4
James did the most
unlikely thing of all, fell asleep just after he finished making
love to the girl. Several glasses of wine had made him drowsy. The
girl had let him sleep. She’d felt sorry for him. Not only was this
the first time for him, drinking had also led him to talking about
his old man. James had gotten teary, telling her how much he’d
loved his father; and then he’d fallen asleep. His uncle had paid
for two full hours; she was going to let him take advantage of the
time even if all it meant was lying next to him thinking about her
own parents. Anyway, James was gentle and sweet compared to the
coarse men she was used to. Earlier tonight, for instance, a miner
hadn’t even let her get lubricated. He’d just pushed in, hurting
her. Now, like James, she closed her eyes and dozed.
The gunshot woke him.
He sat straight up in bed, muttering through the mists of sleep and
booze. “What happened?” James said.
Next to him in the
darkness, coming awake, too, the girl said, “I don’t know. I never
heard no gunshot in here before. Something terrible must have
happened.”
Outside the door you
could hear heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor; men cursing
and pulling on their clothes; women saying over and over, “What
happened? What happened?” as they came out of their rooms. It was
like a fire drill.
James pulled on his
own clothes. As he started to leave, the girl grabbed him by the
wrist. “You be careful out there.”
“I will.”
There in the
moonlight, she smiled. She sure wasn’t pretty but he sure did like
her. “I’m glad it was with me, the first time.”
“So am I,” James
said, and squeezed her hand.
The hallway and the
staircase were packed with retreating men. Obviously, nobody who
had to make any pretense of being respectable wanted to be caught
in a whorehouse. The notion now was to get the hell out of
there.
On the way down the
stairs, jostled in among other men, James was gawked at, pointed
at, and smirked at. Old men with white hair and old men with
muttonchops and old men with gold teeth peered at him wondering
what the hell a fresh kid like him was doing there.
All James was
concerned about was Uncle Septemus. Where was he and was he all
right?
But even being pushed
and shoved down the stairs by the crowd, even worried about what
was going on, even sort of hungover from the alcohol… James was
still smilingly aware of tonight’s significance. It wasn’t that he
felt like a man exactly, it was more that he felt as if he’d
learned something, that women, even ones who had to earn their
living pleasing men, were every bit as real and complicated as he
himself was. He’d actually liked the girl upstairs and that to him
was more amazing than making love, which was wonderful and
something he sure wanted to do again, but was not quite the heady
mystical experience he’d assumed it would be after years of
building up fantasies about it. He knew he’d never forget the girl,
and not just because of the physical experience, either, but
because of her rough intelligence and kindness in the face of his
fears and patience in the face of his inexperience.
At the bottom of the
stairs, he found his uncle.
Septemus sat in a
straight-backed chair, so drunk he couldn’t hold up his head, his
six-shooter lying on the floor. You could smell the gun smoke,
acrid even above the whiskey and perfume. The player piano was just
now being turned off. Men were piling out front, side, and back
doors.
The madame, a wiry
little woman in a fancy blue silk dress and a hat that looked like
a squatting porcupine, glared down at Uncle Septemus and said, “Who
knows this sonofabitch anyway?”
“I do.”
She whirled around to
James.
“What'd he do,
ma’m?”
“What’d he do? Why
the sonofabitch started talking about some little girl gettin’
killed or some god damn thing and he went crazy. Started tearin’ up
the room and callin’ out her name and then he started firin’ his
gun!”
“He didn’t hurt the
lady, though?”
“The lady?”
“The girl he was
with.”
She smirked. “Ain’t
used to hearin’ ’em called ladies.” Several of the girls standing
around laughed about this. “No, he didn’t hurt the girl.” She shook
her head. Her anger went abruptly, and something like pity came
into her voice. “Poor god damn bastard. Was it his daughter got
killed?”
“Yes, ma’m?”
“She young?”
“Thirteen.”
“Poor god damn
bastard.”
“Somebody shot
her.”
She shook her head
and sighed. “Get him out of here, kid. The gunshots’ll bring the
sheriff and you don’t want to answer a lot of questions to that
sonofabitch.”
James went over and
got his arm under Uncle Septemus and helped him to his feet.
It was obvious Uncle
Septemus had no idea where he was. Sometimes his head would roll
back and he’d try to focus his brown eyes but he couldn’t. Once he
said “Clarice,” as if she were somewhere around him and he were
waiting for her.
“C’mon, kid, I’ll
help you,” the madame said.
She got them out the
back door and into the night.
There was yellow
lamplight angling out the back door and making the long dusty grass
green. Then the madame closed the door and everything was a rich
dark prairie blue, the moon clear and round, the banking clouds
gray, the elms and oaks and poplars black silhouettes against the
ebony sky.
By the time he
reached the street-four blocks from the hotel- the madame had
turned the player piano on again. On the night air it managed to
sound festive and lonely at the same time.
James dragged Uncle
Septemus back to the hotel. He got sort of underneath him so
Septemus could lay across his back and then he just started
walking, Septemus’s feet dragging in the dust. James was sweaty and
winded and sore in no time but he didn’t stop.
Only once did Uncle
Septemus say anything. He seemed to say “Kill,” and he seemed to
say it two or three times. Then he was unconscious again, James
taking him down alleys to avoid curious lawmen. What did Uncle
Septemus mean by “kill” anyway?