by Denise Dietz
As Otto continued strolling, his boots left immense footprints in the dirt. His hands and fingers were big, too. H.B. Levie hired bartenders with big thumbs because most miners paid for their drinks with a pinch of gold dust. Otto oiled his hair so that, when he pinched, the gold would stick better, and his black strands shone with bright yellow streaks.
He crossed the intersection of Meyers and Third to the Central Dance Hall, climbed stairs to the second floor, and entered a room with a bed, washstand, table and three chairs. Atop the table, atop a kerosene stove, simmered a pot of squirrel stew.
Clothed in a frilly chemise and corset, Minta greeted him with a smile, then stretched out her plump arms. “Loosen my corset strings if you please, darlin’.”
Otto’s large fingers fumbled at the knots. Over Minta’s shoulder, he watched her breasts spring free. Her red hair swirled to her waist and smelled of gingerbread. He could hardly unbutton his trousers fast enough.
When they’d finished, Minta rose from the bed, washed between her legs, slipped into her chemise and corset, and asked Otto to tie the strings.
“What’s your hurry, Min? We ain’t even et and I don’t have to be over at the Butte till sundown. Come back to bed and give me more sugar.”
“No, darlin’. I left my bairn with Belle, and Belle’s so addled she might wander clear away. Fools Gold could be crying for the want of a bottle.”
“I could be crying for the want of a tit.”
“We just done that.”
“You love Blueberry’s babe better than me.”
“I love her different. Pull the strings, please.”
Otto rose, stretched, walked behind Minta, reached into her chemise, and fondled her breasts.
She leaned back, enjoying his touch. Then, with a regretful sigh, she swatted his hands away.
He grasped her shoulders. “Are you saying you won’t lay with me again ’cause Blueberry’s bastard waits at home?”
“Don’t call her a bastard. She’s a love child.”
“I suppose your crib’s a love palace.”
“No, it ain’t. I said I’d move if you paid the bills.”
“Why should I pay when I can jackscrew you for free?”
“Oh! You bastard!”
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re the bastard, not Fools Gold.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who told you I wasn’t true born?”
“Nobody, Otto.” Suddenly fearful, she said, “Maybe I do have time for more sugar.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t you have to go home, Min? Maybe your babe’s shat her nappies. Maybe Belle’s shat her drawers.”
“Why’re you talkin’ so nasty? I said I’d stay.”
“I don’t want no used goods.”
“Oh! You bastard! I never want to see you again!” Minta had an awful feeling the devil had just put the wrong words in her mouth but she didn’t care.
“Before you leave, Min, tell me who said I wasn’t true born.”
“Everybody says it. The dance hall girls sing ‘there’ll be a hot time with the bastard tonight.’ ”
“Who said it first?” he roared.
“Don’t look at me like that, Otto. Nobody said it first. I made it up.”
Growling low in his throat, he grasped her shoulders again, shaking so hard her head snapped back and forth. Then he cuffed her face with the back of his hand.
Minta reeled across the room and crashed into the table. The kerosene stove tottered and fell. Flames snaked along the dry wooden floorboards and licked at the window’s tasseled drapes. Her swollen mouth tried to form words. With a moan, she grasped the edge of the table. Her fingers slid through spilled squirrel stew and she fell to the floor.
Otto knuckled his eyes free from smoke, saw that half the room was ablaze, threw on his clothes, and stepped into his boots. “C’mon, Min,” he urged. “We got to git.”
“Can’t move. Hurt.”
He hefted her to her feet, circled her waist, and swore a blue streak at the loose corset that impeded his grip.
Blinded by smoke, Otto somehow managed to find the door. Once outside, he released Minta’s waist and she pitched forward. “They’ll blame me for this,” he muttered, before he merged into the crowd.
A young miner carried Minta across the street and lowered her to the walk. “Can you stand by yourself, ma’am?”
She nodded, swayed, retched.
He pressed his hand against her forehead. “Choke it up, sweetheart. There, that’s better.” He placed his shirt across her shoulders.
Bells clanged as horse-drawn fire engines raced up and down the roadway. A bucket brigade hauled water. Minta’s young miner tipped his cap, returned to his place in line, and reached for a bucket. She didn’t even know his name.
Structures on the north caught like boxes of lit matchsticks. Minta saw other scantily clad women rush into the street, their arms filled with gowns and jewelry. The street throbbed with the sound of men, women and cats. Where did all the cats come from? Outnumbered, the dogs fled from the cats.
The brigade watered down saloons and parlor houses, but the conflagration continued until it reached Poverty Gulch. Minta sprinted toward home. “My baby’s inside!” she screamed. Hands restrained her forward motion. With a strangled cry, she watched her shanty collapse. She saw crib girls huddled around something in the street. Belle? Fools Gold? Minta pushed aside Jasmine the Brit and Leo the Lion. As she looked down, her breath caught in her throat.
Whiskey Johnnie lay on his back. His tattered clothes stuck wetly to his bloodied body. Near him stood Clementine, his hooves dancing in an agitated rhythm, his teeth stretched in a grimaced bray.
