Annie Oakley's Girl

by Rebecca Brown

  Annie and I walk the city for weeks. Some parts of it she’ll recognize, or tell me what used to be at this address. She reminisces about performing in the Wild West Show with Buffalo Bill at Madison Square Garden. She can’t believe how the city’s grown, how many cars and lights, the height of buildings, noise and speed of everything. She loves the accents that she hears in delis, clothes stores, on street corners. But her favorite things are movies.

  The first Western I take her to see is High Noon. We have a great time and start haunting old movie houses and taking in all the Westerns. Pretty soon, that’s all we do. We see Shane, The Great Train Robbery, The Gunfighter, Gunfight at the OK Corral, The Covered Wagon, Man With a Gun. At first she laughs at them, she can’t believe we take them seriously. But after a while she’s fascinated. We have to see one every night. Every night when we hit a theater, Annie dresses in her cowgirl best and I in something chic and new. And though sometimes we get glances, this is the city and people don’t look twice.

  After a while she gets restless during the day. The city is too crowded and fast and loud for her. We buy a video cassette machine so she can always have a Western on hand.

  I start to get concerned. Is she unhappy? I throw a huge party and invite all the most interesting people I know. This is the first night we don’t go see a Western. I hope that she’ll be happy. The night goes beautifully. My friends all think she’s great and we have fun. Annie tells stories of her growing up, her early career, the nation’s adolescence. Everyone’s entertained. “Oh, Annie,” they say, “you should write a book.” Everyone thinks her clothes are just right and ask her where she found them.

  Late that night we start a hand of cards. I urge Annie to challenge everyone to poker and she does. While I refill my guests’ daiquiris, Bloody Marys and Perrier-and-limes, Annie measures out her own shots of whiskey. They all lose to her and love it. At the end of the night they owe her millions, but Annie says, “Y’all have already paid me more ’n enuf in kindness.”

  Early that morning when the last guest is gone, and Annie and I are emptying ashtrays and wiping up spilled booze and dip, I thank her and tell her that this is the best party I’ve ever given. I say, “I haven’t had this much fun since I was a kid.” I tell her and she smiles. “They loved you, Annie,” I nearly shout.

  “Well, yer friends are most obligin’.”

  “Come on, Annie,” I insist, “it’s you. You’re the greatest. There’s something about you. It’s . . . everybody loves it . . .”

  “Yer very, very kind.”

  Annie kneels over a spot in the carpet trying to pick out bits of crushed-up macadamia nut. I look at the bottoms of her boots then up at her cowgirl hat. I step over to her, take the hat off her head and put it on mine as I flop down on the couch beside her.

  “Hey, Annie, do you like it here?”

  She continues what she’s doing. “Yup. Enuf — ”

  “Come on, Annie, what do you really think of this — well, all of this — ?” I sweep my arms out wide though she’s not watching me.

  When she answers me she’s still looking at the floor. “Well, I think . . .” she hesitates, “yer here . . .” she hesitates even longer, “so I like it.”

  I’m so busy with my train of thought I almost miss her meaning. In fact, part of me tries to miss her meaning, but the part that doesn’t imagines itself kneeling down with her and touching her, holding her in its arms. But the other part hastens away from that, pretends that things never mean anything more than they seem to. And this part stays frozen, seated, nervously pats Annie’s hat down tighter on my head and tells her:

  “Annie, ol’ girl, I think you’re gonna be a hit.”

  When Annie looks up at me from her chore, I put my index finger to my lips, look out the window at the city getting pink with light, and say, before the one part of me tells the other part to change its mind, “Yeah, I think you could be very, very big.”

  I try to explain the finer points to her. But she’s never even heard of most of these things. “A self-fulfilling prophecy is when you say something and just the act of saying it is magic; it makes it happen. Foreshadowing and symbols are names you give to things in art, but they happen in life as well. Are you listening, Annie? Sometimes I look at you when we’re happiest and that’s when they come on me and I wish we weren’t happy. Because once you have something, you want it. And you still keep wanting it when you can’t have it.” Her face is curious and calm and puzzled. She genuinely doesn’t hear me.

  I tell her, “Dear Annie, one day we’ll wish none of this had happened. There’s a price you pay for having what you want. You pay with the wanting that stays on after you stop having. You can want everything, but you can’t have everything.”

