by Judy Alter
"That," he said triumphantly, "is part of the fun. I'll teach you."
I felt like an over-aged and awkward Pygmalion. "I won't give up my riding," I said in a tone that I hoped was determined but that sounded threatening even to my ears.
"Aha," he crowed, getting up from the table to strut about the kitchen, "that means you're thinking about it. Go ahead, put that ring on."
Any other man, I thought, would have put it on my finger himself. "Give me twenty-four hours," I said.
"Twenty-four hours it is." He had the air of a king granting leniency to a subject.
There was a time I would never have thought of marrying Walt Denison. I was the star in a Wild West show, my future glowing with promise. But now I saw things less brightly. Buffalo Bill was dead, the 101 show was disbanded, Wild West shows were a thing of the past, and life in Guthrie yawned before me like an endless eternity. Here was a chance to keep on riding and roping in the show ring. But there was, of course, more to it than that.
I would like to think that my decision to marry Walt was made with a certain amount of passion. Certainly, it was not a decision made with what I considered my usual practicality, nor was there anything adventuresome about it. The truth, which I avoided facing, is that marrying Walt Denison was a decision of default—I had no better choices, or so I thought at the time. Maybe Walt knew that all along and didn't care. Not that I wasn't attracted to him. There was that strange mixture of fascination, puzzlement, and a trace of fear.
In any other circumstance, I would have run to Louise for advice or at least talk. If I followed my usual pattern, I would have told Walt I needed a week, not twenty-four hours, and I would have flown like a homing pigeon to the boardinghouse in Guthrie. But Louise would have told me what I already knew intellectually: Something was wrong, and I shouldn't marry him. I didn't want to hear that—and I didn't want Louise to point out my own folly to me.
Sometimes instinct—or emotion or whatever—overrides what you know in your head, and you don't want to listen to the truth. It's easier to follow your heart than listen as your head warns you against something you want to do. Why did I marry Walt Denison? For all the wrong reasons.
It took over six months for my divorce from Buck to go through. I had done nothing about it—Walt was the one who dragged me to a lawyer and shepherded—hounded—me through the legalities. I divided my time between Guthrie and Fort Worth during that six months.
In Guthrie, Louise and I played a game of pretense—neither of us talked about the wedding. The night I finally told her that I was marrying Walt, she made the only pronouncement she would ever make on that subject: "Cherokee, I never thought you were a fool. But you're still running from Sandy Burns and Bo and Guthrie, and most of all from yourself. You aren't going to find the answer with Walt Denison."
I opened my mouth to let forth an indignant denial, but the words died in my throat. Instead, I grabbed a broom and began the most vigorous sweeping the parlor rug had seen in some time.
After that, we never mentioned it again. Louise, who should by all rights have helped choose my wedding dress and trousseau and planned whatever celebration there would be, never even asked about the plans. When the time came, she would not attend—by mutual but unspoken agreement.
Papa, on the other hand, talked incessantly about the wedding—except, of course, in Louise's presence, where even he had the wits to be silent. But to me, he was effervescent. "My little girl, marrying into the Denison family. You got yourself a fine man there, Tommy Jo, a fine man." Forgotten was what he well knew—that I wasn't his "little girl" and hadn't been for some time—and also forgotten was the time he nearly had to fight Walt Denison, Sr., because he had taken me on a hunt. In some strange way, I think it elevated Papa that his daughter was marrying the son of Walt Denison, whose lands were nearly as large as the legendary Waggoner DDD Ranch. Papa, because of the marriage, rose—in his own mind only, of course—from the status of foreman to an equal among cattle barons.
But I couldn't suggest that to Louise, either. One truth I knew: I wasn't marrying Walt Denison for Papa's sake. Was I maybe marrying him for his own sake? Was there something in me that wanted to make him an ordinary man, erase the puzzlement and fear?
When I was in Fort Worth, Walt continued to court me in a rather formal manner—and I continued to sleep, alone, in that comfortable and very feminine bedroom. It worried me that he was not a passionate lover, and I began to convince myself that once we were married, I would show him the pleasures of love. I would waken or free whatever it was that was hiding in him and holding him back. We most fool ourselves, I think, when we begin to see ourselves as saviors.
