Texas Born

by Gould, Judith

  'And what kind of life could I offer you?' he asked bitterly.

  She was silent.

  'Well, I'll tell you what kind,' he said brutally. 'A life on the run with a man you'll eventually grow to hate!'

  'I'll never hate you, Zaccheus,' she whispered. 'And anyway . . .' She got up in one fluid movement and snaked her arms around his neck: Salome in the flesh. 'Any life is better than the one I have here.' She pressed her face against his chest, as though to better hear the strong, reassuring beats of his heart.

  The intoxicating perfume of violets and things mysteriously female was strong in his nostrils, pungent and painful. He could feel his instant arousal, the fires in her reaching all the way inside him, demanding that he respond.

  'No!' he said in a strangled voice, and it was all he could do to push her away.

  'What is it?' she whined.

  'Can't you understand?' He raked a hand through his thick yellow hair and declared, 'I love you too much to ruin your future!' Then he retreated from her as if from a sinkhole and looked studiously in the opposite direction, at the sprig-papered wall. He let all the pain and sorrow and longing which had accumulated inside him escape from his lungs in a single long, heavy sigh. His self-control shuddered through him like the ague. Then he straightened his shoulders and stood taller, and despite his physical agony, managed to pull himself together.

  He turned back to her. 'I'd better be going now,' he said tightly.

  She just stood there, resentful and quivering, hands clenched at her sides.

  He bent down, kissed her chastely on the forehead, and started toward the window, gripping the frame with his powerful hands.

  'Zaccheus!' Her voice stopped him and he felt her seize his forearm, her fingers digging deep into his flesh. She pulled him around. 'You can't leave me here!' she cried out, clutching his arm for dear life, forcing him to stay. 'You can't!'

  He stood very still for a moment. Then a veil descended over his eyes. 'I can,' he said simply, 'because I must.'

  'You must—!' she began derisively. Her breasts heaved, and suddenly, as though she'd had a revelation, a wild, maniacal light glowed deep from within her eyes. 'Why, you don't want me!' she accused in amazement. 'That's really what this is about, isn't it?' She waited. 'Well? Answer me! Isn't it!'

  'No,' he said quietly, 'that's not it at all. I thought I already explained—'

  But it was as if she hadn't heard. She let go of his arm and took a tottering step backward, her eyes raking him from head to toe. 'In that case,' she hissed, her mouth curling into a sneer and something ugly coming into her face—an ugliness he had never known existed in her, 'there's something I want you to have. To remember me by!'

  He looked questioningly down at her upturned face.

  'This damn thing!' she spat, drawing her head back and yanking at the pansy charm around her throat until the chain, cutting into her neck, gave way and broke.

  She flung it to the floor at his feet. Her eyes were evil flames now, and there was a gloating hatred in them which seemed to reach out and sear. 'You can keep that cheap thing! I don't want it. I was going to throw it away anyway!'

  He flinched at the unanticipated malice. Hatred . . . such unimaginable hatred . . .

  'Now, get out!' she hissed, pointing a quivering finger at the window. 'Take your piece of junk'—she kicked at the charm on the floor with her toes—'and get the hell out of here before I start screaming rape!'

  Zaccheus stared at her, numbed and stunned by the change that had come over her. For the first time he could see deep inside her, and the animus he saw both repulsed and shocked him.

  Phoebe's lips formed a spiteful smirk. 'Well?' she taunted. 'I thought you were so damned anxious to leave! What's the matter? You suddenly crippled?'

  He knew his face, contorted in pain, must look as wretched as he felt inside. He was in physical agony. In the worst, most excruciating anguish he had ever suffered in his entire life.

  Abuse heaped upon abuse, all from the woman he'd loved—or thought he'd loved.

  Zaccheus dropped his gaze and stared down at the glittering pansy charm at his feet. At that hard-won symbol of his love. But now it had another meaning. It symbolized everything that had gone wrong with his life, everything he'd lost.

  Slowly, wearily, he bent down and retrieved it, closed his fingers tightly around it.

