Ophelia's War

by Alison L. McLennan

  I tried to stay strong for Pearl, but the sight of those rubies broke me. I saw my mother dying. I saw my father dying. I saw Zeke riding away. Worst of all was the memory of being bent over the table and that critical moment when I refused to give up the necklace. My whole life I’d been replaying that moment and berating myself. Why had I stayed silent and let Uncle Luther violate me? Why had I chosen the rubies over my honor? Was I born to be a whore?

  I couldn’t bring any more pain upon Pearl, and so I pretended my tears were of joy not anguish. “Oh, Pearl.” I took them gently from her withered hand. “You still have them. And all this time I thought we were cursed.”

  Pearl croaked, “All my debts are settled. Everything I have goes to you. You are still young. Be free. Be happy. You will be very wealthy. But Peach, be careful, this town is full of wolves.”

  I put the jewels down on the bedside table, pulled up her bed sheets, tucked them around her, and smoothed back her hair. Taking care of Pearl helped me stop ruminating on my own misery and all the memories that had flooded back at the sight of the necklace. Still I felt its presence on the table like a coiled venomous snake.

  “Peach, what is your real name?”

  Except when she slipped and called me Annie, Pearl had taken to calling me Peach like everyone else. I never corrected her. I couldn’t use my real name, so what did it really matter? We knew each other so well and yet we didn’t know each other at all. I had not uttered my real name in a long time.

  “My real name is Ophelia,” I whispered. “Ophelia Oatman. I’m wanted in four states and three territories. My crimes and misdeeds are so numerous they can’t even be printed on a handbill.”

  “Ophelia Oatman.” Pearl smiled. “A dangerous outlaw.”

  “And you thought I was just a whore.”

  “I never thought you were just a whore.”

  “You thought I was Annie.”

  “I needed you to be Annie. But I knew you weren’t. Thanks for pretending.”

  She seemed at peace. The opium had taken effect.

  “What’s your real name?” I whispered.

  “Mary Rose O’Brien.” Her eyes glazed over and she slipped from the room to a faraway place.

  “Nice to meet you, Mary Rose. Get some rest now.”

  I left the rubies on the bedside table and tiptoed out of the room. Mary Rose O’Brien smiled and closed her eyes for the last time.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I envied Pearl’s death and transformation, for I was left to suffer alone through the cold dark winter. The cat, which we called Miss Havisham, and Old Nell were the only signs of life at the Doll House. Miss Havisham caught mice, slinked from room to room, and quietly rested in front of the fire. Old Nell never rested. I suppose it was her way of mourning. She shuffled from room to room or went outside, chopped wood, and poked at the frozen ground with a spade. She barely uttered a word. When she did it was an incomprehensible rant that would leave me pining for the mute.

  No longer the object of men’s desires, I felt lost with neither identity nor purpose. I’d thought about inviting some of the girls around for Christmas dinner, but the house was too sad, and I didn’t have the will to take any action, so it ended as only a thought.

  On Christmas Eve, I sat by the fire with the novel A Christmas Carol on my lap. Miss Havisham was curled up by my feet. Old Nell was already in bed. Although the book was open, the words failed to mean anything. I stopped reading and stared into the fire.

  I remembered the Christmases out at J.D. and Pearl’s farmhouse north of town. They’d always had big festive dinners with a few of the regulars from Johnny’s place along with an assortment of misfits who came and went over the years. It wasn’t a holy affair, but someone always said a prayer before dinner, and the occasions were filled with merriment. When there was snow we’d take sleigh rides and build snowmen and sometimes have snowball fights. It was usually a good time except for the one year a brawl broke out and someone got shot. After that Pearl reined in the tomfoolery so things wouldn’t get out of hand again.

  Besides crazy Old Nell and Miss Havisham, I was utterly alone that Christmas. As there was a shortage of accommodations in Ogden, I resolved to turn the Doll House into a wholesome boarding house. That would not only bring income, but also company.

  Miss Havisham sensed a disturbance and raised her head. Her eyes searched the room in alarm, and those big cat pupils rolled from side to side like marbles. She turned her attention toward the entryway. Seconds later, someone was banging on the front door. I grabbed a small derringer from a drawer and went to the window. Hidden behind the drapes, I spied a look onto the porch.

