Ophelia's War

by Alison L. McLennan

  The railway station, a hastily constructed clapboard structure, was painted a bow-red color so bright I could see it from miles away. It was surrounded by a vast expanse of barren land where tracks had been laid and stockyards built. Telegraph poles had replaced trees and almost all the vegetation had been trampled or eaten by stock.

  One tree had been spared. It stood alone a little ways out from the station. Its green blossoms stirred with the breeze. The tree would have been a beautiful reminder of what had been lost except for the grotesque shape of a man hanging from one of its branches. I had seen men hanging, even a woman once. Mother had tried to cover my eyes and turn my head, but I had managed to peek through her fingers.

  A posse of men kicked up dust as they made their way from town toward the man in the tree. They were so focused on the hanging man that I slipped past them into town completely unnoticed. Certain no one had seen me, I hitched the mare behind the livery, gave her a goodbye pat, and set out toward the saloon.

  Pearl stood on the boardwalk in front of the saloon talking coquettishly with a gentleman. He wasn’t like the gentleman in the bakery exactly, but his attire and manner told me he was of a different class from Johnny Dobbs. I walked toward Pearl. She watched me approach and looked perplexed. I must have been a sight with the boots, the hat, and the gun belt. She extricated herself from conversation with the gentleman and walked toward me with her hand covering her mouth.

  “What in the world?” she said.

  My story about the cursed necklace and the pawn shop tumbled out all jumbled. She looked around, shushed me, and told me to pipe down until we got inside. The saloon was almost empty and, to my relief, there was no sign of Johnny Dobbs. She ushered me to a quiet, corner table and took a seat with her back to the wall so she could see the entrance and everything going on.

  I began my story again, starting with the cursed ruby necklace and the pawn shop, but then chaos erupted and a gang of men led by Johnny Dobbs burst through the front door carrying the body of the man who had been hanging from the tree. I lost Pearl’s attention. She frowned as they placed the man on the bar.

  “Is that man dead?” she asked no one in particular. “Well, that certainly isn’t good for business.” She stood, marched over to the bar, and spoke to Johnny Dobbs. He gave me a quick glance and then he and three other men, like pallbearers without the convenience of a coffin, removed the body from the bar, carried it through the saloon, and out the back door.

  Pearl came back ashen and distracted. She leaned across the table and whispered, “That was the man who made the speech about Thomas Durant and the U.P. last night. He was like a brother to Johnny.” She shook her head. “A word against the railroad and the next day you turn up dead. Johnny’s hotheaded. He wants revenge. He needs to cool his cannon before he does something stupid. Some things are just too big to fight.” She settled into her chair, distracted.

  I tried to continue my story, but she shushed me again and told me we needed more privacy. All I wanted was to confess to killing Red Farrell. I was filled with an urgent need to tell someone. When we got to her room, I finally had her attention and told her the whole story, ending with me killing the one-eyed man. Of course, I didn’t describe the eerie feeling of his ghost in me because I didn’t want her to think I was touched.

  She wanted to see his gun, so I handed it over. She inspected it, felt the notches on the handle, and looked down in awe at the boots I wore.

  Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung open. She asked, “Do you know who you killed?” She threw her head back and laughed. “You killed Red Farrell. Johnny and Red have been trying to kill each other for so long I can’t even remember what they’re feuding about. Oh, my. What a day this is.” She handed the gun back to me and then grabbed my wrists in a congratulatory yet possessive gesture. “That should clear the slate with Johnny over your little syphilis prank.”

  She wanted to see the necklace. I wanted to ask her about my coin purse, if she had taken the money, but I didn’t want to insult her and it didn’t seem the right time. I fished the ruby necklace out of Dolly and handed it to her. The rubies dangled from her hand. I remembered mother’s boney, leathery hand holding them out to me as she lay dying.

  “Ruby? Ruby?”

  Pearl had been calling me, but I was lost in memories of Mother and had forgotten for a moment that my name was Ruby.

  “Ruby, huh? How long you been going by that?” Pearl fingered the necklace in her clean lovely hand so different from my mother’s hand hardened from work and withered by sickness. I didn’t know what to say.