  Just feeling the smooth glass and delicate filigree opened a sudden floodgate of anguish. He had experienced many things in his young life: the deprivation of poverty, the specter of hunger, the humiliation of ignorance. But all of those were nothing compared to the pure atrocity of which a human being was capable—of which Phoebe, whom he had misguidedly given his love, was capable.

  The hideous knowledge rocked him to the very core of his foundations. Robbed him of the freedom to trust another human being with the abandon of his total heart and soul. And stirred up within him a caldron of rage such as he had never before known.

  Phoebe. What a fool he had been to fall for her. But he had been misled, been caught up in a romantic notion and swept away. And to think that she, of all people, had represented the very essence of purity for him.

  Now that he saw the truth, the past became a jumble of conflicting memories.

  Memories.

  There were so many of them.

  There he was, inside the church, the rich, glorious chords of the organ accompanying the congregation in song while he'd stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of her in the front row. And how, after the service, she'd walked past him, demurely lowering her lashes over her dark, liquid eyes.

  And then the talk with the reverends Tilton and Flatts.

  ' 'Have you considered a career in the ministry . . . the Lord has blessed you extraordinarily . . .'

  And him leaving his family, deserting the farm for the ivy-clad halls of Center Hall College in Virginia, which was where he'd been when he'd received word that his ma lay dying.

  Dying . . .

  He was overwhelmed by anguish, and still the merciless memories continued their assault.

  Him rushing back to Muddy Lake to be at his ma's bedside; buying her the pansy charm, but giving it to Phoebe instead. Keeping vigil with the ghost which was his mother, her every word a massive effort, bloody phlegm distorting her words. . . . so proud of you . . . . . . all gotta die, son . . . . . . hold me ? Jest for a minute . . . . . . listen to you rattlin' off them big words . . . And he relived the shock of learning of the bank's impending foreclosure on his pa's farm, and writing his impassioned letter to Reverend Astin—who'd freely given spiritual advice but no earthly help whatsoever—after which he'd returned to the jeweler, desperate to get hold of enough money to send his mother to a sanatorium. And he'd botched even that, and now his ma was dead, and Phoebe, reeking of spite and corrosive hatred—possessed not of inner beauty, but a soul festering with unspeakable malignancies—was glaring at him through hatred-slitted eyes.

  Why have I never noticed that part of her before? he wondered. How blind could I have been?

  The rage he felt, and the blinding sense of betrayal, were so overwhelmingly strong that he turned and half- leapt out the window, knowing that if he remained in Phoebe's room one moment longer he might be tempted to commit a crime he would regret for the rest of his life.

  The night was dark as Zaccheus silently trudged beside Demps, too weary and tormented to do more than place one exhausted foot in front of the other. He couldn't shake the nightmare he had just lived through. His beautiful Phoebe—whom he'd put on such a pedestal—had turned out to be nothing more than a monster disguised as an angel.

  His heart throbbed with a sorrow so great, and so all-pervasive, that he felt mentally and physically depleted.

  All he knew was that with each step he took, he was that much further from Muddy Lake, the town which had produced unbearable pain and anguish for him. He knew that he would never return, nor see any of his family again. But what he couldn't ha
ve foretold was that he and Demps would soon part company and go their separate ways.

  Or that his heart—which he believed could never again find another woman to love—would eventually heal.

  III

  ________

  1911

  Elizabeth-Anne and

  Zaccheus

  Quebeck, Texas

  1

  It was high noon when the train from Brownsville pulled into Quebeck. Zaccheus swung his suitcase down onto the platform and hopped off. As the train hissed and chugged laboriously away, he glanced around the tiny station. He was the only passenger who'd gotten off, and nobody had gotten on. It all added up to a sleepy little town.

  He picked up his heavy suitcase packed with Bibles and ambled over to the stationmaster's window. Summoning up his friendliest smile, he said, 'Howdy, friend.'

  The grizzled old stationmaster, who was ticket salesman and Western Union operator both, pulled aside the glass window and squinted up at him. 'No more trains leavin' today. Next one's tomorrow mornin'.'

  'That's fine with me,' Zaccheus said cheerfully. 'Could you direct me to the local hotel?'