  I explain these things to her when she’s asleep. I tell myself I’m practicing and when I finally get it right, I’ll tell her straight, out loud.

  Your first lessons you have to ride around a ring. They teach you how to walk and trot and canter. You have to do everything with everyone and that is no adventure. I always wanted to be let out on my own and ride free through the woods that started just fifty yards or so from the lesson corral. I’d never been in there but I saw where the trail went in and you couldn’t see any more. I saw people ride in there sometimes. Older people, people that worked there who always wore boots and hats. I wanted to go into those woods by myself and ride and ride and ride. One lesson I brought a canteen and a sandwich in my brother’s Boy Scout bag and wore them on my belt because that day, I swore to myself, when the teacher wasn’t looking, I would go. I’d gallop to the woods and follow that path as far as it went and then go farther. I’d ride and ride and ride. I’d spend the night in the woods and live off nuts and berries. I’d drink water from streams and tie my horse to a tree and sleep by a dying fire. I’d meet up with some cowboys and they’d show me how to get to the open plains and I’d go and find a cowtown and I would visit there, and go from cowtown to cowtown, meeting people and living like a cowgirl.

  Annie’s signing autographs at Saks. We’ve timed it so the release of her authorized biography coincides with the arrival of the special line of new fall fashions — Annie Oakley Western Wear. Annie sits on the ladies’ sidesaddle which they’ve rigged up on a chair and chats with customers and buyers. Saks fashion models dressed in cowgirl Western wear scurry in the crowd around her. They smile a lot and offer free champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and turn to show the catchy lines their outfits cut. They all wear hats and underneath their hats their hair is permed or streaked or blow-dried. They make sure each buyer gets the right amount of time to say hello to Annie, joke with her, buy her book. Then they subtly, persuasively, draw people away to buy some Western clothes. Annie laughs and sometimes she does a quick-draw show or spins a tight, fast lasso. The whole crowd loves her, listens rapt to her stories about the range, six-shooters, the setting sun. Clearly she is a hit. They laugh at every joke she tells and sigh at every story. When they say things to her they sound sincere and grateful and loving. She is their heroine. They’re all in love with her.

  I stand apart, sipping my champagne by the escalator. I keep one eye on everything around her while I pretend to enjoy the chit-chat with the customers. When it gets near time to close the crowd thins out, the “cowgirls” begin to go back to their rooms and change. Annie’s pretty much left alone. I duck into the ladies’ room and when I return I see her talking to one of the workers undoing the display. They’re laughing with each other and Annie’s face is live with animation. I watch her tell her story for some minutes, then when the story gets too long I walk over and tell her briskly, “You don’t have to do this anymore. You’ve put in your time.”

  Annie’s face falls. The worker snaps back to the job.

  That evening in our hotel suite after our bags are packed for our night flight to L.A. we start to dress for dinner. High Noon plays on the VCR. We aren’t watching it but we don’t dare turn it off and listen to the silence. Annie’s
pulling on her boot and I’m holding her pair of spurs when I say, “All right, Oakley, spill it.”

  She stops, her leg outstretched, the boot poised at an angle in the air. She looks at me and doesn’t say anything. I step over to the tube and turn the volume all the way down.

  “Go on,” I start into her, “tell me how much you love having all those good clean folks ooh-ing and aah-ing over you. Tell me about that precious little janitor sighing up at you. Christ.”

  Then I clasp my free hand over my heart and say in my best fake sweet starstruck voice, “She’s even more wonderful than I imagined. Oh gosh, oh gee. She’s so — so — good.” I stare up toward the ceiling mocking the romanticism of the people I’d seen that day. I stand still a second then fling my hands out like I’m trying to strike at something. “Jesus Christ, you made me sick today. I mean it. You’re something else. You really are something goddamn else.” I pause. “But hell, what am I being upset about?” I shrug my shoulders and smile my sweetest smile. “You’re only giving them what they want.” I raise my voice in imitation again. “Gosh, were things really like that? Gee, Annie, you’re a dream come true. Boy, Annie. I feel like I can really talk to you.” I catch my breath and clench my free hand into a fist. I walk to one end of the room then back, tossing the spurs back and forth from one hand to the other. I turn and face her directly. I look at her a second, and try to make my voice sound calm and matter-of-fact but I can’t. I say with all the spite I can, “You fucking whore.”

