Calamity

by Libbie Hawker

  By the time the new year came—1899—I was back on the drink, hard as I had ever been before. In fact, I believe I may have fallen harder for the whiskey this time. I ain’t proud of it now, looking back—nor was I proud of it then. A powerful shame consumed me, whether I was drunk or sober; even my dreams rebuked me, and if I couldn’t remember the details of my nightmares, invariably I woke heavy and hot with embarrassment, and swearing another futile oath never to look at a bottle of whiskey again.

  But in dreams—or in the moments just after waking, when my heart raced and the sweat soaked through my night-dress to dampen my feather bed—I could see the cities on the march, too. I could feel the reach of their long and countless arms. The nearness of those grasping hands frightened me. Whenever I shut my eyes, I saw the barrier around Wild Bill’s grave, set in place to ward away the trampling masses. And I knew that even in death, we would be confined—fenced in.

  In all my long and sordid life, never had I known what to do with fear or anguish, except to try to drown them both in liquor. But that’s the trouble, I suppose. You can’t hold yourself under long enough to do the job—long enough to make your fear succumb. Anguish is a resilient foe. It bobs to the surface the moment you release your grip, the second you let down your guard. And there it is again, where you can’t ignore it: taunting you, patient as it always is, knowing you will try again to put your pain in its place.

  You will try again, and you will fail.

  There ain’t no sense dwelling overmuch on Gilt Edge. They wasn’t the proudest months of my life. I’d rather forget that whole winter, if I could—and the year that went before—but those lonesome stretches of time stick in my memory and repeat endlessly in my idle moments. Of late, I’ve had nothing but idle moments. Bitterly do I wish the past would leave me be.

  Well, once the whiskey took hold of me again, I knew it was for keeps this time. That sly devil wouldn’t let go, now that I had returned so willingly to its arms. And because I knew myself lost for good, I abandoned myself to the whiskey’s cruelty; with hard and deliberate intent, I committed myself to its cause. I was a lost soul and I knew it. The West and me, we both was lost. But if Calamity Jane was destined to remain forever a half-truth, a legend (like the land in which she had dwelt) then at least I intended to have all the fun that legend would allow. I had done well enough with Cody’s show—that much was true. But in the grand scheme, I had profited precious little from my own name. I reckoned I might as well wring some enjoyment from my identity while I still had enough wits and vitality to enjoy a wild time.

  My God, Short Pants—if I could but describe the endless mischief I pursued in Gilt Edge! All the feats of reckless abandon, the delirious nights when I danced to the frantic cheer of a desperate piano. And the men I took to my bed, faceless and numberless in memory. The boasts, the lies, saloon lights blazing against encroaching dark. In my despair and folly, I gambled away some of Jessie’s money, a sin for which I have longed to be damned as I deserve. But so far, divine justice hasn’t caught up with me. I’m convinced by now that it never will. I drank to excess almost every night; I cussed where children could hear. I even fought, now and then—rough whores like the girl I used to be, and a few men who insulted me because of my looks, or who dared to scoff at the legend of my name.

  Worst of all was one night early in the springtime, a night which smelled of honey and flowers for the first time since winter’s passing. Intoxicated on the praise and goading of strangers (and on plain, dependable whiskey, or course) I rode through the streets of Gilt Edge on a borrowed horse, hollering at the top of my voice, brandishing my pistol to the cheers of a drunken crowd. I shot up the swinging sign of the Red Dog Saloon till it flipped end over end and wrapped itself in its own chains. I could have killed an innocent bystander with such reckless tomfoolery. Mercifully, no one was hurt—and I raised no objection when the sheriff locked me up for three days.

  Disorderly conduct. Public drunkenness. I deserved it. I served my time.

  And there was another night, Short Pants—one I can’t forget. I stepped into my favorite tavern, the Flying Moon, itching for a game of faro to take my mind off my ghosts. Even an hour of peaceable distraction would have seemed a mercy just then. But the moment I entered the Flying Moon, my eyes went up to the bar—to the plaster wall behind it.

