by Len Levinson
The stage was ludicrously small, compared to the Academy of Music, but the standard Titusville audience didn't require an extravaganza by Verdi or Donizetti. All they wanted was a beautiful woman to drool over, and didn't care how or what she sang. It could be the Portuguese national anthem, for all they cared.
Edgar barely heard the music, he was so concerned about investment prospects. It didn't occur to him that most of the men in the audience were former Confederate Army veterans, and they loved to hear Vanessa sing great songs of their youth. It carried them back to halcyon days before the war, when they were younger, richer, and more idealistic. Edgar couldn't comprehend the subtle interaction and mutual respect between Southern women and Southern men. Indeed, he thought the spectacle a tawdry, tasteless show.
How can such people appreciate music? he wondered. They barely live above the level of animals, and sensitivity is alien to their natures. They grovel and fill their bellies like pigs. If the great Carlotta Carozzi-Zucchi walked into this room right now, one of these cowboys would pinch her ass, he thought disgustedly.
Vanessa came to the end of her song, the saloon became silent for a few moments, then applause broke out like thunderclaps, accompanied by shouts and mad whistles. Cowboys rose to their feet, pounding their hands loudly. Coins rained onto the stage, and Vanessa bowed low, a fifty-cent piece bouncing off her head. She's no diva, Edgar thought cynically, but she's wearing a dress, and that's all they care about.
Coins continued to fall upon the stage, as Vanessa bowed again. Slowly, she arose and held her arms out as if to hug all her cowboy admirers. They, too, had lost everything at the Appomattox Courthouse, and in her estimation, they were kin.
She turned her eyes toward the table where Edgar Petigru sat, and blew him a kiss. He smiled broadly, applauding politely, but she knew what he thought of her singing. She didn't hate Edgar, but neither did she love him. She appreciated what he'd done for her, regardless of his ulterior motives.
She turned toward the door, where the largest and surliest segment of the crowd usually congregated—robust, sunburned faces shouting her praises. She was about to accord them a special bow, when her eyes fell on a former youthful guest in a fantastical cowboy hat.
He appeared older in the murky saloon light, squeezed among other cowboys, beating his hands together eagerly, silver conchos throwing sprays of sparkles at the ceiling. There was something wrong with his face, as if he'd been in a fight.
She wanted to bask in adulation all night, but her essential self never forgot that she was an entertainer, and if you gave them too much, they'd get tired of you. Smiling, blowing kisses, she backed toward the wings, as they chanted: “More—more—more—more . . .”
She slipped into the backstage corridor, where Annabelle draped a shawl over Vanessa's bare shoulders, then escorted the perspiring singer down the narrow, crooked corridor to her dressing room. Vanessa dropped onto the couch, and felt as if she'd given an essential part of her substance away.
“Have a cup of coffee, Miss Vanessa,” Annabelle said, fussing at the small wood stove in the corner.
“Pour some brandy in it, would you, dear?”
“It used to be a bottle a month—now it's a bottle every week.”
“There's something I'd like you to do for me,” Vanessa replied, ignoring common sense yet again. “In the saloon, near the door, you'll see Duane Braddock. Tell him that I want to speak with him, would you?”
Annabelle raised her eyebrows. “You know that Mister Edgar is in the audience, and he don't like it when you talks to any man, never mind a young man like Mister Duane.”
“I have a right to friends, regardless of what Mister Petigru thinks. Get going.”
Annabelle departed. Vanessa waited until she could hear no more footsteps, then bounded up, washed perspiration and cosmetics from her face, patted her skin dry, and sat before the mirror. She applied a new layer of coloring with a practiced hand. A woman wants to look her best, especially when she greets a young man.
The door continued to engorge more cowboys into the saloon, and a sea of bodies stretched to the back. Duane tried to move, as other cowboys searched for drinking and cigarette-smoking room. Duane received a shoulder in the back, pitched forward, and crashed into a short, bow-legged cowboy with his hat low over his eyes. “Watch yer step,” the cowboy growled.
