Ophelia's War

by Alison L. McLennan

  TWENTY-SIX

  I thought I was the only one Pearl truly loved until one Sunday morning in April of 1881 when I awoke to some noise coming from the kitchen. It was so early the cock had not yet crowed. Dawn was a thin line waiting to crack. I heard a series of high-spirited shushes and giggles coming from Pearl at an hour I’d never before seen her even remotely awake.

  I tiptoed downstairs and caught her rummaging around in the icebox, putting leftover ham into a picnic basket. A hunting rifle and a shotgun lay on the kitchen table. She was with a mannish-looking woman who wore trousers and sported a hunting jacket. The woman looked bashful but defiant.

  “Oh, sorry, Peach,” Pearl whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” She flicked her fingers at me. “Go back to bed.”

  Without moving an inch, I studied the woman in man’s clothes standing next to Pearl. Pearl looked at the woman and explained. “This is my good friend Emily Browning. We’re going hunting.”

  I didn’t know Pearl had any friends. She hardly ventured outside, especially during the day, never mind the wee hours of the morning. She could barely contain her enthusiasm for this outing. It was absurd—Pearl hunting?

  “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Emily Browning. Oh, are you related to the gunsmith?” I asked.

  She smiled tiredly as if this were a frequent question. “My father started that business. He died a couple of years ago. One of my brothers has taken over. I’m just one of his twenty-two offspring.” She touched Pearl’s elbow.

  “You’re going hunting?” I said to Pearl emphasizing the word you’re so Emily might understand what she was in for with Pearl along.

  “Yes.” Pearl answered impatiently.

  “For quail,” Emily chimed in, her voice strong and confident. Pearl continued packing the picnic basket, and Emily picked up the shotgun.

  A wistful longing came over me as I recalled my hunting days with Zeke. I swallowed. “Can I come?” I was ashamed of my pathetic pleading tone. Pearl hesitated and looked at Emily, who shrugged and nodded.

  Pearl shouted, “Hurry! Go get ready. We were just about to leave.”

  I started up the stairs and overheard her say to Emily, “She knows a thing or two about guns.” I halted in my tracks, spun around, and looked at Pearl. She smiled and winked. I turned and ran up the stairs.

  “Wear an outdoor dress or some trousers if you have any!” she called after me.

  “I know!” I sang.

  It had been about six months since Whiskey Pete had been to see me. I’d once spied a look at his first wife when I saw them together at the mercantile. Her dour face and dowdy build gave me confidence. But he had amassed some savings and proved to the church he was worthy to take a second wife. I’d heard she was fifteen years old and as beautiful and fragile as an orchid. Enamored by her youth and beauty, he must have forgotten all about me. I’d fallen into deep despair over losing him. The prospect of a Sunday outing filled me with joy.

  The weather was fine and we had a grand time. Emily was impressed with my marksmanship and amused by Pearl’s excited ladylike handling of the assorted rifles and shotguns. I’d never seen this side of Pearl. She laughed like a schoolgirl and looked at Emily with such esteem and admiration, I felt jealous and fearful that Emily would replace me. Pearl’s affection toward me had been mostly sisterly. I felt something different between her and Emily, something almost romantic.

  Pearl and Johnny’s relations had always been turbulent and filled with nasty rows. Yet Johnny had managed to hold back and never unleash his full fury upon her, until one Sunday morning not long after the hunting outing. Part of Johnny’s vicious reputation around Ogden was built on the false rumor that he had killed Red Farrell. If I hadn’t felt so guilty about it, I would have found my status as a secret killer amusing. I was a multiple murderess, and they treated me as if I were a prized poodle.

  My manner had changed over the years from a spirited, defiant, red-headed tomboy to an exotic flower with a demure ladylike façade. I cultivated subtle yet sultry mannerisms to attract wealthy patrons. I sometimes sang in public and was known for my sweet, melodious voice. Once in a while Pearl and I drank a little too much and ended up spending the night in a dance hall, not for the money, just for fun.

