“It is your responsibility to create that desire, Mlle. Mackay, that is what you are being paid to do. You do know how to create desire? Maybe I can show you.” His huge body blocked the staircase, then he turned, pinning Belle against the wall. “How about a little kiss, my pretty? You’d like it, I know you would.”
He stooped closer to Belle and his eyelids fluttered and he closed his eyes. Belle slipped under his arm and ran to her room.
No wonder Cookie had told her to steer clear of him. The whole family was peculiar. The boys, worthless, and Mme. Du Cartier, arrogant and mean, and the mister, brutal to his animals and disgusting, talking to her that way. She shuddered with the thought of him kissing her. The Du Cartiers deserved each other.
From cellar to garret this elegant mansion was not a home, for it did not have a drop of love in it. She’d save every penny, and as soon as she earned enough money for the fare to Idaho, she would leave.
Locking her door, Belle turned her thoughts to her family, wondering if the news had reached them about Tommy’s death. Would Angus Mackay understand that she had no way to take dear Tommy’s body home for burial? How would he feel about that? “Oh, Tommy, I bleed in my heart when I think of ye being put to rest in the deep dark sea. There were no flowers, no loved ones except for me. We should never have decided to go to America. What I would give to be back with ye in our bonnie Aberfeldy, playing in the glen. Ye were right Tommy, I am heartsick for me family. Aye, ye knew I would be.”
Belle brushed her hair; the static crackled. She checked to make sure the door was locked before she knelt by the bed and said the prayers her dear mother gone to heaven, God bless her, had taught her as a wee lass.
Green waters wash seaweed with powerful long arms, stretching, curling and wrapping around Belle’s body. She sinks deeper, and yet deeper below The Caledonia plummeting into a veil of darkness, to a place only the dead know. Tommy calls to her, in a voice that isn’t his voice. He moans her name over and over but she can’t reach him. Her feet wedge painfully between huge rocks. For an instant she sees Tommy’s hollow eyes and his arms hanging limp, his long graceful fingers dangling below him, then he is thrust away, disappearing into the cold green darkness. The seaweed has a body now, massive, heavy and it crushes her, collapsing her chest, her belly, her groin, pounding, deeper and deeper, ripping, tearing into her. She can’t breathe. The pain, the monstrous pain. Again and again. She tries to scream but her nose and mouth are covered with its gigantic hand that presses hard into her flesh. The pressure on her body becomes unbearable--she fears death is near. She gasps for breath, in a dense fog, sinking slowly, slowly into oblivion, floating above her own body, weightlessly. Then nothing.
Chapter Four
Fumbling in the darkness down the back staircase, Belle struggled with her luggage as she quietly slipped out the kitchen door and into a rainy night. Sobbing, she stumbled as the rain and wind intensified the blur of the darkness.
Wrapping her coat more tightly about her, she dropped her bags long enough to get a fresh grip on their handles, but no longer. It was just a bad dream. A bad dream. No, it had really happened. She sobbed into the darkness as she shivered uncontrollably.
If there were houses along the way, they weren’t visible in the storm. There wasn’t a light anywhere. In the middle of the night, all she could do was to feel the road beneath her feet and follow it.
She had to keep moving. If she stopped she would surely curl up and die. After hours of floundering, there was no strength left in her legs. Her heart ached in torment, while her body throbbed with pain. At the moment she felt she couldn’t go on, the cool light of dawn began to break and its soft glow slowly overcame the darkness. Faint outlines of houses came into view and she realized she had wandered into a village. In this unfamiliar town, Belle walked into the train depot and stood at the ticket counter behind a blond woman wearing a bright red velvet coat with lip rouge to match, a woman that Belle’s Granny would have called a Jezebel, a trollop.
Belle leaned on the counter for support, feeling unstable, woozy, not sure how she had gotten there. The woman fiddled with the contents of her purse, as the agent looked at Belle.
“I want a ticket to Nampa, Idaho--what is the fare?” Belle emptied her purse on the counter in front of him, unable to cope with counting the money. The pain wouldn’t subside long enough for her to concentrate. She pulled her coat tightly around her body trying to comfort it. All she could think about was getting as far away from the Du Cartier household as she could. There was a word for what Du Cartier had done to her. She’d heard of such things, but she hadn’t understood until now. Why hadn’t she listened to her inner voice that kept telling her that she was in the wrong place? Too late for that. She couldn’t change it now.
She needed to find an anger inside herself bigger than her fear. But there was only despair. She wanted to scream, to cry, to die. If she was to survive, she couldn’t think about it anymore.
“Not enough for Idaho, even a dollar shy for a ticket to Cheyenne,” the agent said as he adjusted his wire-framed spectacles.
“Here, give her the ticket.” The woman next to her handed a silver dollar to the conductor along with a tough-edged look.
“I couldn’t take your money. I’m not going to Cheyenne,” Belle protested as their eyes met.
“Take it.” The woman flipped her painted fingernails. Belle was too weary to think. All she knew was that Cheyenne was nearer Idaho than wherever she was now and she must get far away before the Du Carriers missed her.