“Sorry,” mumbled Duane, trying to catch his balance. His eye fell on a lamp hanging from the wall, flame flickering mischievously. What if there's a fire? Duane wondered. He imagined sheets of flame covering the walls, as men battled each other to escape. This place would go up like a pile of straw, Duane realized.
He was startled to see Vanessa's Negro maid pushing her way through the throngs. She drew close to Duane, and said: “Miss Vanessa wants to palaver with you. Foller me.”
She plowed into the crowd, and cowboys made way for the plump, determined woman. Duane followed her toward the stage, and heard a voice nearby: “Ain't that the kid what got beat up in the cribs?”
On the other side of the room, through wreaths of smoke, Edgar Petigru had observed Annabelle appear from the wings, exchange a few words with a cowboy, and then escort him backstage. What the hell's going on here? he questioned.
Mayor Lonsdale turned toward Edgar. “That's the feller what spent the night with Miss Vanessa, and now he's a-headin’ backstage? What's goin’ on there, Mister New Yorker?”
Edgar's face grew sternly judgmental. “Her guests are none of your business, and please keep your snide remarks to yourself, you goddamned buffoon!”
“What was ‘at?” the mayor asked, whipping out his Colt, and pointing it toward Edgar, who suddenly found himself looking into the mouth of a gun barrel. He tried to say something, went pale, and everyone at the table erupted into laughter. Mayor Lonsdale stuffed his Colt back into his belt, and Judge Jenks slapped Edgar on the back. “Relax,” the judge advised, his face creased with glee. “Have another drink. You'll never put a bridle on that gal, so fergit it.”
Annabelle opened the door. “H'yar he is,” she said in a worried voice.
Vanessa lay resplendent on the couch, her wrist behind her golden curls. Duane was tempted to dive on top of her, but instead stepped politely to her side.
“Find something to do,” Vanessa said to Annabelle.
Annabelle mumbled something incomprehensible as she closed the door, leaving Duane alone with the most notorious woman in Titusville. He cleared his throat and said, “You don't look well, Vanessa. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I'm perfectly fine, Duane, but have you been in another fight?”
“I fell down,” he said in a low voice.
“I don't think you can get hurt that badly by simply falling down, but won't you have a seat? I've got good news.”
Duane lowered himself to the chair, noticing rows of tiny bottles and pots in front of the mirror, just like Sally Mae in the cribs. The fabric of her robe lay against her long legs, and Duane could perceive their flexuous outlines. He coughed, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and wondered where to put his hands.
She noted his discomfort, as her pride soared through the ceiling. “Guess what, Duane? A friend of mine owns a ranch, and he said that he'd give you a job.”
“Did you tell him I don't know how to ride a horse?
“Somebody will teach you—it's all taken care of. Go to the Lazy Y first thing Monday morning, and report to the foreman. I'll hire a wagon to take you, and now that that's settled, you can tell me what you were fighting about.” She examined him more closely, because it appeared that his left eye was nearly closed. “Why do you fight so much? Is something bothering you?”
He looked glumly at his boots. “If I tell you, you'll get angry.”
“I promise that I won't.” She raised her right hand solemnly.
“Now you're making fun of me.”
She became exasperated. “I'm not making fun of you. You're so easily insulted, and I'll bet that's why you
keep getting into fights. If we can't be honest with each other, I don't think we can be friends, Duane. You'll have to leave my dressing room, if you won't tell me.”
Duane didn't want to leave, but neither could he tell her the truth. He was afraid the sky would fall, if he exposed his heart to her. “Guess I'll have to leave,” he said. “Thanks for getting me the job.”
He arose from the chair, but she placed her hands on his shoulders and forced him back down. “What you're saying is you don't trust me. Well, I guess you don't understand me very well. I believe in friendship, and you can always rely on me, but if you don't trust me—what can I say?”
She reclined on the sofa, an expression of chagrin on her face, and Duane was immobilized by her feigned unhappiness. “It's not that I don't trust you, Vanessa. But it'll make a mess between us, and you'll probably throw me out of your dressing room anyway.”
“I promise that I won't throw you out of my dressing room. What more do I have to say?”
