid coat. With no appearance of haste or purposeful intent, he took the seat right next to the traveling bag.
The barkeep sauntered up and wiped clean the area directly in front of him.
"What'll ya have?"
"Beer," the cowboy answered.
With a nod he turned to the keg behind him, and drew a glassful of the dark golden liquid and set it in front of the cowboy.
"Five cents a glass," the barkeep told him, walking away.
The cowboy nodded and began rifling through the change in his pocket as the man left to wait upon the farm boys. He placed a nickel on the bar and began to move it around with one finger in a smooth tight
circle, never moving too fast, never quite letting it go.
He glanced over at the drummer beside him.
"Afternoon."
The little man looked up eagerly.
"Good afternoon to you, sir," he answered, and in true salesman fashion, offered his hand across the bar. "Arthur D. Sattlemore, Big Texas Electric Company."
The cowboy's only answer was an indecipherable grunt as he imbibed a great gulp of beer.
The drummer continued to look at him expectantly, as if he would surely introduce himself, when he didn't the silence dragged out uncomfortably.
The cowboy waited.
The drummer cleared his throat. "I'm new in town," he said. "Been here a week now. I'm staying at Johnson's Boardinghouse."
The cowboy nodded.
"If s a real clean place if you're looking for somewhere to stay," the drummer said expectantly.
"I'm not looking for a place to stay."
"You're a resident here?"
He shrugged. "Just passing through."
"Oh."
Once more the conversation waned. The salesmen went for the tried-and-true topic.
"Hot weather we've been having."
The cowboy nodded. "A miserable summer," he agreed. "But good for cotton."
"You are a farmer, sir?"
Clearly the drummer was surprised.
"No," the cowboy answered. "But when you're in Chavistown, it's hard to talk about anything else."
The drummer chuckled and nodded understanding. He leaned closer. "You have the right of it there, sir," he admitted. "I was asked to come present my company to the Commercial Club. I've been here a week and haven't been able to get a word in edgewise. The whole town is talking cotton and what will happen without old man Chavis."
The cowboy blanched. "He's dead?"
The drummer shook his head. "Not as of this morning, but without him to run the gin and the cooperative, the farmers are worried that their cotton will sit in wagonloads by the side of the road."
'The picking is surely not even finished," the cowboy said. 'The old man will be up and around before it's over."
The drummer shook his head. "Not the way they're telling it. Seems Chavis is bad off. Weak as a kitten, they say, and the quacks warn that he won't live to see winter."
"Doctors have been wr
ong before," the cowboy said.
The drummer nodded. "The whole town hopes you're right. The old man ain't got no one to take over for him. The gin is closed down, and the cotton just waiting."
The cowboy nodded.
"The Commercial Club had a meeting early in the week and voted to send for young Chavis, the old man's son."
"They voted on it?" the cowboy asked curiously.
The drummer nodded. "And it was a darned close vote, too. Doc Phillips said to send, but don't nobody know if he'll show up. And a lot of folks just as soon he didn't."
"Is that so?"
"Young Chavis created some bit of a scandal in this town eight years ago," the drummer explained. "Nobody's seen so much as his shadow since. They say his daddy disowned him and that it would be against the old man's wishes to bring him back to town now."
"They didn't ask Chavis to send for his son?"
"Oh the poor old fellow can't talk a lick anymore," he answered. "He tries, but nobody can understand so much as a word."
The cowboy listened quietly, intently.
"So they sent for the son, and they're hoping that he'll come and save their biscuits," the man said. "But for myself, I just wouldn't trust him."
"No?"
The traveling man tutted and shook his head. 'They say he jilted a local gal, just left her high and dry."
"Is that what they say?"
The drummer nodded. "And I ask you, what kind of man blessed with plenty of money, an influential name, a fine place in the community and an innocent young sweetheart who expects to marry him, runs off with some round-heeled, painted-up, saloon gal?"
The cowboy took his finger off the nickel. Slowly he picked up the beer and drank it down in one long swallow. He banged the glass on the bar with enough force to catch the attention of every man in the room.
"What kind of man, indeed," he said to the drummer.
Without another word, the cowboy walked out the door. He stood for a long moment on the wooden sidewalk. First he gazed west, up Main Avenue, where the chimneys of the city's finest houses peeked out over the treetops. Then he glanced in the direction of the railroad station once more. He hadn't been recognized. No one knew that he was here. He'd found out what he wanted to know. So why was he as unsure now as he'd been when he'd stepped off the train?