by Pamela Morsi
She surveyed the room curiously and then turned to see Sharpy still behind her. He had closed the door, but stood waiting for her directions.
"Go get Mr. Chavis," she told him.
"What?"
"Go get Mr. Chavis."
"What did you say?"
"Go..."
She should have waited. The noise was too intense for her even to give orders. It would be absolutely impossible to have any kind of meaningful discussion with Gidry.
She should just turn around and go home. But, of course, he would hear that she had come to see him.
She had already worked up the courage and did not want to lose the initiative.
She would write him a note, she decided. She would simply request an opportunity to speak to him away from heat and noise of the gin. Sharpy could deliver it right into his hand. Yes, that was the perfect solution, she would write him a note.
The pen and ink were atop the ledger desk in plain sight. A piece of paper was not so easily obtainable, however. She did momentarily consider tearing out a corner of a blank accounting page, but thought the better of what might be construed as damaging the business records.
She opened the top drawer of the desk, hoping to locate just a small piece of scratch paper, but no luck. There were, however, a number of stacked postcards tucked into the corner. Grain and seed companies often advertised their products on cards such as these, which was undoubtedly why they were there. One of them would work perfectly well as a note card, Pru decided. And selected the one on top.
She didn't bother to glance at the opposite side, her concern was only on what she should write. It was important that her words be chosen with care. Even the salutation was difficult. To address him as Gidry was entirely too familiar. Writing Mr. Chains was perfectly correct, but seemed so awkward. They had known each other since childhood. It felt almost insincere to put such a formal distance between them.
Finally she settled upon Sir as most appropriate and dipped the pen in ink and began to write with her best penmanship.
There was no need to discuss specifics in such a small missive. She would merely indicate an urgency to speak with him away from the noise and heat and bad air of the gin.
She glanced down at what she had written, satisfied. It said exactly and directly what she wanted and there were no misspellings or grammatical errors. It would do very well, she was certain. Neatly she signed herself as Miss Prudence Belmont. And carefully blotted it with the green felt covered block.
She turned to give the note to Sharpy for delivery. The little boy stood still as a stone, staring in horrified fascination.
"Milton?" she asked curiously.
He made no reply but continued to eye the note in her hand ominously. His strange behavior prompted her to glance down at what she held. It was only a postcard, a small three-by-five postcard. What on earth could cause the young boy to be so mesmerized.
It was at that moment, for some unknown reason, Pru turned it finally in her hand to see what was upon the back of it. A buxom female stood stark naked in her boudoir, facing a large, curved mirror. She had one hand upraised and buried in her upswept hair. Grinning coyly, her only concession to modesty was the one dainty palm that covered the apex of her thighs.
Prudence gave a startled cry of alarm. Never in her life had she seen such a thing, never had she imagined that a woman would pose for such a photograph.
She glanced down at the little boy beside her. Clearly he had known what the postcards were. And he had known that they were lewd and vulgar, else he would not have looked so guilty.
Unexpectedly Sharpy grabbed the postcard out of her hand and looked to be making a run for it. Prudence had other ideas. She caught him easily as he made it to the doorway. The postcard slipped out of his grasp, but she didn't give it a thought. All of her concern was for the sweet, young, impressionable child.
"Come with me, young man," Pru said decisively, grabbing the child's arm and half-leading, half-dragging him out the door and down the stairs. "You will not work one more moment in a place such as this."
"What?" he called out to her unable to hear her words above the noise surrounding them.
She didn't bother to answer. Milton Kilroy was leaving this male den of iniquity, and she vowed fervently that he would never return here again.
Chapter Nineteen
The third day had gone better than the first two, Gidry decided. There were no major breakdowns and, thankfully, no injuries, not even so much as a cut or bruise. All the men reported to work, however young Sharpy Kilroy had inexplicably disappeared. No one noticed his leaving, but he was nowhere to be found by midmorning, and all of them had to make up the difference very inefficiently by running to and fro themselves. Gidry was genuinely surprised at the boy's absence. He considered himself good judge of character, and had anyone asked he would have bet money that the young ne'er-do-well was as dependable as sunrise.
Gidry walked through the gin, the evening quiet unappreciated as the echo of the stilled machinery continued to ring loudly in his ears. Stanley Honnebuzz had stopped by to see him. The ladies of the Rose and Garden Society had apparently held a special meeting last night about the lighting project and wanted to present their case in opposition at a public meeting.
The man had assured him that he had nothing with which to concern himself.
"I nipped that in the bud," he'd told Gidry proudly.
Gidry couldn't imagine what the ladies had to protest about. Certainly deterring crime in town would be a benefit to persons of both genders. It was probably some silliness, Honnebuzz told him. The ladies probably feared that artificial light could allow men to see through their window shades or some other such nonsense.
He wished he could discuss it with Pru. Being such an avid gardener, she was undoubtedly involved with the group. But Pru appeared determined now to keep him at a distance. Perhaps Aunt Hen was a better choice. She was an eminently sensible woman, much like her niece. Thoughtful and contemplative. Not at all the type of woman Stanley Honnebuzz would have described as prone to hysterics.
