Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Oh, Christ, Amelia, don’t talk about yourself that way.”

  “Well, it’s obviously true, or else you wouldn’t be surrounding yourself with four attractive women who are more footloose and fancy free than I.” She pushed away from the counter. “I asked you to let them go.”

  “And I explained I can’t do that.”

  “Then it would seem,” her voice wavered, “this discussion has come to a stalemate, too.”

  * * *

  Frank slept in the house that night.

  Amelia heard him come in some time after two; the boudoir clock’s hands were difficult to pinpoint in the gray shadows. Creaks on the stair treads as Frank climbed them had awoken her. She clutched the bedsheets to her breasts, her mind fluttering in mixed anxiety over which room he’d go to. By no accident, she’d chosen to retire in her aunt’s apartment. Nothing had been resolved between them. The exchange they’d had in the kitchen had ended with him saying he’d return home after closing the Moon Rock Saloon.

  Sounds and flickering candlelight flooded in from the hallway. A door squeaked open. Then silence. She imagined him standing in the doorway to her room, expecting to find her, but confronting an empty bed instead.

  The clock on the cheval dresser by her head ticked off agonizing seconds. Finally, the door shut. Amelia closed her eyes, her fitful breathing echoing in her ears. Motionless, she listened for noises. The bed-springs grated. Boots hitting the floor landed with a thud. Minutes later, a still quiet enveloped the darkness.

  Amelia tried to fall back asleep, but she couldn’t. Once again, she played out their argument in her head looking for an obvious solution, but there was none. The complexity of the situation was like woolly twine, wrapping around them and seemingly ever-tightening. Always when she’d imagined having a husband, she’d wanted to marry for love. And she had. But she wasn’t sure Frank had. Caring for someone deeply and being in love with them were two different things. The imbalance of mutual feelings fueled their dissension, making it impossible for the other to yield. She could see why a saloon owner would want hurdy girls to lure in customers in a city such as Boise, but Weeping Angel was a small town with house and hearth qualities. The scandal of such women entertaining at Frank’s showplace would sweeten the tea of the citizens, and there would be no peace in their marriage until something was resolved. She’d already been a part of the brew, and it was a bitter drink to swallow.

  A burning smell seeped under her door. She grew alarmed until she realized the odor was that of a cigar. Rolling onto her side, she tucked one hand beneath the pillow. Aunt Clara would have had a conniption if she apprehended someone smoking in the house. A part of Amelia wanted to side with her aunt, but she found a soothing comfort in the masculine scent.

  She tried to block out thoughts other than dozing off. She would have gone to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk if Frank wouldn’t hear. Unfortunately, the stairs were so sensitive, they could practically announce a spider’s crawl.

  For over an hour, Amelia tossed in the large bed directing her musings on subjects other than her husband. She had little or no luck. Somewhere around three-thirty, she finally drifted off. But there was no escape in her dreams. They were clouded by Frank’s handsome face, the taste of his mouth, and the depth of his blue eyes.

  * * *

  The next morning, Amelia decided she wasn’t going to let the Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society run her life. Her slumber the night before had been deep and draining, and when she opened her eyes to the light of morning, a sharp headache resulted. She’d fit her arms in the wrapper draped over the end of the bed, then put on her lamb’s-wool slippers. The bedroom door’s lock clicked when she twisted the knob. It had sounded like a shooting gun ricocheting in the hall.

  She’d paused, her gaze fixed on the door across from her. The tarnished brass knob hadn’t budged. Letting out her breath, she’d gone to the water closet and mixed a dose of headache remedy. Contrary to her worry, Frank never woke while she dressed and went downstairs to fix a light breakfast. Afterward, she headed off to Narcissa’s house so they could walk to Beamguard’s Mercantile together.

  “Are you sure you want to confront them so soon?” Narcissa asked as they approached the whitewashed steps to the Beamguard residence, which was attached to the rear of their store. “I wouldn’t mind if just the two of us sat at my house. I don’t want to associate with these women after the way they’ve treated you.”

