by Jill G. Hall
Right when they’d finished their work, snow fell and continued all afternoon. They sat by the fire. She tatted, and he smoked his pipe. They didn’t say much.
That night, certain Cliff had fallen asleep in the barn, she lit the lantern. The loot was probably with him, but it would be worth a try to search high and low in the cabin for the money: every shelf in the cabin cupboards, under her bed; she even rolled up the carpet and checked for a hole. But she found nothing. She’d have to go ahead and leave without it.
Bundled up in the clothes he’d given her, Sally Sue held her basket and stepped out onto the porch. Darkness contrasted with the white snow below. The frozen pond shimmered as if candlelight shone across it. Sally Sue’s eyes drifted above. The lights were only the reflection of pinprick stars in the dark sky. The moon hadn’t risen yet.
She wished she could reach up, pull down a star, and toss it into the barn, explode it like a Civil War cannon. Way out here, no one would know if she killed Cliff while he slept inside the barn and set it on fire in a burst of hot flames. Then she’d be free to go home.
She paused. As frightening as he was, had he really harmed her? He had given her clothes and food. Did he deserve to die? Would God forgive her?
Her feet crunched in the snow, and she searched for the horse trail that the buckboard had made the day before, but the evening snow had covered it. She shivered with cold.
On their way in, she hadn’t seen any other cabins for miles. It didn’t matter. She just had to get away. She hoped she could find her way back to town. There, she’d go straight to Sheriff Mack and convince him Cliff was the wanted man. The sheriff would come out and capture him, and she’d be safe.
They could contact her ma, and she’d send money for a ticket. Or the McMillans at the mercantile might hire Sally Sue until she made enough. She was good with figures. She’d never had a real job. Plus, she’d be able to see that delightful young Isaiah again. She’d like that.
Wisps of clouds escaped from her mouth. She tightened the shawl over her head, wrapped her arms around her chest, and kept pace to warm herself and let her imagination keep her company while she slogged along.
Perhaps she’d become a saloon girl and wear a colorful outfit like the women she’d seen. How hard could it be? She could carry a tune and do dance steps. She’d seen the way that one girl in the green corset had flirted with Cliff, blinking her eyelashes and smiling. Sally Sue could do that too.
She’d had such a crush on Johnny Jones, and he’d smiled at her in a special way—at least, when his ma wasn’t around. It would be a challenge, though, to be a coquette with the dirty men she’d seen in town. Maybe if she pretended the men were Johnny, she could do it—wiggle her shoulders forward and back, tilt her head, and laugh at their jokes, maybe even touch a hand.
She’d observe what the other women did and follow their lead. God wouldn’t think she was a sinner. It didn’t count, because she was in a desperate situation and she really had no choice if she was going to survive.
Sally Sue remembered the way that girl had looked at Cliff. Possibly, he had known her before, or maybe she just considered him appealing. Sally Sue couldn’t blame her. On the train, before Sally Sue realized he was the man who’d held a gun to her chest, she’d also thought he was handsome.
Even though she was uncertain of her destination, she kept putting one boot in front of the other. As she crossed the hoarfrost-sprinkled bridge, she had to concentrate in order not to slide and fall. On the other side, her body began to warm, and her tension eased. Maybe she really could get away.
She could see the path more clearly as a crescent moon began to rise, but soon dark clouds covered the sky. In the afterglow, snowflakes began to fall and sparkled like sequins. Within minutes, the snow fell more fiercely. Her clothes were soaked through, and her teeth chattered. She wanted to take shelter beside a boulder under a pine, but if she stopped, she could freeze to death.
At least that would be better than being killed by Cliff. Her body ached; she imagined crawling onto the ground and letting the snow cover her. She’d just stay there until she died. But she kept trudging along, until finally her knees buckled.
18
Collapsed on the ground, shivering to the bone, covered in snow, Sally Sue was sure she was going to die. She might as well. She had nothing to live for anyway.
As she lost track of time and space, the world smelled of cold. Her mind slashed through blurred childhood memories: her father’s kind face smiling at her, Kansas City folks’ disparaging glances and sneering faces, Ma’s twisted grimace and echoing rebukes—“Sally Sue, our miserable life is all your fault.”
Snow continued to fall. Had God really chosen this time to take her? Was he punishing her for wanting to kill Cliff, or for some earlier transgression, and that was why she was the one Cliff had held at gunpoint in the bank?
Preparing to die, she silently began to recite the 23rd Psalm: The Lord is my shepherd . . .
She started to lose consciousness.
The sound of slushing snow moved toward her. She hunkered down to meet her maker. A horse neighed. A hand touched her back.
“Are you a lunatic? You could have died out here!” Cliff hollered. He bundled Sally Sue in a blanket, rubbed her body to rekindle the warmth within it, and loaded her onto the horse, then climbed behind her and put his arms around her. She leaned her body into him and saw black.
As her eyes fluttered open, deep, unrememberable dreams enshrouded her mind in cobwebs. Dim light entered through the windows. How long had she been asleep? Why was she so weak? Recollections of snow falling on her back stirred the edges of her consciousness.
