by Laura Furman
I shrugged as Colt Wallace of the white-blond hair who could speak Dutch and play the fiddle came into the saloon with Sal Adams who always wore a big black hat and had told me when he taught me three-card monte that his father in New York City had but half a stomach and lived on raw onions and sugar.
Hey boys, you feeling ready for a hog-killing time tomorrow? Sit down here, honey. See Rosa, Lavenia don’t mind! Jackson shouted to the whore who was going out into the night and across the street in her tinsel and paint.
Jackson, said Colt, dragging a chair to our table away from the games of chance. What are you doing to the fair Lavenia Bell?
Keeping her from launching into a life of shame, an helping her into one of profit, Jackson said, and my black hair fell down around me. Sal, gimme her hat. Lavenia, stand up. Go on. There. She looks more like a boy now, don’t she?
Sal smiled and said, Tomorrow Lavenia will be a woman of masculine will.
Colt gave an old-fashioned Comanche yell, then laughed, Sure cause she’s flat as an ironin—
Jackson had both hands round Colt’s throat. The table tipped and Sal stepped in the middle of them, steadying it. Fall back, Jackson, Sal said, Colt misspoke. Didn’t you? You understand, Colt, how such words might offend?
Choking, Colt tried to nod.
Please don’t, Jackson! I ain’t hurt none by it. Truly, I said. Listen, I don’t even want tits.
Why not? Jackson turned to look at me.
I don’t know—guess they’d get in the way of shootin?
Jackson laughed and let him loose.
Sure Sal, coughed Colt. I mean, yessir, I—I didn’t mean nothing by it, Jackie. I meant to say yeah they’ll think Lav’s a boy long as they don’t look her too long in the eyes.
What the hell you mean by that now? Jackson asked, rounding on Colt again.
He means she’s got long eyelashes, Sal said, taking our drinks from one of the whores.
Shucks Jackie, ain’t we friends? Here, Colt toasted, To good whiskey and bad women!
It was a day’s ride. Sal stayed to guard the town square and watch for any vigilant citizens with guns, while Colt and I went with Jackson into the bank, the heft of worry in my bowels. There was only one customer inside, a round man in spectacles, who Colt thrust into and said, Hands up, with his loud flush of a laugh, as Jackson and I slid over the counter, six-shooters out, shouting for the two bank tellers to get down on their knees.
Open up that vault, said Jackson.
We can’t do that, sir, the older teller said. Only the bank manager has the key. And he’s not here today.
Get the goddamn money. Damn, this whole town knows you got a key.
Sir, I would if I could but—
You think I got time for this? Jackson hammered the older teller in the face with his pistol, and the man thrashed over, cupping his nose. He straddled him as he lay on the ground, saying, Now you open that vault right quick.
The older teller blinked up at him through bloody hands, I won’t do that for ya.… I refuse to be …
Jackson thumped the older teller’s head with the butt of his right pistol and that older teller began to leak brain. There was a sting in my nose as I watched him drip into the carpet. Until then, I had no notion that blood was child-book red. Jackson turned to the younger teller, who looked frantic at me.
Son, you wanna live? Jackson asked.
I willed him to nod.
Gesturing to me, Jackson said, Give this boy here all the bonds, paper currency and coin in these bags.
Hurry it up back there! hollered Colt, forcing the customer to his knees and peeking out the front door, Sumthin’s up! Sal’s bringin the horses!
Me and the younger teller, Jackson’s pistol cocked on him, stuffed the burlap sacks as Jackson climbed backward through the bank window. That’s enough. Now get on your knees, he said.
As I tossed Jackson the first sack, the young teller rose up and grabbed me from behind, snatching my gun, waving it at us, shouting, You yellow-bellied bushwhackers, attacking an unarmed man! You a whore herder—this girl is a girl!
Jackson shot the young teller in the chest, dove through the window and got back my gun. He slapped it into my stomach, Shoot him, he said.
Who? No, I pushed the gun away.
Hey! Colt shouted, What in hell is going on? They’re gonna have heard them shots!
I looked to the young teller rearing in his blood. Please Jackson, don’t make me do that, I said.
