What Frees the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  “Mr. Finch gave it to me when I asked for it.” What a memory Pa had! He’d hardly’ve thought being on the other end of that strap would stick in the memory as well as Tom’s end of it. Was that part of what being a father meant? He’d have to ponder that some time.

  Seeing as he’d never used the swivel knife before, he should’ve kept another scrap to practice on. Thinking ahead maybe wasn’t his strong suit. With a sigh, he cut a long thin strip off his piece of leather and started teaching himself. At first even his straight lines wouldn’t stay straight, let alone an even thickness, but it didn’t take too long for him to get that right. Next came curves — he’d need plenty of curvy lines for Jenny! That thought got him remembering, which heated him up to where it got distracting. He went out to the pump and splashed cool water on his face, then got back to work.

  When he’d used up most of the strip and figured he was as good at this as he’d be getting, he smoothed out his main piece of leather again. He maybe shouldn’t draw lower’n her shoulders after all, seeing as her dress had showed more than a regular girl’s would. Or he could draw the dress different, but that’d be a sort of lying.

  He drew her face first, heart-shaped even to the bit of a point to her chin, with the dimple he’d noticed every time she smiled. He puzzled over how to show her nose with its tilted-up end, all too aware that once he set tool to leather for it, there’d be no rubbing out any wrong moves. But it was getting late, and him getting tired, so he finally made a few thin lines suggesting it and moved on to her eyes. There was no chance of drawing them pretty enough, but he showed them big and wide open, with the long lashes that might get help from some sort of paint. He tried to use a light touch on the eyebrows — better to have them a little thinner’n life than to make them too thick and frowny.

  Jenny’s smile was another tricky task. Better to give her upper lip more of a Cupid’s bow than make it too flat. Then shape the lower lip to match, kind of plump, like she was ready to kiss someone.

  He had the most fun drawing her hair, which didn’t have to be exactly the way she wore it so long as it was long and full and wavy. That left only her neck and the top line of her shoulders. And then, finally, he was done and could fall into bed.

  He slid the drawing under his bed where no one would happen on it, and fell asleep before he could notice how long it took.

  Tom made a point of showing up early the next morning, so’s he could clean the swivel knife and leave it where Finch would be sure to see it. He’d hoped Finch would forget about his suspicions of caricatures or whatever else, but no such luck. When Finch turned up, he first took the tool out into sunlight so’s he could check it every which way and make sure it wasn’t dirty or somehow damaged, and then put out his hand toward Tom. “And now let’s see what you used it for.”

  Tom pulled the piece of leather out and showed it to Finch, keeping a grip on one edge. Finch leaned over it and laughed. “Well, that’s sure no picture of me! Pretty thing, ain’t she? Who is she?” Then his grin twisted toward a leer. “I’d bet my boots you went to Mamie’s, like that cowboy wanted you to. So she’s one of the shakes there? I could use me some o’ that, sure enough.”

  Tom tugged the leather back away from Finch and turned away to hide the look he could feel on his face. Finch laughed again. “Don’t be getting sweet on her, now! If it ain’t me next, it’ll be someone else, and another after that.”

  Tom stomped over to the hide bucket without looking back. “I’d better get to work.”

  On his way home, Tom stopped at Doc Gibbs’ office. He didn’t recall which days Doc saw patients there, but if today wasn’t one, he’d try the house next. Doc was there, in fact, and looked up as Tom came in, his forehead wrinkled up in concern. “Well, good evening, Tom. Is your stump giving you trouble, with all that walking to and from Finch’s shop?”

  “Nossir, it’s fine.” That might be overstating the case, but he wasn’t here to get his leg looked at. “I was just wondering . . . .” It came more awkward than he’d figured on, but he kept going. “When might you next be going to Mamie’s? To treat the ladies there, I mean.”

  Doc’s eyebrows went up, but he brought them back down as quick as he likely could. “Next week, probably Tuesday not long after their dinnertime. I would hazard a guess that you’ve been there yourself since we last spoke about it. I hope you used my little present.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “Yessir, I did, thankee.” Though he’d almost forgot to.