“My name’s Flo, Flo Cummins,” the peacock said, strutting beside Belle as they went to board the train. “What’s yours?”
“Isabelle Mackay.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Flo said as she tried to balance the stack of hat boxes and packages piled in her arms.
Once aboard the train, nothing kept Belle from sinking into herself, not the hard upright seat, the continuous clanking revolutions of iron wheels against the track, nor the dank chill of the car as the wood stove burned low. Wanting not to dream, looking for peace somewhere away from reality, a gentle place where the nightmare within her could subside, she was finally rescued by exhaustion. She slept; she dreamed.
Massive boulders hold the earth back as a rushing brook finds its way down the Ochil “hillfoots," as the Scots were prone to call them. Narrow pathways wind and frail bridges cross near waterfalls in a place in Scotland called The Glen of Sorrow. Stepping stones lead to Campbell Castle, on its high stone perch, resting against the sky.
Up through moss and fern Tommy leads the way. They slip and fall and slip again and it makes them laugh. Up higher yet into the ancient castle where a steep and endless stairway brings them into a sky of transparent rainbows that bend between dollops of clouds and Belle reaches out and holds the color in her hands. Then, the sky fills with blackbirds and one screeches as it lands on Tommy’s head while others come to rest on the stone parapet. He takes it in his hand; it rests upon his finger, he kisses it, holds it high as it flies away.
As Belle watches, Tommy becomes a blackbird and with the rest he flies. Bells ring and the drone of bagpipes fills the air. Tommy looks down at Belle and says, "Be happy." The birds circle high in the air and disappear beyond the clouds. Belle tries to follow but her feet are glued to the ground.
She woke with the sensation that there was still joy within her and nothing or no one could take it away. How strange. She puzzled over her dream, wondering what it meant, oblivious of the woman who had helped her, this odd woman sitting next to her who wanted to talk. They had exchanged names as they boarded the train but that was all. The day was spent before Belle opened her eyes.
Pink and orange chiffon scarves wafted above the setting sun that rested on the edge of the flat landscape. Belle watched the sun roll off and disappear. Tawny stubble covered the earth as far as the eyes could see, telling of the grain that had been harvested. Fat-bellied cows were feeding on grass along the ditch b
ank. It was a big country and Belle was alone. As the light faded, her body stiffened thinking about the dark and the nightmares that came with it. The sun had abandoned this place as she must abandon her misery. She set her jaw in new determination.
“So tell me your story, Belle. You haven’t exactly been what I’d call an exciting traveling companion. You slept all day; I had no one to talk to.” Flo fidgeted in her seat. Belle was fascinated with Flo’s eyebrows. The hair had been plucked out and a black high-arched line drawn in its place, creating a constant look of surprise.
“I’m sorry, Flo. I can’t thank ye enough for the money. I’m beholden to ye.” Belle’s voice couldn’t hide her misery.
“Mercy, dearie, did somebody hurt you? Tell Flo all about it. We girls have to look out for each other. Heaven knows no one else will.”
“I’m just tired. Tomorrow we’ll talk.” Her body rested close to Flo as she started sinking into herself again. There was something endearing about Flo, and being near her made Belle relax. They’d talked enough to know they would be friends. Belle needed a friend.
On the cusp of sunrise, Flo told Belle that she was on her way to the Silver Slipper Saloon in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where she’d heard pretty girls could make a lot of money. Anything would be better than Chicago, where she’d been since she was fourteen. She’d save her money and someday she would buy a little piece of land and raise chickens or maybe marry a rich man. Belle asked if Flo was a dancer.
Flo giggled as she pulled a hand mirror from her bag. “Sometimes--whatever they want, that’s what I give them.” She flipped her blond curls with her painted fingernails then ran her tongue across her teeth, smiling at her reflection.
Belle thought Flo was pretty but in an artificial way and wondered what she would look like if she washed the paint off her face. There were other things about Flo. Did that remark about giving men what they want mean what she thought it meant? Beginning to understand what it was that Flo did for a living, Belle decided to put it out of her mind because she liked Flo and she couldn’t bear to think about it.
The night was dimpled with stars as a feeling of peace enveloped Belle. She thought about her father and knew that he would be proud of her and the resolution she’d come to. She could hear him saying, “What doesn’t kill us will make us stronger.” Belle smiled--she was still alive.
Cold winds of November whipped against their faces as Belle and Flo, frazzled from the long train ride to Cheyenne, dragged their bags down the boardwalk to the front door of the Silver Slipper Saloon.
Never in her young life had Belle been inside such an establishment. She shouldn’t be there. Her father would be appalled; her dear mother would roll over in her grave. Yet with all of her reluctance and fear, she felt a rush of excitement. “So this is a saloon,” she whispered trying to take it all in and be invisible at the same time.
“Well, a saloon and a bordello,” Flo whispered.
“Bordello?” It was a word that wasn’t in Belle’s vocabulary but she had a good idea what it meant.
