by Megan Chance
“I don’t know,” I would say, and then I would wrap my hand around him and he would groan and forget that he’d asked, and then one day I asked him why he never used the stage, as he’d gone to so much trouble to build it. It had seemed to mock me with its emptiness; I hated the ghosts that paraded across it, and I knew the only way to make them disappear was to bring it alive again, though not in the way Johnny intended. He’d told me what he meant for this place to be, that he’d been partners with a man who ran a theater in San Francisco before he’d come up here, and that he was working to turn the place into a real theater. The Palace was close enough to respectable businesses that it wasn’t so absurd to think it might one day be respectable itself. But it was the last thing I wanted. The danger of such a thing was unthinkable, to bring those here who might recognize me…. In spite of the time that had passed, I still didn’t feel safe. I never went out onto the floor without searching the crowd to see if someone watched me too closely, without wondering: Will it be tonight that they find me? And so I’d forestalled him. It took all my skill to satisfy his ambitions with half measures, but finally I told him of the concert houses I’d seen, of girls who took turns singing and dancing upon the stage and then worked the boxes after, and he had gone thoughtful and asked if I believed such a place could work here.
That had been two years ago. He’d said he would make me a partner if I would teach the girls to move the way I did and run them, and though I knew it was really because he was in love with me, I took advantage of it anyway. Scrubbing floors and cleaning spilled whiskey and tobacco-stained spit and the occasional blood left my thoughts too free, and I wanted not to think. I wanted to forget. So I’d mired myself in the business of the boxhouse, and mostly I liked it well enough. I was good at it. If nothing else, it kept me surrounded by people. I’d never been very good at being alone.
Now Jenny was onstage, dancing with her hoop, while in the loge above, the orchestra—Paul on the violin and Ed with a bass and Billy too drunk as usual to do anything but massacre the piano—fumbled their way through “Camptown Races.” After Jenny would come Annie and Lil, who posed as two boys in top hats and trousers, with their hair cut short, and sang “Smick, Smack, Smuck” rather badly, though no one in the audience seemed to care about that. The two were a house favorite, and they were constantly leading men to the boxes, no doubt due in part to the novelty of disrobing a woman clothed as a man. Then there would be Pauline, who would gasp her way sickly and melodramatically through “Willie Has Gone to War.”
Tonight, it all made me irritable. Jenny especially. When she came off the stage to hooting and applause, swinging her hips suggestively as she went down the stairs, I was even more annoyed—the girls were supposed to be selling drinks first and foremost because it was where we made the most money. The boxes were a sidelight; our percentages were much lower when the girls were off the floor. Worse than that, it was the second time tonight she’d taken that same man to the box, and I’d seen him here nearly every night the last two weeks. It didn’t hurt for a girl to have her favorites, of course, but the problem with Jenny was that the money she turned in wasn’t reconciling with how often she was with him, which meant she was giving away a service for free, and that was something that couldn’t be tolerated.
I heard the opening of the office door behind me, and then I felt Johnny at my back, sliding his hand over my hip as he leaned over me for a glass. “Frowning, Margie? What for?”
“Jenny’s not selling drinks. And I think she’s sweet on one of her customers.”
Johnny grabbed the glass and stepped away. “You want me to take care of it?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I’ll talk to her first.”
He poured a shot of whiskey for both of us, then looked over the floor—the tables were full. Jim Ryan and Lee Blotsky, the professional gamblers who paid us a cut to run their own tables, were no doubt doing well.
Johnny swigged the whiskey. “What else?”
“Billy had Annie cornered again.”
“He drunk?”
“When isn’t he?”
“About time to find ourselves another piano player, I think.”
“It was hard enough to find him.”
Johnny’s gaze never left the tables. “Surely there’s someone in this godforsaken town who took piano lessons at his mother’s knee. I’ll have Duncan ask around.” He set his glass on the bar with a little thud. “Joy’s ready to leave the mop behind, by the way. She wants to take to the stage, assuming she’s got any talent, which I doubt, since none of them do.”