  Annie’s eyes widen and her mouth opens slightly with sadness and surprise. She looks like she’s about to cry. I feel horrible. I know I’m wrong. I want to take back everything but I’m too afraid and proud to change my mind so I raise my voice and spit out at her, “But what did I expect? You’re Annie Fucking Oakley. Annie Fucking Jesus Oakley. You only give them what they want — ”

  Then Annie interrupts me. It’s the only time she ever interrupts me in her life. She says, “Yew said yew wanted them to like me. Yew said I should be like that. Yew said that’s why yew liked me.”

  Then she’s quiet. Then she says, “I only did this fer yew.”

  I don’t know what to say to her. I look back at the movie and watch Gary Cooper mime a passionate appeal to my patriotism. I walk over to the set and turn the volume up full blast and look at Annie, knowing we won’t shout above the movie.

  On my way out the door I remember the spurs and spin round and hurl them at the set. I slam the door and hurry away before I can hear anything else.

  I leave a message at the desk for them to call for Annie when the limo arrives and to tell her that I’ll meet her at the airport.

  I walk uptown. I don’t go in any bars, but do pass one I glance at. The name of it’s “The Dude Ranch.” Three blocks farther on I see “The Bucking Bronc,” but I try to walk past without giving it a second look. I see a couple in cowboy hats and try to see if they’re really from out West or just New Yorkers trying to be chic.

  I try to remember how long those bars have been here.

  Annie’s drinking a strawberry daiquiri in the airport bar when I find her. Just as I walk up to her I hear our flight announced. We’re going to Los Angeles. I throw a twenty on the table and help her stand. I see she’s crying. “There, there,” I say as I help her up, pretending it’s just the departure that’s made her cry.

  In the first class compartment Annie orders daiquiri after daiquiri. She experiments with different flavors — banana, peach, lime. I don’t know whether to pray that they do show a Western, or to pray that they don’t. We’re on our way to Hollywood to negotiate the rights to her biography. She’s never been drunk before.

  “I’z afraid yew wudn’t be comin’ back.” It’s the first word she’s said to me since I found her in the bar.

  “I told the clerk I’d meet you at the airport.”

  “But I didn’t know if yew meant it. All the stuff y’ always used t’ tell me ’bout leavin’. I was just tryin’ t’ figure it out.”

  I close my eyes and remember, with shame, things I’d tried to tell her, but I can’t remember anything clearly, just vague words and unconnected thoughts — something about self-fulfilling prophecy, trying to sound mysterious and tragic, foreshadowing, the seed of doubt. I flinch when I think of what I’ve cooked up and fed to her.

  Her eyes are closed beneath her hat which tips awkwardly over her face. I take her hat off and put it in the cabinet above us. Then I smooth her hair down. I hold her hands and look at them. I wipe her face and hold the tissue as she blows her nose. I feed her her lime daiquiri.

  “Annie?” I whisper, “Annie? Annie?” I don’t know what else to say.

  She’s mumbling things I can barely make out. I wave away the stewardess who offers us the movie earphones. Then I think I hear Annie say, “I don’t belong . . . I miss the gang . . . cain’t we go back? . . . please, cain’t we go back? . . .” I wipe the moisture off her face then hold both her hands in mine. Annie sleeps. I don’t think of anything. The lights go dim and the cabin screen gets light and I see the camera pan across the great vast open plains, a classic Western sunset. Just as the cowboys start across the screen, I close my eyes and thank God I can’t hear the sound track. The cabin air feels cold and dry. I hear the chilled air coming in. Then I know that I will send her back. And I’ll awake alone in California.

  But I don’t know when in the night she’ll go. So I don’t know if this is a dream I have or something I see that happens when she goes back:

  Annie’s riding Cowgirl. They’re tearing through the desert with a leather pouch for the Pony Express. Her just-cleaned jacket gets blown with dust. Annie’s getting winded. The sun is hurting her eyes. Her hand that grips the saddle horn lets up and she pats all her pockets, searching for what I can only guess must be her sunglasses. Her body jerks up and down on Cowgirl. There’s nothing smooth or graceful between them.