“It's not easy to put into words.”
“I've never noticed any deficiencies in your speech before. You're a very articulate young man, but you're afraid of something, despite my assurances.”
“You want to know what's bothering me?” he blurted angrily. “All right—here it is. I'm in love with you, but you treat me as if I were a kid.”
The dressing room went silent. She'd expected a revelation of no great importance, but instead a declaration of love from an appealing young man prodded her conceit to even greater heights.
He raised his hand fearfully. “Don't get mad.”
She found her voice somewhere around her toes. “I'm not mad.” She coughed a few times. “If friends can't bare their hearts to each other, it's . . .” She had no idea of what to say.
“You asked me to be honest,” he told her, “and I was. What should we do now?”
“You're going to the Lazy Y on Monday, to start your new job.”
“What about us?”
“There is no us.”
“But you said yourself that we should be honest with each other, and tell the truth, but now you're clamming up. I know what you think of me—another young idiot.”
She examined him in his oversized cowboy clothes, and the black hat set off his ruddy features. “No, you're not a young idiot, but I'm engaged to Edgar Petigru, and I'm afraid that's immutable.”
“If things were different, do you think you and I might . . . ?”
“But things aren't different.”
They stared into each other's eyes, and he wanted to touch the pale alabaster of her cheek. Her eyes filled with fear, and then, just when his fingers were inches from her satin skin, the door flew open.
“What's going on here!” demanded Edgar Petigru.
Duane drew his hand back quickly, as if caught picking someone's pocket. Vanessa recovered professionally, and swept toward Edgar, kissing him on the cheek. “Darling, I'm so glad you're here. This is the boy I told you about, who wants to be a cowboy. Edgar, meet Duane Braddock.”
Edgar took a step backward and measured his rival carefully. He realized immediately that a boy wasn't standing before him, but a man at least two inches taller than he, with a trim, rangy build. If Edgar didn't know any better, he'd think the young man was a seasoned rider of the sage.
Duane took his cue, and tried to grin convincingly, but it came out false. “Thanks for giving me the job, Mister Petigru. I'll work hard—you can count on me.”
Duane held out his hand for a friendly shake, while Edgar eyed it suspiciously. The entrepreneur realized that he was in grave danger of appearing foolish, so he smiled fraudulently, and gripped Duane's hand.
“Vanessa told me all about you. Report to my foreman, and tell him I said to hire you.”
“Sir, I've got a friend who's an experienced cowboy, and I wonder if you'd have a spot for him, too?”
Edgar shrugged, and tried to speak in a deep rancher voice, but it came out oddly off-key. “We're a growing operation, and we can use all the experienced men we can find. Sure—take him along with you— why not?”
Duane muttered his gratitude as he fled out the door, leaving Edgar and Vanessa alone. “What a strange young man,” remarked Edgar.
“You'd be strange, too, if you were having a normal conversation, and somebody charged into the room without knocking. You know, Edgar—you don't own me, just because you've bought me a house!”
She slammed her fist on the dressing table, and little bottles performed a lopsided dance. Edgar was mortified, because the walls were thin and her volume substantially higher than usual. He held his finger in front of his lips. “Now, dear,” he began, “try to see my side. There I was with my business associates, and it's common knowledge that you and I are . . . having a romance of a certain kind, but then you invite him backstage, in full view of everyone, but not me.”
“I did invite him backstage,” she replied coolly, “to tell him about the job, because he's very poor. He would've left in a few moments, and I had intended to spend the rest of my time with you, but you have so destroyed the atmosphere between us with your thoughtless and inconsiderate actions, that I've changed my mind. If you'll excuse me, I must prepare for my next show.”
“But . . . but . . .” Edgar sputtered, as she pushed him toward the door. He wanted to explain that it was his saloon, and she was working for him, but before he knew it he was in the hallway, her door latching behind him. He scuffled to the main room of the saloon, and realized that everybody was looking at him; sniggers reached his ears. She's making a fool out of me, he told himself, and if I let her get away with it, I'll be laughed out of town.
