Leaden Skies Page 5

  She leaned back, rocked slightly. “When I was walkin’ here, I heard some folks talkin’. The city marshal’s house got fired up first, they think. Then Flo’s. All the firemen were stuck in the parade for Grant, along with the hoses. By the time they got to State Street, marshal’s house was gone and two more nearby. Flo’s place is pretty much okay, I guess. ’Cept for the back side.” She wiggled her toes out of the boot and sighed in relief. “Don’t matter, really. Miss Flo’s moving uptown pretty soon, to that new place on Fifth.”

  “That means you’ll be makin’ more money, then, right? You’ll be keepin’ company with all them muckety-mucks that got bucks to burn.”

  “Keep your voice down, Zeke. Don’t wake Pa. Anyways, I ain’t goin’ back.” She looked up, daring him to object.

  “Zel! You got to! How’re we gonna take care of Pa?”

  She was tired, itchy, and wanted nothing more than to go in the back, unfold and admire the treasure she had rolled up under the shawl, and then curl up with her beau for a minute. All that just caused her to want to wallop Zeke, just like when they were young ones. Still, she kept her voice low so as to not wake the others in the back room. “You and Zed shoulda thought about that afore you spent all that money you made on the silver strike last winter. Or leastwise you shoulda sent us another letter straightways after the first where you said…Lessee, if I can remember, like the words aren’t burned into my brainpan…‘Dear Pa and Zelpha. Come on out to Leadville, Colorad-y, we’ve struck it rich, we’ve got twenty thousand dollars, and we’re livin’ like silver kings’,” she sang the last two words. “You shoulda sent another letter quick-on, sayin’, ‘Dear Pa and Zelpha. On second thought, don’t bother comin’ out to this place of shit and mud. It snows all-a time and’s colder than a witch’s tit, even in July. And asides we done drunk up all the money and pissed it back out and if’n you come join us, spendin’ every last cent you have to get here, you won’t have enough money to get back home and there’s no place to live but a raggedy old shanty we done built with our own hands and truth t’ tell, dear sister, we were mostly tight and stupid when we put it up and the walls aren’t straight and the wood’s not cured or cut right—’”

  The curtain of canvas that served as a door to the back room pulled back. A voice boomed loud enough to split the roof timbers: “Zelpha, daughter, is that you? Is it the day of worship already?”

  “Gotta pee,” muttered Zeke, and, clutching the front of his long johns as if to shield his tender parts from Zelda’s razor-sharp words, made good his escape out the front door.

  Zelda stood and hurried toward the old man, who, bent and shaky, gripped the canvas hanging under the crooked lintel. “’Mornin’, Pa. No, it ain’t Sunday, but I’ve come to visit anyways.”

  She lowered her face to kiss his cheek, paper-thin crinkly skin beneath a skim of white whiskers. The old man caught her arm before she could move away. “What are you doing here? I thought the butcher only gave you Sundays off.” He shook her arm, sightless eyes staring past her, his nose twitching. “Daughter, there’s the smell of Sodom and Gomorrah about you.”

  Cursing herself for not stopping at a public well to wet the corner of her shawl and clean up, Zelda settled for a half-truth. “Pa, I’m here because somethin’ terrible happened. The place I was workin’, that butcher shop in Malta, burnt down last night. And, well, you know how the butcher was lettin’ me board in the room overhead? I got out, but was lucky to escape with my life. Everything is gone.”

  His sunken cheeks seemed to cave in further. “Oh, daughter.” Sorrow painted his voice. “What’s to happen to us now? But our faith must stay strong. ‘A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.’ You’re a hard worker, daughter, and the Lord will set your foot to further employment. While you search and pray, you stay here. But that young man of yours, it isn’t seemly he be under the same roof while you’re with us.”

  “No, Pa,” she said quickly. “Reuben’s fine for stayin’. He’s got nowhere else to go. And I, I’ve got a place in town. The shopkeeper and his wife. They said they’d let me stay with them. In their house, even, fancy that. You pray for them, Pa. They’re good folks with kind hearts. So all I need is one night here. And then, I’ll be fine.”