Below the stage, a black man at an upright piano played a foot-stomping tune that eased Belle’s tension. There was more mirror behind the bar than Belle had ever seen. It was etched in a frosty design. Below it, bottles of all shapes and sizes filled with amber liquor packed a breakfront cabinet. The dark wood of the bar was accented by a polished brass rail a foot above a worn floor and flanked by brass spittoons at either end. Silver ostrich plumes gave relief to the dark red wallpaper. At several of the tables, men were playing cards. Without turning their heads, their eyes scanned the girls as the bartender beckoned to Belle and Flo.
“You the new girls?” he asked. “I’m Charley. If you need anything, I’m here to help.”
Flo nodded and smiled.
“Go on back to the office. O’Reilly is expecting you.”
“He couldn’t be expecting me. I’m not going back there,” Belle whispered as she clung to Flo’s arm for reassurance. It wasn’t too late to quickly retreat to the street but if she did just where would she go?
“Come on,” Flo said. “I know what you’re thinking but it can’t hurt to just talk to him. Maybe you can get a job as a dime-a-dance girl or something like that.”
In a windowless room, Dan O’Reilly sat chewing on a cigar that looked at home in his bullfrog face. Circles of excess skin drooped beneath his bulging eyes. He had planted his legs far apart, comfortably slouching. His vested belly filled his lap. As the girls entered, he jumped to his feet.
“Tell me about yourself,” O’Reilly croaked through his cigar, his eyes directed at Belle as he stepped behind them to close the door.
“It’s Flo you’re expecting, not me.” Belle maneuvered until she stood behind Flo.
“We’ll get to her, but you interest me, blue eyes.” He eyed Belle. “With your looks, I can see you being a number one lady around here,” he said. He took his cigar from his mouth and smacked his lips. With his words, his comical appearance turned sinister.
A puff of blue smoke settled over Belle. There was no question in her mind what he meant. Couldn’t he see just by looking at her that she wasn’t a lady of ill-repute? How dare he? The color drained from Belle’s face. “No, oh, no! Not me. Not ever.” She backed away from the cigar smoke, from O’Reilly and felt the comfort of the doorknob in her hand. She turned the knob ever so slightly and the door squeaked as it popped open. She wasn’t locked in.
“Then what in hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It’s a mistake. A big mistake. I’ll be leaving now.”
“Wait a minute,” Flo said as she grabbed Belle’s sleeve. “She is an immigrant and my friend. She needs a job. I talked her into coming with me. Isn’t there something?”
"Oh, well, fine. It’s too bad. A girl with your looks.” He shook his head and let his hand come to rest on his chin. “Let’s get something straight, you and I. Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to. Not around here. I don’t run that kind of an establishment. If you ever change your mind, though, I’d be glad to talk to you about it.”
Belle gulped and nodded.
“So are you looking for a job? What can you do?”
“I can sing, I can dance and I’m a poet.”
O’Reilly choked a little as he removed his cigar from his mouth, again. He squinted at Belle and a half smile replaced his look of disappointment. “We don’t have much call for poets around these parts. But I’ll take a look at your song and dance. Go out there and talk to Horatio, he’s the darkie at the piano. If you can hum it, he can play it.”
A feeling of relief went through Belle as she felt her rigid muscles begin to relax. She should go while the going was good but she needed a job, she had to make some money somehow so she could get on her way to Idaho.
Horatio’s black eyes sought hers as he listened to her hum a Harry Lauder Drinking Song, a song her mother had taught her. Her body still ached, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her.
Horatio pounded out the tune like he’d been playing it for years and Belle found herself up on the stage giving it her all:
“Just a wee Dock and Dorris
Just a wee drap that’s all.
Just a wee Dock and Dorris
Before we gwan awah.
There’s a wee wifey waiting
In a wee bent and bin.
If ye kin say, It’s a good nicht, nicht, tonicht,
Then you're all right, ye kin.”
Swirling her skirt, she threw her legs high in the air. Flouncing to the beat of the music, flirting as she cocked her head, doing the rubber legs that made people laugh, electrifying every move, Belle stopped the card games. She was having a marvelous time and the men loved it. She forgot for a minute that she hurt. When she finished, the crowd that had gathered wanted more. Belle obliged them. Before they let her rest, the saloon was filled with men.
Charley Hemphill, the bartender, winked at her. “Nice going! I like your act,�
� he said.
Then Belle heard O’Reilly whisper to him, “This feisty girl from Scotland could be a drawing card, give us a leg up on the Spur and Saddle.”
Charley nodded in agreement.
“You’ve got the job,” O’Reilly told her. “Now, you’ll need a costume. Tell Gladys what you want and she’ll make it for you. One of the girls will show you how to use the rouge. God knows you don’t need it, but that’s what the men expect of a dance hall gal.” He gave Belle a quick grin.
“A dance hall gal?” Belle thought. What would her father think of that? He wouldn’t approve, not for a minute. But it was honest work and if he knew he’d have to appreciate the merit of that. At least, she hadn’t fallen head first into this den of iniquity although she had to admit that she was walking on a tight rope just above it. Her excitement grew when she thought about performing and it sure beat tutoring a couple of idiot boys.
Out of Innocence Page 6