  “No matter,” she said and smiled. “This was meant to be.”

  “So you think they’re real? Will you help me sell them?”

  She held up the rubies and inspected them. “Of course, they’re real. Why else would old Bamberger send Red Farrell out to steal them? Listen, dear, do you have any idea what it means to be cursed? You think your life is bad now? I will not sell them and bring a curse upon you.”

  Devastated, I choked down my disappointment and tried to suppress tears. She knelt before me. “Now, don’t despair. Wait a minute.” Her eyes danced with excitement. “I have an idea how we can profit without even selling the necklace.”

  Her smile was so broad, reassuring, and filled with promise, I couldn’t help feeling better. “How?” I asked.

  She stood, clapped her hands under her chin, and paced while she spoke. “I’ve been looking for investors for a business venture. A very wealthy man is interested in backing me, but I don’t have any collateral. You see, I need a down payment. If I use the necklace as collateral we can get it back as soon as we start making a profit. Ruby, we can be partners!”

  “What kind of business?” I hoped she would say bakery, or dressmaker, or millinery, or even distillery. I wanted to redeem myself for killing, and I didn’t want to debase myself or other ladies by selling female favors. But it turned out that was the only kind of business Pearl knew.

  “A parlor house,” she said.

  “What is that?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It isn’t a brothel or a bordello even. It’s a very fine establishment, a house, where gentlemen, rich gentlemen, visit to be entertained by fine talented ladies, in a discreet yet luxurious atmosphere, with music and dancing, and adult parlor games, and other activities that suit their distinct and unique tastes.”

  She must have read the look on my face because she said, “Ruby, you must believe me. It’s nothing like this place, like the tank. Nothing of that sort will happen to you again, I promise. This is different.” She walked toward the window and stared out. “You see, I’ve been in a fine house, a proper household with a proper family, one of the wealthiest in New York, and I know that the appetites of the men who rule those households aren’t any different than those of the lowest horse thief or road agent. They’ve got the same tastes and perversions, but they smell better. They are clean and rich. And they don’t want to be in a lowly brothel. With the railroad, they’ll be coming. We can charge them ten times as much as the commoner. Oh, Ruby, I want to make them pay. They humiliated me, took me in and threw me out like a common whore when I was barely grown. They made it out to be my fault when it was he who came after me—couldn’t keep his vile hands off me, bribed me with sweet meats and lollies.” She froze in a dark memory, which silenced her.

  To fill the awkward silence, I told her about my parents dying and my uncle running Zeke off, and ruining me for marriage. I left out the part about my uncle wanting the necklace, the card game, the three dead men, and also me running off with Samuel Cox. She nodded silently and didn’t press me for details. It was a common enough story, I suppose. I was filled with melancholy and resignation, and with kinship for Pearl and all the fallen women. I understood why she wanted to turn the tables on the men who had wronged us. We could not slay them with a swift sword of justice. Such a thing didn’t exist for us. We had to be what they’d turned us into and use th
e only true weapon we had.

  Johnny Dobbs could hardly believe I’d killed Red Farrell. If it weren’t for the hat, gun, boots, and horse, I don’t think he would have believed it. Pearl told him the story, but left out the part about the ruby necklace. She said Red had tried to violate me. She didn’t want Johnny to know about her plans for the parlor house.

  He was not a forgiving man. It wasn’t enough that I’d killed his enemy. He wanted Red’s horse, guns, and boots as repayment for my syphilis prank. I negotiated for the boots, pointing out that his feet were way too big for them. I don’t know why those boots meant so much to me. It must have been Red’s ghost that didn’t want Johnny Dobbs to have his boots, and somehow his desire became mine.

  J.D. claimed that word had traveled of the beautiful but “spotted” peach who was whoring at his saloon. He said I must publicly declare that I did not have syphilis and then make myself available for inspection. I looked at Pearl. Even though she had influence, he still wore the pants.

