by The Outsider
"You're sounding like Benjo again, feeling sorry for yourself for having to bear the fruit of your sinning when you've only yourself to blame. And whether I deserve you or not bears no relation to whether you are leaving or staying. You said you'd stay and work my farm until the mating season, so I'm holding you to your word."
"Jesus God Almighty, save me. Rachel, you know what I want from you. I don't know how to make it any plainer."
Oh, she knew what he wanted all right, and she wanted it as well. But she also knew how to wage that particular battle. "We are two very strong people, Mr. Cain, who can and shall resist temptation. Salvation has always required suffering and sacrifice. God doesn't expect us to let Him do it all."
He stared at her hard a while longer, and then he laughed, a soft, easy laugh of genuine amusement. "That boy of yours," he said, "he sure did ask the wrong person to teach him how to fight."
Later that evening Moses Weaver stood among the wooden markers and decaying boots of the Miawa City cemetery, trying to screw up the courage to go screw his first woman.
The cemetery was as close as he'd been able to bring himself yet to the Red House. Mose figured he might as well get used to the cemetery anyway, since this was likely where he would be ending up real soon. His father would kill him for what he was about to do, and then, since he would have died unsaved, he would be planted for eternity among outsiders, here in this Godforsaken place.
And it would all be worth it, he thought, if he could have but a few moments of heaven on earth between the soft white thighs of Miss Marilee.
But before he got himself inside of Miss Marilee, first he had to get himself through the front door. He'd ridden to town on an old knock-kneed plow mule. But he hadn't wanted to arrive looking any more the bumpkin Plain boy than he could help, so he'd stopped at the cemetery. He'd looped the mule's halter reins around the trunk of a quaking aspen, intending to walk on over to the house of sin. The ground had saved up most of the day's blistering heat and was now releasing it back into the night air. He was sweating rivers beneath his flashy mail-order clothes.
He was sweating oceans by the time he climbed the steps of the Red House's broad verandah. The famous locomotive lantern was lit, casting a red glow onto the warped floorboards. The lantern swayed in the wind and its red light flickered in the half-moon window above the door, making Mose think of the flames of hell.
He gave the door a timid rap and was surprised when it opened almost immediately. He found himself staring down into the slit-eyed face of a man as shriveled as a seed husk.
Mose had never seen an Oriental before, but he'd heard they had one working at the Red House. He wondered if it was true what they said about Orientals having yellow skin. In the puddle of red light cast by the locomotive lantern he couldn't tell.
He realized he was staring and he flushed, jerking his gaze away. He slapped the hat off his head. "I'm here to see Miss Marilee."
The front top of the man's head was bald, but a long black braid swung over his shoulder as he bowed. He said something in a scratchy voice that Mose couldn't understand. He hoped it was the Chinese for "come right on in," because that was what he did.
He felt awkward and stumble-footed standing on the worn carpet of the hallway. The Oriental waved at a curtain of blue glass beads and squawked more Chinese. A string of brass bells suddenly appeared in the little man's clawlike hands. He rang them with vigor, then shuffled off on silk slippers into the shadows.
Mose passed through the beads, clicking and clacking, and entered a room stuffed from floor to fanlight with things: plaster busts and glass vases, brass spittoons and lacquered boxes, and other things he couldn't have put a name to. Even the furniture was all doodadded up, with tidies on the chairs and sofas and Arab scarves draping every conceivable flat surface.
His gaze drifted from a hurdy-gurdy with yellow stars and a moon painted on it, to the china pug on the hearth, to a pair of dragon candlesticks, and stopped dead at the huge gilt-framed painting that filled one wall, of a man apparently being ravished by three naked nymphs. He stared at it, his mouth agape. He supposed this was what the Bible meant when it said: "He goeth after her straightway, as an ox to the slaughter."
Beneath the painting, a small sign in black letters read: Satisfaction guaranteed, or second token given free.
He thought at first the room was empty—of human habitation, that is. But then something stirred over by the nickel-plated parlor stove. The something was a cow-puncher, to judge by the pointed-toed boots and dusty Stetson, a cowpuncher sitting stiffly on a ladderback chair. The stove wasn't lit on such a hot night, but Mose thought it sure probably drew a crowd come winter.