His thoughts lingered back to his father's sickroom. Aunt Hen's tender care and her quiet devotion to his father were both very precious and very confusing to him.
Had his father and Aunt Hen ... no, it was foolishness even to think such a thing. They were friends, longtime friends. His father had never. .. had his father ever?
It was difficult to imagine that a man as robust and healthy as his father had remained faithful to an absent wife for thirty years. Of course, a son could never truly know a father's life, but there had never been any evidence of any female consort. There was never any indication of any illicit liaison.
Why had his father been so faithful in his vows?
Surely it must only have been honor. There were no residual feelings between Peer and Gidry's mother. Clearly, there was nothing at all. In truth the only thing his parents seem to have in common, besides himself, was their complete disinterest in each other. As a child Gidry had often asked questions about his mother. Peer had not seemed to care. As an angry young man, he attempted to taunt his father by writing frequent letters to the woman who had given him birth. He had hoped to stir Peer's wrath, but the older man would not be baited. The level of contact his son wished to have with his mother was completely up to Gidry, his father had declared. It was clear that Peer was not only unconcerned but uninterested.
Other men with unhappy marriages were frequently rumored to seek out the company of women with questionable reputations living on the edges of the respectable community or even those wilder females plying their trade in the saloons and dance halls along the railroad tracks.
Not one whisper of suspicion had ever been leveled at Peer Chavis. And Gidry had had his ear to the ground, listening. His father's seeming near perfection in morals had in many ways been the catalyst for Gidry's youthful wickedness. If his father was above base scandal, Gidry had been determined to revel in it.
&nb
sp; But perhaps his father had not been as perfect as Gidry had believed. Perhaps he had been involved with a woman no one would have thought to suspect.
Aunt Hen?
Gidry gave the idea long, thoughtful consideration, then discarded it. His father might have been susceptible to a fall from grace, but Henrietta Pauling was incapable of the duplicity necessary to carry on a long-term affair in secret.
No, Gidry was certain that when they reminisced together it was as old friends recalling things long past. If they had ever loved, it was long ago in their youth, a love without doubt uncomplicated and unconsummated.
He reached the narrow stairway to his office, tired and ready to shore up the books for the night and head for home. It was strange how the work physically drained him, yet invigorated his soul. His life as a cowboy had been outside in the elements unencumbered by sturdy walls and enclosed rooms. He had thought he loved that about it, but realized now that he loved this feeling of accomplishment even more.
He was smiling to himself when in the dim light, he caught sight of something that was not supposed to be there. What appeared to be a small card lay on the lint-dusted floor beneath his feet. One of the men must have dropped it, he decided as he leaned over to pick it up. They all passed this direction on the way to the door. It undoubtedly slipped out of a bib pocket or a hatband.
It was one of those dirty picture postcards, Gidry realized immediately. He hoped young Sharpy had kept his word and wasn't selling them anymore. Of course, there was no telling how many the little smut peddler had sold in the past.
Gidry started up the stairs, thinking that he would put this one with the rest of the tawdry collection and get rid of the whole stash. He had taken one step up the stairs when he noticed the writing on the back. He stopped still, staring at it in disbelief as he read the words
Sir,
I am in urgent need of a moment alone with you. As
soon as is convenient, please come to me in the quiet
privacy of my home.
Miss Prudence Belmont
Gidry's mouth dropped open. He turned the postcard over once more and glimpsed again the naked female smiling so seductively. What man receiving such an invitation could doubt its meaning? Gidry certainly didn't. Some man, some man in his employ, had received this. He had dropped it accidentally as he was leaving. Most likely he was in such a hurry to claim his prize that he was incautious. Even now he might be sated and satisfied, lying spent between her soft white thighs.
Gidry set his jaw tightly, a surge of jealous anger sweeping through him.
"Damnation!" he cursed aloud.
Knowing she was seeing a man on the sly was one thing. Holding in his own hand the suggestive evidence of their illicit affair was quite another. Gidry sat down on the narrow stairs, reading again the words that were intended only for the lecherous eye of her lover.
Urgent need. Quiet privacy.
She was so bold. It was difficult to imagine. Of course she was very bold and well spoken in general. But a woman like Prudence, he had always been sure, would be submissive and quiet beneath the bedsheets. She had been so shy and sweet. On that long ago night when they had spooned in the garden, she had been virginal and modest. But she had allowed his touch and had been aroused by it. He'd always felt so guilty about the liberties that he'd taken with her. Obviously she was no longer so affronted by the baser needs of humankind.
He shook his head incredulously.
It was one of the men who worked with him. Somehow that made it worse. A faceless lover whom she met in secret was troublesome. But a man that he knew personally. Gidry could hardly fathom it.
One by one he mentally went down the list of the men working at the gin.
Too old, he thought of one.
Too young, another.
Devoted to his wife.
Ruled by his mother.
Too ugly.
Too clumsy.
Too mean.
