by Len Levinson
She knew the story of Job, and understood that ordinary people could never understand the mind of God. I'll be alone soon, she thought desperately. No one could ever appreciate me like my mother, who'd lived simply and righteously like a saint all her life.
“Oh, mother,” whispered Doña Consuelo, “what will I do without you?”
The figure on the bed stirred. “Is that you, Consuelo?”
“How are you, mother?”
“Every day I grow weaker.” It seemed an effort for the shriveled woman to speak.
“You'll be well in a few more months—I'm sure the doctors will help you. You must have faith, for Christ said that faith will move mountains.”
“I'm too weak to have faith, daughter, but you must understand, after I'm gone, that if you want to be with me, just drop to your knees and pray. The way of the righteous leads to heaven, while the path of the evildoer leads to the flames of hell.”
Doña Consuelo imagined a wall of flames arising from the wall, consuming all in its path. The young Catholic wife believed, deep in her heart, that hell was exactly like that, with sinners writhing and shrieking eternally over open fires.
The room was silent, except for her mother's shallow respirations. Doña Consuelo placed her warm hand on her mother's cool arm. Her heart filled with sorrow when she contemplated the suffering of the poor woman. It's better to die than linger this way, she considered. But she wanted to keep her mother as long as she could.
“How is your marriage going, my dear?” her mother asked in a whisper.
“I am very happy, mother.”
“Are you . . . ?”
“Not yet, mother. Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me.”
“Be patient, and don't forget: your husband is not a young man, either.”
“But he's very young, mother. Vaqueros in their twenties can barely keep up with him.”
Her mother smiled wisely, while Doña Consuelo wondered what the sick woman was trying to communicate. “He should be here soon,” Doña Consuelo said. “He's most worried about you.”
“I'm not worth everybody's trouble, and we all live at God's pleasure anyway.”
Her faith is strong, Doña Consuelo realized. I hope, when my time comes, that I can be as strong as she. Doña Migdalia's eyes closed, as the exertion of speech exhausted her. Doña Consuelo stared at the outline of a skull lying on the pillow. From dust we come, and to dust we shall return, the daughter thought morosely. All our hopes and aspirations end in the grave, and there isn't anything we can do about it.
Doña Consuelo had never thought much about graves prior to the illness of her mother, but now Sister Death was haunting her home, about to take her mother away, and even she herself, Doña Consuelo of the barren womb, even she would end up in a dark dank hole in the ground, chewed upon by rats, nibbled by insects, and rotting like any other lump of dead meat.
Doña Consuelo nearly gagged at the mere contemplation of her own decaying bones. Yet it was no idle dream, but a true vision of her future. My days are numbered, and perhaps I can make better use of them. I should spend more time with the poor, and do charity work for the church, but nothing will ever take the place of my dear mother, who taught me all I know of life.
Tears streamed down Doña Consuelo's cheeks as she withdrew from the room. She sat on a chair in the outside corridor and wept into her handkerchief, overwhelmed by the tragedy of life. Why do people have to die? she asked. What kind of strange horrid world do we live in, where our greatest achievements are made meaningless and even laughable by the plain ugly fact of death? Why do we have to live in the first place? What does it all mean?
Young Doña Consuelo was suffering her first crisis of faith, and it felt as if the world were disintegrating. She saw clearly the underlying truth that no one wanted to countenance: all living creatures were marching toward the grave, and when Sister Death struck, it was often quite painful, lingering, and dreadful for all concerned. Whether you live in the hacienda or the poorest shack in the village, we all end up in the same hole in the ground, and our lives are mere gusts of wind on the desert of time, deliberated Doña Consuelo.
She arose from the chair and wandered toward her room. One day this place will be dust too, and a new civilization will come on the heels of ours. All we can do is trust in God and follow His commandments. She noticed movement at the end of the corridor. Someone was wandering about, wearing black Mexican pants and a ruffled white shirt. “Who's there?”