“It’s hard to be a scrubwoman in this place,” I said.
“You would know.” He glanced at me. “You doin’ all right tonight, honey?”
I felt the wariness behind his question. I met his eyes and managed a smile. “Just fine. Perhaps you could walk me home later?”
He hesitated, and that hesitation said that he’d already noted my mood tonight and knew what it meant. I shared his bed rarely now, only whenever the other girls had gone home and we were both drunk, or those times, like tonight, when I felt the heavy press of memories and I would do nearly anything to keep them at bay. Some days I just couldn’t make myself ignore the ugliness around me. Some days nothing felt it would ever be right again. Today was one of them.
Johnny motioned to my shot of whiskey, still untouched on the bar, and said, “We’ll see. Drink up. I’ll make the rounds.”
I sighed and watched as he went around the bar and out onto the floor, where he would smile and greet the customers and restore whatever order was faltering—the Palace always felt dangerous, as if violence bubbled beneath the surface, waiting to erupt, and only Johnny’s presence kept it from doing so. I’d been right to align myself with him three years ago—Johnny protected what was his, and that extended to me.
I took the shot he’d left me and sipped it slowly. Not the rotgut whiskey we sold to the customers, nor the watered-down stuff the girls drank, but the best Johnny could get. It was smooth and sweet. I watched him stop at Jim Ryan’s table and laugh at something one of the men there said, throwing back his head so the gaslight caught in his dark blond hair, and then I saw Sally—one of the newest girls, and Johnny’s latest fancy—glance up at him from the next table over and smile, and how he smiled back before he glanced over his shoulder at me. Checking to see if I noticed, if I cared, just as he always did, though he’d never admit it.
I turned away and drank the rest of the whiskey in a gulp, waiting for Jenny to emerge from the box. I caught Lee Blotsky’s eye, and he motioned me over with a subtle flick of his fingers. I pasted on a smile and went, greeting those I passed with a “Hello, boys” or a “It’s good to see you again, mister” to make certain they felt welcome. It was what Johnny called casting my net. He said it was why the Palace outdid the other houses in the Lava Beds. Not just because the girls were prettier, or because we had a better eye for talent, though both of those things were true. But because, despite the ugly scar that marred my looks, there wasn’t a lumberman or miner I’d smiled at who didn’t think eventually he could talk me into going with him into one of those boxes. “It’s the promise that matters,” Johnny had told me. “The world spins on hope, honey. Just keep ‘em hoping.”
I was hardly at Lee’s table before I felt the tension among the men, their wary stiffness as they looked down at their cards, and I knew why he’d called me over.
I pressed myself to his back, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, smiling as I tickled his ear with my fingers. “Mind if I join you boys?”
Lee turned his face to mine. I was so close his mustache, nearly as white as his hair, brushed my cheek. “I’d be pleased if you would, Miss Margie. I could use a good luck charm, given that I’ve been doing poorly all night.”
“What about the rest of you?” I purred. “How about a drink on the house to smooth my way?”
The others looked up; I felt the tension at the table ease. They put down their cards, an
d one of them gathered up the winnings as I motioned to Sally to bring drinks for the table. I loosed myself from Lee and pulled up a chair—close enough to him to imply his ownership—and seated myself with a smile, my skirts billowing about me, hoop-less, bustle-less: fashions like that were impractical here, where they only slowed one down and seemed a gross pretension, but I couldn’t deny I missed them, just as I missed the petticoats and the silks and satins…. My own dress was only a coarse dark wool, my legs bare beneath it, because in the constant rain of winter, all stockings did was get wet and stay that way.
The melancholy came over me again. I forced it back and broadened my smile, and when Sally brought the drinks I drank mine down in a gulp and asked her to bring another. Lee leaned close and whispered in my ear, “The one in the plaid shirt’s cheatin’. Keep an eye on him.”