He settled himself on a plush purple sofa and saw right away why the cowpuncher had chosen the chair. The sofa's feather cushions closed around him until he felt in danger of being smothered. He rested his hat on his knee and tried not to fidget.
He drew in a deep breath and nearly gagged over the foul stink emanating from a nearby china cuspidor. He moved down to the other end of the sofa; the cushions billowed up to bis armpits.
The cowpuncher didn't look any more comfortable than Mose felt. The man kept tugging at his creased and yellowed celluloid collar, stretching out his neck. It looked as though he'd scraped himself shaving, because he sported a mark under his jaw like a strawberry stain. The cowboy gave his neck another stretch, took a twist of chewing tobacco out of his pocket, and gnawed off a piece. His gaze floated up to the ceiling, where a fan was slowly going around and around in the still hot air.
The beaded curtain was slapped open with a loud clatter. A woman came into the room, and Mose felt his jaw come unhinged.
She was the fattest woman he'd ever seen, doughy and white as a dumpling. A three-hundred-pound dumpling. She was also the most woman he'd ever seen, for she had on nothing but a corset and a pair of drawers. She headed right for him, and Mose's heart sank into his belly.
"Well, hey there, handsome," she cooed. She leaned over him until his nose nearly disappeared into the chasm between her two mountainous breasts. "Were you waitin' for me, sugar?"
"I'm here to visit with Miss Marilee," he said, and he could have sworn the words echoed back at him from the valley of her bosom. Judas Iscariot! He could see her nipples, big as chestnuts.
The woman took a floor-shuddering step back to plant a dimpled fist on her ample hip. "Marilee, Marilee. Ever'one always asks for Marilee. What's she got that I ain't?"
"It's what she's got less of, you old cow."
The woman who followed mat remark into the room was skinny—so skinny she would've had to walk twice to make a shadow. At least she had all her clothes on, although they weren't much to crow about. Just a simple black skirt and bodice, with long cuffed sleeves and a high neck. Not too different from what Plain women wore. She went over to the hurdy-gurdy and began to crank the handle, banging out a tune so loud it made Mose's ears jangle.
The mostly naked, fleshy woman went over to the cowboy. They exchanged a few words and then left the parlor together, the cowboy still trying to stretch his neck out of his tight collar. The spindling woman continued to work the hurdy-gurdy crank.
Mose took another gander around the room. On second look he was able to see the flaws beneath all the gimcracks and foofaraws. The cabbage rose wallpaper was spotted and stained by damp, the Turkey carpet moth-eaten and faded, the plaster crumbling. There was a tainted smell to the place that was more than just tobacco slop and wood rot. The stink of sin, he supposed.
He heard a knock at the door, footsteps, and a voice rough as a whetstone bellowing a greeting. The Oriental's brass bells rang, and the skinny woman stopped her hurdy-gurdy cranking. The bead curtain clicked and clacked open and Mose's heart, which had been lying heavy but quiet in his belly, suddenly thrust up into his throat and nearly choked him.
Fergus Hunter strolled into the room.
The cattleman's gaze flickered over Mose and dismissed him. He exchanged howdies with th
e skinny woman, who left the hurdy-gurdy to pour him a glass of whiskey from a decanter that sat on a tarnished silver tray on top of a paisley shawl-draped table.
The Baron finished off the whiskey with one flex of his elbow. He took a cigar out of his vest pocket, struck a match on the silver tray, lit up, and tossed the spent lucifer into the dirt that littered the stove grate. He sucked smoke deep into his chest, his cheeks hollowing.
Fergus Hunter's face had always been all sharp bones, but now it was as if the hot sun that parched the countryside had melted the last of the flesh off it. He was dressed fine, though, in a dark suit, white brocade vest, and gray silk tie with a pearl stickpin. The gaslight glinted off his thick gold watch chain, which was hung with many seals and a crystal fob.
The beads clicked and clacked again, and a young man entered the parlor. Mose recognized him as the Baron's son, who they said wasn't his legitimate son at all but only bis get by a Blackfoot squaw.
"Why, good evening, young Mr. Hunter," the skinny woman said with a false smile. She had teeth like a squirrel's.