  “Is there a girl there that you have some . . . concerns about? That might need my assistance?”

  How many wrong guesses could one man make? “No, Doc, nothing like that. I was just hoping . . . as it may be quite a while before I make another visit, and I have something I’d like to give to one of the girls, I was hoping you could give it to her for me, when you’re seeing her anyways.”

  Doc looked like he might be amused and trying to hide it. Tom did his best not to wriggle about as Doc asked, “Well, then. Which girl will be getting a present?”

  About to answer, Tom pulled out the picture instead. “I’m hoping you can tell from looking at this. If not, maybe I should hold off ‘til I can do a better one.” He held the piece of leather out for Doc, who checked his fingers before taking it, probably to make sure they weren’t wet or tainted with something foul. He studied it long enough for Tom to get nervous before he looked up and said, “That’s really quite good. I didn’t know you had a talent for such things.”

  Tom relaxed and took the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Well, it’s my first try, sort of. And no one’s seen any of my scribbling before, at least not past being sore about when or how I was doing it, so I didn’t know myself.”

  “Then I’m even more impressed. And I’d venture to say Jenny — I can certainly tell it’s Jenny — will be very pleased with it.”

  So all in all, Tom was feeling pretty pleased with things when he went back to work at the start of the following week, rehearsing how to ask for another piece of leather. He might draw Jenny again, or something altogether different. Cochise, maybe; or Ma — and not tell her he’d thought of a horse before fixing on her! He pictured Ma’s face if she found that out and laughed out loud.

  And then Finch sauntered in with an oily grin on his face. “Guess we’re both starting Monday out feeling fine! I am, for certain. Want to guess where I spent my Saturday night?”

  Tom did not want. In fact, he was afraid he didn’t need to guess. He stood there glum and stupid, looking at his boots while Finch enjoyed his gloat.

  “Mighty fine establishment Mamie’s got! And I gotta hand it to you, you know how to pick ‘em. That’s one fine wag-tail, that gal you drew your picture of.”

  Tom stalked out of the shop, holding his hands tight against his thighs so’s he wouldn’t hit Finch as he went. He didn’t go far, seeing as he’d have to go back in before long, but stepping out made for his only chance to keep his temper.

  Picturing Finch grunting atop Jenny had him ready to puke. Whenever he saw her again, would he be able to pay mind to her without that picture in his head?

  Not to mention Mrs. Finch, and what might come of it for her. He’d bet a week’s pay Finch hadn’t bothered about any French letters. He might’ve already passed on something catching to that sweet woman, and her not even knowing enough to go to Doc about it, most likely.

  Could he tell Doc himself? Wouldn’t that be a dandy conversation. But he couldn’t trust Finch to do it, so he’d better. Sometime soon.

  And as for seeing Jenny again . . . he’d known right along what she was, what she did. And much as he was seeing red just now where Finch was concerned, she probably had slimier sorts to deal with, sometimes. Unless he’d decided never to visit another vaulting-house, he’d best get over being particular.

  But all the same, he wished he could meet her somewhere else. He knew she went places — that’s how he’d seen her the first time. He’d just have to figure out where an
d when. Or find somewhere he could invite her, and send a message somehow. Somewhere she wouldn’t be too out of place.

  Maybe a saloon would do. Customers there wouldn’t have much call to be hoity-toity. And what with a bar right there at Mamie’s, it seemed likely she took a drink now and again.

  * * * * *

  Jenny saw Lucette leave the room where Doc Gibbs was examining the girls and darted in, waving at Lucette, before Mamie could send somebody else. It had been a busy day so far, and she could use the break. Taking off clothes for Doc instead of a customer made a nice change, especially as Doc was better-looking than most of what walked in. She could enjoy his looks even if he didn’t give Mamie his custom no more. He’d stopped even before he got married, and why was that? Plenty of married men came in for what they seemingly didn’t get at home. What made some men different?

