Sary's Gold

by Sharon Shipley

  As water bloomed darker, it embraced, welcomed, entombed her in a liquid shroud, pressing, invading her nose, ears, mouth…lungs. The water warmed now…comforting…

  Go limp. Float…don’t breathe…!

  Sary dwindled, limp, to the bottom. Inky blackness pressed her wide-open eyes. She groped as a blind woman, mildly shocked when her boots thudded on a hard sharp thing. When they slipped off, her feet sank into velvety muck—soft gluey marl sucked her calves with a lover’s constriction. Aching for air, Sary tugged, but her legs stuck fast.

  ****

  Ratchet’s terrified face surged above the surface. Below, Sary undulated on a junk-filled bottom. Her body lightened, and a black shape drifted past her eyes, billowing like a dark angel. Her anchoring skirts, ripped loose by Ratchet’s tugging, finally—miraculously—floated off.

  Even lightened, she sank deeper with each tug of her leg into the floor of the bay. Where is that hard thing? With her last bit of oxygen, she probed mud. Yes! Her fingers groped gritty metal—Push hard. Something, maybe a barnacle, sliced her palm, still the ocean floor claimed her leg. Did the left foot slip? A lessening of pressure? She pushed hard against metal. Sary felt her foot’s blessed release from the strangulating muck. Thrust hard! Reluctantly, the mud let go, and Sary drifted, blind, with all the force of thistledown, for the top. Her chest was bursting to release. Bubbles trickled from her nose. Air. Must have—

  Her face popped to the surface.

  Fall back; suck in wet stars come out while you were between Hell and Earth.

  After bobbing, pleasantly languid, hauling in air deliciously tangy with fish and seaweed, Sary checked her bearings.

  The wharf and an uneven row of gaslights were to her right, the dark ocean, stretching to the strange island of Japan, to her left. Sary shivered, not from cold, entirely, in her wet floating petticoats, but at how close she had come to not being a part of either, or of anything on earth except as a permanent member waving like seaweed in the bilge waste, old bedsprings, and gutter effluvium at the bottom of San Francisco Bay.

  Sary paddled on her last strength to wharves with staggered rows of tenements and warehouses lining them like weary sentries.

  Sary’s arms, like lead sash weights, groped slimy pilings studded with razor-sharp barnacles. The pilings loomed up to the wharf’s underside, impossibly high. She paddled in circles. No Ratchet. Half expecting him, she looked back at the empty tide, which glinted reproof.

  Can’t just leave him down there.

  Yes, you can. He did it.

  Sary flinched. No. No more deaths.

  Then Ratchet washed up, knocking into pilings, sloshed in with the waves. He was under the wharf, choking, eyes rolling like a frightened horse. When he caught sight of Sary’s face, he floundered to her in wild overarm swings.

  Sary pushed against a sluggish tide, and Ratchet washed up again, tangling amid cross braces under the quay. There he bounced with the waves but jerkily, against the tide, slamming posts, fumbling at the knife attached to his gun belt. She saw his belt was hooked on something, dragging him under. Already the rising tide slopped across his nose, and he tugged frantically, striving to keep his head up, fixed on her, imploring.

  Sary paddled warily closer. She could not watch him drown. Could she wrench his belt loose before the next tide surged in? She circled. He still had that wicked knife, but trapped awkwardly behind him. She motioned, still paddling herself, as each wave threatened to sunder her and heave more water in her face and down her throat, tasting bitter salt. Surely he will let me go now. He leaned, compliant, from the post. “You won’t bother me? You will forget me?” Sary yelled between waves. “You promise?”

  “Yes, yes, please, for God’s sake!” Ratchet appeared satisfyingly terrified, Sary thought. The rest was lost as waves crashed over Ratchet’s head and didn’t recede. Sary inserted her hand in the space and wriggled his belt free. She backstroked quickly.

  Hand over hand, Ratchet now clutched pilings with evil in his face, kicking out viciously at Sary’s head. He slipped, grabbed a slime-covered brace. Barnacles sliced his fingers. Blood barely stained the water as he sank beneath. His wild eyes widened under water. The next roller swept his feet out from under him as Sary clung to a cross brace to keep from getting swept out with the tidal pull. Ratchet’s reserve of air exploded out. Bubbles galloped past Sary. Then he sucked for air where there was nothing but water and let go. His hands thrashed, tangling in seaweed. Sary watched where his coat billowed and bumped to rest in a maze of wood. The last bubble escaped, and Ratchet hung limp, swaying amid the pilings.