Finally, we were married in the chapel of the First Methodist Church in Fort Worth. Both our fathers were in attendance, but a church secretary was pressed into service as my attendant. I could have called Pearl, but somehow that seemed inappropriate, after my lectures every time she talked about going home to marry Donnie whatever-his-name-was.
"What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder," the minister intoned, and my stomach turned over. Then he said, "You may kiss your bride, Mr. Denison," and Walt lifted the short veil away from my face and gave me a perfunctory quick kiss. Then, hand in hand, we walked out of the chapel, followed by our fathers, who were busy congratulating themselves on a perfect union. I looked once or twice at Walt, but his attention was focused on getting the chauffeur to bring up the car—a new Ford—so that we could have a celebration dinner at his club, our fathers included, of course.
We left that same afternoon for a honeymoon in New York, traveling there by train. Walt had rented a bedroom compartment, of course, and after an extravagant supper in the dining car, Walt escorted me back to the compartment.
"You take your time changing, my dear. I'll just be in the club car."
Nervously I changed into a gown and peignoir set I'd bought—shopping for your trousseau alone, I had discovered, was no fun. I put on fresh cologne, scrubbed my face until it shone, and brushed my hair, remembering uneasily how Buck had liked to watch me and sometimes took the brush in hand himself. Still no Walt.
For a while I stared out the window, watching dark trees and occasional lights flash by, listening as the train bellowed its way through crossings. When I'd see a house, out there in the emptiness of northeastern Texas with its windows lighted, I'd imagine a family comfortably settled for the night, all together, and then I would wonder what I was doing on a train hurtling toward New York—me, who had vowed never to ride a train again. Finally I crawled into bed, never intending, of course, to sleep.
It was dawn when I woke, startled into consciousness by Walt dropping his shoes on the floor. He sat on the edge of my bunk, and when I stirred, he reached out a gentle hand to reassure me.
"It's just me, Cherokee. Sorry I was so long, but I won two thousand dollars in the parlor car." He smelled of stale liquor.
"Won?" I asked groggily.
"Five-card draw," he said, as though sure I'd understand. "You just go on back to sleep, and I'll crawl into the upper berth."
I was awake enough now to be alarmed. My bridegroom had spent his wedding night playing poker, and now he was crawling into the upper berth. Uncertainly I told myself that the berths were narrow and uncomfortable, and our marriage would be consummated in a luxurious suite in a New York hotel.
* * *
I was right, sort of. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria in a suite with a living room and a bathroom, and we celebrated our first evening with a dinner of pheasant and roasted vegetables, some of which I was sure I'd never seen before. Champagne flowed, and Walt was an attentive bridegroom, more so than he'd ever been before.
"I am so lucky," he said, "to have convinced you to marry me. I'll make you glad, my darling, I really will." With that he stood just enough to lean over and kiss the top of my head.
"I'm glad already," I said, though I knew my voice lacked conviction.
In truth, I began on the train
to question what I suddenly saw as a six-month impulse. My head, too late, had won over my heart. Still, the fat was in the fire, as Louise would have said, and I was obliged to carry on.
"I... I worry about being able to fit into your world." I had never, in previous trips to New York, been to the Waldorf Astoria, but I didn't think I needed to describe for him the boardinghouse where Buck and I had stayed, nor the tents where I had slept in other cities too many times.
By the time the waiter took the dinner table away, I was light-headed from the champagne and willingly agreed when Walt suggested I change into something "more comfortable." The next thing I knew, as I returned to the parlor, he swept me into his arms and carried me into the bedroom. At first, I snuggled into his embrace, thinking at last that passion had overcome him.