She shivered despite the mile of blankets piled atop her and the fire roaring in the hearth. His back to her, Cliff stirred a pot on the stove. He rummaged through the shelf of supplies, sprinkled in this and that. The smell of baking sweetness filled the air. He turned. She quickly closed her eyes and soon fell back to sleep.
Later, his hand touched her shoulder. “Welcome back to the living.”
As hard as she tried, her tongue wouldn’t form words. She blinked at him and attempted to sit up, but she collapsed back underneath the covers. She tried to wiggle her fingers, but they wouldn’t budge. He grabbed her hands, rubbing, and blew his hot breath on them. She laid her head back and felt sensation begin to return. An “ah” escaped her lips.
He let go of her hands. “Here. Give me your feet.”
They were numb. She slid her legs to the side, realized she was stark naked under the covers, and stared at him. She felt herself blush.
“Don’t worry—it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He picked up the nightgown lying on the floor and handed it to her.
She crawled deep under the blankets and slid it on.
At the hearth, from a cauldron on a swinging arm, he filled a teacup with his cooking concoction and came at her with a spoon.
Even though it smelled delicious, she shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” Maybe she should just starve herself to death.
“For goodness’ sake, girl. You’re as stubborn as a mule. Eat up—you need your strength.”
“For what?” She’d found her voice.
His eyes turned stormy blue. He approached her with the spoon again and said softly, “For whatever cotton-picking thing destiny has in store for you.”
She’d better not make him angry. There was no telling what he might do. She opened her mouth, let him slide the spoon inside, and held the deliciousness on her tongue. She closed her eyes: apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, molasses. What was that last ingredient?
She paused. She opened her eyes and glared at him. Rum. How could he? Even so, the apple concoction was the best darn thing she’d ever tasted. She accepted the cup, dipped the spoon in, and took another bite. It sure did warm her. Cliff filled her cup again, and she had to force herself not to gobble it down.
“Aren’t you gonna thank me?” He put his hands on his hips and smiled.
> “What for?” she squeaked out.
“For saving your life.”
She glowered. “I wish you’d just let me die out there.”
“You fool!” His voice was as hard-edged as his knife. He stomped out the door, slammed it, and left her alone in the cabin.
He was right—she was a fool. She should have put more effort into escaping when they were in town, or should have told someone there that he’d kidnapped her. Feeling hopeless, she drifted in and out of sleep all afternoon, sensing his dark presence as he added logs to the fire.
She was too frail to get out of bed; it took all day for her body to thaw out. She’d lost track of time and presence and didn’t even know what day it was. It didn’t matter, because she had nowhere to go. Her leaden heart rusted within her chest as her last hope of escape perished. She raised her hand to brush away tears.
She jolted when Cliff’s hand touched her shoulder again, rousing her. It was light outside now. “Is it morning?” she asked.
“Yes. You need to get your strength back. Eat again.”
He must have hunted down a varmint, because the aroma of cooking meat filled the cabin. He handed her a bowl and spoon. She ate a few bites of the tasty stew and fell back to sleep again.
She awoke in the night. Darkness hovered as wind screamed down the peaks and circled the rough-hewn cabin walls. Hunched in bed, she felt waves of sorrow, loneliness, and fear sweep over her. She couldn’t get up to stoke the dying fire. She missed the blanket her grandmother had crocheted for her the year before she passed, longed for the soft feel of the yarn on her chin.
Why was Cliff being so kind—feeding her, keeping her alive? Maybe he wanted her healthy so he could have that one thing Ma said men wanted. Cliff might be not really asleep in the barn but waiting outside to pounce on her at any moment. Every creak made her heart race.
How would she find the courage to go on, a captive in a strange land with a strange man who could at any moment enter the cabin and ravish her? It truly would have been better if he had just let her die.
Sally Sue had no choice but to accept the situation and resigned herself to abide by Cliff. She’d wait until spring before she tried to escape again. Even then, he’d probably track her down. She’d have to look over her shoulder wherever she went.
19
Anne slid the last photograph into her portfolio sleeve with a smile. It had taken six weeks for the museum to schedule the interviews, and finally tomorrow was the day. She considered taking a small original piece or two with her as well but thought it might be overkill.
She had continued to teach at the museum. The board member’s horseshoes had been delivered the other day, and Anne planned to teach the mosaic lesson to her students next week. At home, the sky painting was really coming along, she let go of perfectionism, and remembered not to be a slave to the photo.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Sergio. It was a cute emoji of a guy who looked just like him, pointing and saying, You got this!
She sent Sergio back a thanks and a smiley-face emoji. He called often, but she still tried to keep her distance.
The morning after their Top of the Mark night, he had kissed her goodbye and said, “Amore mio, grazie for una notte meravigliosa.”
She’d kissed him back. “Remember, this doesn’t mean we’re back together.”
He’d whispered in her ear, “I know. I’ll keep in touch anyway.”
She yawned. She’d been so tired lately. She searched through her closet. Should she dress like an artist? She tried on her blue dress, sighed, and texted Fay.
Anne: I’m nervous about the interview tomorrow.
Fay: Don’t worry, you’ll wow the nickers off them.
Anne: What should I wear?
Fay: New blue dress is smashing.