  Chapter 34

  Tommy fell into their room laughing and calling, clutching a long loaf, paper-wrapped fish, and a wine jug evidently meant for a private celebration—just the two of them, Sary registered, before he just stood there and gaped.

  Sary, dripping wet, nearly bald, her hair hacked off and left in tufts, seaweed strung across one shoulder, furiously scrubbed her arms in the room’s poor washbasin, a petticoat puddled about her ankles.

  He sagged against the jamb. Now what?

  Sary cried, rubbing her arms raw, “Damn him! Look what he made me do!”

  “Inamora—”

  “Do be quiet, Tommy! Don’t say a word! Not one platitude, or fancy phrase. It’s too easy!” she wailed.

  “Inamorata!” He stopped at her look. ‘What? What’s too easy?” Moving to her, he ducked Sary’s thrashing arms as she stabbed a pointing finger out at the bay.

  “Ratchet! Down there! He…drowned!”

  “Who? Who the hell’s Ratchet?”

  “Ratchet!”

  “You mean that—?”

  “Yes! Open your ears, Tommy!”

  Tommy watched her warily. Her face was pale, and tears leaked off her chin to white breasts, oddly stuck with seaweed. She was drenched and shuddering. “But—” His eyes swept back, caressing the milky white round of breast with the nipples pale as tea roses.

  Tommy tore his eyes away. Up to now they had been modest with each other, and his gaze swept the room, bewildered, taking in the open wardrobe, the blood drops, the rucked-up sheets.

  He dropped the bread and wine and went clumsily to embrace a body shuddering so hard he could barely contain it—partly to shelter her nakedness and partly, Sary sensed, to shield himself from wanting her.

  She revolved, melding her freezing self to him.

  Oh! This feels so good. If he weren’t so hateful! She pressed close as Tommy tenderly stroked her hacked-off hair and kissed her forehead, brushing the hacked-off ends with his cheek, Sary raised her face. It had been so long since she’d felt a man’s hardness, his comforting, enveloping embrace. How safe it felt. The action turned into a long fumbling kiss, with mouth and teeth and tongue, as Tommy tore the last soggy petticoat down.

  “Later,” he mumbled between searching kisses, “I want to hear all about this. But for now, let me warm you,” he muttered thickly.

  Breathing hard, Sary whispered something harsh and throaty back, lost on Tommy.

  Sary, in nothing but pantaloons, transparent and clinging, yanked at the buttons and shimmied out of them as he ripped off his clothes, slamming her naked body into his. Sary wound a cold leg around his warm muscular hairy one, wrapping chill arms about his hot neck, glorying in his rough warm comfort. Tommy picked her up, cradled her close to his chest, and Sary knew nothing coherent after that. Only her body knew. Tommy dropped her backward onto the bed, entwined them both in coverlets, chafed her hands, and let their breathing warm the bed and her body. Slowly Tommy slid his lips over every inch of her. Holding her face in his hands, he kissed her long and deep, warming her cold mouth with his tongue, cupping her body with urgent hands, heating her with his weight.

  Even her memories of Jonathan and their little room warmed by sun sailed away in this endless rapture. It had been so long since a man loved her in all the right ways. She was not a possession or taken in naked lust or as a workhorse. Later, wrapped
in sheets, they sank intertwined to the floor, all in a heap by the low window, looking upside down at the stars.

  After a moment, Sary grinned and flipped on top, feverishly kissing Tommy as if she starved, and then she was on the bottom, and Tommy pressed his delicious strength once again into her.

  ****

  A candle burned low.

  Sary, wound in a sheet, her bottom flaming from floor burns and her back against the frame of the tall open window, studied Tommy’s face. His beautiful chiseled features were thinned by hardships, his complexion roughened by long rough roads and weather. His eyes, sadder if not wiser, were yet infinitely warm. She began talking as she sipped wine from the bottle and found she could not stop. Tommy lay with his head in her lap, kissing every part he could reach easily. He finally focused on her words. She leaned to him, at last, gave a bursting sigh, and bussed him, ruffling his hair. Then, hesitantly, defiantly, she asked, “So what do think of your gallows bird now?”

  She finished the last of the bottle. Her throat bobbed as she dared to look at him.