There was not a man among them, Gidry decided, who was in the farthest stretch of the imagination worthy of Prudence Belmont
He glanced down at the postcard again. The naughty Nellie smiled up at him. What was he thinking, the men were not good enough for her? What kind of woman purposefully chooses to involve herself in secret love affairs when she should rightly be raising children and tending a husband?
She should have married years ago.
She should have fallen in love and wed when she was young.
She had fallen in love. She'd fallen in love with him.
Then she should have married him!
Gidry's brow furrowed. No that was not it. He hadn't wanted her to marry him.
But she should have anyway!
He was so angry. His thoughts so confused.
He slammed his fist against the wall in frustration.
"Ow!" he bellowed. He shook his hand, wincing. He examined the injured knuckles and shook his head.
He didn't understand his feelings. He didn't understand any of it. But he didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.
Chapter Twenty
It's my job, ma'am," Sharpy Kilroy explained for at least the dozenth time. "It's my job. I told him I do it, and I got to keep my word."
"Absolutely not," Pru replied. "I told you no, young man, and that is the end of it."
The two were standing in the milk shed, the last rays of the afternoon sun slanting through the doorway. She had half-led, half dragged the resisting child from the gin back to her home. Though much sheltered in her lifetime, Prudence was not unaware of the baseness and crudity that existed in the world. She understood that no one could be protected from these evils indefinitely, but believed that children should remain children as long as possible. The little boy beside her had perhaps never truly been a child.
"Where on earth do you get all of these things?" she asked, attempting to make order out of the chaos of the room. "And why do you keep them."
She held up a well-worn beaded cinch strap. It was far too old and flimsy to gird adequately any saddle horse.
Sharpy jerked it out of her hand.
"It's pretty, ma'am," he said defensively. "And if s mine."
Prudence shook her head without understanding. How could one little boy with nothing and no one of his own manage to accumulate so much in such a short time? Sharpy had been living in Aunt Hen's milk shed for only a few months, but he had dragged in a wagonload of worthless possessions in that time.
"I'm not about to take them away from you, Milton," she assured him. "I just don't know how you'll manage to have room for everything."
The tiny shed would have been adequately roomy for the narrow cot, small table, and two chairs that Pru had provided. It was extremely overcrowded, with the piles upon piles of whatnots, whatsits, and whatfors that the little boy had acquired wherever. In his own way, he had made the lonely, miserable milk shed his home, and Prudence couldn't fault him for it. Young Sharpy needed a home.
One frosty morning last winter she'd found the little boy sleeping upon her garden bench wrapped only in a worn saddle blanket. Up until that moment she'd never given one thought to the orphaned child of Mabel Merriman and Befuddle Kilroy. She'd assumed, as she supposed the rest of the town did also, that somebody was taking care of him. Milton Kilroy was taking care of himself.
"Whose portrait is this?" she asked, holding up a framed photogram.
"It's my father," the little boy answered, snatching it away from her.
Pru looked at the child, her brow furrowing in worry.
"Milton, that is not your father," she told him firmly.
Sharpy shrugged. "It might be," he answered. "I told you that my mama said Befuddle Kilroy wasn't my real papa. Old Mr. Chavis just arranged for him to marry Mama so I'd have a name."
"Yes."
"So this fellow might be my real father," Sharpy said. "I think he kind of looks like me, don't you think?"
Pru's heart was breaking.
"Not at all," she told him
. "You are much more handsome than this fellow. You have a very strong jaw and a noble brow."
Her words of praise straightened his young shoulders proudly.
"Of course some boys are better looking than their papas," he pointed out.
"Does it mean so much to you, Milton?" she asked. "Does it mean so much to know who your father might have been?"
"Naw, I don't give a da—I mean I don't care for nothing," the boy insisted with plucky self-assurance that wasn't totally genuine. "I just pretend sometimes. I know pretend is a baby game, but I play it once in a while, for fun."
Pru nodded quietly.
"Miss Prudence," the boy interjected quietly, "I don't want to give up my job at the gin."
"Milton, it is not a nice place for a young boy to work," she said.
"But it's the place where I got work," he answered.
"You can find some other job," she told him. "I'll speak to Reverend Hathaway. Perhaps he knows of some other employment."
"I don't wanna work for Reverend Hathaway," Sharpy insisted. "I like Mr. Chavis."
Prudence wasn't surprised. Gidry was the kind of man other men looked up to. It was perfectly natural for him to be the object of a little boy's hero worship, especially so for this little boy.
"Milton, I cannot allow it," she said.
Sharpy's mouth firmed into one stubborn line.
"Miss Prudence, I thank you for all that you've done for me," he told her. "You give me my own place to sleep and food to eat. And I ain't complained much about having to wash nearly every day, or saying prayers or sitting through the reading and writing lessons."
His tone expressed a gravity far beyond his years.
"But Miss Pru, I ain't giving up my job. It's a da—a darn good job and I like doing it. If that means I got to clear out of here, well then, I'd best be about it."
"Milton, where on earth would you go?" she asked.
He didn't have an answer, but it didn't seem to worry him much.
"A steady job is harder to get than a place to sleep," he told her. "Especially when a fellow ain't as big as the rest of the men looking for work."