  And though I know she can’t remember me, I wonder if she does because the look on her face is a mixture that’s strange — a thing poised taut between a type of fear, and boredom, and something not at all unlike nostalgia.

  THE JOY OF MARRIAGE

  We go to the country for our honeymoon. I’ve chosen a small isolated cottage far from everything because I want us to be alone at last after our huge wedding and reception.

  We unpack in the tiny room, and as I lift our empty clothes from our suitcases I’m suddenly overcome with desire for you. I try my hardest to be patient and then, when the suitcases are empty, you let me kiss you. I rush to unbutton my blouse and drop my slacks and give myself to you when I hear a car pull up outside and you say, “Don and Martha,” as I’m pulling your hand over my bare breast, “It must be Don and Martha.” You pull yourself away from me and dash for the window. I follow you and see outside a large black Rolls Royce. The chauffeur has just opened the car door and a woman’s beautiful leg is starting out of the car. She and a man get out of the car and wave to us. “It is Don and Martha,” you say eagerly, waving back to them. Reluctantly I wave too, careful to hide my naked breasts with my free hand.

  I lag behind you, pulling up my slacks as you usher Don and Martha inside. They address me by name and hug me. Martha helps me zip my fly. “You remember Don and Martha, don’t you, dear?” “Of course, of course,” I say, fumbling with the button at my waist. And, though they remind me of lots of your friends, I can swear I’ve never met either of them before. Martha squeezes my hand and whispers to me, “I’m so happy for you.” You and Don tell the chauffeur to pull the car around to the back.

  As I’m slipping my hands into my sleeves, wondering how we’re ever going to feed the four of us, the doorbell chimes. I’m startled to hear such a majestic signal, especially in a little one-room cottage like this. I’m wondering what to make of this when a butler answers the door and in rush two men in tuxedos. “Bill! John!” you cry with joy. You give them handshakes and hugs. “Hey there, you old son of a gun,” John says as he slaps you on the back. Bill a
nd John step toward me, each pecking me on the cheek with a kiss. John winks at me as I’m fumbling with my blouse, and whispers, “Looks like we’ve caught you at an awkward time.”

  A servant carries in four matching pieces of leather luggage. I turn around to see if there’s any way we can fit it all under the bed, but, when I turn, I don’t see the small bedroom you and I had unpacked in, but a grand staircase straight out of a thirties musical. My fingers go numb with shock as I’m buttoning my blouse.

  The butler starts carrying Don and Martha’s suitcases upstairs and behind me I feel a maid slipping me into a housecoat. She guides me up to a bedroom on the second floor where evening clothes for me are laid out on the bed. She leaves me alone to dress, and after she closes the door behind her, I hear the doorbell downstairs ringing and ringing.

  I don’t know how much time has passed, but when I go downstairs, it’s lively with noise. A doorman ushers me into the dining room and before me stretches a table so long I can’t see the end of it. I stand at the door and peer over the half-filled plates and half-empty bottles, cloth-covered bread rolls, and silver-covered dishes. The brilliance of all the silver glitters at me. The tablecloth is long and white. The people alternate between fine black suits and pastel dresses. I don’t see anyone I know. You sit at the end of the table close to me, and just above the edge of the chair I can see the back of your head.

  Then I’m sitting next to you and I realize I’ve just missed dinner. My stomach growls as the servants clear the plates. I hold your hand under the table. Just as I’m starting to caress your palm, you stand up to deliver a toast. The toast you deliver is for me, for our happiness in marriage. Everyone stands and toasts me. They clink their glasses and smile at one another and tip their glasses back. I search the empty place-setting in front of me for a glass, but there’s not a drink in sight. Right then a corps of cooks wheels out a tremendous cake with our names, yours and mine, written on it. You sit down and I think how long it will take to serve everyone from this huge cake. Under the table, I slide my hand up your thigh, slowly, as tantalizingly as I can, and just when I feel you want me, and I’m about to touch you, you stand up to propose another toast. Embarrassed, I stare into the empty place setting in front of me and try not to listen as you talk about the joy of marriage. I hope the guests supply their own reasons why I’m blushing.