  Had she met any, aside from Doc? That fine-looking farm boy, would he marry someone and then come back here for a ride? Not that she’d mind seeing him again, but she’d feel bad for whoever he left at home.

  Meanwhile, time to smile pretty at Doc, even if it wouldn’t lead to anything. He’d always treated her nice.

  Doc seemed pretty tickled about something. All the time he was checking her over, he had this little I’ve-got-a-secret twinkle in his eye. And when he was all finished and said she was fine except for looking underslept — what else did he expect? — he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a rolled-up piece of leather. “A young man you met recently asked me to give you this the next time I saw you. He’d have done so himself, but it is not yet feasible for him to return to this establishment.”

  Jenny felt her eyebrows practically hide up in her hair as she took the little scroll and unrolled it. And her jaw dropped in a way that’d give Mamie fits when she saw the picture cut into the leather.

  “Oh, my stars!” Had that come out of her mouth? Mama used to say it, when she was surprised and happy about something. It’d been more years than Jenny liked to think since she’d heard it, let alone said it.

  It was a picture of Jenny, and it made her look prettier than she’d ever seen in any mirror. Who had made it? “Was it the farm boy, with the wooden leg?”

  Something about that question seemed to bother Doc, which she hadn’t intended, but he managed to get his smile back after a second and say, “Yes, Tom. He’s working for Silas Finch now, the cordwainer, and I gather he used a scrap of extra leather. It’s a fine likeness.”

  Was it really? It gave Jenny a warm feeling to hear Doc say it.

  She wished all of a sudden that she could show the picture to Mama. But would Mama want to see it, any more’n she’d want to see Jenny herself? Jenny pushed the hurt down, like she’d done so many times, just as Doc added, “I believe young Tom would be glad to see you somewhere else, if he could. But am I correct that Madam Mamie discourages social meetings of that kind?”

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “She says if the gents want to see us, they can come here and pay for the privilege, and if we was to meet them elsewhere, they might not bother. But I think really she don’t trust us to keep our petticoats down. She’s afraid we’ll give away what she collects their coin for.”

  Doc hesitated. “Mamie’s a shrewd businesswoman. I wouldn’t venture to guess the reasons behind her rules, nor presume to say whether they’re justified. Do you have any message for me to give the artist?”

  Jenny looked at the picture again. Maybe she could frame it somehow and put it on her wall. Except somehow she didn’t fancy the idea of customers seeing it. Other’n Tom, of course, if he should manage to come back.

  “Tell him thank you. That I’m much obliged.” She ran a finger along the carved lines. “That I never seen nothing finer. And that I hope to see him again, somehow, wherever.”

  There might be some way to arrange going to meet him, if she was clever, and bold enough to take the chance. But arranging it would have to wait for him to make another visit.

  Chapter 6

  Tom came awake yelling. Sleeping shouldn’t work like that, making it so you couldn’t keep from hollering and waking folks. And what was the good of dreaming if dreams could be nightmares? If they could make you live your worst times over and over?

  Or it was maybe worse, the times he dreamed he’d somehow stopped the plowshare from falling, or got out of its way. Or dreamed about still having two good legs, however, from before or from the accident not happening. Waking up from having two whole legs and remembering he had but one, that might be worse than the dreams where the plowshare fell and he felt every bit of the pain, and saw all the blood, and could’ve died just from how scared he was even without those. Folks who said you couldn’t really hurt in dreams didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.

  It wasn’t just at night and dreaming. Sometimes he got to daydreaming too, about having dodged the blade or Doc somehow stitching him together. He could just about hear Doc saying, “Surely, Tom, I can save the leg. Just you let me give you something for the pain, and I’ll take care of it.”

  But at least he could stop himself daydreaming easier than wake himself up.