“It's me,” said Duane Braddock, “and I was looking for the library.”
Doña Consuelo stared at him in the darkness, because she barely recognized him, clean-shaven in new clothes. He had a smooth, well-formed jawline, high cheekbones, and appeared extremely handsome. “It's at the back of the house. I'd be happy to show you where it is. You look so different without your beard.”
“It's a chore to shave while you're living outdoors.”
He reminded her of a painting of Jesus Christ by Jose de Ribera, the great baroque Spanish artist. Duane's Mexican suit appeared tailormade for his body; the pants were flared at the bottom, while his shirt had wide flowing sleeves. She noticed that he was carrying his pistol, as if he expected the U.S. Army to show up at any moment. There was something gentle and child-like about him, and he had soft eyes like a woman. My God, I wouldn't be surprised if he was the best-looking man I've ever seen in my life!
The thought delighted her, as she glanced at him side-ways. Meanwhile, he stole a glimpse of her. Their eyes met for a brief shining instant, then both turned away.
“What were you doing in the corridor?” he asked.
“I've just left my mother's bedroom. She doesn't have much more time, and to tell you the truth, I don't know how I'll get along without her. Is your mother still alive?”
“No, she died about seventeen years ago.”
“Do you miss her?”
“I hardly ever knew her, or my father either.”
She wrinkled her pretty brow, as she came abreast of a door. “What a strange person you must be. Coincidently, this is the entrance to our chapel. Would you mind if I stopped a moment and said a prayer for my mother?”
“I'll pray with you,” replied Duane. “Lord knows, I've got a few things I worry about, too.”
They entered the worship space, which was more capacious than churches in many small towns. It had stained glass windows, with a nave, transept and apse, and candles burning before statues of saints. They knelt in a pew, and Duane crossed himself reverently, clasped his hands together, and glanced at Doña Consuelo out the corner of his eye.
She was perched on her knees beside him, her hips and shoulders nearly touching his, her head bent forward, eyes closed in prayer. This is a fine, religious woman, he concluded, as he imagined her voluptuous nakedness, skin smooth as satin, and pink rosebuds on her breasts. Then he turned away, plagued by guilt and shame. The mere thought of her naked legs caused him to swoon, and he couldn't suppress a soft moan of desire.
“Are you all right?” she asked as she turned toward him abruptly. “Perhaps you'd better sit down.”
“Yes, it's my leg again,” he lied, as he slid onto the pew.
Still on her knees, she turned toward him. “We can rest awhile, but not too long. Dinner will be served shortly, and I'm starving to death.” Then she bowed her head and returned to prayer.
She's at ease before the Lord, he realized, and that means she prays all the time. This is a woman who would never in her life entertain a foul thought, so why do I want to dive on top of her, wrestle her flat on the floor, and lie between her legs, grunting like a hog? There must be something wicked in my mind, to make me think this way. Oh Lord, please help me treat this woman with the utmost respect. I'm no angel, but even I draw the line somewhere.
This is the kind of woman whom I should marry when it's time to settle down, he lectured himself. I don't need more saloon singers, liars, or daddy's little girls. I just want someone with a sin
cere heart, who'll go that extra distance for me, instead of leaving when the going gets rough. This woman believes in deep things, not the wisdom of the moment. I'm probably falling in love with her, but what man in his right mind wouldn't?
He wanted to kneel in the pew with her, and touch his leg against hers. He could imagine no higher pleasure than unbuttoning the back of her dress. The skin on her throat appeared delicate, and he suspected it would burst and bleed profusely at the mere touch of a passionate tongue. He wanted to twist her into lascivious positions, and have his way with her like the old whoremaster he considered himself at the age of eighteen.
He caught his breath, appalled by such prurient thoughts. A lifetime of Catholic education has done nothing for me, but you don't go destroying other people's lives to satisfy your own animal lust. I may be a moral weakling and a physical coward, but I definitely have the strength to restrain myself in the presence of this woman, right?