The street was filled with cowboys talking loudly, drinking whiskey from bottles, and no women were in sight. It's a man's world, Duane reflected, just like the monastery in the clouds, but Vanessa Fontaine has got the richest man in town jumping though hoops, and me, too.
He thought of her sitting insouciantly in her chair, chiding Edgar. What is it about her that makes me loco? Duane wondered. A lifetime in a monastery has done me no good, because I'm bad to the bone.
His hatband gleamed in the moonlight, as he searched for Boggs in every congregation of drinkers, cardplayers, and crapshooters. Titusville had twenty saloons, and Duane was resolved to search them all, especially since Boggs was going to teach him to ride a horse.
He veered into the Longhorn, another dirty, dingy little corner of hell, redolent with whiskey, tobacco, sweat, and cheap perfume. A black-tressed prostitute in her midthirties swung her hips toward Duane as he stood in the doorway, black leather thongs hanging down his tanned cheeks.
“Howdy, cowboy,” she said, flashing her best smile, and she had two teeth missing on top, and one gone from the bottom.
“I'm looking for a fellow named Boggs,” Duane replied.
“What're you want a feller fer, when you can have a gal.” She pressed her body against him and touched her tongue to his neck. If a man has enough money, he can screw himself into the grave, he realized.
“Let's go in back,” she whispered, biting his ear-lobe.
“I've got things to do.”
He eluded her grasp, and scanned the sea of heads and hats before him, but couldn't spot Boggs. Saul Klevins sat at the bar, and Duane moved into the shadows, so he could observe the famous gunfighter at leisure. Klevins wore his black leather vest, black hat, and white shirt, his six-shooter low on his hip. He looked like a weasel, with his round nose and sinister grin, and was the major local celebrity, except for Vanessa Fontaine. Everyone deferred to him like vassals in the days of chivalry.
Duane heard a rough voice in his ear. “Hey, kid— buy a drink, or get the fuck out.” It was the bouncer, a bearlike man wearing pants low on his hips, crotch down to his knees.
“I was about to order,” Duane lied.
“What's yer pleasure?”
“Whiskey.”
The bear waddled toward the bar, and Duane spotted a lone table in the middle of
the floor. He sat, while continuing to observe Saul Klevins. Is it a skill that he acquired, or do you have be born with it? he questioned. Saul Klevins perused the saloon back and forth, although he appeared to be relaxing with friends. Some men herded cattle, others worked in general stores, but a gunfighter killed for money, like a mercenary soldier. Duane's father had been one of them, and he knew that the poison swam in his blood, too.
The bear returned with the glass of whiskey, and set it before Duane. Boggs wasn't in the saloon, and it was time to move on, but a cowboy doesn't walk away from whiskey. Duane leaned his head back, poured the whiskey down his throat, and swallowed furiously. The glass emptied, and Duane slammed it down on the table.
He suddenly became disoriented, as alcohol dumped into his bloodstream. His eyes protruded from his head, he sucked wind, and felt as though a firestorm had broken out in his chest. A wave of dizziness came over him; he desperately needed water. He arose from the table, and broke into a paroxysm of coughing.
Somebody slammed him on the back. “You all right, kid?” A mug of beer appeared before Duane. “Have a drink.”
Duane swallowed twice, as cool foamy liquid bubbled down his throat and put out the fire. Duane handed the mug back to the bearded, grinning cowboy, then made for the door, but it felt as though he'd wandered onto the deck of a ship in stormy seas. The room pitched and tossed, and he walked into one of the wooden posts that held up the ceiling.
“You okay, kid?”
The voice came from a grotesquely painted prostitute in a red polka dot dress. She reached out and pinched his cheek. “Come lie down with me. I'll make you feel real fine.”
“Got to find somebody,” Duane replied, lurching toward the door.
He stepped outside, and the cool night hair steadied him. I can't drink a glass of whiskey in every saloon, Duane realized. They'll find me in the gutter with all the other drunkards. He moved through the noisy night, arrived at the Cattlemen, pushed open the doors, and headed toward the bar. Without a hitch in his movement, he scouted the back of the saloon, cut through the tables, and was out the front door again.