Put him out of his misery, honey. He’s gonna die either way.
I raised the gun then just as quick lowered it. I cain’t, I said.
You’re with us, ain’t ya? Jackson was standing behind me, the warm of his hand went on the meat of my back, After all Lavenia, you just done told that boy my name.
Colt’s gun sounded twice from the front.
And so I shot the young teller dead through the eye and out of that bank we rode into the bright forever.
• • •
Alone, jest us two, in what I had by then guessed was her actual room, tho it had none of the marks of the individual, the whore put the whiskey between my fingers.
Èl no debería haber hecho esto, she said, locking the door and loosening my bandanna.
Leave it, I stared in her mirror. Make me drunk, I said. I want the bitter of that oh-be-joyful.
Drink. She put the glass to my lips, then took it back and topped it off, asking, How old you?
Fifteen. Sixteen in June, I said. The whiskey tore a line down my stomach to let the hot in. Wait. If you can speak English, then why don’t you?
She shrugged, handing me back a full glass, Is more easy for men to think the other.
And I ain’t a man, I said.
She nodded. Why you brother dress you like one?
So when we ride no man messes with me and I don’t mess with my bustle. Is it hard bein a—a soiled dove? I drank, It’s awful hard on one bein a gunslinger.
She smiled with her missing teeth, took off my coat and shirt then sat down inside the bell of her ruffled skirt, My husband die when I you age. I make good money this place.
Money … I repeated, and took the whiskey off her bureau where it sat next to a jeweled dagger and a small bottle of Best Turkey Laudanum. I got money now I guess, I said and laid a few dollars down, If you don’t mind, I said and droppered laudanum into my whiskey, I hope this will stupefy me. I drank it and flopped back on the bed.
Where you mama?
Died. When I was three. My pa’s sister raised me. Aunt Josie.
You papa?
I shook my head, Dead from the war.
Solo Jackson, she said.
Hey Rosa, what if somethin bad happened that I did?
The door handle turned, then came a knocking and my brother: Hey Rosa, lemme in there. I gotta see her. Lavenia?
I scrambled up.
Rosa put her finger to her lips, Lavenia no here.
She’s gotta be—hey, Lavenia, Lavenia! C’mon now. Come out and jest let me talk to ya for a minute, honey.
I swallowed more whiskey’d laudanum. Hey Rosa, I whispered, holding out my free hand.
No now, Jackie, Rosa said, taking it.
If you did a bad thing but you didn’t mean to? Cause he was gonna die anyways either way. I pulled till her head went under my chin. But he was alive and then he wasn’t and I did that, I said, I did.
Jackson no good.
No, no good, I said.
You have money? You take and go away. Far.
But I’m no good, I said.
Open this damn door! Jackson pounded, Listen gal, your pussy ain’t worth so much to me that I won’t beat your face off.
Hush up! I shouted, Shut your mouth! The shaking door stilled. I don’t want you, I said.
Lavenia, I heard him slide down the door, Hey gal, don’t be like this.
I leaned my forearm and head onto the wood. Why? I asked.
Baby girl, he said, don’t be sore. Not at me. I cai
n’t.
Why did you make me? I asked.
Darlin, those men done seen our faces. What we did we had to do in order to save our own skins. That there was self-defense. Necessity, sure, it’s a hard lesson, I ain’t gonna falsify that to you.
But I’m wicked now, I said, feelin a wave of warm roll me over. I slid.
Hey, I heard him get to his feet, Hey you lemme in there.
Rosa put her hand over mine where it rested on the lock. The augury of her eyes was not lost on me. As soon as I opened the door, Jackson fell through, then tore after her.
Jackson don’t, I yanked him by the elbow as he took her by the neck. You—she didn’t do nothing but what I told her to!
He shook me off but let her go. Go on, get out, he slammed the door and galloped me onto the bed, tackling me from behind and squeezing until I tear’d. I did not drift up and away but instead stayed there in what felt to be the only room for miles and miles around. He spoke into my hair, saying, We’re in this together.
Jackson, I sniffed and kicked his shin with the back of my heel, Too tight.