  “No touching,” she said to Johnny and ushered me away by the elbow. For some reason Johnny wasn’t fond of me. He always looked at me with a puzzled, suspicious expression. In response to his hostility, I made myself smaller and barely uttered a word in his presence.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The dead man’s burial, on Monday, May 10, 1869, was completely overshadowed by the driving of the golden spike, which took place out at Promontory Point. And the scandal, which had prevented Thomas Durant from being there on Saturday, was never mentioned again. Many of the nation’s newspapers had run stories, and celebrations had even taken place on Saturday as if the spike had been driven as planned. None of them mentioned Durant’s kidnapping.

  Through industry, temperance, and tightly organized social structures called wards, Mormons had civilized the Great Salt Lake Valley with irrigation, mills, kilns, fine brick buildings, and roads. Yet much of the Utah Territory was still a wild and lawless frontier. Hell-on-wheels towns like Blue Creek and Promontory had sprung up around the railroad and were best avoided. Instead of making the long journey to Promontory, many people celebrated the driving of the golden spike in Ogden, which was rumored to become the junction city, a mandatory stop for anyone crossing the continent by rail.

  Pearl feigned grief for Johnny’s dead friend, but could hardly contain her excitement over the future parlor house. She pretended to be excited over the railroad, but all day she whispered into my ear new decorating ideas, or small details she thought would make our parlor house perfect. She picked out fine dresses for me from her own wardrobe. Before this I had only worn homespun frocks. Although the new dresses made me look grand, they restricted my breathing and movement.

  That day I drank champagne and ate oyster pie for the first time. Johnny, Pearl, and I went to a real restaurant and sat at a table spread with a fine linen cloth. Pearl had gussied me up again and I felt like an entirely different person. She and Johnny weren’t too impressed by the oysters. Pearl said she had practically lived on them as a kid. She and Johnny preferred the mutton stew. It was the grandest most plentiful meal I had ever eaten. My body seemed to grow instantly from all the nourishment. Pearl told Johnny I deserved to be treated like a queen since I had killed Red Farrell. I figured it was the rubies and the parlor house she was really happy about. Johnny grumbled over his stew. He opposed Pearl’s idea for a parlor house.

  At dinner, they spoke about me as if I were not there. This behavior began that night and I never objected. Around Johnny, I tried to be a pretty and empty thing like a vase or a landscape painting. But I listened. I revived my old habit of eavesdropping except it wasn’t even necessary to hide.

  “I’m not putting up money to fund no fancy fuck house,” he said.

  “What if I find a way to come up with the money?” Pearl asked.

  He just snorted and said, “That’ll be the day.” He stared at her, hard and dead serious. “I moved the whole operation out here from Corinne on your hunch, Pearl. What if you’re wrong? What if Corinne becomes the junction city and we go belly up? You’ll be on your back again.”

  Because she was in such a good humor with the secret of my ruby necklace and her plans for the parlor house, Pearl let Johnny’s insult go. But she wouldn’t always. Sometimes she’d fight back and things would turn ugly.

  After dinner we walked back to the saloon. Pearl and I were giddy from champagne. Johnny walked ahead, subdued and disgruntled. I wasn’t sure whether that was his normal disposition, or if he was crabby over the murder of his friend.

  Pearl asked me if I was sure this was the life I wanted. I told her I was ruined for marriage and a decent life on account of Uncle Luther violating me. She nodded and told me I wasn’t the first. The worst, she said, were the ungodly godlies, who would violate young women and then chastise them for becoming whores. She talked of Venus and Aphrodite. She said we would build a temple of love.

  I told her of my strong feelings for Samuel, how I thought it was love, but then he had left me to die. She called him a coward and me a goddess. She said even in my weakness I was strong. She said that men would suck the spirit and strength right through my “glorious hole,” and then leave me weakened and hungry. She wanted to build a temple of love where proper patronage would be paid for our gifts. We would call it The Doll House and use the rubies to build it.

  When we entered the saloon, I saw the dimpled crate-carrier standing at the bar with a bottle and a glass in front of him. He watched us and smiled broadly. His youthful, clean-shaven smile filled the room with promise and dimples you could get lost in. Most men sported scruffy beards that smelled of axle grease and rotting meat. I figured the crate-carrier was so young his beard hadn’t fully come in yet.