  Pearl loved to dance. She glided over the dance floor as if she had wings. If she didn’t have to keep up the lofty parlor house reputation, I bet she would have done the can-can. Unfortunately since my fall from the cliff, I’d been plagued with leg aches and a slight limp. I disguised my affliction the best I could, but dancing aggravated my old injury.

  I’d spent every holiday and ate most Sunday dinners at Pearl and Johnny’s farmhouse along with other assorted characters who came and went over the years. Although Johnny didn’t seem to actively despise me, he never did warm up to me. It was like he still harbored that beating he never got to give me. Sometimes I wished he’d just have whipped me over that syphilis prank because his prolonged silent aggression unsettled me for over a decade.

  It all came to a head that April morning when I awoke to crashing noises and Johnny hurling expletives. He blasted all manner of filthy names, some I’d never even heard, at Pearl. His voice quivered with rage. A trail of blood led under the bed where Pearl hid like a whimpering bitch. I ran to my room, retrieved my six-shooter from the bedside table, ran back, and trained the gun on Johnny, who by that time looked more like a wild beast than a man.

  “I shot Red Farrel!” I yelled. “And I will shoot you if you don’t get the hell out of here right now.” Red’s ghost stepped into me. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, the reason he’d been haunting me all those years. I fought between our opposing wills, trying not to pull the trigger and kill Johnny outright as Red so desperately wanted.

  Pearl’s voice came from under the bed. “Peach, don’t do it. They’ll hang you. There’s bad blood between me and the sheriff right now.”

  I locked gazes with Johnny Dobbs. Hate burned in me so hot, I thought I could incinerate him. I said, “Well, that’s just fine, Pearl. It would save me the trouble of hanging myself.” The words came out with a force and truth that surprised and saddened me. Until I uttered those words, I had not realized the depths of my despair.

  On his way out, Johnny Dobbs broke every precious vase, lamp, and painting that adorned our elegant parlor house. Pearl crawled out from under the bed and mooned over each object, ignoring her own wounds. “He’ll pay for this,” she hissed.

  Red Farrell’s ghost was angry and disappointed that I didn’t kill Johnny. He didn’t throw dishes or slam doors. There was nothing much left to break. I felt him in me. I can’t explain it. He wanted me to pull the trigger so bad, I almost did. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of Johnny Dobbs’s ghost haunting me too. Hanging would have been a relief—an end to my misery. I thought that then, but who knows what my feelings would have been with the hangman’s noose around my neck.

  We closed the Doll House for a few days and cleaned the place. Pearl packed a trunk and said she had some business in New York City. She left me in charge and boarded a train that would take her right across the territories all the way to the Atlantic Ocean! Oh, how I begged to go with her and visit the Great Metropolis. But Pearl said no. Her mission could be dangerous, and someone needed to oversee the parlor house. She gave me detailed instructions about what to do should she not return. I pressed her for details. She wouldn’t tell me anything. I was terrified of losing her and being left alone in the world, especially with Johnny Dobbs as an enemy. She said not to worry; if things went according to plan, we’d be rid of Johnny Dobbs and only richer for his riddance.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When I went to the Union Pacific Station to welcome Pearl back home, she was accompanied by a Pinkerton detective, Charles Sirringo, whom she affectionately introduced as “Charlie.” Johnny Dobbs was promptly arrested for a murder and a bank robbery, which he’d committed in Gotham during the early ’sixties before he and P
earl came west. He had used the robbery money to buy whores, and increased it by following the construction of the railroad and pimping sex to the laborers all the way to Ogden. He then built a small empire of gambling dens, saloons, and some of the nastiest back-alley cribs known to man.

  All of Johnny Dobbs’s money and property were confiscated by the Pinkertons. Charles Sirringo arrested him and extradited him to NYC for trial, where he was found guilty and sentenced to hang at Sing Sing. Pearl did not collect a fee for the information she provided about Johnny, but she was granted immunity for her association with him, because she’d been a minor at the time of the crime. At first, she feared one of Johnny Dobbs’s men might try to avenge him. Instead, all of his underlings and associates fought amongst themselves and clambered to replace him.