  Doc and Mrs. Gibbs both were sitting on their front step when Tom plodded past. Mrs. Gibbs came to meet him. “You don’t look well, Tom. Joshua can stop by Mr. Finch’s shop at dinnertime to examine you, or if you’d rather not have Finch around, you could stop here on your way home.”

  Doc joined his missus and stood waiting for Tom’s answer. Tom tried to think of how he could look healthier on the spot, gave up, and said, “No, ma’am, he needn’t take the trouble. I’m not sick, just short on sleep is all.” He’d never thought of asking before, but he blurted out, “Is there any way to stop bad dreams? Anything I could take, or a special way of sleeping, maybe?”

  Instead of answering straight off, Doc looked at Mrs. Gibbs. She reached for Doc’s hand, squeezed it, and said, “As a matter of fact, we know something of bad dreams. In Joshua’s case —” She stopped and looked at Doc, who nodded as if giving permission for something. She went on, “Apart from the passage of time, it seemed to help when he told someone about the dream that had been troubling him.” A faint pink color in her face told Tom pretty clear who the someone had been.

  Tom pictured telling his dream to someone. He didn’t much care for it. Ever after, whoever did the listening would carry that ugliness around in them, at least if they cared about Tom, and why would he tell it to someone as didn’t?

  He might not’ve got any advice worth using, but he’d be polite notwithstanding. “Thankee, ma’am, Doc.” He turned back to the road, but before he’d gone more than a few steps, he heard someone coming behind him. He wasn’t surprised to see it was Doc, though not eager to find out what more Doc couldn’t keep from saying to him. He stopped and waited without turning back.

  Doc halted alongside Tom and said quietly, “I won’t ask any questions about the content of your dreams, but if I figure in any of them . . . I hope you know, Tom, that I wouldn’t have taken your leg if I’d had any other way to save your life.”

  Tom nodded, his jaw locked tight to keep from saying something like then maybe you should have let me die. He could feel Doc’s eyes on him as they both stood there, not talking.

  Finally Doc sighed and said, “Fare you well, then, Tom. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, any time.”

  Tom waited to hear Doc’s footsteps behind him before he went on his way.

  Tom hadn’t found the right time to ask Finch for another piece of leather, nor decided just what he’d want to carve if he got the chance. But what happened instead was maybe better.

  A cowboy came in not long after they opened up for the day, carrying a well-worn saddle. He brushed a few rain drops off the leather, not bothering about the ones on his shoulders, and jerked his head toward outside, where his horse must be tied up. “That old scrub of mine, he’s acting like the rig rubs him somewheres. I’d like you to check for anyplace that needs smoothi
ng. And while I’m not using it, I’ve been hankering to get a little something put on to fancy it up. Some pattern or other around the edges.”

  Finch raised his hairy eyebrows. “Don’t see the need for such, myself, but you’re the one paying. I can get my assistant to take care of it, once I fix what’s bothering your horse. Decorating’ll cost you . . . .” He fingered his chin and named what sounded to Tom like an ungodly sum. “Can you leave the saddle here until evening?”

  The cowboy shrugged. “Expected that. I’ll poke around town, cut the trail dust with a drink or two.” He turned to leave.

  Tom coughed, managing to get the cowboy’s attention and turn him around. “Excuse me, sir. Did you have anything in mind for that decoration?”

  The cowboy’s mouth twitched at the “sir,” but he chewed his lip a few seconds and said, “Always liked seeing those feathered headdresses the Indians wear. Think you could do feathers?”

  If he could carve a likeness of Jenny and her hair, he should be able to manage feathers. “Reckon so.”

  Tom had to wait for Finch to be done fixing the underside of the saddle before he could get started. And Finch didn’t leave him any too long for it. He passed some of the wait looking at the shape of the saddle and drawing in his head, figuring out where to put bigger feathers and where little ones, where the cowboy’s legs would hide the design so it could be simpler and where he’d need to put more detail in. When Finch still wasn’t through, Tom fetched the swivel knife again and found a scrap to practice on. Asking Finch would just mean slowing him down, and there wasn’t time to spare.