  Tacked up there, high above the heads of patrons and revelers, I found a pair of my own bloomers. I can’t tell you how or when I lost them, but I’m dead certain they was mine; I recognized the green silk ribbons at the cuffs.

  No one noticed me when I entered the Flying Moon that night. All the fellas who had once drunk beside me or joined me in hands of faro now waited in a line, intent on the bar and what was nailed up there above it. I huddled beside the tavern door, watching as all those boys, every last one, paid a penny each to hop up on the bar and touch the cuff of my pants. For luck, they all said. And they laughed—every one.

  I never returned to the Flying Moon again.

  Not long after the incident with my stolen bloomers, I received a letter. Someone—the mistress of my boarding house or one of her maids—pushed it under my door, so I almost trod upon it when I made ready to leave my humble home and set out for the day’s drinking.

  I picked up the letter and settled with it on the edge of my bed. Caution sank like a brick of half-dried mud in my stomach. Instinctive dread squeezed my throat. The outside of the folio read: Lena Bourner.

  Dear God, I thought, both sour and fearful, whatever now?

  I broke the seal on the folio and read that letter slowly by the window, in the soft silvery light of a frosty morning.

  Martha,

  the letter began. No Dear Sister—just Martha.

  Imagine my surprise to learn that you have a daughter. How do I know this? Because the headmistress of Jessie’s school in Sturgis has written to me, seeking to collect on money owed for your daughter’s room, board, and education. While I am pleased to hear that you have tried to give your child a proper upbringing—and relieved that she does not reside with you—I am not best pleased to be the one who must be held responsible for her bills.

  Because Jessie is my blood—albeit a stranger to me—John and I have brought your accounts at Jessie’s school up to balance. I implore you to do the right thing and reimburse me for the cost. I have several children of my own now and cannot spare a penny. I suspect, however, that you never will return what I have paid. You must do the right thing and support your daughter as is fitting for a mother. To be a proper mother now is the only righteous thing you may do.

  God alone knows how that school found me, and how they discerned that I am your relation. I pray no one else knows.

  Lena Bourner

  I set for a long time beside the window, reading Lena’s letter over again, darkly musing on my sister’s words. Lena was right, and I knew it. Admitting her rightness stung, but no matter how long I remained beside that window, staring out at the dismal town while my breath frosted the pane, the sting of Lena’s righteousness never diminished. How had I forgotten to pay Jessie’s accounts? I asked myself that question a hundred times at least, but I never discovered the answer. No, that ain’t true; I knew the answer all along. I hardly need to admit the truth to you, for you understand already, don’t you? After a long spell of loathsome despair, I searched my purse and my travel trunk, but I had no money left to repay Lena, and nothing to send on to the convent school to keep Jessie’s accounts from drying up again.

  Then what’s to be done? I asked myself. I knew Lena was right; I must behave like a proper mother now, setting aside my own pain, sacrificing for my child. A headache had begun to pound behind my eyes and the craving for liquor was mounting. But I kept myself in that room, taking stock of my severely depleted resources, examining each of my few remaining options.

  I might pull Jessie out of Sturgis, I finally decided, and return with her to Deadwood. That town drew enough tenderfeet that I could hope to live off the sa
le of my little book, the biography I had printed up Back East. But Jessie wouldn’t thank me for whisking her away from her sanctuary, back to the place she had come to despise. I knew that much without having to write and ask her opinion.

  No; what I needed was ready money, and the only way to get it was to sell something of real value—something of greater value than my story (which was mostly scurrilous in any case.) I still possessed two treasures of great worth: Wild Bill’s pocket watch and his ruby-eyed snake ring. Both had accompanied me on the rail lines, traveling with me from city to city. In fact, I had seldom removed the ring from my thumb—only when necessity forced me. I set thinking of Jessie, two years older now than when I had seen her last with the crumbs of a sweet cake sticking to her chin. Two years older, and two years better off for having got rid of me. I twisted the ring on my thumb, watching dull light from the window glint in its small red eyes. The ring, I couldn’t sell. That golden band was too much a part of me now; even to slip it off now and again caused a deep stab of agony. I do earnestly believe I would have found it easier to cut off the thumb that wore that ring than to sell what Wild Bill had trusted me to hold.