  He raised his glass and said, “Well now, that’s a prettier sight than any sunset I’ve ever seen. If God has created anything finer than you two ladies, I’d sure like to see it.” He took a drink, shook off the whiskey burn, and put down his glass.

  Pearl held out her hand. He kissed it and looked at me. “This is my little sister, Ruby,” Pearl said. “She’ll be staying here with us now.”

  The crate-carrier took my hand and lifted it to his mouth. His lips lingered for longer than was proper. His hot breath sent a sudden chill through me.

  “Why your hair is the color of peaches. I’ve never seen hair so fine a color.” He finally dropped my hand. “My name is Peter, but they call me Whiskey Pete on account of my whiskey wagon.”

  Pearl smiled at him and looked at me. “He’s got a secret still somewhere up there in the mountains, and he graces us Gentiles with his presence by overcharging us for his fine mountain firewater, which we baptize and sell for a profit.”

  “Aww, now you’re flattering me, Miss Pearl.”

  It appeared he’d been sampling his own stock. His cheeks were flushed. He loosened his collar, shook his head, and took another swallow.

  “Pete, we need a man’s assistance upstairs. Would you be so kind as to lend us a hand?”

  He turned a beet color and looked like he’d been caught with his trousers down.

  “You can bring your bottle,” Pearl said, smiled, and walked away.

  I fell in step behind Pearl aware of the drunk, enthusiastic young lad behind me who seemed just barely to have passed the threshold to manhood. His enthusiasm spread to me. I felt so excited to be alive and to have made his acquaintance, I thought I would burst.

  When we entered the exotic sanctuary that was Pearl’s bedroom, my excitement changed to awkward discomfort. The last rays of sun imbued the room with forebodings of romance. Pearl lit a gas lamp and pulled the lace curtains shut. The pink sunlight penetrated the lace and shimmered on the wall in an intricate pattern. The sirens’ bosoms carved on Pearl’s mahogany headboard held Peter’s awe-stricken gaze. I could tell from his reaction that he had never been in her bedroom before.

  “Now, Peter.” Pearl smiled from over the gas lamp, which illuminated her face and golden hair. She guided him into
a chair next to a coat rack and gestured for me to sit on the bed. “My sister needs an education, and not the kind you get in a schoolhouse. It’s the type of education best given by a handsome young man like you, with a bit of guidance and advice from a lady acquainted with the art of pleasure, like me.”

  I froze. Pete looked like a lit stick of dynamite was in his pants. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, loosened his collar some more, took a swig from his bottle, and ran a hand through his thick hair. “Okay,” he said and glanced at me. “I’ll do my best to oblige.” He must have noticed the stricken look on my face because he got out of his chair and knelt before me. He glanced at my hair. “Is this okay with you, Peach?” He must have forgotten my name and not known what to call me. “I won’t hurt you.”

  When I looked into his luminous green eyes and down at his velvet chocolate hair, my breath caught in my throat and I could not speak. The same feeling overcame me as when I had first met Samuel Cox, and I knew it would lead to nothing but trouble. Yet I wanted that trouble—wanted it so badly I began to ache.

  I looked at Pearl. She smiled, nodded, and picked up a glass from her bedside table. She poured a half a finger of whiskey. “Here, dear, this will relax you.” She handed me the glass. I sipped it and sputtered as the heat burned my throat. Pete looked at Pearl tentatively and she nodded. Pearl poured herself a little glass, then began a passionate speech.

  “The realms of pleasure are forbidden to us in the Bible, by preachers and holy men. We cover ourselves with layers of uncomfortable clothes, and try to ignore the pulsing and longing of our most intimate parts. But a long time ago in Greece and Ancient Rome, sex acts were sacred. People made pilgrimages to the temple of the Goddess Aphrodite. They worshipped her and made sacrifices to her—all in the name of pleasure.” She looked to each of us. “You must free yourselves from the shackles of shame over copulation and ejaculation. Man must ejaculate. If he carries his seed too long, it turns to poison, and he takes a violent hand.” Pearl looked at Peter and gestured to me. “Her ripe body has been cooped up in that dress too long. Free her.”