A Basket of Wishes

by Rebecca Paisley

  Where was Roman Montana?

  “There now, Theodosia dear,” John the Baptist squawked from within his cage. “Here’s a nice cup of hot tea.”

  At her parrot’s words, Theodosia felt another heat wave shimmer through her. John the Baptist had repeated what he heard Lillian say every afternoon at precisely three o’clock. While Theodosia realized her bird didn’t understand what he was saying, his suggestion was unbearable at this moment.

  “One sugar today, Theodosia, or two?” the parrot continued with his tea talk.

  Theodosia frowned. “That’s quite enough out of you, John the Bap—”

  “Impatience is an emotion that is rarely advantageous,” the bird stated. “Would you like cream in your tea as well, Theodosia, dear?”

  Ignoring the loquacious parrot as best she could, Theodosia patted her moist brow with her lacy handkerchief and studied her surroundings.

  Wagons crowded the dusty street that separated the depot platform and the train station. A drunken man wove among the vehicles. With each faulty step, he spilled whiskey from the bottle he clutched in his hand. As he neared Theodosia, he stopped and scratched his crotch.

  “Sir,” she said, pinning him with a sharp look, “it must be close to one hundred degrees out here. Did you know that drinking alcohol raises the body temperature? You are out in this hot sun and drinking whiskey as well. Is it your intention to kill yourself?”

  The man blinked several times, then raised his bottle. “Y’on’t some?”

  She drew away. “No.”

  Shrugging, he staggered back through the wagons, still digging at his crotch.

  Dismissing the vulgar man from her mind, Theodosia scanned the area once more. A dog with a scarred ear barked at her. Nearby horses stomped their hooves, then sneezed as dust floated into their nostrils. Bags and trunks slammed onto the platform as a station employee flung them from the train. A street hawker selling flasks of an elixir for fatigue called out his prices to her. Someone shouted, “Go to hell, you damned son of a bitch!”

  Theodosia shook her head. “Ah, these must be the sweet sounds of Texas.” Lips pursed in distaste, she stepped off the platform and made her way across the street. Mr. Roman Montana could look for her all week; she’d had enough of waiting outside in the torrid heat.

  The interior of the train station wasn’t much cooler, but at least its roof kept the sun from beating down on her. Trash, cockroaches, and sleeping cowboys littered the hardwood floor, and the walls were covered with flies, train schedules, outdated Wanted posters, and lopsided paintings. One painting was of a seminude woman; someone had sketched a beard on her face and a bolt of lightning across her bare breast. In the far corner two old men played checkers. One was smoking a cigar and dropping ashes all over the playing board; his opponent kept blowing them off.

  Theodosia’s distinguished life in Boston suddenly seemed a million miles away.

  After a moment she spotted a refreshment bar and hurried toward it. “I’d like a cold lemonade, please,” she said, setting the bird cage on the counter.

  The barkeep stared at her thoughtfully, his long black moustache twitching as he chewed his wad of tobacco. “Well now, little lady, I reckon you would like a cold lemonade, but I ain’t got nary a lemon left.” He paused a moment to dig at some dried food encrusted within the pair of initials someone had carved into the wooden bar. “’Spect I won’t be gittin’ no more fer at least another week. They come from Mexico, y’know. Lemon trees don’t grow good here.”

  Theodosia winced at his atrocious grammar. “They don’t grow well here.”

  “Yeah, I know. Wonder why?”

  “It’s not a suitable climate, but that’s not what I was trying to… You see, sir, you said lemons don’t grow good here. You should have said they don’t grow well. And while ain’t was once an acceptable word, it isn’t any longer. Oh, and you’ve a fondness for using double negatives.”

  “That so?” He moved his chaw of tobacco to the hollow of his other cheek. “You from England?”

  “England, sir?”

  “You talk like them London folk. You a teacher over there? Can you speak in them furrin tongues?”

  “I am not from England, sir, but from Boston. Nor am I a teacher. My brother-in-law, Upton Peabody, however, is a professor at Harvard. I have been under his tutelage since I was five years old, and yes, he has given me extensive instruction in many languages.”