After that I made a point of smiling at the one in the plaid shirt. I flirted with him until he was flushed and fumbling with his cards, too disconcerted to play whatever tricks he’d come with. Four hands and, for me, four whiskeys later, he folded and left with a longing glance at me, and I was feeling reckless and warm with the whiskey I’d drunk, my melancholy, if not banished, then at least deadened. My job here was done, and I set down my cards and rose, squeezing Lee’s pink-clad shoulder and getting a wink of appreciation in return.
I went back to the bar and leaned over it, reaching to touch Duncan’s arm where he stood on the other side. “Another drink, please,” I said, and though he frowned, he grabbed the bottle.
“Lee having trouble tonight?” he asked, pouring whiskey into a glass and sliding it across.
“No longer.”
“Your eyes are pretty bright, Marguerite.”
“Like the stars,” I told him. I turned to lean back against the bar and stare out over the now-dwindling crowd. When I saw Jenny sidle up to the bar to order drinks—and about time too—I looked for her little paramour, who was now sitting at Jim Ryan’s table, laughing. I poured myself another whiskey and went over to him, pressing myself to his back so he looked over his shoulder, a smile on his face that faded into confusion when he saw it wasn’t Jenny.
“You winning yet, mister?” I asked him, putting the lie of interest into my eyes.
He flushed. “N-not yet, Miss M—Marguerite.”
“Well then, maybe you need some luck.” I turned and motioned to Lil at the next table for a chair, and reluctantly she got off her ass and gave me hers. I pulled it up beside Jenny’s man, as close as I could. I put my hand on his thigh, high up near his crotch, and took a sip of my whiskey and said, “Let me see your cards.”
He showed them to me nervously, and I blew on them and said, “There now, we’ll see if that doesn’t do the trick,” and winked at Jim Ryan when Jenny’s man turned back to the table. Jim acknowledged me with a subtle nod.
Jenny’s miner won the next hand, of course, and the next, and I ordered two more whiskeys, one for him and one for me. When they were brought, I toasted him and we both downed the shot in a gulp. He was grinning, his eyes glassy with drink and elation from winning, and I put my elbow on his shoulder, dangling my fingers in his hair, leaning close enough that my lips brushed his ear when I said, “I’ve been noticing you seem to like Jenny.”
I felt him shiver. He licked his lips. “Well, yes, but …”
I traced the seam in his trousers, up to the buttons, and he swallowed convulsively. I saw Jenny across the room. She was staring at us as she set out drinks, and I pretended not to see her and took the miner’s chin in my hand. “Maybe you might come to like me better,” I whispered to him. “But I’ll tell you right off, mister, I don’t share,” and then I kissed him deeply and skillfully. When I drew away he was breathing so hard I thought he might swoon.
I smiled at him and rose. When he started to rise, I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into his chair.
Jim Ryan said, “Are you in or out, mister?”
“He’s in,” I said to Jim.
Jenny’s man said, “But … don’t you want to go to a box?”
I leaned down close to him again. “Like I said, I don’t share. When you’ve proved yourself to me, we’ll see,” and I walked away, leaving him to stare after me.
The floorboards tilted a bit beneath my feet, but I steadied myself and went up to the bar and Duncan slid another whiskey my way with a little frown.
Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see Jenny, nearly teary-eyed with fury. “Just what were you doing with Travis?”
“Is that his name?”
“He’s mine. You knew he was mine! I been his favorite for weeks.”
I turned to face her, leaning back against the bar, feeling a satisfaction at her anger that only increased the warmth from the whiskey. “I know,” I said, summoning up the lie of sympathy and concern. “That’s why I went to talk to him. Turns out I was right to be worried over how much time you’re spending with him. I think you’d better keep your distance, Jenny.”
“Why?” Her little mouth pursed mutinously.
I leaned close, saying sotto voce, “He’s seeing Dr. Bell, you know.”
“For what?”
“He’s got the pox.”
Jenny’s mouth dropped open in horror. “But I … he never said—”
“Did you expect him to confess it?” I asked. “Oh, honey, he fooled you, didn’t he? What have I said? Never trust a man. I’ll tell you what … I’ll arrange for you to see the doctor yourself in the next few days. But … no more boxes until you do, Jenny. You understand?”