  Tommy hitched up, checked the night, and slumped back, gazing bemused up at her. “Affliction is enamored of thy admittedly lovely parts, Sary, and thou art wedded to calamity…” He turned to look away and did not see Sary’s impatience. “I’d rather you’d told me. Have you—you did reveal everything?”

  Sary jumped up, letting his head thump to the floor, trailing sheets. He gazed with interest at her pinked bottom and flash of thigh as she stalked to the window and addressed the night.

  “Plagued with scars—nearly hung—gimpy armed—and you didn’t think there might be a past?” She glanced, contrite, over her shoulder. “Sorry, Tommy.”

  Tommy reached for the other bottle. “This Ratchet—he’s the end of it, then? Whatever it is.”

  “Maybe.” Sary claimed the wine and returned to the night. “You don’t know me.” Then, bitterly, she whispered, “How can it be over?”

  She realized he’d risen and thrown on trousers, and she frowned, wanting him to return and comfort her. She was greedy for it now.

  “Afraid they’re waiting, sweeting. Make haste,” Tommy fretted instead. As if we never had this, this magic, this closeness…

  She knew she was unfair. This is what happens when you let love stalk back into your life, hounding you, making you scared and silly—and needy…

  “We’ve tarried too long.” His eyes softened as he gestured to the floor. “Let’s tarry again soon.”

  He stuffed her trunks any which way.

  Sary stubbornly kept drinking, pointing the bottle accusingly between gulps. “I’ve done it your way! I’ve danced everyone’s tune. Every man-jack’s, tinker-tailor’s misbegotten fancy, whimsy, hankering, thirst, yen, or slightest wisp of a dream, of a desire for…”

  Tommy yanked a drying stocking. “You’ve had enough of that for now. Hurry. Sweeting.”

  She shook her head, wordless, and tilted the bottle upside down over her mouth, sucking the last dregs.

  Gasping, Sary swiped her mouth. “…my entire, meek-as-milk existence.” She finished groping her rope burn scar, and slurred, “I’ve paid, Tommy.”

  “No doubt…” He ducked as Sary lurched and drunkenly waved the bottle. “And that stinking, curdled, smelly, conniving, underhanded, assassinating whore’s son will pay even more. Oh, he’ll pay, Tommy!” She staggered and narrowed her eyes. “With everything he’s got!” She wiped at her nose. Why am I acting this way? I, who always keep my own counsel?

  Tommy checked the room, distracted. “We feed our bellies with rage now, do we?”

  Sary stumbled, giggling.

  “Oh, Tommy,” she cried. “Money is one thing I do have!”

  Tommy reacted. “Money? What the hell you talking about?” He tossed her a gaudy costume.

  Sary waved the bottle wildly. “But, Tommy. Where’s my things?”

  “In a hurry, Inamorata—”

  “Tommy! Where’s my things?”

  “One step ahead of an extremely rapacious landlord. Rather afraid some of it got…” Tommy looked around confused. “Tossed? Besides…” He checked the window. “It’s more than time!”

  Sary sank to the floor, pawing her old clothes, clutching to her chest hard-won bank papers, the Derringer, and Jude’s tiny moccasin, things Tommy had never before seen. He threw cases out the door and checked under the bed. “Barely scarpered with props and costumes as it is. Ah, well.” He laughed, with his head under the trailing sheet. “Experienced, we lot, in disappearing acts…”

  Sary hardly heard him as she ducked away from the window. A policeman and a knot of people pointed at the water and then swiveled, scanning windows as if trying to select one. Still clutching the bottle, Sary swung wildly as Tommy rose from under the bed. The bottle connected with a dull thunk. She flinched, softening the blow, but still Tommy slumped hard, wordless. She dropped beside him, shaking him.

  “Tommy! No death scenes!” She peered above the sill. The knot of people approached the tenement. “Damnation!” Sary heard doors opening, and footsteps, below, four floors down. Voices. A clatter of doorknobs. A door slammed. Feet pounded up stairs. More voices. She eyed their suddenly flimsy door. Is it locked? She recalled Tommy throwing their cases out. Probably not. All the while she kept shaking him. “Not now! Tommy! Wake up!” Tommy mumbled something, rolled his eyes, and breathed slow and steady.