  But his watch… I had kept that relic safe, treasuring it for many a year, but it seldom touched my skin. It hadn’t grown into me, become a part of my body and my spirit the way the ring had done. I took the watch from my trunk and held it up beside the window, letting it swing from its chain, examining it, too, in the clear light of day. Yes. For Jessie’s sake, I could sell Bill’s watch. I wouldn’t enjoy the task, and I never would have contemplated such blasphemy for any other person. But for Jessie… Gilt Edge still saw a few fellas who came prospecting for gold, venturing up into the mountains to pan in the icy streams. I might find a suitable buyer among the prospectors—one who could pay a good, fat price for a real relic of the West, the soon-to-be dead-and-buried world.

  I had no sooner convinced myself to part with the watch than agony seized me by the throat, so hard I couldn’t draw a breath. The watch fell from my hand and I lurched to my feet, swaying, loosening the buttons of my collar, gasping and willing myself to breathe. The watch and the ring was all I had left of the man I loved. I couldn’t part with either one, after all.

  I must find some other way. I convinced myself, poor gullible old Martha, that I could sell all two hundred and fifty copies of my biography—though I might have to roam from town to town to move them all. Better that, I told myself, than parting with Bill’s watch. I would leave Gilt Edge the next morning. Take the train to the next town—any town. I would take up as a maid, as I once had done, to make my own way. I would peddle my books at the train depots, declaring myself the One and Only Calamity Jane, and every cent I earned from my biography, I would send along to Jessie.

  Mind thusly made up, I packed my trunk and readied to leave Gilt Edge at the break of dawn. The firmness of my decision brought with it a pleasant peace, a stillness in my heart I hadn’t felt for many a long and somber year. By the time sunset blushed the peaks of the Rockies, I was ready to bid farewell to the town. But I wanted to give Gilt Edge a private farewell—one from my heart, one born from my new determination to be Jessie’s mother again. The occasion called for privacy and contemplation.

  I slipped from my boarding house in the purple chill of twilight, then walked down to the river that ran through a stand of cottonwoods on the eastern edge of town. My thoughts was all for a long-ago night—a sweeter night, when I had been young and fearless. Young and full of my foolish hopes. It was the night the wagon had overturned on the Black Hills expedition. The night when Bill Hickock had been so fine and bold, so dashing in his buckskin coat, and so alive. I stood below the whispering cottonwoods, watching bats flit along the silvery ribbon of the river. I remembered that night, allowed myself to bend and fold the fabric of memory so the moment lived again, so I lived the moment—the river water brightly cold against my naked skin, the stars clamoring above in a velvet sky. And my heart beating with all its brilliant expectation, my heart and my love and the cold of the water.

  All at once, I wanted nothing more than to slip naked into that river, though the night was chilly even while I stood fully clothed upon the bank. I guess I thought I could actually bring the treasured memory back if I acted out that wild impulse—resurrect everything that had died along with Bill. Or maybe I only hoped I would catch pneumonia and all my damn-blind foolishness would finally come to an end. Whatever my motivation, I found myself hopping up to a low, flat stone that reached partway out into the river. There I peeled off my off my trousers and my shirt, making ready to wade into the icy current. But as I folded my trousers over my arm, Wild Bill’s watch slipped from my pocket.

  The moment I saw the flash of gold, I dropped everything else I held and scrabbled for the watch. Like a snake escaping into tall grass, the watch with its golden chain slithered beyond my reach. I cried out with wordless desperation as it evaded me, staring in horror as the watch bounced from the edge of the stone, tumbling down the steep side of the river bank. It landed in the water with a splash—a tiny sound, far too small and self-contained for such a wrenching tragedy.

