Texas Lonesome

by Duncan, Alice

  “I believe I’ve come down with a small malady, Mr. Kaplan. I’m sure it will soon pass.” Her sweet smile belied her inner turmoil. Only she knew that her little malady probably would indeed soon pass—into a deep, life-long melancholy.

  “Well, you take care of yourself, Emily. We can’t have our favorite aunt laid up.”

  Mr. Kaplan’s small show of levity was accompanied by such an expression of genuine concern that Emily was touched. He was a truly nice man.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kaplan. I certainly shall.” That the fact he cared about her almost made her burst into tears aggravated Emily a good deal. “How many lines do you think you’ll need for my column, Mr. Kaplan?”

  “We’ll be giving you another twenty, my dear.”

  Surprised, Emily cried, “My goodness, Mr. Kaplan, are you expanding the paper?”

  Mr. Kaplan’s sigh sounded as though it had been torn from his scuffed shoes. “I’m afraid Mrs. Puddingstone will be leaving us, Emily. You’ll take over her space since your column is so popular.”

  “Oh!”

  Emily was distressed to hear Mr. Kaplan’s news. She enjoyed reading Mrs. Puddingstone’s recipes. In fact, she used to clip them and save them in a little booklet in the hope that one day, when she married, she could use them in her own household. Since the possibility of her ever marrying was now a thing of the past, she didn’t suppose it mattered.

  “Why is Mrs. Puddingstone leaving?”

  Mr. Kaplan looked at his closed office door as if to assess the possibility they might be overheard. His surreptitious gesture made Emily’s eyes open wide and she leaned forward, her own unhappiness momentarily forgotten.

  “Mrs. Puddingstone,” Mr. Kaplan whispered confidentially, “is, I’m afraid, much given to the consumption of strong spirits.”

  “Oh!”

  The editor nodded somberly. “Aye, it’s too bad. But unless she decides to take a cure, she’s just become too undependable. We can’t run a newspaper if our columnists are unreliable, now can we? Mrs. Puddingstone, I regret to tell you, is a dipsomaniac.”

  “Oh, my.” For a bare moment, Emily’s worries seemed to pale beside those of the unfortunate Mrs. Puddingstone. “How sad.”

  Rising from his chair, Mr. Kaplan smiled once more. “Yes, it is sad, my dear, but one must try to master one’s baser impulses, you know, or all is lost.”

  Emily rose, too. “Yes. All is lost,” she whispered.

  After she left Mr. Kaplan’s office, Emily wandered to the park and sat on a bench. As she sadly munched her bread and cheese, she reviewed every second she had spent in Will Tate’s company. A morose smile played upon her lips when she recalled Gustav and Helga’s initial attack on his big dog. When she remembered the two glorious kisses they had shared, a tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away angrily.

  Stop it, Emily von Plotz, you unnatural girl. Just stop it. It’s your own fault. Mr. Kaplan was right when he said we must all master our baser impulses. You gave in to yours, and just look at where that course of action has got you now. Foolish, foolish Emily.

  Emily paid a short visit to the rose garden before she left the park, remembering every tiny, eensy-weensy second of her time spent there with Will. Then she slowly walked home, grateful for her additional column space, even it was due to poor Mrs. Puddingstone’s affliction. At least, she thought, there was a Mr. Puddingstone to help her through this time of trial. Emily hoped he would be kind to his errant spouse.

  She was astonished to see a wagon from the San Francisco Municipal Telephone Company parked in front of her aunt’s door when she got back home. Inside her aunt’s office she found a harried telephone installation man being instructed by her Uncle Ludwig. Ludwig, of course, had no idea on earth how to install telephones, but little things like that never stopped him.

  “Emily,” he cried when he spotted her in the doorway. “Come see! Your Mr. Tate is having them install a telephone in the house. For our dogs.”

  “For the dogs?”

  Emily knew her uncle was fond of his pets, but she didn’t think even he would expect them to be able to use a telephone. And what on earth did Will have to do with it? She steered Ludwig out of the office and into the hall so the poor telephone man could finish his job in peace.

  “Yah, yah. For the dogs. Mr. Tate has put advertisements in all the newspapers, and he says people will begin to call soon, wanting our wonderful dogs.”