  'Ain't none round here, sonny. But there's a nice roomin' house in town, run by a Miss Clowney and her two nieces. She only rents rooms by the week, but if there's a vacancy, she's been known to make an exception.' The stationmaster squinted at him. 'If she thinks you're respectable enough, that is. She don't like no messin' around. Proper woman, Miss Clowney is. The nieces too.'

  'How do I get there?'

  'Go round front and take the traction into town. It'll get here in 'bout twenty minutes. The trip'll take another fifteen. Get off on Main Street when you see a big pink house. That's the place. But you'd best go across the street from the roomin' house, place called the Good Eats Café. You can get honest wholesome home cookin' there, and that's where Miss Clowney usually is all day. Owns both establishments.' He nodded for emphasis.

  'I'm mighty grateful.' Zaccheus placed his hands far apart on the sill, leaned close to the window, and assumed his most solemnly profound expression. 'You look like a fine upright Christian man to me, my friend.'

  'I ain't your friend. I don't even know you.' The stationmaster squinted at him suspiciously.

  Aware of the scrutiny, Zaccheus pulled his shoulders back and smiled disarmingly. He had finally topped out to his full height, and, at twenty-one, was a towering young man, though not one to instill fright. There was something friendly and open about him. His eyes were bright blue, he sported a thin blond mustache, and his blond hair curled naturally. He stood dapper in his cream-colored slacks, striped jacket, bright polka-dot bow tie, and straw boater. There was something almost elegant about him. The only thing that gave away the hardships and toil of his early years was his large, capable hands and thick wrists.

  The stationmaster chuckled. 'From your city clothes and the heft of that suitcase of yours, I can tell you're a salesman. Can spot 'em a mile away. I ain't buyin' nothin'.'

  Zaccheus grinned. 'Who says I'm selling anything?'

  'I do,' the stationmaster said crisply. 'Now, scram.'

  Zaccheus held both hands up, palms out. 'Will do, my friend. God bless you.'

  'Need no blessin's an' no Bibles neither. Last year, clown by the name of Osgood suckered my wife into buyin' one.' The stationmaster shook his head. 'Told her I'd kill her if she as much as looked at another thing any travelin' salesman offered. Don't you know it, I came home last week, and what'd you think greeted my eyes? Slippers. There was a salesman through, and she'd bought mules for me an' the kids. Red ones, with big black dots all over 'em. Looked like giant ladybugs. Ugliest things I ever seen.' He shook his head sadly.

  Zaccheus was not listening. He had caught the name Osgood, and that brought on a surge of anger. The people at the Wisdom Bible Publishing Company could have forewarned him that Roger Osgood had already worked this territory. Everywhere he went, it seemed that Wisdom Bibles had already been sold there. He smiled sheepishly. 'What time you say the first train leaves in the morning?'

  'Nine-thirty for Laredo.' The stationmaster eyed him shrewdly. 'Bibles, eh?'

  Zaccheus smiled and turned away. It was high time he stopped trying to sell the Lord. It was time he changed his merchandise. To polka-dotted slippers, maybe. Anything but Bibles. Conning people into buying Wisdom Bibles was more difficult than he'd ever imagined it would be. He was weary of doors being slammed in his face, countess people staring vacantly at him, mumbling, 'If we ain't got money for food, what makes you think we got money for books?' How was he to answer that? Growing up, food had been scarce, and he'd much rather have had a full stomach than a Bible any day.

  It was a mean living he was managing to eke out, and it barely brought in enough money to keep him on the road. Still, it was a lot better than what he had done in the past. Ever since fleeing the jail in St. Louis, he had been determined to be honest and not to slip. He sighed to himself. Perhaps he should try some ruse. Maybe he was just too honest for this business. Perhaps that was why, in well over a week, after knocking on hundreds of doors, he'd managed to sell only five Bibles.

  He left the platform and lugged his suitcase around to the front of the station. Setting it down, he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. He was aching for a cool drink. It was ungodly hot out.

  He gazed down the long, straight dusty road that led toward the town. Along the center of the road ran two narrow railroad tracks. He judged the town to be at least a quarter of a mile distant. It shimmered in the unbearable Texas heat.