Anne: It’s a little snug today. Why had she been feeling so bloated lately? She had been going to yoga and drinking a lot of smoothies. Maybe it was her time of the month. She thought back; she was a little late.
Fay: Put on some Spanx.
Anne: Lol. You know I’m not that kind of girl. Thanks again for that glowing reference.
Fay: It’s all true.
Anne: I don’t feel qualified.
Fay: Rubbish!
Anne: What do you think they’ll ask me?
Fay: Fredricka’s on the panel. Want me to check with her?
Anne: No! That would feel like cheating?
Fay: Not really. Maybe write out sample questions and practice answers.
Anne: Great idea.
Fredricka, Fay’s boss and the Gallery Noir owner, collected Anne’s work and was always supportive to her. It was wonderful that she was sitting on the panel.
Fay: Keep your answers short and to the point. Don’t ramble.
Anne: Do I ramble?
Fay: Sometimes when you’re gobsmacked about a project, you get carried away. Keep in mind not all committee members are artists, so don’t overwhelm them with lingo. Want me to come over and practice with you? I could leave work early.
Anne: No, that’s okay.
Fay: I know you’ll wow them.
Anne really hoped so.
She dialed her mom. “Hi. I’ve got the museum residency interview tomorrow; what do you think I should wear?”
“You can’t go wrong with a power outfit: white blouse under a navy jacket.”
“Are pants okay?”
“Wear something comfortable, but not sweats.” Her mom laughed. “Fitted slacks are fine. And accessorize with a colorful scarf. I don’t want to be critical, dear, but please leave your backpack at home.”
“Why?”
“It’s not professional. It doesn’t say, ‘I can do this.’”
Anne returned to her closet and saw the corset outfit. She should just wear that. It would wow them for sure. Dry-cleaning it had cost a pretty penny, but if she’d washed it by hand, it might have lost some of its shape. Even after she’d brought it home and tried it on, the memory of her gross mistake with Barn lingered, so she’d lit some white sage and cleansed the green silk.
She considered her black velvet coat for luck, but that would be too much. Instead, she pulled out an old navy-blue jacket. She tried on three blouses and chose the white one that fit best, even though it had underarm stains. Thrift-shop, elastic-waist polyester pants and wingtips from her valet-parking days would do. She chose a flamingo-pink vintage scarf and an old lady–style leather purse her mother had sent for Anne’s birthday. She laid the ensemble over the kitchenette so it would be ready for the morning.
Anne curled on the daybed with her journal to brainstorm questions and answers:
Tell us about your artistic path.
1. BA in studio art
2. Sold canvases at farmers’ markets
3. Group show at Gallery Noir
4. Solo show at Gallery Noir
5. Teaching position at SFMOMA
Why are you the best candidate for this residency?
1. Love SFMOMA
2. Have teaching experience
3. Am creative
4. Can interact well with people
She was so much more qualified than Karl. He probably hadn’t even passed the paper screening. She’d seen him around. He had been volunteering in the museum gift shop. He used to come in and bug her in the classroom until she told him to leave her alone or she’d tell Priscilla. Anne hadn’t seen him for a while.
She’d do another sample question. She closed her eyes, breathed in and out. Pen in hand, she wrote:
What is your artist statement?
I’m an intuitive artist who is inspired to work from my heart and not my mind. As I create I breathe, get into the zone, and lose myself in the process. My collages are inspired by nature, architecture, and cityscapes. I use found objects to make my mosaics. I believe everyone is an artist and can be guided to achieve a sense of fulfillment through the process of creating art.
At two o’clock in the morning, Anne awoke feeling que
asy, and her chest burned like bitter rain. She hoped she was just nervous about the interview and hadn’t caught Penny’s flu. She fluffed her pillow and tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t.
She dumped two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar in a glass, added water, and stirred. That usually did the trick after she’d eaten too much pizza or greasy food. She put the glass to her lips, but the stench made her rush to the bathroom and throw up. She’d always been sensitive to smells, but vinegar had never done this to her before.
She made herself a cup of chamomile tea and added a little honey. She felt rotten.
At sunrise, she finally fell back to sleep.
20
Anne overslept by an hour. She’d planned to walk but now would have to take a Lyft. She threw on the clothes, clutched her portfolio and nerdy purse.
Mrs. Landenheim stepped out her door. “Look!”
“Sorry, I’m running late.” Anne glanced at the cupped hands her landlady held toward her.
Anne paused and fingered the soft black back of the furry kitten. “How cute!”
“Just got her last night.”
Anne pulled herself away. “Bye. I’ve gotta go!”
In the car she ate a PowerBar, worked on her hair, and applied lipstick. She sprinted down the museum halls, but when she arrived at the conference room out of breath and ten minutes past her time slot, the door was closed. They must be running late too. She could hear voices coming from inside, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She plopped heavily in the chair placed across from the door and slid her portfolio underneath. She drummed her hands on her knees, squirmed, and folded her hands. Why hadn’t she brought her lucky key from the altar? She closed her eyes and visualized a white light of success surrounding her. I am beautiful, I am strong, I am happy. I am the best artist in San Francisco. I am the best person for the residency.