  The old man nodded once. “ ‘Every thing that may abide the fire, ye shall make it go through the fire, and it shall be clean.’ The Lord’s showing his displeasure about the coming of that devil’s spawn, Ulysses S. Grant. Blessed be the brave soul who sends him straight to hell and eternal fire and damnation.”

  “Well, Pa, I suppose you know best about that.” She gave him one more peck on the cheek. “Although I heard comin’ home that someone tried to do just that with a barkin’ iron. The man got pinched by the coppers, an’ Grant’s still livin’ and breathin’. Anyhow, let me get you set down comfortable. Zeke’ll get the fire started when he gets back in. I’ll get Zed and Reuben goin’, or they’ll be late for their shift. Then, I’ll make up a mess of grits, just the way you like it, like it’s Sunday for real.”

  After settling the old man in the chair by the stove, she hurried to the back room, silent on stocking feet. Two figures lay, inert on the floor, separated from the small space that held her father’s bed by another strip of canvas strung across the room on a rope. She prodded one figure impatiently with her toes. “Zed!” she whispered. “Get out!”

  “Arr.” The figure rolled over, then sat up. A face the mirror image of Zeke’s, only considerably more hung-over, stared up at her. “Zel? What’re you doin’ here? ’S Friday, not Sunday.”

  “And a workin’ day for you, lazy bones.” She nudged him again, none too gently. “Git out there and git the fire goin’ for Pa. I want to talk to Reuben here.”

  “Yeah, I know the kind of talkin’ you two like t’ do,” grumbled Zed, scrubbing at his sleep-creased face with a grimy hand.

  “Git!”

  He got—standing up with a creak and groan that belied his twenty-three years and hobbling out with canvas trousers half on, suspenders snaking along the floor.

  As soon as he disappeared into the main room, Zelda pulled out her bundle, unrolled it, and spread it on the bed to admire. Even in the early light, the silk taffeta of the dressing gown gleamed softly. Butterflies and bouquets of flowers embroidered in green and melon silk floss and metallic cord were scattered over the field of purple. She quashed the momentary pang of guilt over snatching up the beautiful wrap from its place on the floor just inside Lizzie’s room. Silly twit had gone running outside, dressed in nothing but her shift. Not even any drawers. Not that a whore in the middle of work would necessarily have them close at hand. It’ll look a sight better on me than Lizzie. Zelda stroked the silk aqua lining, ran a finger over one of the frog closures, and imagined herself wearing the regal Chinese gown, bare feet, nothing underneath but the skin God gave her.

  All fired up from her imaginings, Zelda turned from the dressing gown and fell upon the chest of the room’s remaining man, who had just rolled over and propped himself on one elbow, rubbing his eyes.

  She ran her hands up under his shirt and along his ribs. She stuck her tongue in his ear and, when he squirmed, whispered, “Hey, Reuben, ain’t ya happy to see me?”

  He jerked his head back and pushed her exploring hands away. “Stop that. Your hands’re cold.”

  Rebuffed, Zelda rocked back on her heels, examining him at arm’s length. Reuben’s bleary eyes were near hidden behind a tangled greasy curtain of blond hair. His face was pocked with smallpox scars and acne, his features growing into manhood, the boyish qualities disappearing under sharpening cheekbones and lengthening jaw. Swallowing her disappointment at his less-than-romantic greeting, she murmured, “Just thought we’d not waste time.”

  He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I ain’t gonna do you here in your pa’s house.” He kept his voice blessedly low, just a whisper.

  “Well, we might be findin’ it hard to slip a
way anywhere private for a while. Flo’s house is near ruined by the fire on State and anyhow, I quit.”

  “You quit?” Reuben squinted at her. “No more whorin’?” He sounded hopeful.

  “I’m gonna start lookin’ for a real job today.” She sidestepped the fact that she hadn’t actually told Flo yet that she’d quit. Time for that later.

  Zelda plopped her butt on the floor, feeling the cold of the ground seeping straightways from the dirt below, through the planks, through her thin satin skirt and single silk petticoat to her skin.