  Whiskey Pete stood with his head bowed. Next to him, a bearded man of about forty grasped a Book of Mormon firmly in his ungloved hand as if it were a weapon. Snowflakes swirled around them. The two men didn’t seem affected by the weather.

  I knew why they had come. I shouldn’t have answered the door. I should have pretended no one was home. But the gas lamp and the smoke from the fireplace gave me away. I placed the derringer on a small table and opened the door a crack. “May I help you?” I said addressing the older man. He pushed the door open, thrust Peter in by his collar, and slammed the door shut.

  He pointed the book at me. “You are a sinner and a whore. Satan lives in you and has used you as an instrument to tempt Brother Peter away from the Lord.”

  He pushed Peter onto his knees. Peter kept his head hanging and did not look at me.

  The man put his hand on Peter’s shoulder and held the Book of Mormon over his head. “Lord, help me cast Satan from Brother Peter so that he might find salvation. This woman is the devil’s handmaiden.” He commanded, “Look at her, Peter!” Whiskey Pete finally looked up at me.

  “Her face is the face of evil. Her body is Satan’s fruit. Partake of it and you will be cast into a fiery lake of brimstone to suffer for eternity. Renounce her! Cast her spell from your soul!”

  Peter and the man closed their eyes and began their incantation, a verse they had memorized and rehearsed. Their horrible voices filled our sad house, and I feared Old Nell would awake. She was blind but not deaf. When they finished, Peter, still on his knees, panted from the effort. The elder unsheathed his Bowie knife and held it to Peter’s throat.

  “Now your blood should be spilled, so that you might gain the salvation you desire!”

  Blood atonement. I feared he would slit Whiskey Pete’s throat. I glanced at the derringer on the table. Peter looked at the elder, confused and surprised. He shook his head. “Brother, I—”

  The elder put his knife back in its sheath. “No! The Lord does not dwell in a house of assignation. Your ashes will not rise to him from here.” He pulled a bottle of whiskey from his pocket, and opened it. “This is the fire water, which weakened your will. These spirits are forbidden to women and the weak among us.” He drew a long gulp from the bottle, perhaps to show that he was not among the weak. “Brother Peter, you are forbidden this drink. You are forbidden to sell it to your brethren. If the profits from your sales to Gentiles are henceforth given to the Prophet, perhaps we can spare your blood.” He poured some of the whiskey over Peter’s head and slipped the bottle back into his coat pocket.

  The older man looked at me. “Sister, will you repent? Will you accept the teachings of Joseph Smith, join the Saints in the one true religion, and save yourself from eternal damnation? I can cast the devil from you now if you permit me.”

  I thought of mother and father. Of how they’d been devoted to Joseph Smith. But of how they questioned polygamy and then Brigham Young when he sent them into the barren desert to grow cotton. The elder before me did not know that I was an apostate, a daughter of perdition. If he had known, he would have slit my throat with the sharp blade of his Bowie. I remembered how I had doted over the Prophet Joseph Smith. How I’d stared at his picture and longed to be one of his wives. His youngest wife had been just fourteen years old. Now that I knew what it meant to be a wife, I w
as disgusted.

  The elder’s leg must have smelled of fish or fowl because Miss Havisham, who normally didn’t take to strangers, began circling and rubbing against him. His legs became entangled in his attempts to discourage her. He gave her a sharp kick. The sickening thud of his boot cracking her bone filled the room. She let out an awful yowl, flew across the room, and took cover under the divan.

  I let out a shocked cry and covered my mouth with my hands. I shook my head, lowered my hands, and yelled, “You self-righteous son of a—”

  The kitchen door burst open and Nell stood there training a shotgun on the elder as best she could with her one good eye. Peter was still on his knees. I stepped back and grabbed my derringer. The elder reached inside his coat.

  “Put your hands in the air,” Old Nell said with menacing authority. “We will all face our maker in the afterlife. Maybe you’ll find out youse been wrong all along, worshipping false prophets! Don’t you come around here and play God with us, or I’ll shoot you in the bollocks.”

