by Pamela Morsi
"Are you kin to Befuddle Kilroy?" he asked.
The boy's answer was guarded. "He was my pa, I guess," the little boy replied with studied casualness. "I don't know nothing about him. He's been dead since I was a baby."
Gidry's throat narrowed in sympathy for the fatherless boy. Of course he was out in the world trying to make a living. Befuddle didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. Nor any way to acquire either. The fellow scarcely knew day from night, and what little he did know he kept fogged up with corn liquor. He would have left his widow with even less. Sharpy was probably trying to support her and maybe a couple of little siblings, too.
"How old are you?" Gidry asked him.
"Seven," the boy lied with a straight face. "Almost seven and a half."
"That old?" Gidry replied with sufficient gravity. The way he calculated it, young Sharpy might then be even less than six and merely tall for his age.
"Do you live around here?"
"Here?"
"I mean down here near the railroad."
"No sirree," Sharpy stated flatly. "I ain't never living near the tracks. Too many damned kids."
"You don't like kids?"
"Not all them squalling babies I don't," he declared. "If you're living near the tracks, they's always more and more damned squalling babies, if you know what I mean."
"What do you mean?"
"Aw them trains come by twice a night," he explained gravely. "Wakes all the menfolk, and they want to do something to help 'em get back to sleep. Next thing ya know their woman's got another squalling baby pissing diapers and sucking at tit."
Gidry was struck speechless. Even granting poor luck in paternity and a widowed mother, who was no doubt scrounging for every scrap, there was something very, very wrong in a six-year-old having such knowledge of the world.
Sharpy didn't appear to notice anything amiss.
"Are you a real cowboy?" he asked Gidry.
It took him a moment for Gidry to adjust to the abrupt change of subject. "Sometimes," he said finally. "Sometimes I'm a cowboy."
"I'm going to be a cowboy when I grow up," he said. "It'd be mighty nice to be out away from folks, where nobody knows you. And sitting atop a fine horse. I'm going to buy me one damn good horse someday. I'll take it out West cowboying with me."
“That's a fine ambition," Gidry agreed. He'd seen more than one landless nobody with a will to work earn enough riding herd to get a start in the world.
"I got lots of ambitchen," he assured Gidry. "I'll be a cowboy, or maybe I'll run my own peep shows. There's a world of money in peep shows, you know."
"I had no idea," Gidry admitted. "But don't you think you're a little young to be looking at peep shows?"
"I don't look at peep shows," Sharpy said loftily.
"Well, that's good."
"I got my own dirty postcards. You wanna see."
"Dirty postcards?"
"Yep, I got postcards with pitchers of ladies in their underwear."
Gidry stared at the little boy in disbelief as he dug his personal peep show out of his bib pocket.
The boy jumped down from his perch and walked over to prop himself against the edge of the desk. He started to hand them over to Gidry and then hesitated.
"I don't usually show 'em for free," he said.
Gidry jerked the postcards out of the boy's grubby hand.
The heavy three-inch-by-five-inch cards were slightly grayed from age and dog-eared from over handling. Gidry's eyes widened as he stared at the photograph of a petite but well-rounded young female wearing only a pair of frilly drawers and black lace stockings. She held in her hands what appeared to be a live snake, its body spoiling the view of her naked breasts.
"Good Lord!" Gidry exclaimed aloud.
The next one was even more shocking. The female was naked in her bath. Though her limbs were hanging over opposite sides of the bathtub, obscuring her most intimate parts with sudsy water, her breasts were totally bare and with her hands upon her head they were raised to the viewer's eyes.
"Where in the devil did you get these?" Gidry asked shocked and angry.
Sharpy demurred.
"I charge two fer a penny to look at 'em," he said. "If you want to buy one to keep, it costs a nickel."
Gidry had no intention of handing back such vulgar material to such a young child. He was far too young even to be seeing such a thing, let alone selling it.
A brunette with her bloomerless backside to the camera was bent to the waist adjusting the buttons on her shoes.
"I'll take all of them," Gidry said, sliding the postcards into the top drawer of the desk. "And I'll pay you your back wages. But if you're going to work for me, young man, I have some rules that must be followed."
The little fellow crossed his arms stubbornly.
"I'm listening," he said.
"No more cussing," Gidry said firmly. "I've always believed that a man who can't corral cattle without cussing them, ain't much of a cowboy."
"Hell's fire and damnation!" the child complained. "What difference does it make how I talk?"
"It makes a difference to me," Gidry insisted.
Sharpy shrugged. “The woman won't let me cuss from supper to bedtime nohow. Guess quitting the rest of day won't matter much."
"Good," Gidry answered, grateful that the boy's mother apparently still had some control over his behavior. "And no more postcards. I don't want anybody in my employ peddling pornography."
"What’s po-knock-rafee?"
Gidry jerked open the desk drawer with the postcards inside. He tapped one finger upon the curved belly of a portly female, wearing only a salacious grin, draped across a chaise lounge.
"This is pornography," he said.
The boy's brow furrowed unhappily. "Hell... I mean heck, I make a bit of money on that po-knock-rafee."