Vanessa Fontaine sat before the mirror and carefully applied cosmetics to her face. She needed the audience to see her classically beautiful Anglo-Saxon features, because it was part of the illusion she sought to create, the better to capture the imagination of drunkards and fools.
Miss Vanessa Fontaine took her performing seriously, for she'd studied music as a child, and had viewed many great luminaries of the entertainment world at the theatres and music halls of Charleston. She'd even witnessed a performance by Jenny Lind during the celebrated Swedish Nightingale's 1851 American tour. That was the magic she was reaching for, as she applied rouge to her stark cheekbones. She loved applause and adulation, because it made her feel she couldn't be all bad.
There was a knock on the door, and Maggie O'Day appeared. “The saloon is packed to the rafters,” she said happily. “Never seen nawthin’ like it in all my days. The men're gittin’ impatient, and I'm surprised nobody's shot a hole through the ceiling yet. You ‘bout ready to go on?”
“You may introduce me,” Vanessa said. “I'll be right out.”
“Introduce you?” asked Maggie. “But . . . what should I say?”
“Whatever comes to mind. I'm sure you'll think of something, and now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone.”
Too big fer her britches, Maggie thought, as she marched forthrightly through the network of corridors. But I guess she's worth it. Maggie could hear the grumbling and growling of men waiting for the opening night performance of Miss Vanessa Fontaine. She arrived in the main room of the saloon, and a sea of sombreros and cowboy hats spread before her, while a bullwhacker had shinnied halfway up a pole that held the roof. The Last Chance drew a substantial crowd on Saturday nights, but nothing like the horde before her. She'd followed Vanessa's instructions, and her employees had nailed posters all over the county. A surprisingly large number of men had heard of the Charleston Nightingale.
“Whar the hell is she?” asked a drunken cowboy standing nearby, a mug of beer in his hand.
“Be patient, gentlemen,” replied Maggie. “She's on her way.”
Maggie sauntered toward the stage, and if a drunkard wouldn't get out of her way, she unceremoniously pushed him to the side. She'd learned long ago that the only way to deal with outlaws was take no guff at all. The crowd shouted approval as she stepped onto the stage, and she blinked in the bright light of oil foot-lamps.
There was only one way to capture their attention, so she lifted the side of her skirt, yanked out her derringer, and held it up so all could see its ugly snubbed nose. The saloon became miraculously silent, for nothing sobers men quite like the sight of a woman with a gun in her hand.
Maggie smiled. “Howdy,” she said in her whiskey-and tobacco-coarsened voice. “You damned sure ain't here to see me, but I want you to remember one thing. Our featured performer has travelled a long distance to entertain you fellers tonight, and I expect you to treat her like the lady that she is. So let's give a big Texas welcome to the woman you've all been waiting for, the world famous Charleston Nightingale, the one, the only—Miss Vanessa Fontaine!”
Applause rocked the saloon as a tall slim figure in an ankle-length mauve silk gown, trimmed with Malines lace and diamond puffs, appeared in the doorway. It was Miss Vanessa Fontaine herself, the Charleston Nightingale, on her way to the stage. She hoped that a certain green-eyed young man might be in the audience, having ridden countless miles to see her perform.
A path opened before her as she promenaded onward. Men pounded their hands, whistled, yelled, and jumped for joy. It was as though they were paying homage to a great goddess of their people, which in a sense Miss Vanessa Fontaine truly was. The bullwhacker who'd shinnied up the pole was grinning like a baboon.
Vanessa carried herself to center stage, unerringly found the best light, and took her first bow. Hats were thrown into the air, men hooted, and somebody fired his gun, installing the expected bullet hole through the ceiling. The report made Vanessa jump two inches in the air, and for a moment she'd thought that someone had assassinated her, but then she noticed the worshipful expressions in their eyes, and all she could do was bow again to the thunderous acclamation rolling across the dimly lit saloon.