  “If you’re quittin’, then let’s just run away. I hate bein’ below ground.” Reuben sounded desperate. “Feels like all that rock’s gonna fall on me. It ain’t natural. I’m good with horses. I could get a job as a bullwhacker easy, anywhere. Or haulin’ ore. I could disguise myself so’s no one’d know, grow a beard, dye my hair black.”

  Zelda ran a hand tenderly down the side of his face, refraining from saying the obvious, that it would take him a long, long time to grow a beard thick and long enough to disguise his sullen rawboned aspect. “We done talked about it, Reuben. I can’t leave Pa here, with just my stupid brothers to care for him. And right now, you’re safest workin’ in the mines, with Zeke and Zed. ’Cause out here, aboveground, they’re lookin’ for you on account of murder—”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Reuben’s whisper threatened to crack with his vehemence. “I wasn’t even there!”

  “Shhhh, shhhh,” she soothed him, rubbing his shoulder and arm, gentle-like, like he was a nervous customer come up to get done for the first time. “I know you didn’t kill no one.”

  Reuben put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. “But you’re the only one who believes me, Zelda.”

  Zelda elbowed him away. “Don’t call me that name here at home. It’s Zel or Zelpha. Pa’s only blind, not hard of hearing. And he’s not stupid. He’ll wonder why you’ve got my name all garbled up. Now, get up and get going. If you’re late for your shift at the Silver Mountain Mine, you’ll get fired, sure as shootin’. And you’ll never get another job from any of the mines around these parts. See how easy it’ll be keepin’ a low profile then.”

  His face fell, and he suddenly looked more like the sixteen-year-old he was than the grown man he tried so hard to be.

  Zelda sighed.

  She’d originally told him that she was sixteen herself, slicing off those extra seven years as easy as if they were an unwanted blemish on an apple. She’d been playing the part of a young runaway at Flo’s. Gentlemen callers seemed to like pretending she was young and innocent.

  Or maybe they really thought she was that way.

  It didn’t matter and she didn’t care. The sham allowed Flo to charge a higher price, so they both made more money. Sometimes, with Reuben, Zelda even felt like she was sixteen. But other times she was painfully aware of the difference not only in her and Reuben’s real ages, but in their responsibilities as well. If I were really sixteen, I’d say, “You bet!” when Reuben first asked me to run away, and we’d be halfway to California by now.

  She stood up, the cold of the floor transferring from the backs of her thighs to the soles of her stocking feet. “I promised Pa I’d make grits. You’d better get dressed. You’ve got ten hours mucking ahead, so’s you’d best get going. Zed and Zeke won’t wait, if you look like you’re gonna be late.”

  “Your brothers are crazy,” he muttered, grabbing his trousers and pulling them over his long johns. “They muck all day, come home, drink rotgut, and muck half the night too, so’s I hardly get any sleep anyhow.”

  He glanced toward the corner of the room, at Zelda’s trunk from home. Underneath, Zelda knew, the loose floorboards covered a hole that, aided by a ladder, led straight down twenty feet before bottoming out and wandering in a southwesterly direction to an abandoned mine shaft.

  “Well, they’re hopin’ to strike it rich again.” She crossed her arms. “Had all that money once, and then…Anyhow, you’ve heard Zed. He thinks this shanty’s sittin’ on top of a silver vein, and if they can sneak it out with the owner of that there claim no more the wiser, he’ll never miss it anyhow.”

  The stink of burnt coffee, warmed over, drifted into the room. “Smell’s like Zeke’s got breakfast ready. You’d best get out there if you’re hopin’ to have some afore you go.”

  She looked over at the trunk, thinking of her Sunday best dress, pretty plain, but clean and probably just the ticket for making her look the humble, hard-working, sober young woman she hoped to portray later that day. She moved over to the bed and rolled up the elegant dressing gown, then placed it tenderly in the trunk after pulling out her Sunday dress to let it air. “I gotta clean up once you-all are gone and Pa’s had his breakfast. Then I’m gonna put on my Sunday best from home, some new boots I got from Flo’s, and go find me a job.”

  Reuben pulled the suspenders up over his sweat-stained long john top, foregoing a shirt or waistcoat. “What kind of job, Zel?”