Gidry nodded, not at all surprised to hear it. As a youngster, he would have gladly coughed up his last penny to view pictures of naked ladies. It seemed clear that boys were still boys.
"We're starting the ginning day after tomorrow," Gidry told him. "They'll be more work for a young fellow than just watching out for the place."
Sharpy still didn't look pleased. "I got more postcards where these came from. Can't I jest sell what I already done got?"
"Bring your inventory to me," Gidry answered. "I'll buy up all the pornography you have in stock. Then don't get any more. That’s a condition of your employment here."
The little boy weighed his choices carefully. Finally he sighed in resignation.
"All right," he agreed.
He jumped to his feet and headed for the doorway.
"I'll work for you, do without cussing, and quit selling the postcards. But I sure hate to give up my best business."
"Don't worry," Gidry told him. "I'll try to keep you on steady work. Neither your mother nor any of your family will go hungry, I promise."
Sharpy turned from the doorway to eye him curiously.
"I ain't got no family," he said. "Never had nobody but Mama, and she up and died over a year ago."
Chapter Twelve
Pru had spent the coolness of the morning fighting black spot powder that had inexplicably appeared upon her newly planted Eglantiers. She had plucked the infected leaves before the dew had dried. And then ripped apart a cigar and spread the tobacco around to smoke the base of the plants. She didn't want to lose them, and, even more important, she didn't want the mildew to spread to other bushes. Although that seemed unlikely given the continuing good weather.
Having done all she could do, Pru left her flowers to the will of God and embarked upon an even more daunting task.
She was determined to clean the milking shed. She had been biding her time, not only because the small building was thick with dust and overrun with vermin, but because the sometimes inhabitant of the place assured her repeatedly that he was not at all bothered by the presence of cobwebs in the dark corners or the long term accumulation of gri
me.
"Just let it be my place," he'd pleaded with her. "I ain't never had a place that was truly mine."
Pru had assured him that he was welcome to the shed and that she would respect his privacy. To her mind, however, that was quite separate from her insistence on certain hygienic standards. He had not been at all pleased with her edict that he would wash up nightly and bathe completely once a week. But he had reluctantly agreed, and Pru was certain that he was pleased with the results. Making the milk shed clean and neat would also be accepted once he had experienced it. Like roses that grow more hardily in tilled soil free of weeds, people more harmoniously thrived in healthy surroundings.
And she wanted him to thrive. She wanted all the best for him always. He deserved it and had been denied it. She deserved it also. He could have been her very own.
She was only a half dozen yards from her objective when a movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. Immediately she changed her direction. Nobody must suspect that she had someone living in the milk shed. She turned to walk toward the tall profusion of four-o'clocks that grew upon the trellis in front of the outhouse, then realized that it would look as if the outhouse was her destination, an impression she didn't want to encourage.
Pru swerved her path and made a beeline for the small plank bench supported by an old tree stump on one end and solid log on the other. Shaded by a stately pecan tree and set amid the oldest and most beautiful of the roses, it was the loveliest place in the garden.
It was only after she had taken her seat that Pru realized what a bad choice the site was. It was here, upon this very bench, that Gidry Chavis had last kissed her. And it was toward this bench, with her seated now as she had been then, that Gidry Chavis now walked.
She'd thought a lot about what Aunt Hen had said the day before. Her choices were different from her aunt’s, certainly. But some things happened irrespective of one's choice. Gidry Chavis had jilted her. She'd had no say in it. But she did have a say in their future dealings. And her choice, she reminded herself firmly, was to have only the most casual of acquaintance with him. The best way to ensure that happened was not to encourage his visits. If Aunt Hen was thinking about the two of them together, could the scrutiny of the rest of Chavistown be far behind? She would never allow herself to become the object of their gossip or pity. Deliberately, she made her expression cool and distant.
"Good afternoon, Pru," he said.
She realized that she was nervously straightening her dress. Deliberately she clasped her hands together and held them still in her lap.
"Good afternoon to you, Mr. Chavis," she answered.
He stood in front of her for a long moment just looking at her.
"May I sit with you for a moment?"
Of course that had been what he was waiting for, a mundane, polite offer to be seated.
"As you will, sir," she answered, far too formally.
She couldn't stop herself as she unthinkingly drew her freshly washed skirts aside as if she dreaded any inadvertent contact.
Pru wanted to be distant and nonchalant. That was how she should be. But there had never been any distance between the two of them. Their shared past was very long ago. They were both changed and grown now. It made perfect sense that she would regard him only as a neighbor she vaguely knew.
So why did her heart beat so rapidly when he was near? She answered the thought in her own mind. Because he reminded her of the young woman that she used to be. She could not, would not be that young woman again.
"You used to call me Gid," he told her, that too handsome grin lighting up his face. "When you say, 'Mr. Chavis' it sounds like you're talking to my father."
"I used to call you Gid when we were children," she answered. "We are no longer that."
"No, Pr ... Miss Belmont, we are not," he agreed.