  “Harvard, y’say?” Rubbing his grizzled chin, the barkeep nodded slowly. “That’s somewhere in Floridy, ain’t it?” He paused to glower at a man demanding service a short distance away. “Shet your trap, mister! I’ll git to ya when I’m damn well ready to git to ya!”

  Theodosia’s eyes widened. “The man is probably as thirsty as I am. I’ll have a glass of cold tea and leave you to attend to the rest of your customers.”

  The barkeep retrieved a glass from a shelf beneath the bar and began wiping it with his apron. “I had me a teacher when I was a young’un, but she packed up and moved on when me and Gubb Siler filled her desk drawer with a mess o’ jest-hatched rattlers. I ain’t had much schoolin’, but I ain’t dumb. No, siree, I’m smarter’n most folks figger. I once readed a whole book from back to front. Won’t never do it again, on account o’ all that readin’ give me a headache that liked to never go away. Ain’t got no tea, ma’am. Bugs got in it. I usually jest pick them bugs out and serve the tea right up, but this time there was jest too many.”

  Theodosia glanced at her watch and realized it had taken him almost three whole minutes to address the subject of the tea. Interested in such oral meandering and knowing that Upton’s interest would equal hers, she withdrew her writing materials from her reticule and jotted down a reminder to contemplate the possible reasons behind the man’s digressive discourse.

  “Whatcha writin’, ma’am?”

  She slipped the paper and pencil back into her handbag. “A note. Sir, plain water will do, thank you.”

  He poured her a glass of water. “Ain’t cold. I had to give my ice to Doc Uggs on account o’ ole Sam Tiller’s got him a fever that won’t git brung down fer nothin’. Doc Ugg’s got Sam packed in ice. I don’t reckon Sam’s got much of a chance, though. If the fever don’t kill him, he’ll freeze to death. Purty bird ya got there, ma’am. What with his gray body and bloodred tail, he looks like a piece o’ fire embers. Howdy, bird.”

  “Ole Sam Tiller’s got him a fever,” the parrot declared. “Howdy, bird.”

  The barkeep’s mouth dropped open; his wad of tobacco fell out and hit the floor with a loud splat. “He—he talks! And I’ll be damned if he don’t know ole Sam Tiller!”

  Warming to the friendly man, Theodosia smiled. “He doesn’t know Mr. Tiller. He merely repeated what he heard you say about the man. His talent is extraordinary, even for a bird of his species. Most of them must hear a word or statement many times before they are able to repeat it. Of course, I’ve worked with mine for incalculable hours.”

  The barkeep gave a slow nod. “What kind o’ bird is he?”

  “A Psittacus erithacus.”

  “Piss what?”

  “A Psittacus erithacus, which is the scientific name for an African gray. Of all the species of parrots, African grays are quite the most impressive mimics.”

  “Uh, yeah,” the barkeep mumbled. “I think I readed that somewhere.” He stuck his finger into the parrot’s cage.

  “Be careful,” Theodosia warned. “The sharp angle of his jaw muscles on the bones that close his bill combine to create one of nature’s most powerful crushing mechanisms.”

  “What?”

  “He can bite your finger off,” she translated, collecting her belongings. “Good day to you, sir, and thank you ever so much for the highly interesting conversation and the water. I feel totally refocillated now. That is, I am completely refreshed,” she added upon seeing his frown of confusion. “Say good-bye, John the Baptist.”

  The parrot flapped a wing. “I’m s
marter’n most folks figger. Say good-bye, John the Baptist.”

  Theodosia left the astonished barkeep and crossed to the ticket window, determined to begin an intense search for Roman Montana. “Sir,” she said to the ticket clerk, “I am to meet a man by the name of Roman Montana. He’s tall and has long black hair and blue eyes. Have you seen anyone fitting that description? Perhaps he has inquired about my whereabouts? My name is Theodosia Worth.”

  The clerk pushed his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “Welcome to Oates’ Junction, Miz Worth. Name’s Tark. You from England?”

  “Boston. Mr. Tark—”

  “I thought England. Y’talk kind o’ funny, like them London furriners. It’s fancy talk, though. Meant that as a compliment. Tark’s my first name, Miz Worth. Damn flies.” He reached for a stack of papers, rolled them into a tube, and began swatting flies. Only after he’d killed about a dozen did he speak again.