"I decided to let my boy loose on the town tonight," the cattleman boomed in his rough voice. "You randy young bucks get quarrelsome when you aren't allowed your weekly spree, isn't that right, Quin?"
Two red spots the size of dollars appeared beneath the boy's thin, sharp cheekbones. He seemed embarrassed by bis father, and Mose could sympathize with that. His own father managed to dream up new ways to mortify him every day of the week.
Mose saw that the Baron had now returned his attention to him and was giving him a slow once-over, with hard eyes. Mose swallowed and burrowed further into the soft purple cushions. He shifted his gaze to a red-lipped plaster cupid that hovered on a stone pedestal by the window.
"Why, I didn't think you pious Plain boys ever succumbed to the calico fever," the Baron said, shaking his head in mock surprise. He laughed, a short, sharp laugh. But then a genuine smile stretched his wide mouth as the beads clacked open again. "Well, now, if it isn't the best little whore in all the Miawa."
Mose snatched his hat off his knee and pumped his arms, propelling himself out of the sofa and onto his feet. Marilee entered the parlor on a waft of honeysuckle toilet water and wearing a wispy silk wrapper the scarlet of hellfire. The wrapper hung open down the middle to show off frilly-legged drawers, black stockings with pink garters, and a corset decorated with black lace. Another girl followed after her, a girl with hair the brassiest yellow Mose had ever seen.
The Baron stuck his cigar in his mouth and smacked his palms together. "Come here, Marilee m'girl. Let's you and me take a walk upstairs." Grinning around the cigar between his teeth, he tried to slide his arm around Marilee's waist.
She eluded him, although she gave his cheek a pat as she drifted by. "You can just wait your turn, Fergus Hunter." She turned a smile that was as bright as new paint onto Mose. "I see I got me a special caller tonight."
The Baron's face colored, but he smiled amicably enough. "Sure, then, Marilee. You go and take care of the woolly puncher, first. I'll bide my time here till you're done." He tugged at his watch chain and slid a gold hunter out of his vest pocket. "I doubt that one'll last for longer than a ten-second spine tingle."
"Which leaves me with this one." The brassy-haired girl sidled up to the Hunter boy. She rubbed her near naked bosom up against his arm and blinked eyelashes at him that looked coated with wet soot. "I hear tell his ma wore moccasins." She pushed vermilion painted lips into an exaggerated moue. "Oooh, maybe we'll all be scalped in our beds."
The skinny woman snorted a laugh. "At least in your case, Jewel, he'll be able to tell your head from your pussy, since one's yellow and the other ain't."
Everyone laughed at that, except for the Hunter boy. A flush stained his hawk face again, and his mouth tightened at the corners.
Marilee slipped her arm through Mose's and pulled him out into the hallway, toward a spooled banister staircase. The bead curtain swayed and clicked shut behind them.
"Don't pay them all no mind," Marilee said. Mose had forgotten how her upper lip caught on that crooked tooth when she smiled. He liked her smile, although it stirred feelings in him that were definitely wicked.
The skinny woman came through the curtain, gave Marilee a sharp look, then disappeared down the hall to the back of the house.
"Doesn't anyone feed that woman?" Mose said, but softly, because he didn't want the poor thing to overhear and get her feelings hurt. She probably didn't get many gentleman callers, not like Marilee did.
Marilee's smile was gone, and a crease had appeared between her pale eyebrows. "Feed who? Oh, you mean Jugs." She gripped his sleeve tighter and edged him over toward the stairs. "Honey, she could dine on chocolate cakes and champagne every night if she wanted to. She's the mother."
He craned his head for another look at the skinny woman, and nearly tripped over a shell umbrella stand. That scarecrow was this exquisite girl's mother? He must have misunderstood. "Why do you call her Jugs?"
"'Cause she ain't got tits enough to fill a pair of thimbles."
Mose tried to puzzle that one out and couldn't.
He followed Marilee up the stairs. There was a cherub on the newel post, with a candle stock in the dimple of his bottom. A fringed oil lamp hung from the ceiling on a long brass chain. It creaked and swayed even though the air was hot and still. But then someone was banging hard on the wall above, grunting and groaning with the effort of it.