  As the date of Johnny’s execution grew closer, Pearl became anxious and full of regret. She said that Johnny had saved her. He had loved her. What would she have become without him? I reminded her that he had also beaten her to a pulp and shattered all her cherished belongings.

  “That was because of Emily,” she whispered.

  I couldn’t believe Johnny was jealous of Pearl’s friend, Emily Browning, the tomboy from the hunting outing. I didn’t comprehend. After all the men whom Pearl had pleasured, why would Johnny fly into a rage over Pearl’s friend Emily?

  “It’s because I loved her,” Pearl said. “In a way that I could never love him.”

  And then I understood. Johnny only had access to the part of Pearl that she sold and bartered. The part of Pearl he really wanted, her true love and compassion, was locked away from him.

  Emily Browning married a respectable Mormon and was forbidden by her family to ever associate with the likes of Pearl Kelly again. Pearl was devastated. When Detective Sirringo arrested Johnny and extradited him to New York for trial, Pearl had at first seemed relieved, as if a great heaviness had been lifted from her. Although Johnny had once provided Pearl with protection, financial support, and doting affection, over the years he had grown to resent Pearl’s prosperity and independence. He tried harder to control her, often with physical force. But their fight over Emily was the breaking point from which she could not return.

  Over time, Pearl had developed age lines, and her girlish figure turned more matronly. With the help of cosmetics, she was still a beauty. Moreover, she had an easy, confident way with men, a quick wit, and a sense of humor that made her the life of the party. When Pearl heard Johnny would face the gallows, everything changed. She became sullen and distracted, forgot all his meanness, and berated herself for treachery. She couldn’t think of anything else but Johnny’s pending execution. I didn’t think Pearl was capable of such guilt because being Pearl meant that you moved ahead without regret or reproach.

  She wrote letter after letter to Johnny at Sing Sing Prison begging for his forgiveness. None of her letters were answered. Finally they were returned with a short note that said the prisoner had been executed. Soon after that, Pearl contracted a terrible disease. I don’t know if it was a mere coincidence, or if somehow she had made herself sick with all her mooning and guilt. Either way, she became seriously ill.

  Of course, I wasn’t a doctor, but I could tell, the sores, the fevers, the burning eyes and headaches, were not phantoms of her imagination. She stayed in a dark room most of the day and only went out in the evening and at night. As sores festered on her body, high-necked blouses replaced the low-cut bodices that had once shown off her cleavage.

  When the sores spread to her face, she remained indoors except for walks with a veil. We permanently closed the parlor house. Pearl didn’t want any rumors about her illness to get out, so we let go of all the girls and staff. The new owner of Johnny’s place had tossed Old Nell onto the street, so we hired her to help. Pearl knew no one listened to Old Nell because she was half-blind and three-quarters demented. She not only helped me nurse Pearl, but also performed most of the housekeeping and cooking duties. Old Nell knew herbal remedies. She came from a long line of prostitutes who’d passed down these remedies, probably dating all the way back to ancient Egypt, for all I knew. But since she was touched and losing her memory, I often feared we’d end up poisoning Pearl instead of healing her.

  The autumn Pearl fell sick, all my energy was spent keeping deterioration and disorder at bay. As soon as I tended to one thing, be it soiled laundry, a torn stocking, or a cracked dish, something else broke. Death and decay consumed everything.

  Pearl’s pain was horrific, and yet she refused to see the doctor. There were many types of pox. I couldn’t recognize one type of pox from the other. Pearl feared the shame and humiliation we’d face if anyone found out she was ill. Because she was a madam, they’d say it was the French pox or cupid’s curse. She refused the doctor because she said he was greedy, and I’d be paying for his silence long after she was buried. The disease destroyed Pearl’s vanity. But it didn’t take her pride.

  She did not want to try the mercury cure, which was a common treatment for pox. It was often said to be worse than the disease. Pearl just wanted morphine. She said she didn’t have the will to fight her death because she believed it was inevitable and she deserved it.