He exhaled and went loose, The fellas are missing you down there.
No, they ain’t.
They’re sayin they cain’t celebrate without the belle of the Bells.
I rolled to face him, pushing the stubble of his chin into my forehead, Why do you want to make me you?
Would you rather be a daughter of sin?
I am a daughter of sin.
You know what I mean. A—a … Jackson searched his mind, A frail sister.
I could not help but laugh. He whooped, ducking my punches till he wrestled me off the bed and I got a bloody nose. You hurt? he asked, leaning over the edge.
Lord, I don’t know, I shrugged in a heap on the floor, sweet asleep but awake. I cain’t feel a thing. Like it’s afternoon in me, I said.
Jackson glanced over at the laudanum bottle and backhanded me sharp and distant, Don’t you ever do such a thing again, you hear?
My nose trickled doubly but I said, It doesn’t hurt. I tried to peel Jackson’s hands off his face, Hey it truly truly doesn’t!
I laughed and he laughed and we went down to the saloon drinking spirits till we vomited our bellies and heads empty.
The next night two deputies walked into the saloon and shot out the lights. In the exchange of dark and flash, a set of hands yanked me down. I’d been drinking while Jackson was with Rosa upstairs. I got out my six-shooter but did not know how to pick a shadow. A man hissed near my head and I crawled with him to the side door.
Out of the fog of the saloon, Colt stood, catching his breath, saying, There ain’t nothing we can do for Jackson and Sal. If they take them to the hoosegow, we’ll break them out. C’mon.
I cain’t, I said, getting up.
A couple bystanders that had been gawking in the saloon were now looking to us.
Lavenia, Colt took me tight by the shoulder, and swayed us like two drunkards into the opposite direction. In the candlelight of passing houses, Colt’s hand, cut by glass, bled down my arm.
At the end of the alley, Colt turned us to where three horses were on a hitch-rack. We crouched, untying the reins, and tho my horse gave a snort, it did not object to the thievery, but we were not able to ride out of town unmolested. There, our ingenuity had been anticipated and the sheriff and his deputy threw us lead. Buckshot found my shoulder, and found Colt too, who slid like spit down his horse and fell onto his back, dead.
Hey there Deputy, said Jackson through the bars, How much for a clean sheet of paper and that pen?
The men outside the jail began shouting louder. The silver-haired sheriff sat at his desk, writing up a report, ignoring us all.
This un? the deputy stopped his pacing.
I’ll give you twenty whole dollars, Jackson said, I’ll be real surprised if I make it to trial, so least you could do is honor my last request.
There were a few scattered thumps on the door. Won’t we make it to trial? I asked.
Well darlin, there’s a mob out there that’s real loco’d about me shooting that bank teller and that marshal and that faro dealer and that one fella—what was he? A professor of the occult sciences! Yes that’s sure what he looked like to me!
I laughed. The men kicked at the door. The sheriff checked his Winchester.
Jackson chuckled, I’m writin against the clock. The windows smashed as if by a flock of birds. Jackson didn’t look up from writing.
Now sheriff, you won’t let them hurt my baby girl will ya? You gotta preach to them like you was at the gospel mill before Judgment Day. Gotta tell them that this young girl here was jest following me, was under a powerful family sway. Here, Deputy, would you kindly give this to her.
The deputy took the letter.
The sheriff said, Son, there are about forty men out there with the name of your gang boiling in their blood. By law the two of us must protect you and that child. I jest hope we don’t die in the attempt.
Mi DReaM-
dremP’T i, wAS, with YoU, Lav,
Near Your BrEAth, so DEar:
id, neVEr, saw, none, so BeAuTiFull,
And I, wisht You Were NEar:
No Angel, on eaRrTH, or, HeAven,
CoUlD rivall Your HeaRT,
no DeaTH, or distancE, can uS PArt
if, Any, should TelL You,
They Love You eTerNAly,
There, Is, no onE, You tell Em,
Who Loves You like Me
Fare! Well! My Dear SisTer..anD FrIEnd
Al. So. My Belle oF The Bells
Yours Hopefully
Jackson Bell
The forty exited the street and entered our cells.