She realized that they were slipping away from her and becoming lost in an orgy of uncontrolled foolishness, so she raised her hand, smiled expectantly, and prepared to speak. Without a weapon in her hand, her simple gesture plunged the saloon into rare silence, except for the dripping of a bucket behind the bar.
“Gentlemen,” she began, “I want to thank you for your gracious welcome, and I really don't believe you're a bunch of cattle rustlers, bank robbers, and hired killers, as some folks say. In any event, here we are together again, and I'd like to sing, with your permission, a few of the good old songs that we love so well. Although I'm standing up here in the lights, and you're down there in the audience, we've all lived together a in a place you can't find on any maps, but that we'll always carry in our hearts. It was called Dixie, and I'd like you to sing along with me, if you'd be so kind.”
There was no orchestra, conductor, or instruments. It was just Miss Vanessa Fontaine, one palm of her hand resting in the other, standing before them and opening her mouth to sing:
“I wish I was in the land of cotton
Good times there are not forgotten
Look away, look away, look away
Dixie land.
In Dixie land where I was born
in a shack on a frosty morning
look away, look away, look away
Dixie land . . . “
In truth, Miss Vanessa Fontaine had been born in the manor house, not a shack on a frosty morning, but many men in the audience had first seen the light of day in broken-down shacks, or sod houses, while others had been raised with silver spoons in their mouths. Her strong coloratura voice brought them back to those halcyon days, as she raised her arms dramatically, threw back her head, and belted out the chorus with all the musical gifts that God had given her:
“Then I wish I was in Dixie
Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie land I'll make my stand
to live or die for Dixie!
Away, away,
Away down South in Dixie
Away, way,
away down South in Dixie!”
The saloon exploded with approval, every voice singing loudly, for Dixie was no mere geographical location to Miss Vanessa Fontaine and the members of her audience. No, it was their spiritual landscape forged in flames, and they'd never forget languid summer afternoons, magnolia blossoms, mint juleps, and chivalry that the world had not seen for hundreds of years previously, and likely would never see again.
Miss Vanessa Fontaine bowed low, as if to acknowledge that men, not women, had charged batteries of cannon, been torn apart by rifle fire, and experienced the singular sensation of a cold, dirty bayonet in the guts.
Meanwhile, Maggie O'Day stood beside the bar, worrying that the volume of applause would blow out the very walls of her saloon. She'd employed the random fiddler or guit
ar plucker over the years, but never before had a performer like Miss Vanessa Fontaine stirred up such a tumult at the Last Chance Saloon. Coins showered upon the stage, and a gold twenty-dollar double eagle bounced off the Charleston Nightingale's nose as she arose and stood before them with her arms outstretched.
She's got that special something, no doubt about it, thought Maggie O'Day. So this is the woman who captured young Duane Braddock's heart, threw it way, and now wishes she could get it back. Maggie wanted to hate Vanessa, but enjoyed a good show like the rest of her customers, who were drinking heavily and working themselves to fever pitch. She sells whisky, and that's all I care about, thought Maggie.
Meanwhile, at center stage, surrounded by a sea of gold and silver coins, Miss Vanessa Fontaine was preparing her next selection of the evening. Again she opened her mouth, and her voice filled the saloon:
“When the boys come home in triumph, brother
With the laurels they shall gain;
When we go to give them welcome, brother,
We shall look for you in vain.
We shall wait for your returning, brother
But you were set forever free;
For your comrades left you sleeping, brother,
Underneath a Southern tree.”
Tears flowed copiously down the cheeks of gnarled old soldiers, as they recalled comrades they'd buried beneath southern trees. Vanessa's eyes weren't dry either, for her first love had fallen at Gettysburg, in the most immense cavalry engagement of the war. And her parents had died too, for the family plantation had lain unwittingly in the path of Sherman's cruel march to the sea. The song brought back beautiful and painful memories, as Vanessa and her audience became brothers and sisters of the great Lost Cause:
“You were the first on duty, brother
When ‘to arms’ your leader cried,—