  In the past ten years, Nell hadn’t said anything that made a lick of sense. That Christmas she was my miracle. I hoped that maybe she had come to her senses and would be right for some conversation and companionship. But after that night she turned back into a living ghost, never saying a word, just drifting from room to room.

  If the elder who came to exorcise Satan from Peter hadn’t kicked Miss Havisham across the room, perhaps I would have given myself up for salvation. It was one of those moments when I felt myself falling toward a destiny that was not mine. The whole encounter made my heart and soul heavy with fear and anguish. I’d never forget the look in Peter’s eyes. Did he really believe I was the face of evil? Or was it blood atonement he feared? We had all heard stories of apostates killed by the Danites for the glorious cause of their own salvation. The Saints were at their best in times of trouble when they had to rally together and build something or fight an enemy. With idle hands, they’d nothing better to do than condemn their brothers.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I lived in a finely built house and had plenty of money. Yet the emptiness of life without struggle, of opulence and no love, weakened my will to live. The devil no more resided in me than he did in a loaf of bread. Still, a dark heaviness descended upon me. The fierce winter wind penetrated the brick walls and windowpanes, leaving me with a constant chill. I looked forward to spring for light and guidance.

  Spring finally came, but my despair did not lift. Even the delicate purple crocus emerging from the newly thawed earth failed to cheer me. I felt discarded, worthless, unloved. I ventured into town only to be met with scornful glares from decent folks and lewd invitations from the ruffians. Dressed plainly, I still could not escape my reputation or the orange hair that marked me as a strumpet. Without the confident Pearl by my side, I didn’t know how to conduct myself, and so I averted my eyes and hung my head.

  By Easter Sunday, when life returned to the valley, I still found no salvation, only loneliness. I had traded the jewel of my chastity for a ruby necklace, and I couldn’t forgive myself or forget that I had chosen my fate. I was the evil temptress, the seductress, responsible for the fall of man from paradise and all of the greed and misdeeds that followed.

  I decided no one would miss me if I was gone. Late in the afternoon on Easter Sunday, while children and families were strolling in Lester Park after Easter egg hunts and big dinners, I put on my black mourning dress and adorned myself with the sparkling ruby necklace. I rode to the eastern foothills, left my mare unhitched by a stream, and gave her a goodbye pat. As I clambered up a steep, eroded hill to the cliff, balsa flowers waved their cheerful yellow heads among a chorus of sage. My chest tightened and my eyes burned. The irresistible rocky cliff pulled me like a magnet, for my misery had always drawn me to great heights.

  A cliff had always been like an altar to me, where I’d sit on the edge and contemplate my insignificance. On that day, it would be an altar of sacrifice, not a place to sooth my soul. Yet I never did know for sure. The edge always lured me. Usually I found a reason to resist.

  I scrambled over jagged rocks to the edge of the cliff and sat against a rock. The sky was a flag striped with pastel pink and violet, the Salt Lake a calm blue blanket tucked into the earth’s curvature. The beauty only tightened the pain in my heart, and grief poured out of me with the unstoppable energy of spring snow melt flooding a mountain stream. I cried for all the people I had lost. I cried for the unrequited love of Samuel Cox and Whiskey Pete, the look in his petrified eyes as he realized I was the face of evil. I was terrified of being alone.

  I stood, walked to the edge, closed my eyes, and felt the empty space below me. The breeze lifted my hair. Birds chirped and crickets sang in a frantic, life-affirming stanza. I gave my grief to the silky air, and wrapped the empty space around me like a shawl. I wanted to dissolve into the soft spring sky and free myself of anguish.

  A breeze blew in from the north and the air changed. It felt cold and empty. It chilled me and filled me with uncertainty. The image of my brother flooded my mind. I fingered the rubies at my throat. I was overcome with a strong feeling that my brother was still alive, and that I was meant to find him. He was alone too. I snapped out of my indulgent despair and wracked my brain for ideas. I stepped back from the edge and opened my eyes as if reborn by this spark of an idea. I saw things then that were obscured to me when no possibility of love was in my heart.