A silence ensued. It was difficult for Pru to refrain from making conversation with him. At one time she would have chatted away like a magpie. For so many years nothing, virtually nothing, in her life was worth experiencing without being allowed to share it with Gidry Chavis. They were the cutest young couple in Chavistown. And she had been the envy of all her girlfriends.
With perfect clarity she could recall discussions about secret spooning and the sweet mysteries of boyfriends.
"You can never let a boy think you like him," Leda
Peterson had declared. “The more you care about him, the less you can show it."
Pru had giggled with disagreement.
"I love Gidry," she stated baldly. "He knows it and you know it and I don't care if the world knows it."
"You and Gidry don't count," Leda insisted. "You two aren't like ordinary courting couples."
And they hadn't been. Their romance had been perfect. They had shared everything, said everything, lived in each other's pockets.
Gidry cleared his throat as if determined to put forth the effort to talk with her.
"I went down to the gin today," he said. "We are set to open tomorrow, and we should be filling trains with bales of cotton for the next few weeks."
"That's good," she said lamely.
"I thought myself to be almost completely ignorant about cotton markets," he admitted. "But my father's records are very good, and I have surprised myself with what I actually know."
"How nice," Pru responded.
"Of course, I do, in fact, know nothing about stopping the recent thefts," he said.
"Naturally not."
The one-sided conversation lagged once more. Pru knew she wasn't doing her part. Sitting beside him once more, here of all places. It was simply too much. She was through bringing out the best in Gidry Chavis.
It was here, upon this bench, where he had formally proposed marriage to her. Here, where he had kissed her lips so sweetly. It was here that she had declared her undying love for him.
Desperately she hoped that he didn't remember. Even more desperately she wished that she could forget.
A long uncomfortable silence lingered. At one time she would have cheerfully entertained him with a thousand stories of her days. Now she was determined to speak civilly, but only when spoken to.
"Pru... I mean Miss Belmont. We can't be enemies," he said. "I know somehow yesterday I managed to say the wrong thing. I'm not sure what it was, but I plead stupidity. I want us to talk together, to be friends as we once were."
"We are both grown and changed, Mr. Chavis," Pru replied. "I don't think reviving our former friendship is possible."
"While I was away, I would think of Chavistown and I would always think of you. You are as much this place to me as is the courthouse or the gin."
She was not warmed by the words.
Oh, now I am just another landmark, she thought unhappily.
Pru straightened her shoulders and raised her chin pridefully. "Mr. Chavis, I have no enemies," she assured him loftily.
"Perhaps not," he said. "But there was a time when I would have casually presumed you to be my friend."
It was true, she supposed. They had been friends, but for her part it had been so much more. Eight years was a long time. But she'd been hurt, very hurt. Sitting here now, she found that her heart ached still.
"I suppose an apology would help," Gidry said.
An apology for not loving her? It was ludicrous. Pru knew from her own experience that one could not choose where and whom to love. If such were possible, she would have married another man years ago. Gidry Chavis did not love her. It was a fact as unchangeable as the color of his eyes or the good fortune of his antecedents.
"An apology is not necessary," she assured him.
"I think more than likely it is," Gidry answered. "An apology as well as an explanation is more than overdue."
"Please, no." Her voice was a mere whisper.
Somehow she could not bear the words if she heard them aloud. Her heart was steeled so tightly against them, that surely it would shatter once more. She no longer cared for him, she assured herself. The crum
bs of his affection were no longer precious treasures to her.
Yet her heart still ached. And she despised her enduring devotion to him. It was hopeless and pathetic. But as certainly as he couldn't love her, she couldn't stop loving him.
She was eight years older now, eight years wiser. She had been publicly humiliated eight years ago. She'd worn her love for him like a prized possession. When it was ripped from her, she was forever changed. She would not allow herself to go back to the naive foolishness that had brought her so low before.
"Please do not apologize for anything," she said firmly. "The past is forgotten. It was a part of my childhood. Let us never speak of it again. I am not the only woman you ever walked out on."
She gave a light humorless laugh and looked him straight in the eye.
Gidry's brow furrowed in question, but he didn't pursue the comment.
She knew about him. She knew things about him that he, perhaps, did not know himself. He was a faithless man, one who could not be counted upon.
Some men were just that way and nothing could change them.
Pru focused her attention upon his scuffed, square-toed leather trail boots. Why was the man still dressing in such an informal manner? Chavistown might not be a cosmopolitan city, but for a gentleman of means a jacket and tie were required for afternoon attire.
"Lightning bugs are out," he said.
She looked up and smiled. The flickering little insects were the first portents of evening. As childhood friends Pru and Gidry had spent many hot summer nights capturing the small creatures to make light in a jar.
Absently she caught sight of the house next door.
"Aunt Hen is on her way home," she said.
Gidry looked at her curiously. "How do you know that?" he asked.
"On her way out she always switches on the landing light behind the stained glass window," Pru answered.
“That window was made for Aunt Hen." Gidry told her.
"What?" Pru glanced first at him and then at the window. “For Aunt Hen?"