  Amelia slipped her arm through Narcissa’s. “I can’t hide this time, Narcissa. I have to hold my head high. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  She rang the bell and Dorothea answered, her lips falling from a greeting smile to an O of surprise. “Why, my dear . . .” she gasped, then called over her shoulder. “Ladies, Amelia is here.”

  Amelia could hear their whispers as she and Narcissa were ushered into the foyer, their gloves and hats taken from them. They followed Dorothea, Amelia feeling the pressure in her stomach, but refusing to succumb to it.

  The Beamguard parlor was filled with heavy furniture, lots of table shawls, and on the walls, numerous family portraits.

  “You’re looking well, Narcissa,” Altana commented in a genuine voice. “Hello, Amelia.”

  “Hello.” Amelia eyed the others sitting at the table. Esther Parks, Viola Reed, and Luella Spivey. They stared, their expressions pasted with surprise.

  Dorothea came up behind her and Narcissa. “I’ll get some extra chairs. We weren’t sure if you were coming today.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Amelia asked, keeping her tone calm and level. “It is Thursday.”

  No one made a comment.

  Dorothea brought over two leather-cushioned dining chairs, and Narcissa and Amelia sat at the card table.

  No one made a move.

  Amelia’s breath burned in her chest, but she forbid herself to be intimidated. “Which pairs are playing first?”

  “I’ll sit out this hand,” Narcissa offered, resting her palms over the small swell of her abdomen.

  The remainder of them paired up, Amelia with Dorothea as usual. Cards were dealt, but the tension surrounding the table was thick as frosting on a cake. Gazes seemed to keep slipping toward Amelia’s hand, where her wedding ring shined like a beacon of light. She ignored their stares but was unable to concentrate on her canasta hand. As they played, the table conversation was governed by household hints for a time. Then it moved on to advice about men.

  “An honest man is the noblest,” Dorothea remarked.

  Viola seconded with, “A Christian is the gentlest of men.”

  “I agree,” Amelia added. “Isn’t it nice we all have such husbands?”

  Mouths dropped open and eyes widened.

  “Take Frank, for example,” Amelia went on, her heart pounding. “Why, he was a perfect gentleman while he was courting me. He even brought me cattails, just like he did Narcissa. It was extremely thoughtful of him. And then on our Fourth of July picnic, he picked some daisies for me. Isn’t that a lovely gesture?”

  The air fairly sizzled.

  “My bridal bouquet was daisies also. I wish you could have been there, but things were so rushed. Frank wanted to marry me immediately. He said he couldn’t wait another minute to make me his wife.” She felt tears well in the backs of her eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d know about the impetuousness of love. Sometimes it strikes, and a girl is helpless to do anything but give in to the moment.”

  “Yes,” Dorothea said slowly. “We thought that’s what it was.”

  All but Narcissa and Altana glared at her with censure, and Amelia suddenly realized they were referring to the picnic. There was no way around it, and perhaps it was a good thing it had come up in such a way. “It’s unfortunate your sons misconstrued what they saw between Frank and myself. My corset string broke, and he was kind enough to fix it for me so I wouldn’t be late to the recital. I’m sorry to disappoint your imaginations—since you seem determined to make more of it than there actu
ally was—but I think it needs to be said, you were unfairly critical of me.”

  “Amelia.” Esther sighed. “I’ve never heard you talk like this in all the time I’ve known you.”

  “And it’s about time,” Narcissa declared.

  Amelia’s hands were shaking so, she nearly dropped her cards. It seemed there was no stopping her once she got started. “I’d apologize to your children for the misunderstanding, but you would rather deny me the privilege by putting a stop to my piano lessons.”

  “That’s not all we’re putting a stop to,” Dorothea sniped, just as she laid her cards faceup on the table; going out. “We’re going to see to it that illicit den of flesh and drink is shut down. Frank Brody is nothing short of a felon for bringing in those abominable hussies.”