  I didn’t hesitate. I leaped into the water after my treasure, my sacred relic. Even at its deepest point, out in the center of the river (where, I frantically told myself, the current might have swept Bill’s watch) the water only came up to my hips. But it was cold—so bitterly cold, I couldn’t decide whether I was numb straight through to my bones, or tormented by a knife-like pain that stabbed everywhere at once. At first, my breath came in short gasps, hard involuntary heaves while I waded and pawed and wept in frustration. Then the cold stole my breath entirely, so I couldn’t even cry out against my pain. Cold and loss flayed at me, while I floundered in that river wearing nothing but my bloomers, searching with hands and feet, groping through silt and in the cryptic spaces between stones till I was sluggish and shivering.

  Finally, when my teeth chattered so hard I feared I might bite through my tongue, I hauled myself out of the water. There I stood in the darkness, dripping and stunned, sobbing wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

  I didn’t even catch pneumonia and die. How’s that for God’s vaunted mercy? You see how my life has cheated me.

  Hellcat in Leather Britches

  I lost more than Wild Bill’s watch that night, wading and grappling in the river, struck numb from cold and tragedy. My soul slipped away from me, too, lost in the lightless current, battered over submerged stone, swept downstream beyond my reach where I would never find it again.

  Guilt and shame assailed me; how could I have been so careless with that watch, a treasure my true love had held in such grand esteem? I dressed once more and staggered back to my room with my trousers and shirt clinging to my wet body, hugging myself tightly to still my awful shivering and the spasms of self-loathing that wracked me. By the time I reached the boarding house, my need for whiskey was more powerful than it had been at any point in my long and sorry existence. And I had no intention of checking my cravings any longer.

  A black shadow of loss eclipsed all my thoughts—my senses, my memory. Even Jessie slipped far from my mind. With dreadful abandon, I gave myself over—laid myself upon the altar of the demon who had hunted for my ruin since that first taste of whiskey long ago. I fell so heavily into drink that I can’t tell you how I got from Gilt Edge to Butte, Montana—nor can I tell you how I ended up in jail there. Time had ceased to matter; I perceived no difference between day and night, nor did I feel any change of season. I knew only drunkenness or despair—the wrenching knowledge of my shame, and no escape from that agony till I’d swallowed enough liquor to rob me of my senses, to snuff the dim light of memory and understanding. Only liquor could leave me to the mercy of darkness, where neither thought nor deed could penetrate. And so I cannot tell you how I landed behind the bars of the Butte, Montana jailhouse, but while cooped up in my cell, I sobered up just enough to realize I stayed for two straight weeks.

  My blood mu
st have been half whiskey by then. Deprived of my sustaining force—the liquor that burned hot along my veins—I suffered a terrible sickness in that jailhouse. The hours passed with a slowness that seemed to me deliberate cruelty. For days I shivered and wept on the floor of my cell, pleading for mercy from the guards, begging for a drop of whiskey to ease my pain. Many a time did I vomit up the thin, yellow foulness inside me—or I soiled myself in other ways, in ways less dignified still, and I was so weak and shaken I could scarce clean away the mess when the jailer brought me rags and a bucket of water.

  But the shaking and puking and the shame of my soiled body was easier to bear than the visions that assailed me whenever I closed my eyes—and sometimes when my eyes remained wide open, staring into the cold, unrelieved flatness of the cell’s rearmost wall. In those visions, the worst moments of my life returned to mock me, bright and pulsing with color, echoing with sound—with cries and accusations I alone could hear. I saw Jessie go into the tent, hand in hand with the pretty, dark-haired woman. I felt Lena as a little girl cradled in my arms, heard her plead with me to find her a new family. I saw myself pressing Baby Sara against a stranger’s breast. And I saw the stars high above the trail, watched them turning in their silent courses while hands and other things prodded at my naked flesh, took from my body whatever was wanted, discarding the rest. Locked up as I was, with no bottle to reach for, I had no more hope of hiding from my past. The life I had lived stared back at me from within my pitiless cell. All the walls became mirrors, and I was forced to look into them—to see what I had become.