  She gave him a quick peck on the mouth, then said, “Tell you when I get it.” Zelda didn’t say that she had a very specific job in mind. A job she’d seen in one of the local newspapers, listed under “Wanted.” A job that, after much cogitation, she’d decided she could do as well as any man, given half a chance. And if they don’t want to give me the chance, I’ll just have to find a way to change their minds.

  Chapter Eight

  Inez leaned forward in her chair, trying to project earnestness, not the desperation she felt. “Yes, I know this seems impulsive, Mr. Casey, and I’m sorry to have dropped by so early and without an appointment, but I’m truly ready to move forward. And I hope you will help me. There’s no one else I can turn to in this matter of divorce. At least, no one I trust.”

  At the word “divorce,” William V. Casey, Esquire, had steepled his fingers. Then, as if realizing it lent him a judgmental air, he dropped his hands to the leather-bordered blotter on his desk. Unlike at Inez’s previous visit, there was no sunlight captured in his law office this morning. The muted gray of an overcast day filled the room, requiring the lighting of several oil lamps to beat back the uncharacteristic morning gloom. Inez felt as if she were suffocating in a gray land that offered neither absolution nor condemnation, but some indeterminate halfway hell.

  She had decided simply to arrive on the lawyer’s doorstep that early Friday morning, taking a chance that she could talk her way into his office for a quick consultation before his regularly scheduled appointments. She’d certainly caught him before his usual business hours—Inez had spotted a linen napkin, hastily stuffed in his trouser pocket, as if she’d interrupted his breakfast.

  But he’d not complained, and indeed had most graciously ushered her into his office, offered coffee, and then closed the door so they, or rather, she, could talk.

  After Inez ran out of apologies and explanations, he waited a moment, and then said, “Mrs. Stannert, of course I’ll take your case. I told you that I would at our initial consultation, and I’m a man of my word.” He hesitated, then proceeded. “When we met previously, I had the distinct impression—not that my impressions are always correct, granted—that you were going to consider this for a while. In fact, if I’d been a betting man, which generally I’m not, I’d have wagered that you’d not return. Understand, that was just my impression on your leave-taking. As I am to now represent you, I’d like to understand what is the impetus behind your, well, rather abrupt decision to pursue dissolution.”

  His leather chair squeaked on its swivel as he leaned forward over the desk. One of his perfectly manicured hands slid out over the blotter, then stopped short of the polished walnut surface of the desk, almost as if he was attempting to take her hand by proxy. “Of course, whatever you tell me is covered by attorney-client privilege. Your comments are as safe with me as with a priest in a confessional.”

  Recalling the rather loose-lipped impulses of several priests in the habit of imbibing too much
of the blood of Christ during the weekdays, Inez didn’t find his assurance much comfort. Still, I must give him at least part of my reasoning. It’s best if we proceed now, quickly, while the town is caught up with Grant’s visit. Perhaps the divorce could become final without fanfare or notice.

  “What’s to understand?” Inez twisted the gloves in her lap. “Last week, I considered all you said and my circumstances. My husband has been missing for over a year. When we met, you told me a year sufficed for proceeding on grounds of desertion. Correct?”

  Casey nodded.

  Somewhat reluctantly, she thought.

  She continued. “I truly believe he’s dead. When he disappeared, we were making plans to leave Leadville. To sell the business and move to San Francisco. I—we have a small child. William was not even a year old at the time. My husband Mark Stannert doted on him. There was no reason…no suggestion of any…” She held her breath for a moment, trying to force calm into her shaking hands and curb her fluttering heart where it beat against her corset lining like a panicked moth against a pane of glass.

  She let her breath out slowly, and started again. “I can think of no reason why he would simply walk off. Yet, since I cannot prove he is dead, I have no recourse if I wish to get on with my life other than to divorce a ghost. I’ve lived with this agony long enough. So, how do we start?”

  Casey had been studying her closely as she rattled on.

  She saw doubt there. He suspected she was holding something back, she knew. Still, how hard would he push her, a frantic woman, who was begging him to take up her cause? This is what he does for a living. He will surely not throw away this chance for an easy case. There’s no one to contest the divorce. No one to object.