It had—but not in the way I anticipated. He was a rough lover, quick and determined and oblivious of my pleasure... or pain. His clothes came off in an instant, and mine as quickly—with a rip to my new peignoir. Then it was strong demanding kisses, harsh hands on my breasts, and a sudden thrusting for which I was unprepared. I tried valiantly to match his intensity, but somehow he had gotten off to a better start than I had. Almost too soon, panting with completion, he rolled off me and said, "Thank you, Cherokee. Thank you."
We both lay still for several minutes, I in frustration and he, I supposed, in satisfaction. Then his back to me, he slipped back into his clothes before turning to kiss me. "You just get some rest. I'll be back soon."
Once again, it was dawn before he returned, and this time I feigned sleep I didn't want to hear how much he'd won. But I knew I was now seeing a side of Walt Denison I hadn't seen before but that, instinctively, I'd known existed—and had ignored. That flash of humanity the night the girls were dumped in the dirt was just that—an unusual flash, not characteristic of the man. Drinking and gambling ran his life, and that was why I felt that tingle of fear when I was with him. The tingle had turned to a warning alarm, and it no longer heightened the attraction—it only deepened the despair. And I knew I wasn't going to bring anything new to this man's life. Cherokee, the reformer, was a dead idea—and a poor joke.
During the day, when he was sober, not gambling, and not rutting, Walt Denison was a wonderful escort—charming, attentive, knowledgeable about a side of New York I'd never seen, and best of all, proud of me.
"This is my wife, the famous Cherokee Rose," he would tell people at cocktail parties, in restaurants, even once to strangers in the lobby of the hotel, to my everlasting embarrassment. "You'll remember, she rode with the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show. Starred in it."
Most of the people he introduced me to in New York City were friends of his, through what connection I never could discover. But they were high-society folk who neither knew nor cared about Buffalo Bill's show. Their eyes would glaze over while they smiled and said, "How nice," or, "So glad to meet you," or worse yet, "You are the lucky one, Denison."
Walt took the vague praise as his due. He had taken me to elegant dress stores and sat for hours on the chaise provided for men while I tried on one gown after another. "I like that one," he said, "but get rid of the green one. Blue, Cherokee, that's your color. A smoky, sexy blue."
I blushed to think he found anything about me sexy, for our private life had not improved one bit.
* * *
The first night he asked me to go with him when he gambled, I was flattered.
"You'll bring me luck, Cherokee," he said, and I believed it, still willing to do what I could for this strange creature who had become my man. "Wear that smoky blue dress."
It was a tight clinging chemise that hung straight, as though I were a boy with no curves, and ended in a drapery-like fringe below my knees. A headband with matching feather was meant for my hair—though I thought it looked ridiculous—and my outfit was completed by white gloves and patent leather pumps that hurt my feet.
I knew little of poker or blackjack and could not follow the action of the game, but I stood loyally behind Walt until he cautioned me that the other players might think I was looking at their hands and somehow signaling him. Then, with a paternal pat on the rear from him, I retreated to a seat on the edge of the room.
Walt's concentration was intense, but periodically he would call to me to come and hold his hand. I'd bend over, my ear near his mouth, and he'd whisper, "What should I do?" When I shrugged—I obviously knew nothing about the game—he would chortle with laughter and say, "You're right, Cherokee, you're absolutely right." Afterward I would never be sure if he'd won or lost the hand, but I was increasingly sure that he was drinking a lot of bourbon, straight.
He won that night, won what must have been an enormous amount of money. It was nearly morning as we rode in a taxi back to the hotel, and Walt could not stop chortling about me as his "good luck piece." Once in our room, he took me with a swiftness that took my breath away—and left me feeling bruised and empty. The act of mating had become another of his triumphs.
Days—and then weeks—went by with much the same pattern. We slept until early afternoon, though I was often a fidgety, restless sleeper, simply because I had no activity in my life. Then we ate brunch at a fashionable restaurant or occasionally in our room, spent the afternoon shopping or visiting with Walt's friends, had dinner in our room, and then he left for whatever game was going that night. I either went with him or stayed in the room, though increasingly I preferred the latter. Walt would return in the small hours of the morning, usually drunk, often demanding. And then the next day would begin again....