She turned bright red and nodded. I could see she didn’t know whether to believe me or not, and I liked that too, that she hated what I’d done but had no way to fight it. I’d made certain of it. That miner wouldn’t chase another woman but me in this place until he figured out I had no intention of having him. By then, Jenny would be gone, or onto other men.
I patted her shoulder and turned back to the bar. “Now go on. You can make it up in drinks if you work hard.”
When she was gone, Duncan gave me a wry look. “Is he poxy?”
“How the hell do I know?” I asked irritably. My voice sounded low and far away, and the effort of manipulating Jenny had left me feeling mean. The soft languor the whiskey had brought turned, suddenly growing sharp edges. I felt unsettled and angry. I reached for the whiskey.
Duncan swept it away before I could grab it. “I’ll go get Johnny,” he said.
“What for?”
His deep brown eyes grew troubled, and even that annoyed me. I let myself sag against the bar. I felt as if the violence that lived in the Palace had somehow crawled beneath my skin—not an unfamiliar feeling of late, and one I hated, but I was beyond curing it now. The only thing that would appease it was a fight, and I was spoiling for one. I wished Jenny would come back so I could tell her what I really thought.
“Margie, maybe you better go into my office for a bit.”
Johnny’s voice came from behind me. I saw the relief break on Duncan’s face. It only made me angrier. “I don’t need to go into your office. I’m not a child.”
He glanced past me to Duncan, who obviously made some sign, because Johnny nodded slightly. He took my arm and said, “Maybe we should get you home then.”
His touch roused my desire. It was restless and painful; I knew already that it would not be easily assuaged. But it was better than the anger I hardly understood, and I knew too that Johnny could soothe it for a time. “Only if you come with me.”
He said to Duncan, “Can you watch the place for a bit?”
“Nothing too hard to handle,” Duncan said. “Marguerite already fixed Blotsky’s table.”
“Did she now?” Johnny glanced down at me. “It’s good to see you ain’t completely useless tonight, honey.”
I leaned into him and whispered, “Why don’t you let me show you how useful I can be?”
He sighed and released my arm, and then he went to his office to fetch
my cloak and his coat. He handed the cloak to me and tucked his gun into his coat pocket. “I won’t be long,” Johnny told Duncan, and I said, “Don’t expect him for a while.”
Duncan rolled his eyes, but Johnny ignored me. He led the way to the back door, and then the two of us were outside, past the storage lean-to where Duncan slept, and down the slick steps off the narrow porch to the muddy street below.
The rain was steady but light. It was late, but music spilled from the saloon next door, men yelled drunkenly in the streets, and a line snaked from the brothel on the corner to nearly around the block. I knew from experience those things wouldn’t die until dawn.
Johnny said nothing, only led me silently the few blocks to my boardinghouse. There was no welcoming light at all, the windows were dark and dead. I liked it better that way. In the dark it was impossible to see how rough it was, or the grotesque attempts Mrs. McGraw made at beautifying it: the twining sweetbriar near the door twisting from the bloodstained sawdust she got at the neighboring butcher’s, the flowerpots at the corner of the ramp that held no flowers but only dead stumps of plants drowning in pools of stinking piss from dumped chamber pots.
The front door was unlocked. Johnny opened it and waited for me to precede him. The first-floor entry and the sitting room just off it were wallpapered with roses, but the stairs were dark, and the upstairs walls were unfinished lumber that sometimes left splinters in my fingers as I felt my way up. I went inside, swaying a little, falling once against the wall, and he put his hand on my arm to steady me, following me up instead of telling me good night. He meant to oblige me after all. Thank God for that.
My room was toward the end of the hall, near the toilet, which had to be on the second floor because when the tides came in, it pushed the crap right back up the pipes. I heard Tessa, who worked at the Bijou boxhouse, in the next room, heaving about and groaning. She was with someone again, a not uncommon occurrence.