  Viola and Esther backed Dorothea’s sentiments. Although Altana didn’t speak her opposition, her expression spoke volumes; she didn’t approve of the girls either.

  It was one thing for Amelia to oppose Frank’s business decision, but it was another matter entirely when anybody else took the matter into their own hands. She should have known they would go this far and prepared for their attack. Their temperance mission upset her greatly and made her realize she didn’t want the Moon Rock Saloon boarded up. She didn’t want Frank out of business; she just wanted the girls gone.

  She found herself quickly defending her husband. “You can’t insinuate yourselves in Frank’s affairs.”

  “Of course we can,” Esther clucked. “It’s our obligation as God-fearing women to make sure this town is free of immorality.”

  Amelia tossed her cards and was on the verge of standing. “Why didn’t you think of that before you voted the piano to go to the Moon Rock? All you wanted to gain from that vote was a chance to ogle the inside of Frank’s saloon and see if he could slide beer mugs down the counter.”

  “Well, he never obliged,” Dorothea said dryly.

  Amelia countered, “And I’m glad he didn’t.” She took in a gulp of air, feeling Narcissa’s hand reassuringly pressing on her arm. “You call yourselves Christians, but it’s hypocrites that do the devil’s drudgery, and that’s what you’re doing now that Frank has dancing girls. You want to run him out of business.”

  “You,” Viola broke in, “should want those hussies run out of town more than any of us. Or have you forgotten about Silver Starlight?”

  “No, I haven’t. How could I? Every time we play canasta there’s always a subtle hint, a vague reminder, a Bible brought out to quote scripture that was bought from Jonas Pray. I’ll always remember.”

  “Then unite with us to close the Moon Rock down,” Dorothea suggested.

  “I will not!” she exploded. “I will not turn against my husband, no matter how much I disagree with what he’s doing.”

  “Amelia!” Dorothea burst in disbelief. “You’re not at all yourself.”

  “And I’m glad for it,” she returned, her pulse hammering in her wrists. “You’d all do much better to channel your energies into figuring out a way to get rid of those girls. They’re the problem, not Frank.”

  “What are you proposing we do with them?” Esther asked.

  Amelia stared at the tops of her facedown cards, but they were a blue blur. She tried to collect herself as a rough idea formed in her mind. “Deter them from staying in Weeping Angel by making another town look better.”

  Viola rearranged her hand. “What shall we do, dear, summon them to tea so that we may discuss alternate options? I think not.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that. Surely there are other cities, bigger and more attractive for ladies with their calling. We could have Luella’s husband place an article in the newspaper about the allure of . . .” She thought a moment, the only big—and faraway—city coming to mind was the one Frank and Pap talked about. “San Francisco.”

  “I forbid my Saybrook to print something so tasteless.”

  “It wouldn’t be,” Narcissa spoke up. “I think Amelia’s idea has some merit.”

  “We could always employ them here,” Viola blurted with a snide smile that garnered frowns around the table until Luella went along.

  “Yes, of course. Dr. White could use an assistant to help him with his practice. I believe the one who wears diamonds would be perfect for the job.”

  “Do you suppose they’re real?” Altana asked with soft curiosity.

  “I wouldn’t get close enough to check,” Dorothea said. “But if they are, we all know how she earned them.”

  “You’re forgetting One-Eye Otis, Luella,” Viola tittered. “Oh, but drat, he doesn’t permit anyone in his kitchen who has only two legs.”

  Esther chided with humor, “My dear, are you implying the Chuckwagon harbors roaches?”

  “She most certainly is,” Luella answered.

  Altana called canasta amongst the chortles. Points were added, and before the cards were dealt for a new game, Amelia stood. “Listen to you. The truth is not exciting enough for those who depend on the characters and lives of their neighbors for all their amusement.” Her tone was tart. “The words out of your mouths are smoother than butter but are sharp as swords. I would rather find a more productive way to spend my Thursdays than to sit here.”

  Narcissa rose with Amelia, and the two of them left together. On the walk home, Amelia nearly broke down in tears but fought them off. With the exception perhaps of Altana, the ladies were conniving wretches, and she wanted nothing more to do with them.

