“And I can assure you both that nobody is more dedicated to my self-preservation than I am. Now if you will excuse me, I think I am going to go to my room and get washed up for a night of dirty cards and loose women.”
Phoebe and I gasped, then giggled, then slammed our hands over our mouths when we encountered my mother’s horrified expression.
“Oh, come now, Ma.” Chester got up from his chair and stood behind Mother, planted his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You know I always play a clean game.”
4
We hadn’t packed anything suitable for an evening at the theater since Daddy had been so rigid about the amount of luggage allotted to each of us. Mother’s suggestion that we all buy new clothes—nothing too expensive, as they would be worn just once and then abandoned to some St. Louis charity—was not met with his approval, so the next day she picked out the best of what we had brought and sent it out to be laundered and pressed.
“What we lack in habillement, we will make up for in coiffure,” Mother said as she, Phoebe, and I gathered in her room. Despite the warmth of the summer day, Mother asked that the little stove in her room be lit to heat up the curling tongs, and we spent the afternoon curling, arranging, and pinning each other’s hair. Mother’s was so thick and glorious, it seemed a shame to trap it inside a snood—even one covered in jet beads and pearls. We curled the front, though, into two long dark coils that we swooped up and fastened with a jeweled comb.
“You look like a queen.” Phoebe’s eyes filled with something that seemed to be a hunger. “I’d give anything to be as beautiful as you.”
Mother looked intensely pleased when she reached over and patted Phoebe’s hand. “A woman’s beauty is not merely a matter of face and figure.” She was sitting on the little stool at the dressing table, but she stood up and gestured for me to take her place. “True beauty comes from a woman’s bearing. How she walks into a room. How she commands attention and respect. Look at Belinda here.”
She was standing behind me and had gathered all of my hair into her hand. She tugged on it, forcing me to look up at my reflection in the mirror.
“She’s a pretty girl, fine featured, sweet disposition, but”—and here would come the lecture I’d heard almost daily for the past year—“she slumps. Mousy. Always walking around looking down. You’d think she’d devoted her life to searching for lost coins in the floor boards.”
I heard Phoebe laugh, but Mother held my hair too tightly for me to turn and tell her to stop. So I took one last look at my face, taut and pale, before shifting my eyes to my hands folded ladylike in my lap.
“No man is ever going to think you’re beautiful until you think so yourself,” Mother continued. “The features we are born with are meant to be enhanced, diminished, or disguised.”
I tried to concentrate on the sound of the bristles dragging through my hair as Mother used me as the object of her lesson. Hair that is naturally thick and wavy must not be left to its own devices but rather pulled back and curled into symmetrical spirals. Lackadaisical braids and ponytails do nothing but detract from what may well be the one good feature a woman has. Large eyes can be striking, but again, to severely pull the hair away gives one an almost ratlike appearance. Furthermore, one must learn to lower the lids somewhat, to give the visage an air of mystery, rather than bug-eyed intensity. And the skin? Really, how difficult is it to wear a bonnet to protect one’s self from irreversible freckles?
“As for the smile,” Mother prattled on, wrapping a section of hair around the hot iron, “of course we must do all we can to keep the teeth clean and use our powders, but even so we may be left with the dental imperfections God gave us.” I clenched my jaw to keep myself from running my tongue across my teeth, but I could still sense them, one top front tooth slightly overlapping the other. “And yet, one can just as easily express joy with a cultivated, closed-lip smile. There’s rarely any occasion that calls for a lady to assume the expression of a hysterical donkey.”
I had memorized the litany that would follow. Small frames are not helped by rounded shoulders; rather, standing up straight will make one feel—and look—five inches taller. A small bust is easy to enhance if one will only bother to wear a corset and some batting. There’s no need to have the figure of a plank when fashions are resplendent with ruffles and bustles. Storklike legs are unfortunate, but thank goodness for at least one calamity that modesty disguises.
By the time I stood up, my hair wrangled into long sausagelike links, swept to the side and secured at my temple with a burgundy velvet bow, I felt pummeled.
Mother stood next to me. “See? Look what can happen with just a modicum of effort.”
I summoned my best closed-lip smile and grandly offered the throne to Phoebe, feeling somewhat guilty about my eagerness to hear Mother’s list of charges against her. But when Phoebe settled herself expectantly on the upholstered stool, Mother merely sighed. “At least you, my girl, are blessed with confidence.”
Thirty minutes later Phoebe’s hair drooped in limp, pale waves secured loosely at the nape of her neck with a bow identical to mine. Mother had allowed her to have the faintest dab from her rouge pot on her cheeks, and her pale skin took on an appealing glow, although the effect would soon be lost with the red blotches that inevitably crept into her face, her neck, and the soft flesh covering her collarbone from heat and exertion.
When our gowns were delivered, clean and pressed, we donned them with great ceremony and perched carefully on the edge of the bed until it was time to walk to the theater. We waited until the last possible moment, wondering if Chester would join us, but when it was a mere hour before curtain and there was still no sign of him, Daddy led us—his pretty parade—down the crowded street.