  “But uncle, you don’t have any dogs except Gustav and Helga.” She didn’t want to burst his happy bubble, but still, she felt certain facts must be faced.

  “Oh, yah, I know that. But Mr. Tate has already written a letter to Germany. Within six months, we’ll have more dogs, Emily. More wonderful dachshunds. I tell you, they’re the coming thing. Everybody will want our dogs. Everybody!”

  “What will you do in the mean time?”

  “Ach, Mr. Tate has explained it all to me. What I do now is, I take orders!”

  “Take orders?”

  “Yah, take orders. I take orders and tell people their dogs are coming to them direct from Germany. He says that will make them even more coveted. That Mr. Tate of yours is wonderful! A genius!”

  Ludwig skipped off back to the office to confuse the telephone installation man further, leaving Emily to stare after him.

  “My Mr. Tate,” she whispered. “That sounds so nice.”

  But she knew it wasn’t to be.

  # # #

  When Will called at the Schindler home later in the day, he did not ask to see Emily. He ached to hold her again but, thanks to Thomas Crandall’s insightful instruction, he understood her now.

  It had never before occurred to him somebody might feel guilty about winning just because he or she played dirty. Will had always just assumed a person who played dirty was happy to win, period. His personal opinion was that Emily had played her game brilliantly, had won it, and should be proud of herself. The good Lord knew, he was proud of her. He’d never seen anything to rival the art she’d used in snaring him.

  He himself possessed no such scruples. By fair means or foul, he planned to win Emily von Plotz. If it meant playing “Texas Lonesome” until the day he died, he would do it. If it meant a crazy project like the marketing and sale of a useless breed of nervous, foul-tempered, noisy hounds, he would do it.

  “Here’s the artwork for the poster, Mr. von Plotz. I think it looks pretty good.” Will handed Ludwig a poster and watched Ludwig’s reaction with genuine pleasure.

  “Oh, my, Mr. Tate. It’s wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  Will saw tears glittering in Ludwig’s eyes and had to restrain himself from laughing. He’d never seen anybody quite as fanatical about anything as Ludwig von Plotz was about his beloved dogs.

  “I’ve brought copies of both newspapers, too. The ad is there, bold as brass.”

  “Mr. Tate, you’re a genius. You’re a real genius.” Ludwig took the papers and wandered into the parlor to gaze at them further.

  Will followed him and sat on the sofa. “I see they’re installing the telephone. You should be getting calls pretty soon. The posters will start going up this afternoon, and the ads are already out in today’s papers. Do you remember what to do?”

  “Yah, I remember, Mr. Tate.” Ludwig nodded energetically. “I take name and address and send the flyer and order form as soon as I get them from the printer’s.”

  “And?” Will prompted.

  “And when I’m not here to answer the telephone, I instruct our sweet Emily or Mr. Blodgett what to say and what to do. I don’t let Gertrude talk to the clients.”

  Between them, they had decided Gertrude’s association with the every-day world was too slippery for them to trust her with the important business of dachshund marketing. She didn’t mind, for she much preferred communing with her spirit friends through her crystal ball now that she had gotten past the bubbles.

  While Ludwig and Will were discussing business in the parlor Clarence Pickering came to
call once again. Blodgett showed him in.

  Pickering stiffened perceptibly when he saw Will Tate, and then stepped pointedly toward Ludwig, giving Will a wide berth.

  The glare Will shot him could have withered spring leaves, but Pickering was made of impenetrable stuff and he ignored it.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pickering,” Ludwig said with a smile. “Look what we’re doing here. You should advise Gertrude to invest in my dogs now. They’re going to be famous.”

  “Indeed?” Pickering’s sneer might have been intended to be polite.

  “Yah, yah. Mr. Tate here is running the business now. He’s a genius, Mr. Pickering. Our dogs are going to be selling like hotcakes pretty darned soon.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s so, Pickering.” Will shot him a challenging scowl, and Pickering seemed to draw even further away from him.

  “Well, isn’t that grand? I think that’s just fine.”

  How Pickering managed to make his voice sound so damned sincere, Will didn’t know. He even manufactured a sincere smile for Ludwig. “I can tell you’re very happy about this, Mr. von Plotz.”