They dragged Jackson and I into the dogs the stars the cool and the night. Their hands in what hair I had; my hands underbrush-burned and bound together in baling wire.
In an abandoned stable somewheres behind the jail, they made Jackson stand on a crate and put the noose hanging from the rafters round his neck. They were holding down the deputy and the sheriff, who looked eyeless cause of the blood, having been beaten over the head.
I was brought to Jackson and saw the rope round his neck weren’t even clean.
Hey gal, my brother said, Guess what? This is my final request. Now honey, what do you think? Don’t you think I kept my promise? You’ll be all right. If you cain’t find Sal, Rosa will take care a you.
I nodded and the men pulled me back.
Hey you ain’t cryin, are ya? Jackson called out, swallowing against the rope, C’mon, quick—you got any last little thing to say to me?
The men brought me to a crate and tied a noose around my neck. What the hell’s goin on? Jackson asked.
You all cannot murder a woman without a fair trial, the sheriff started up.
No now fellas, it ain’t s’posed to go like this. Listen to the sheriff here—Jackson said and the men walloped him in the belly.
Lavenia Bell, the men asked, crowding me, What is your final request?
Sometimes I wish I were just a regular girl, not a whore or an outlaw or playactin at man. I had a father for two years and a mother for four, but I cannot remember what that was like, if they care for you better or hurt you less or if they keep you no matter what it costs them.
The girl first, the men said.
I am not afraid. You kept your promise good. Thank you for you, I said.
Have you no wives, no sisters or daughters? shouted the sheriff.
I felt the thick of hands on my waist.
Wait! Don’t y’all see? She woulda never done nothin without me not without me—
The noose tightened.
The sheriff was struggling to get to his feet, hollering. Boys this will weigh heavy on your souls!
Hey I’m begging you to listen, boys—look, it weren’t her that killed them tellers it was me—only me!
Up on the crate, it was that hour before sun, when there was no indication of how close I was to a new morning. I waited for the
waiting to break, for the dark of the plain in my face to bring me to dust.
William Trevor
The Women
GROWING UP IN THE listless 1980s, Cecilia Normanton knew her father well, her mother not at all. Mr. Normanton was handsome and tall, with steely gray hair brushed carefully every day so that it was as he wished it to be. His shirts and suits gave the impression of being part of him, as his house on Buckingham Street did, and the family business that bore his name. Only Mr. Normanton’s profound melancholy was entirely his own. It was said by people who knew him well that melancholy had not always been his governing possession, that once upon a time he had been carefree and a little wild, that the loss of his wife—not to the cruelty of an early death but to her preference for another man—had left him wounded in a way that was irreparable.
Remembered by those who had known it, the marriage was said to have echoed with laughter, there’d been parties and the pleasure of spending money, the Normantons had appeared to delight in one another. Yet less than two years after the marriage began it was over; and in the Buckingham Street house Cecilia heard nothing that was different. “Your mother wasn’t here anymore,” her father said, and Cecilia didn’t know if this was his way of telling her that her mother had died and she didn’t feel she could ask. She lived with the uncertainty, but increasingly believed there had been a death from which her father had never recovered and which he could not speak of. In a pocket-sized yellow folder at the back of a drawer there were photographs of a smiling girl, petite and beautiful, on a seashore and in a garden, and waving from a train. Cecilia’s father, smiling, too, was sometimes there, and Cecilia imagined their happiness, their escapades, their pleasure in being together. She pitied her father as he was now, his memories darkened by his loss.
Dark-haired and tall for her age, her slim legs elegant in schoolgirl black, Cecilia was taken to be older than she was. Eighteen or nineteen was the guess of the youths and men who could not resist a second glance at her prettiness on the street: she was fourteen. She didn’t know why she was looked at on the street, for an awareness of being pretty was not yet part of her. It wasn’t something that was mentioned by her father or by Mr. Grace, the retired schoolmaster whom her father had engaged as her tutor in preference to sending her to one of the nearby schools. It wasn’t mentioned by the Maltraverses, who daily came to the house also, to cook and clean.