  She and Narcissa had parted, and Amelia went home after she assured Narcissa she would be all right. Closing the front door behind her, she situated her hat and gloves on the hall tree. The afternoon heat, and the steady buzz of ladies’ high voices over the past several hours, had run her down faster than a two-dollar watch.

  Amelia headed for the kitchen, desperately needing a cold glass of water for her parched throat. What had come over her? It was as if she’d changed into another person. One who put dignity before bigotry. Had she ever been as biased as her lady friends? She shuddered to believe she could have been so selfish.

  Once she had her refreshment, she sat at the dining table to cool off. Frank had spread his fishing paraphernalia and fly-making accoutrements across the tabletop. There were dozens of feathers in piles correlated to their type: spotted feathers, brown feathers, white feathers, drab feathers.

  Seeing his man things laying around the house felt strange. The bathroom was personalized with his Hood’s tooth powder and toothbrush. He’d set his shampoo paste on the shelf in the tub. Her bureau now supported a glass containing coins, tokens, and an assortment of buttons. The hooks in her wardrobe held his linen collars and cuffs, a few neckties, and a pair of suspenders. She’d found black leather shoe polish in one of her bottom drawers, right next to a baseball, penknife, a box of lemon drops, and oddly, a can of corned beef.

  Leaning forward, Amelia noticed an envelope on the tablecloth that she hadn’t seen earlier. She picked it up and read the address. There was none. Just her name scrawled on the front in handwriting that was almost illegible. She recognized the slanted penmanship as Frank’s. Intrigued, she opened the seal.

  A bank draft fell out. Picking the narrow piece of paper off the table, she read the dollar amount. The size staggered her. Feeling more in the envelope, she produced a three-page document that, upon scanning the contents, she discovered was the deed to her house. Her gaze fell on the receipt once again and the bold signature at the bottom. Richard Hartshorn.

  Amelia bit her lip to keep from gritting her teeth.

  Frank knew! Somehow, he’d found out she’d fallen back on her mortgage payments, so he’d bought the house outright from the bank!

  A mixture of shock, relief, and degradation collided, darting toward her fingertips. Her hand shook, and she dropped the papers.

  Amelia rose from the chair, taking the envelope and its contents with her. On the heels of her patent-leather shoes, she took purposeful strides to the foyer. She haphazardly pinned her du
ck-wing hat over her hair and snatched her gloves.

  In no time flat, she arrived at the Moon Rock thirty minutes prior to the saloon’s opening. Huffing from her jaunt, she shoved the bat-wing doors inward.

  Frank sat at one of the tables writing sums in a ledger. Upon her intrusion, he looked up. His brows raised while a hesitant smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Amelia?”

  She walked to him, put the envelope down in front of him, and waited for him to explain.

  His gaze lowered, then lifted. He didn’t touch the flat paper containing the bank documents. “It’s the deed to your house.”

  “I know what it is. I want to know why you did it.”

  Folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in the chair, he replied, “I paid off the house because Hartshorn said you were delinquent.”

  “How could you have gone behind my back and inquired about my personal accounting with the bank?”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Then how did you know?”

  “I went to tell Hartshorn my residence had changed. While we were talking, he mentioned the late mortgage payment,” Frank said matter-of-factly. “Why did you lie to me about needing the money? I felt like an idiot in front of him when he said you’d slacked off the July payment with a drafty excuse. As your husband, I should have known about your financial problems.”

  “It wasn’t at the top of our long list of problems.”

  “It should have been close.”

  She disregarded his admonishment. “I have a good mind to go over there and give Mr. Hartshorn what for and, while I’m at it, withdraw every last penny I have in that infernal bank. You shouldn’t have to pay for my house.”

  Frank stood, the chair legs snagging the floorboards. “Why the hell not? You said it was our house. You gave me a key to it. I am your husband, and I should know when you’re in trouble.”

  “I could have kept making the payments on my own.”