  The pounding was right below them now—garbled voices and grumbles of people answering. Footsteps clattered on steps, ever closer. Sary yanked at a pillow and jammed it under Tommy’s head as feet walked their hall, multiple feet. She heard rapping, police calling. A door opened. More voices, complaints this time. Another slam, and locks clicked. Feet pounded closer. A door opened after knocking. Sary heard a long angry protest. The next room faced the bay, too.

  Sary scrambled into the other gaudy red costume, the one used for Katherina, haphazardly fitted on the red wig, laced shoes, and grabbed up her precious case.

  At the door, she looked both ways and turned. “Tommy. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Quickly she ran over and brushed his lips. Tommy groaned, his eyes fluttering awake. “Sary…?” And he slumped back. Once again, at the door, Sary looked back.

  “Oh, Tommy! You may not like where I go. What I need—have to do.”

  Police and a small knot of curious followers rounded the bend.

  Sary, in her red wig, smiled and brushed a policeman on her flight down.

  Chapter 35

  Another maze of alleyways. It seemed she always ran away from somewhere half dressed, unprepared. Sary couldn’t see where she placed one racing foot after another, stumbling, tripping over garbage, cobbles, and things rushing past. More shouts—this time an excited cacophony of exhortations was just ahead.

  Not far now.

  Bursting out on the scene, Sary approached chaos—raucous yells of encouragement and heckling, as the alley widened on a alley intersection of an ale house, laundry, and restaurant, odors of bleach admixing with those of beer, sour refuse, and sewers.

  A light rain was falling, but that didn’t stop the ragged mob jamming the passageways—men, women, and even toddlers—from exhorting Caine and Luigi to beat each other to bloody death.

  Sary saw Caine cold-cocking Luigi amid a frenzy of onlookers absorbed in the flurry of bloody action, connecting fists, and money slapping down.

  Sprays of blood spattered bettors and spectators alike in gouts of red rain, mixed with boxer-sweat, until Luigi landed on his backside with a nose like a beet. “Owwww!”

  Caine grinned, slipped a horseshoe from his fist, and held a hand out to Luigi, still groggy on the cobbles. He halted his hand midair, following Sary’s slim one as it pressed a gold nugget to his bloody matted chest.

  “Thought I’d find you two here,” she said, making her eyes merry.

  Caine ignored the nugget and stepped aside to accept a small purse from a promoter. “Ta.” He touched his forehead, and only then did he finger
Sary’s costume, scanning the wig.

  “Why you wearin’ ’at? ’At’s the Shrew’s last-act costume. What you all tarted up for, Duchess? We’re not on?”

  Crouching on the cobbles, Sary bounced the nugget, ignoring his question. Then Luigi viewed the moon of her face rising over him. “You too,” she told him, upside down. “Twenty-one rounds of horseshoes qualify any man, I should think.”

  ****

  The boxers slouched, bloody and defiant, against a brick wall. Luigi sucked a loose tooth. “For what?” he slurred.

  Caine queried, “And why can’t we tell our mates?”

  “This is why.” Sary held up another nugget, turning it in the gaslight. “Acquainted with killing, then?”

  Luigi mumbled, “Self defense.”

  “Of course.”

  “Twice.”

  Caine spread three fingers. Sary stared.

  “Just ’appens.” He shrugged. “So ’oo do we murder-late, and ’ow much? That chap ’oo…?”

  Sary smiled grimly and flipped him the nugget. “Not as it happens.” She scrutinized their lumpy faces.

  “You’ll do. We leave. Now.”

  “Hold on, Duchess,” Caine hedged. “Where to?”

  “You’ll be remunerated. Well!” Sary tugged, irritated. “We must make haste.” Even to her that sounded imperious. The nugget was worth more than they would see in years, but Caine stood like a wooden Indian. Luigi looked from one to the other. “Re-mun… re-mooner…what?” he asked.

  “And where’s our Tommy?” from Caine.

  “He’s fine!” Is he? Sary, now she had made up her mind, was obsessed with leaving. It was more than time, yet Caine was stubborn as a farm mule. “All right!” Exasperated. “Big Bear.”

  “Tommy’s in Big Bear?” Luigi wondered.

  “No!” Oh, why are they so pigheaded?

  Luigi wavered, uncertain, a frown bunching his low forehead below a floss of black oily curls.

  Caine forced the nugget back. “Hate the ruddy mountains, I do. All them trees pressin’ in. Couldn’t get me proper wind, ’ole bleedin’ time.” He thumped Luigi. “C’mon, mate.” And he steered Luigi off.