  “He will be,” Will told him, usurping Ludwig’s answer. His voice was full of meaning. “This will spell an end to any debts in the Schindler home, that’s for sure.”

  With any luck, the damned vulture would go away if he thought his pickings were going to dry up. Especially if he knew Will Tate would be watching him like a buzzard hawk.

  “Yah, yah. Mr. Tate’s got posters and ads and flyers and letters and everything,” Ludwig put in, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the other two men in the room.

  “Well, isn’t that just fine,” Pickering repeated. Although he sounded sincere, he apparently possessed no turn for a creative phrase.

  “Yah, it’s real fine.”

  Will only glared stonily at his adversary, daring Pickering to try any further tricks such as disappearing horse herds, African ship-building or, worse, kennel-burning.

  It looked to him as though Pickering got the message. He stood up after a second or two of uncomfortable silence, and said, “Well, I’ll just go on along and visit Mrs. Schindler. She asked me to call this afternoon.”

  Will stood, towering over Pickering. He knew his height was intimidating. His Uncle Mel had taught him to use every advantage he possessed. Pickering seemed to shrink into himself when he looked up at Will.

  “Just be careful with your advice, Pickering. And be careful where you put your hands.”

  Will’s message was unmistakable. Pickering glowered at him in all sincerity and then made an exit that strove for dignity and didn’t quite make it.

  A good half hour later, Will and Ludwig were still discussing the dachshund business when Gertrude Schindler floated into the room, waving a telegram in her hand.

  “Oh, Ludwig, dear, look what we just got. Oh, Mr. Blake,” she cried when she noticed Will, “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Will had, of course, stood at Gertrude’s entrance. He wondered wryly if she would ever get his name right. When—he refused to think “if”—he had his way and married Emily, he supposed Gertrude would be introducing her as “Mrs. Blake” for the rest of her days.

  “Howdy, ma’am. How are you today?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, I think, Mr. Blake. Or, rather, not fine, but all right, I suppose. Oh, perhaps not even that. It’s just that we got this—oh, Mr. Blake, weren’t you going to marry our Emily?”

  Will felt an uncharacteristic twinge of sorrow. He stamped it down vigorously, refusing to admit to anything but a slight set-back in his plans. She would be his, one day. He produced a smile for Gertrude.

  “Well, ma’am, she hasn’t said ‘yes’ yet, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh.” Gertrude frowned. “Do you suppose she found out about your other wife, Mr. Blake?”

  “I don’t have any other wife, Mrs. Schindler.”

  Will repressed a sigh and wondered how on earth Emily had managed to survive so beautifully with these two people for so long. His admiration for her grew ever greater with each fresh encounter with Ludwig and Gertrude.

  “Oh.” Gertrude looked very puzzled. “I thought you had a wife in Arizona, Mr. Blake. Perhaps I’m confusing her with somebody else.”

  The paper in her hand recaptured Gertrude’s wandering attention before she could become any more addled, and she held it up for Ludwig to see.

  “Oh, Ludwig dear, we just got a wire from Gretchen.”

  Ludwig raised his eyebrows. “Gretchen? What’s to do with Gretchen?”

  “I’m afraid her poor Wilhelm is very ill, dear, and she has asked us to come and visit her for a short stay.”

  “Ach. But I can’t leave now, Gertrude. I have my business to run. My wonderful dogs need me now more than ever.”

  “But Ludwig, dear, she is our sister. I do believe we should honor this little request. After all, we haven’t visited her for the longest time, and if Wilhelm should happen to pass on to another dimension, I would feel terribly guilty if we weren’t there to comfort her.”

  Ludwig’s attention was caught by Will’s discreetly cleared throat. “Gretchen is our sister, Mr. Tate. She lives in Redwood City. Not far away, but it would be a shame to leave San Francisco now, when we’re on the edge of success.”

  “Well, Mr. von Plotz, I don’t think you need to worry about the business too much right now. I can make sure Blodgett knows how to take messages properly. And I’ll stop by every day to make sure everything is going smoothly and take care of answering any requests Blodgett writes down. If things get really busy, I can send over a clerk to handle the telephone.” Besides, although Will didn’t want to say so, if he could maneuver a little time alone with Emily, he might just get her to listen to reason.