  “Last name’s Krat. Tark, ya see, is Krat spelled back’ards. Mama figgered that out when I was two days old and thought it was right cute. Ain’t that funny? So y’say you’re lookin’ fer Roman Montana, huh?”

  Theodosia felt more eager than ever to discover the reasons behind this circumlocutory conversation.

  “The man’s name sounds a mite familiar,” the clerk informed her, swiping at smother fly. “He’s pro’bly done some work ’round here, or somethin’. Nobody’s asked about ya, though. Is Roman Montana a drinkin’ man, ma’am?”

  “A drinking man?” She gave him a thoughtful look. “What do his drinking habits have to do with my searching for him?”

  Her question gave him pause. “Well, ma’am, if he likes his whiskey, y’might find him over at the saloon, don’tcha think? Head on out that side door over yonder and stay stuck to the windin’ path. You’ll pass a horse paddock, a mound o’ salt licks, and then a purty little patch o’ bluebonnets. After y’pass the purty little patch o’ bluebonnets, the main street’ll be dead ahead o’ you.”

  He pushed his spectacles back up again. “The main street’s lined with buildin’s. Saloon’s the third one on the left. But if ya don’t find your Roman Montana there, don’t go to frettin’, hear? He’ll be along sooner or later.”

  Theodosia hoped it would be sooner. But hoping was like wishing, and wishing was a useless pastime. “And may I leave my baggage here, sir?”

  “Oh, shore, shore. Bags don’t git stole from here but about once a month, and one was jest stole yesterday, so I reckon another month’ll pass afore one gits stole again.”

  Trying to take comfort in his disturbing reassurance, Theodosia exited the station. Once outside, she removed John the Baptist from his cage and slipped a glittering collar around his neck.

  Leashed, the bird waddled alongside his mistress as she proceeded into town.

  Within moments, Theodosia stood in front of a building with a sign that said Shit’s Saloon. She realized someone had tampered with one of the sign’s letters and that the name of the saloon was Smit’s Saloon. Patting the side of her bonnet, she approached the swinging doors.

  A round of gunfire exploded from within the establishment, and two brawny men came flying out. They slammed onto the boardwalk, then rolled into the dirt street, where they continued the brawl they’d begun inside the saloon.

  Frightened by the loud ruckus, John the Baptist let out a high-pitched, long-winded squawk. Before Theodosia could reach for him, he had pulled his head out of the collar and scrambled down the boardwalk, his escape accelerated by his intermittent bouts of flying.

  Frantic, Theodosia chased him, but the bird took a zigzag course that included dodging beneath low-lying fence posts and shrubbery. In no time, John the Baptist had scooted out of town, leaving a puff of dust in his wake.

  Still giving chase, Theodosia saw her parrot head straight for a horse and rider who were just arriving in town. “Stop!” she screamed at the man on the silver steed. “Stop immediately! You’re going to injure my parrot! Please—”

  Her shout died away when John the Baptist left the ground and flew directly into the huge gray horse’s chest. The skittish stallion reared suddenly, pitching his rider into an enormous pile of discarded stable flooring that lay on the side of the road.

  Knowing the man’s landing into the soft odorous heap couldn’t have hurt him, Theodosia raced past him, still intent on catching John the Baptist.

  The fallen rider started to rise, but fell back again when a flurry of blue skirts swiped him full across his face. Disbelieving, he watched the young woman weave along the dusty road in an effort to overtake the hysterical bird.

  Anger curled through him, as well as a hint of embarrassment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been flung off a horse, and he’d certainly never been thrown into a smelly mountain of horse manure.

  He rose to his feet. While he brushed off his clothes, the squawking bird scurried toward him.

  Theodosia gasped in astonishment as the man scooped up her parrot with one smooth motion. “Oh, thank you!” she gushed, holding up her arms to receive her bird.

  The man did not relinquish the parrot. Lifting it higher, he stared up at it.

  John the Baptist stared back. “Would you be willing to impregnate me?”