  For a moment he was tempted to walk into town, but then he decided against it. He might as well splurge and wait for the Quebeck traction, the tram that made a loop through the town. He took off his jacket and swung it over his shoulder, untied his bow tie, and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. After fifteen minutes of sitting in the shade, he heard the slow, distant plodding of a horse. He looked to his left. The traction was arriving.

  The solitary antiquated, small-gauge railroad car was painted bright blue and was pulled by a sweating, plodding old gray mare. The small flattop wagon had been converted into a passenger coach. There were four narrow slatted benches facing frontward, open on both sides, so that passengers could just step up and slip into a seat or hop off wherever they desired. Steel posts held up the metal canopy that shaded the passengers.

  Zaccheus paid the driver the nickel fare, swung the suitcase aboard, and hopped up. He took a seat right behind the driver's, and settled back on the bench. The wooden slats were hard and uncomfortable, but the shade was pleasant and welcome. It was a lot better than lugging the suitcase on foot.

  There was the snapping of reins, and slowly the horse began to move and the tram wheels began to turn.

  Main Street, Quebeck, was like a lot of other main streets he had seen, only it wasn't as green as most. Water was scarce, and for things to grow, they had to be carefully nurtured. Old houses with gingerbread- fretted front porches were set back in dusty little front yards, interspersed with flat-roofed buildings in need of paint and repair. A lot of ground floors held shops and businesses. There was a hardware store. A variety store. A grocery store. A post office. A nickelodeon. Dogs barked at the traction and made halfhearted attempts to chase it, but it was too hot, and after a few barks they slumped back down. A few dour women got on in front of the post office, their dusty pastel dresses long and prim, their hats shading them from the sun. Zaccheus doffed his boater politely and they smiled tightly. It was too hot to exchange meaningless pleasantries. Then, just ahead, Zaccheus saw a three-story pink gingerbread house.

  He leaned forward. 'That Miss Clowney's rooming house?' he asked the driver.

  'Sure is,' the driver replied without looking back, and the traction slid to a smooth halt.

  'Much obliged,' Zaccheus said, and hopped down, light and agile, to the dusty, sun-baked street. He stood clutching the suitcase as the tram pulled off again. He stared up at the house. It had obviously seen better days, yet th
ere was nothing remotely neglected about it. Honeysuckle curled bravely around the porch posts, and other robust specimen plants abounded, some the likes of which he had never seen. But the piéce de resistance was a mighty blooming wisteria, luxuriantly foliaged, that seemed to climb straight up into the air until it found purchase on the shingled porch roof up which it crept. It continued to climb around windows and flower boxes filled to bursting with blooms, until the fragile ends of it clutched a great brick chimney which rose majestically into the cloudless sky. The rooming house was an oasis against the blazing summer noon, a welcoming, cooling sight for tired eyes and parched skin. Only a discreet sign, half tucked away among the thickly leafed wisteria, hinted that this house was indeed a business establishment. The sign was oval, painted pink like the house, and was lettered with neat, florid green script, half of which was obscured by the wisteria leaves:

  CLOWNEY'S RO

  ROOMS BY THE WEE

  Zaccheus turned around and looked at the opposite side of the street. A simple two-story flattop house, as plainly utilitarian a structure as the rooming house was decorative, squatted squarely, a hitching post running along the long narrow porch. A large black-and-white sign hanging above the screen door read:

  THE GOOD EATS CAFÉ

  He crossed the street, climbed the porch, and went inside, the screen door banging shut behind him. He found himself in an intimate, noisy little dining room, obviously very respectable and scrubbed clean. Checkered tablecloths draped the square tables, which were surrounded by bentwood chairs. The wine-dark wallpaper was homey and faded, and Victorian pictures were framed in dark heavy molding. Despite the dark colors, there was a brightly welcoming, cheery atmosphere to the room, perhaps owing to the luncheon crowd or to the tiny bottles on each table that held small, freshly cut bouquets, or the newspaper rack in the corner from which hung several copies of the Quebeck Weekly Gazette.