  “That’s a very sensible plan, Mr. Blake,” Gertrude said with a smile. “What sorts of requests to you expect to be receiving, Ludwig darling? I’m sure that snappish man at the Woodward Gardens has already requested at least a thousand times that you not visit there again.”

  “Ach, Gertrude, not that kind of request. Requests for my dogs! Mr. Tate is helping me with my business, and we should be getting requests to buy dogs starting any day now!”

  “Oh.” Gertrude’s vague, myopic gaze slid from Ludwig to Will and back again. “But, Ludwig, dear, you only have the two dogs. If somebody buys them, then you won’t have any more left.”

  “Not to worry, Gertrude. Mr. Tate is taking care of everything. Soon we will have a kennel full of dogs. A glorious, glorious kennel full of the most wonderful dogs in the world. Mr. Tate knows just what to do.”

  Will was moved by Ludwig’s obvious faith in his business acumen. Not that it was misplaced, for Will was well aware of both his strengths and his weaknesses, and business acumen was at the top of his list of strengths. He planned to have San Francisco, and then the rest of the country, groveling at Ludwig von Plotz’s large feet for dachshunds.

  “You two just go on along to your sister’s place. I’ll take care of everything here. We shouldn’t be getting much of a response to the ads for a few days, anyway. I expect the posters to have more of an impact.”

  The posters, which illustrated the glossiest, most noble-looking dachshund ever born, would have appealed to his Uncle Mel. The print below the image extolled the virtues of dachshunds in terms that had made Ludwig weep in ecstasy and would have had Uncle Mel roaring with cynical amusement.

  But Will knew those posters would do the trick. If there was one thing he understood to perfection, it was how to create a throbbing need for a useless object in the breast of his fellow man. Once the need was established, he and Ludwig would fill it and rake in the profits.

  “Well,” said Ludwig, still obviously unsettled, “If you really think so, Mr. Tate.”

  “I know so, Mr. von Plotz.”

  It was thus decided that Gertrude and Ludwig would depart the next evening for Redwood City on a trip to visit their sister Gretchen and her ailing husban
d Wilhelm. They told Emily about their trip over supper. The meal was taken, for once, unmarred by the presence of Clarence Pickering.

  Emily felt guilty for not being more worried about her Uncle Wilhelm, but she couldn’t help it. Her poor heart had become an aching, wrinkled shadow of its formerly full self, and there wasn’t any more room in it for concern about relatives. It was already stuffed to the brim with grief over Will Tate.

  Chapter 11

  The following afternoon, a subdued, unhappy Emily helped Gertrude pack for her trip.

  “Are you sure you won’t need me to go with you?” she asked as she watched her aunt.

  “No, Emily, dear. I’m sure it will be more pleasant for you if you remain here. Ill health can be so depressing. A young lady shouldn’t be unnecessarily exposed to it.”

  Gertrude gave Emily’s cheek a distracted pat, then returned her attention to searching for her gloves. Eventually, she found them under a shoe which had somehow or other found its way to the top shelf of her closet. She stared blankly at the gloves and the shoe, then pulled on the gloves and put the shoe back on the closet shelf.

  Emily retrieved the shoe and placed in its proper rack on the floor of the closet. “All right, Aunt Gertrude, if you really think so.”

  In truth, Emily was glad. She needed solitude right now. She could write her column and think over her many transgressions in peace, and nobody would be around to watch her cry. Blodgett and Mrs. Blodgett would be in the house, but if she stayed away from the kitchen, neither of the kind old retainers need know of her distress.

  And as for Will Tate’s trips to gather messages from Blodgett, well, she’d just be sure to be away when he visited.

  Of course, Clarence Pickering might be a nuisance, but Emily could deal with him, too. If she could be “out” to Will Tate, she most assuredly could be “out” to the awful Mr. Pickering. The mere thought of him made her shudder.

  The phone began to ring in the afternoon, just after her aunt and uncle left for Redwood City. The unfamiliar noise made Emily, in the parlor trying without much success to read, jump.

  “Good grief, what a terrible racket.” The commotion only increased when Blodgett answered the telephone and proceeded to take a message, making up for his bad hearing by yelling into the receiver.