  The man’s forehead furrowed into a deep scowl. “What the hell—”

  “Sir, please relinquish my bird to me,” Theodosia asked. “He’s unaccustomed to strenuous movement in such sultry heat.”

  He decided she was from one of those northeastern cities, where people dressed real fancy just to sit on little satin sofas and drink hot tea. People from there talked as she did, with a clipped accent sharp enough to slice leather if put to the test.

  “Sir,” Theodosia continued, “I must take prompt measures to provide my parrot with a cool place in which to reconcile himself to this change of environment.”

  He frowned in bewilderment. “What?”

  “He must rest.”

  “Lady, I’ve got a good mind to put this damned bird to rest for all of eternity!”

  Theodosia peered up into eyes so blue, they defied description. One moment they appeared turquoise; in the next they rivaled the clear true blue of cornflowers.

  The intensity of his gaze caused a fluttering sensation inside her. It warmed her, tickled a bit, and quickened her breath and heartbeat. Disturbed by the unfamiliar feelings, she bowed her head for a moment to seek composure and found herself staring at the lower part of his anatomy.

  “What are you gawking at?” he demanded.

  She continued to stare, completely unable to stop herself. “I am astonished by the size of your vastus lateralis, vastus intermedius, and vastus medialis. Why, even your sartorius is clearly defined and equally amazing.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about, but he saw that she’d directed her total attention to the area below his belt.

  He felt a profound urge to drop his hands to his groin.

  But he didn’t. He still held her bird and wasn’t about to take the risk of being turned into a eunuch by a pecking parrot. “Here, take your stupid bird.”

  His command snapped Theodosia out of her deep state of contemplation. Quickly, she slid John the Baptist out of the man’s hands. “Your irritation toward my parrot is totally unjustified. He can in no way be held accountable for the fall you took. Apparently, you don’t ride well. Riding requires superb equilibrium, something you obviously do not possess. Moreover, I refuse to believe you are injured. Your little tumble was cushioned by that mass of—”

  “My little tumble never would have happened if that feathered maniac hadn’t scared the hell out of my—”

  “Feathered maniac?” Theodosia clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Sir, that is a very poor choice of words. You may not refer to a bird as a maniac.”

  He gaped at her. “I may not?”

  “No. The word maniac is used for humans only. And I will have you know that my bird is an African gray, a species of parrot that is very muc
h admired throughout the civilized world.”

  “Oh, of all the—I don’t care if that feathered maniac’s a Japanese purple, my word choices are none of your blasted business! And you’ve got some damned nerve telling me I can’t ride, lady.” He swiped his hat from the stone-peppered road. “I can’t remember a single day of my life when I haven’t mounted a horse!”

  “My goodness, sir, you are becoming crazed.”

  “I’m crazy? All I was doing was riding into town! You’re the one who was running all over the place chasing a pampered parrot and correcting people’s word choices!”

  Theodosia walked into the shade beneath a towering oak.

  Through narrowed eyes the man watched her. Her gently rounded hips swayed, and her dark blue traveling suit hugged her tiny waist and rustled around what he guessed were long, slender legs.

  He could see nothing of her breasts; her damned bird snuggled against her chest. And since he’d been too angry to notice her bosom before, he couldn’t remember if it was small, or the big and full kind he liked.

  Liked? He didn’t like this woman at all. Even if she did have big full breasts, he wasn’t going to like her.

  Still, he mused, he didn’t have to like her to appreciate her looks. Indeed, in his opinion big full breasts had a lot to do with the one and only thing women were good for.

  “Your quick temper is interesting, sir,” Theodosia announced abruptly, her skirts brushing across thick patches of bluebonnets and orange-red Indian paintbrush. “Oh, I realize that falling into a hill of reeking fertilizer is far from a pleasant experience, but you became instantly livid. So much so that I wondered if some form of cicuration would be necessary.”

  So intently was he watching her, he barely heard her. But after a moment of thought, he realized what she’d said. His eyes widened to such an extent, his eyelids ached. “Good God, do all northern women go around threatening men with castration?”

  She cocked her head slightly. “Whatever are you talking about, sir? I said nothing at all about castration.”