  I was scared that Pearl’s illness would spread to me and I would suffer as she did. Yet as I continued to care for her, I witnessed a remarkable transformation. Pearl’s beauty was consumed by ugly painful sores, and her outward appearance changed from that of a beautiful swan to a rotting river rat. Yet her soul filled with radiance.

  Truthfully, Pearl had not been a nice person. She had been charming and witty, yet manipulatively cruel to almost everyone but me. She saw others not for who they were but how she could profit from them. Although she gave generously to the orphans, she did not spend time with them, or care for them, or even dare to place her lovely, jewel-laden hand on one of their lousy heads.

  All the same, I admired Pearl. During a period of economic decline, she had risen from the gutters to build, if not an empire, at least a comfortable kingdom over which she presided. She had managed to become literate after a brief internment with a wealthy family and had further educated herself in the classics and business. Her intellect was keen and discerning. I could forgive the fact that she prospered from the backs of her sisters. What other labor could have brought such fortune to a woman?

  At least she had encouraged the men to use French Preventatives by offering discounts. She never exploited children. At seventeen, I was the youngest girl she’d ever employed. Although many girls, including Pearl, had no idea of their birth dates and could only guess at their ages.

  Pearl’s disposition toward men had ranged from amused disdain to maternal kindness. Although she profited from and exploited men’s weakness for female flesh, she instructed her whores to show customers only affection. Men who wanted to be flogged flocked to Pearl. She understood their need for punishment and never judged them as evil or perverse. She had said women are vessels for both pleasure and pain, for the sacred and profane. She told us that we must lose ourselves in the rapture of both and claimed that was the only way women could be one with the divine. That was what she had said on the rare occasions she waxed philosophical. Most of the time, she was figuring profits.

  I never saw her soul at peace except when she suffered with the disease ravaging her body. In life she had clung to her beauty as if it was all she was. Only near death, when the burden of her beauty had deteriorated, could the radiance of her spirit finally shine.

  After Johnny was arrested, Pearl had her bed with the beautifully carved mahogany headboard moved from their farmhouse into her bedroom at the Doll House. I leaned over her beautiful bed and plumped the pillows as she gazed at the intricately carved sirens with wonder. “Johnny and I will be together in hell,” she mused. Her smile turned to a pain-filled grimace.

  I couldn’t think of a response. She had no reprieve or respite from agony, except for a few hours after morphine. Death did not come easily or fast. Yet even though the fi
ght and light were gone from her eyes, she clung to her existence. I watched her suffer as I’d watched my mother and father suffer, although without morphine I’d been helpless to relieve their pain. But even though Pearl had morphine, her suffering seemed greater, her disease fiercer, and yet slower to take her life.

  I went to a den on Fifth Street to purchase opium and a pipe. The chasing-dragon girl lay naked on a cot in the back room like a ghost, her eyes glazed over, every one of her bones visible. I couldn’t believe she had lasted this long. I returned to Pearl’s bedside, held the pipe out to her, and begged her to try it. Pearl had disdained opium eaters. She saw them as lazy and lacking in willpower.

  “Please,” I said. “Do it for me. I can no longer abide the pain in your eyes. I’d rather you look like a euphoric, glassy-eyed hookah-sucker then see you in such agony.”

  She took the pipe, inhaled, lay back, and asked me to sing.

  Pearl, the rock of my world, was crumbling. Dust thickened on the furniture like morning frost, paint peeled, soot covered the walls. The fire went out for no reason at all. October turned to November. The last bright gold and red leaves fell. With nowhere to hide, birds flitted about on skeletal branches in naked trees, which seemed to me dead rather than dormant. Pearl became smaller and closer to death. Outside our house, the world was lifeless and frozen. Only a few thin rays of light graced the earth each day. I was afraid.

  Two weeks before Christmas Pearl called me to her bedside. She extended an arm toward me. In her sore-covered, jaundiced hand, the rubies of my ruin sparkled like everlasting life. They were as shiny and new as the day, over a decade ago, that my mother had held them out to me from her dying hand. They seemed the only thing in the world that wasn’t subject to death and decay.