Marilee mounted the stairs slowly, her hips rocking from side to side. Mose felt his heart quake, his belly tremble. Beneath the straining fly buttons of his worldly checked trousers, he was as iron-hard and rigid as a plow.
She startled him by suddenly whipping around and snapping her fingers beneath his nose. "Thunderation, where's my head tonight? I nearly forgot to collect your token."
"Huh?"
She rolled her eyes toward the pressed tin ceiling. "I told you not to come payin' me no calls without your three dollars."
He fumbled for the coins in his vest pocket. "I brought it. I just didn't know when was the proper time to give it to you—"
She cast a furtive look around, lowering her voice to a whisper. "You can give it over now." Her fingers curled around the dollars, making a fist, but she flashed that bright, crooked-toothed smile at him. "I'm goin' to show you such a time, Mr. Moses Weaver. You watch and see if I don't have you singin' hallelujahs afore I'm done."
Just then the banging, groaning, and grunting stopped. There was an instant of utter silence, followed by a great trumpeting bellow, like a bull moose in rut. Mose nearly jumped out of his skin, but Marilee continued on up the stairs as if it hadn't happened.
She paused before a half-open door and turned to him, rubbing her palm over the satin-piped lapel of his worldly coat. She leaned into him, took his hand, put it between her legs, and pressed herself up against his palm so hard he could feel her crinkly woman's hair through her silky thin drawers.
"You did take a bath, didn't you, Moses? 'Cause you know I can't abide the smell of sheep."
Lord Jesus God in heaven. She felt sinful. She felt wonderful. He tried to tell her that he'd scrubbed himself down proper right before he came, that he'd even washed under his union suit. But he was having too much trouble simply breathing. She stirred again beneath his hand. A deep groan burned up his chest like a belch.
Her fingers closed around his coat, pulling him into the room. Unlike the parlor downstairs, this was furnished simply. Just a small two-drawer dresser with a blue enameled pitcher and wash basin on top of it, and a bedside table with a smoking white glass oil lamp. The bedstead was iron, rusting through in places. The tick looked too lumpy to be filled with feathers. It was probably stuffed with prairie grass, like his own bed at home.
She took the hat from his hand and set it on the table next to the oil lamp. She turned over an egg timer. Beside the egg timer was a bowl of butter, which was melting in the thick heat. Mose figured the egg timer and the but
ter had to have some relevancy to what was about to happen, but he couldn't imagine what. His gaze roamed over the roses and ribbons that were climbing the wallpaper. He blinked, feeling dizzy. The room smelled of the twist of dried sweetgrass burning in a tin saucer. But there was another smell, moist and musky, underneath. The way his sheets smelled after a night of wicked dreams.
He realized she was looking at him, smiling. "What?"
"Do you know that when you get excited, those handsome brown eyes of yours light up till they shine like sun-struck whiskey?"
Mose didn't know about his eyes shining like whiskey, but he liked hearing she thought them handsome. It made his chest swell.
He reached for her, the silky scarlet wrapper shifting and whispering beneath his hands. Her own hands moved over his chest, as if seeking to mold the shape and feel of him. "You're built strong, Moses Weaver. I like that in a man."
He gathered her closer to him, but gently, as if he were trying to embrace a cloud. He was suddenly afraid of his own strength, afraid that he might hurt her. He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers.
She turned her face aside. "No, don't. I don't kiss."
Mose had a hard time hiding his disappointment; he had wanted to rub his tongue over that crooked tooth. Still, he understood. "Kissing is sure enough a terrible sin," he said.
She giggled and poked him lightly on the chest. "Lord, the notions you all have."
Then her hands fell to his waist and somehow she got his buttons open, and his cock was cradled in her palm, and he heaved a chest-shuddering sigh. "My oh my," she crooned. "Will you look at that?"
Mose looked. It almost didn't feel like a part of him. It certainly didn't look like a part of him. He knew he ought to feel shame, for this lust that was a pain and fire in him. But what he really felt like doing was crowing louder than a two-headed rooster.
Her fingers closed around him. "Judas!" he hissed through clenched teeth. He shuddered again, hard. "I've never... Oh, Judas, Judas..."