I wasn’t sure if I would ever get to sleep that night. We’d gone to see Mr. William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, and my head reeled with the images from the stage. I would never forget Lady Macbeth, pacing in her madness, wringing the invisible blood off her hands. I could still hear the clang of the swords and the awful cries as one after one the actors were slain on stage. Most frightening of all, the severed head of Macbeth, proudly displayed by the triumphant Duncan. I cringed and hid my face even as Daddy assured me that it wasn’t a real head. As I lay in bed with Phoebe, the sounds of the city outside seemed to be the sounds of battle and her snores the frightful cackles of the three weird women.
At some point, though, exhaustion took over, and I fell into a deep slumber. So deep, in fact, that I didn’t wake up with the knocking on our door but with Phoebe’s panicked voice in my ear telling me there was a knock on the door.
“Go see who it is, Belinda.” She huddled down under our covers, holding the blanket up to her chin.
“Why should I go?”
“Your father paid for the room. It’s your responsibility.”
I took the top blanket off of our bed and wrapped it around me as I padded barefoot toward the door. I opened it just a crack but enough to see the bloodied and disfigured head of Macbeth floating in the dark hallway. I didn’t have a chance to scream. Just as the first squeak of terror formed in my throat, a grimy hand thrust through the opening and clamped over my mouth.
“It’s all right, Lindy,” Chester said as he shouldered his way into the room. Even in the darkness, lit only by the light coming in from the streetlamps outside, I could see a faint, bluish tint to the left side of his face, with his left eye swollen nearly shut. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and crusted at his nose.
“Chester, what happened?”
“Never mind about that now.”
He closed the door behind him and walked over to the one to Mother and Daddy’s adjoining room, laid his ear against it, and motioned for me to be quiet. Seeming satisfied, he walked over to me and gripped my shoulders, pulling me in close to hear his whisper. “I need some money.”
“You look like you need a doctor.”
I think he smiled; it was hard to
tell with his swollen mouth.
“Maybe later. For now, I need cash.”
There was a stirring from the bed behind me, and I turned to see Phoebe sitting up, holding the blankets clear to her chin.
“Is that you, Chester?” she asked, her voice full of awe.
“Go back to sleep, Phoebe,” Chester said.
“What’s wrong with you? What happened?” She seemed to be making her way out of the bed but stopped when Chester and I both turned and told her to stay put.
I lowered my voice. “I don’t know why you came to me. I don’t have any money.”
“Dad didn’t give you anything? Not even for walking around?”
“I guess I don’t walk around as much as you.”
He muttered a profanity and paced the two or three steps the small room permitted before coming to a stop in front of me. “Sorry. I must remember to watch my language when I’m in the presence of such young ladies.”
“Come, sit down.”
I led him to the chair next to the washstand. This close to the window, I could more clearly see the damage done to his face. He offered a slight smile and possibly a wink at my horrified reaction, which eased my fears. I took the washcloth draped on the edge of the basin, soaked it, wrung it out, and dabbed at the drying blood on his lip.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“I was playing cards—”
“I might have guessed.”
“—and got into a bit of a scrape. It was a bigger game than I’m used to. I guess they didn’t like the idea of some small-town kid taking their money.”
“Ha.” I moved the cloth to clean under his nose. “If you took their money, why do you need some now?”
“Because, little sister, they insisted on getting a chance to win it back.”
“Which they obviously did.”
“And then some. When it was time to settle up, it seems my wallet was a little lighter than I thought.”
“How much lighter?”
“You have a lot of sass in your pants for such a little girl.”
It occurred to me then how much he must hate this, and this mask of cocky bravado was beginning to wear thin. When I rinsed the washcloth out, he took it from me and held it against his swollen eye, wincing a little, and turned away from me before speaking again.
“Sixty-seven dollars.”
This time it was my hand that was clapped over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “Sixty-seven dollars? Why in the world would you think I had that kind of money? You need to go to Daddy.”
He took the washrag from his eye and refolded it into a nice, neat square, which he turned over and over in his hands. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You know how angry he’d be. I think he’d let me just stay here alone and wait for those guys to kill me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Mother would never allow that.”
“And Ma’s upset enough about being uprooted and dragged along on this whole adventure. No telling what this would do to her.”
“Well,” I brushed the hair away from his forehead to look for any other cuts or bruises, “I don’t see that you have any choice.”
“Maybe you could do it for me.”
“How would that help? They would still know the money’s for you. I haven’t any need for—”
“Actually, I was thinking you could just …” He inclined his head toward the door to our parents’ room, then looked back at me, holding my gaze long enough for the meaning to take hold.
“Oh no.” I stood up straight and backed away.
“You’ve been in their room. You know where everything is.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
“You heard how upset Ma was at how much cash Dad brought. Sixty-seven dollars? He’ll never miss it.”
“But that’s stealing, Chester. It’s wrong.”