I began to face what I'd done. I'd married an alcoholic gambler, a spoiled boy of a man who wanted to show me off like a charm on his own personal bracelet of life. If I'd thought that marriage to him meant more opportunities to ride in the show ring—and honesty forced me to admit that that had crossed my mind—I was totally wrong. Walt Denison didn't care if I ever rode again—and worse, he didn't care if it mattered to me. And if I'd married him to bring some sort of normal relationship to his life, that didn't matter to him, either. He was perfectly content in his present state.
The society side of his life—and the gambling—were going to dominate our marriage. We would eventually go back to Fort Worth, but life would change little from what I was seeing in New York City. I would maybe ride once a year for a week, when the stock show was in town, but that was it. We were in the gambling business, not the rodeo business, and I was an ornament, an attraction, not a star. Which kind of eternity was longer—Guthrie, or Fort Worth with Walt?
Unbidden, Louise crept into my thoughts. No, I told her angrily, the conversation all in my mind, I haven't been thrown! In truth, though, I was being dragged, like a rider whose hand is caught in the bucking strap—a much more agonizing thing than a good clean throw that landed you in the dirt, gave you some bruises to get over, and let you get on with your life. This time I knew that there were no hazers to rescue me. If I was going to get away from this, I'd have to do it on my own.
In the dark hours of the night, while Walt gambled and I lay sleepless in an expensive hotel suite, I made up my mind to leave him, to admit that I had let myself fall prey to a six-month impulse, to publicly say that I'd made a mistake—a bad mistake. As far as I could tell, it would be a cheap price to pay for saving my self-respect. I thought I would leave when we finally went back to Texas.
* * *
"Walt? Walt, aren't you ready to wake up?" It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and I'd slept only fitfully in the ten hours we'd been back in our hotel room. Walt had slept like the dead, the leaden sleep of the drunk.
"Huh? Cher'kee? Why're you waking me?" He ran a hand groggily over his eyes.
I went to the window and opened the curtains, letting the sunlight of a winter day stream into the room.
"Oh, don't!" He truly sounded like a man in pain as he turned to hide his eyes in the pillow.
"Walt," I said, "when are we going back to Texas?"
He sat up in the disheveled bedclot
hes. "Texas? Why're you in a hurry to go back there? I'm winning in New York—you're helping me. You're my good luck charm." He looked sincerely puzzled that I did not understand all this.
"I want to go to Texas," I said. Left unsaid was the fact that Texas was closer to Oklahoma. Once there, I could get myself home. Walt gave me little money of my own, and I saw no way to go from New York to Guthrie, short of wiring Louise for money, which pride kept me from doing.
He was coming awake now. "Now, Cherokee, we'll go back to Texas pretty soon. I've just got to ride out this winning streak."
Our lives, I thought, were conditioned by the images of a ride—sometimes a good ride, sometimes a bad one, but always a horse in the center of things.
"I don't want to wait until you lose," I said, though in truth I cared little if he won or lost.
He honestly looked alarmed. "Don't say that," he said. "You're my good luck charm. You can't talk about losing."
I turned my back on him and lifted the phone to order room service.
By the time the dinner arrived, Walt was shaved, dressed, and back to his sophisticated self, jollying me into happiness—or so he thought.
"Come on, Cherokee, try some pate. You'll like it, I know." He held out a toast point slathered with a gray substance.
When we first met, I would have laughed and tried the awful-looking stuff, but now I just shook my head and ate the plain well-done steak that I had ordered.
"Cherokee," he pouted, "you're mad at me."
"No," I said, "I'm not angry. But I want to eat what I ordered for myself. And I want to be myself, not somebody's good luck charm."
With his usual bravado, Walt managed to overlook my declaration totally.
That night he lost heavily at the tables, even though I was in the room, holding his hand when he commanded, listening when he whispered, even cheering when he won. I still have no idea of his losses, but I estimate them in the tens of thousands.
He was silent in the taxi back to the hotel, and I would not have spoken for the world. Once in our room, he forced himself on me with a brutality that truly frightened me.