  It had never occurred to me that with my wealth, I had power. I could hire people and make things happen. I remembered the detective Charles Sirringo, who had accompanied Pearl back from New York. I could hire him to find my brother. This new purpose brought me back to life. On the way down the hill, I began to mentally compose the letter I would write to Charles Sirringo.

  Back at the parlor house I riffled through Pearl’s desk and found a calling card for Mr. Sirringo. To my pleasant surprise, his address was in Denver. I vowed that after I wrote to Mr. Sirringo, I’d attend to all the papers and ledgers on Pearl’s old desk. After I wrote the letter, I decided a telegram would be faster and I could certainly afford it. On Monday morning I raced down to the telegraph office.

  I couldn’t believe it. Charles Sirringo immediately sent a telegram back saying he would be on the next train to Ogden. On the day he was scheduled to arrive, I went to meet his train at Union Station. First, I stopped for scones at the Chicago Bakery next to the ticket office. Then I secured a hack to wait for us out front. I had only met him briefly that one day with Pearl before he got busy arresting Johnny Dobbs. Yet he’d made a strong impression on me, and I figured I’d recognize him.

  The usual chaotic jumble of travelers dragging luggage and stumbling over trunks cluttered the station platform. Merchants competing to be heard above the hubbub and chugging engines called out the day’s specials in loud, obnoxious voices. I jostled through the crowd and searched the station for Mr. Sirringo, ignoring the sidelong glances I received for being an unaccompanied female.

  Finally, a train pulled out of the station and took most of the mob with it, clearing the platform. Mr. Sirringo spotted me and approached, carrying a medium-sized carpet bag in one hand and an ornately carved cane in the other. He didn’t lean too heavily on the cane. But as he approached I saw the strain in his eyes. I placed him in his thirties and figured he limped from injury rather than age.

  He put his bag down and lifted his hat. “Miss Peach? How do you do?”

  I nodded, “Very well. And how are you? Tired from your journey, I expect.”

  “I’m fine. I slept most of the way. My condolences about Pearl, I had no idea she was ill. She seemed so full of life.”

  I nodded and we began walking through the station together. “Yes, it was quite sudden. Perhaps she contracted an illness while traveling.” An awkward silence passed between us. “I have a carriage waiting,” I said and led the way.

  We traveled over the muddy streets in a comfortable coach. “The Doll House,” I explained, �
�is just a lodging house now.” Because he was a detective, I assumed he knew all there was to know about Pearl and the Doll House. He probably knew more about Pearl than I did. “I trust you will be comfortable there.”

  “That’s a pity. Pearl spoke very highly of the Doll House and you too, actually. It sounded like some establishment.”

  I smiled and wondered what he was getting at. “Anything you need or desire, please let me know and I will arrange it. Upstairs girls are starving all over town, thanks to the social reformers. I’m certainly glad to be out of that business. Pearl put every waking moment into the house. It was her life’s ambition to operate a swanky establishment. But really, Mr. Sirringo, underneath all the glamour, it was just a dressed-up bordello.”

  He looked straight at me with big amused brown eyes. Those eyes drank in everything and put my soul on trial. After three blocks, the carriage stopped in front of the house.

  “That was a short ride. I have a bad leg, but I certainly could have walked,” he said.

  “Yes, but the streets are atrocious. There’s knee-deep mud this time of year.”

  He grabbed his cane. The handle was carved into a mallard’s head. I gently put my hand over his and looked into his eyes. “I just want you to know how grateful I am that you came on such short notice. I hope it is not a hardship on your family.”

  His stare was unnerving, yet kind. “I have no family, Miss Peach. It would have been cruel to subject a lady to the hardship and loneliness that comes from marrying a man in my line of work.” He stepped out of the carriage and held the door open for me. “Or maybe I was just born to be a bachelor.”

  I stepped down. We stood next to the white gate leading to the Doll House’s front garden. Red and white tulips bordered the path. Yellow daffodils, hyacinth, and iris clustered around two ivy-covered cupid statues, which I’d forgotten to remove.