He stood up and faced the window, pulling the edge of the curtain aside to look out into the street before turning back to me. “You’re right, Belinda. But murder’s wrong too. And if you don’t help me out here, you might as well just kill me now.”
“She can’t help you.” I think we’d both forgotten about Phoebe, huddled at the headboard, blankets pulled up tight.
“What do you mean?” Chester asked.
“Your father put all his money in the hotel safe,” Phoebe said. “And he’s the only one who can get it out.”
“How do you know this?” I was bothered that she knew something this important and I didn’t.
Phoebe shrugged. “I heard them talking about it.”
Chester sank down on the bed, seemingly unaware of his impropriety. “I’m dead. They’re going to kill me. I am a dead man.”
He repeated this phrase over and over, and I was just beginning to imagine how I was going to tell our parents about the last time I saw Chester alive, when Phoebe said, “I have money.”
Chester stopped and looked at her. “How much?”
“Enough.” She sat up a little higher, brought her knees up, and wrapped her arms around them. “My father gave me a hundred dollars before we left. He wanted me to have the means to get home in case I changed my mind about going with you … or you all changed your mind about taking me.”
“Phoebe,” I said, “you don’t have to—”
“Phoebe, you saved me!” Chester practically lunged across the bed to take Phoebe—knees and all—in an awkward embrace, then bounded up and across the room to once again listen at the door.
I sidled over to the bed and sat next to Phoebe. “Don’t do this,” I whispered.
But Chester had already touched a match to the lamp on the dresser, flooding the room with soft light and shadows. I heard Phoebe gasp at the extent of the injury to Chester’s face, and I knew she would give him anything he asked.
“I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” He wrung his hands, as if he couldn’t wait to feel the cards back in them. “And I’ll pay it back to you. Every cent.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Phoebe said, with a hint of a giggle behind the words.
I felt her scooching away from me to make her way out of the bed. Never mind that she was wearing only a nightgown, that it was the middle of the night, and that the boy she was smitten with was in the room to take her money. The impropriety and scandal of the situation hit me, and I stood up to hustle Chester out of the room.
“You should go.” I grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door. “We’ll deal with this in the morning.”
“I don’t have until the morning,” he said, resisting my efforts. “None of us do.”
“Are they coming here?” I dropped my voice to the merest whisper. “Did they follow you?”
“I’m not sure.” He looked over my head toward the window. “They know I’m from out of town. They might have followed me.”
“It’s going to be fine.” Phoebe had gotten up and opened her small carpet satchel on the bed. She hunched over it and ran her fingers through the lining. “I have the money, and I don’t mind. Really.” When she stood up again, she had a handful of notes. “This should do.”
I’d dropped my grip on Chester’s arm, and he pushed past me.
“It’s perfect, Phoebe. Thank you.”
If I didn’t know my brother, I could have sworn I heard a hint of humility in his voice.
5
The next morning Daddy sent me to my brother’s room to bring him down for breakfast. After knocking for a solid minute, Chester finally came to the door, holding a wet towel to his face as if he’d been caught washing up.
“Relax, Brother. It’s just me.” I remained in the hallway, casting my eyes up and down its length to see if anyone had followed me. “Will you be joining us in the dining room?”
He lowered the towel, and I saw that the past few hours had done little in the way of healing.
“Maybe you could bring up a tray?” He poked his head out and did his own quick hall
way surveillance before tucking it back in. “Just some eggs. Or grits. Nothing that requires chewing.”
“And what am I supposed to tell our parents?”
“Tell them I’m not feeling well. That I stayed out too late last night and I’m exhausted. All of which are true, by the way.”
I gingerly touched the corner of Chester’s still-swollen eye and felt an indulgent amusement when he winced away. “You’re going to have to face them sometime, you know.”
“I know. But in the meantime I figure I’ll hole up here, make a few excuses, and hope that by the time we leave I’m healed enough to come up with a plausible explanation.”
“You mean a lie.”
“Call it what you want, Miss Sunday School. I’d like to think of myself as sparing Ma’s fears.”
“At least I learned my commandments. Seems all you’ve learned how to do is break them. Let’s see, you’re not honoring your father and mother, you’re bearing false witness—and asking me to do the same, might I add. You stole—”
“Gambling is not stealing.”
“I’m talking about taking that money from Phoebe. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
He smiled and unleashed the mischievous glint in his healthy eye. “She offered it to me, Sis. It’s not like I twisted her arm.”
“You took advantage.”
“Of the fact that she’s smitten by me? Now, I don’t spend as much time in church as you do, but I don’t think there’s any commandment against that.”
I crossed my arms and puffed myself up against his charm, refusing to be suckered into believing he had an ounce of honor in him. “There ought to be.”
“Well, since you’re so quick to sit in judgment, why don’t you write one?”
“Don’t joke about this. You know what you did.”
We locked eyes, and after a moment he reached out to gently tug my braid. “I got in over my head—a mistake I won’t make again. Trust me, Lindy, I’m not leaving this room until it’s time to get on the boat.”
With Endless Sight Page 4