“Johnnie was stirrin’ his stumps, tryin’ to reach your crib,” said Irish Mary. Her hair, brows and lashes had been singed and she smelled like a wet fur collar. “Fire engine cut ’im down. Preacher’s fetchin’ the doc.”
Minta fell to her knees as Johnnie opened his eyes. His face was pitted an angry red from flying cinders. Blood stained his matted beard. “Berry,” he managed. “Lost calf. Never should have brung her.”
“Blueberry sleeps,” said Minta. “She’s at peace.”
“Tell Fools Gold ’bout Nugget Ned.”
“I will, I swear.”
“Guess I’ll gally’vant off to heaven now.” Johnnie shut his eyes.
After kissing his lifeless lips, Minta staggered to her feet. Heartbroken, she wandered toward the pond where water was stored for the miners’ sluice boxes.
She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and sloshed through ankle-high water. “Fools Gold!” she shouted, laughing and crying at the same time. “Fools Gold, you’re alive!”
With a vacant smile, Belle thrust the soot-covered child into Minta’s arms. Then she added a lockbox and a handful of gingerbread cookies.
*****
A few days later, revolvers signaled a new fire, started this time by a hotel grease spill. Firemen answered the call, but Cripple Creek’s reservoirs held nothing but mud. All the water had been used for the first blaze.
Boilers in the Palace Hotel exploded.
Seventy pounds of dynamite at the Harder Grocery exploded.
The remaining saloons, parlor houses and cribs caught like dry kindling.
Afterwards, the Creek’s citizens gazed at the smoldering debris, gave a collective sigh, squared their shoulders, and began rebuilding with brick. The first structures they erected were saloons, dance halls and parlor houses.
“Me and Fools Gold ain’t gonna live in no crib,” Minta told Belle. “Even if Leo the Lion’s busy heaping up wood like some dangfool beaver.”
“Beaver?”
“A beaver’s got a tail and teeth that can build a crib, but me and Fool’s Gold—”
“Fools Gold?” Belle wiped her bulbous nose with the edge of her sleeve. She and Minta stood on Meyers, watching the activity.
“My poppet saved from the fire, and God bless you.”
“The fire that burned our cribs. That’s why we’ve been sleeping in a tent. Phew! The smell! Charlene Johnson never bathes. Here’s your letter and train ticket.”
“Tell me again what my letter says.”
“It’s from your sister Sarah, who lives in Chicago. She wants you to bide with her there.” Minta felt her eyes mist. “You must give over your ticket to that man in blue when he calls all aboard.”
“Toot, toot, all aboard. I like trains. Where’d I get the ticket, Min?”
“You saved my lockbox. It had all my banknotes and coins and Blueberry’s nugget ring inside, the one I slipped from her finger before burial. I don’t know what became of her mama’s earbobs. Anyways, there was little I could do in return for your kindness except wire Sarah and pay for your passage to Chicago.”
“What if I get mislaid?”
Minta bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You won’t get lost. I’ve hired a girl to ride with you. She should be here any minute.”
“Who’s gonna watch the peewee while you meet up with Otto?”
“Otto’s left town and good riddance.”
“You gonna live happy ever after, Min?”
“Yes, Belle. I aim to get me a position in one of them new-built parlor houses.”
“They won’t let you bide with no peewee. Should I take her with me?”
“I’ll never be parted from Fools Gold again, but I thank you for the offer.”
“What’cha’ gonna do with her?”
“I heard that Madam Robin Redbreast lost her own little girl to the cholera.”
“Oh, the poor dear lady. Who’s Robin Redbreast?”
“She’s the madam over at Little Heaven. If I pay above my share, she might let me keep Fools Gold. That last fire reached so high, flames tickled God’s feet. I’ll wager God’s still laughing, so I’ve got to hurry and talk to Madam Robin before God’s good humor changes back to wrath.”
“Never reckoned God was ticklish, Min.”
“Everybody’s ticklish, Belle. That’s why God conjured up whores.”
Ten
Minta gazed with delight at Little Heaven.
The two-story house was square, built with red-orange bricks. Gray paint trimmed windows, doors, and the roofline. Shrubbery surrounded gardens that already sported bright blooms. At the back of the house, a covered walkway led to the privies and servants’ quarters.
Drawing a deep breath, Minta entered the front door.
The first floor included two parlors, a dining room and a kitchen. The bedrooms were upstairs. Minta walked into the main parlor and twirled around, holding Fools Gold at arm’s length. “Can you believe your eyes, poppet? Look at that lambs wool wallpaper. Look at all them shelves with what’s called a petticoat mirror on the bottom. Look at them plush chairs and that horsehair fainting couch.”
She placed Fools Gold on the floor in front of the petticoat mirror. The child made faces at her own image while Minta walked toward a gateleg table. On top was a Victrola. Its funnel-shaped speaker pointed smack-dab toward a Beckwith Palace grand piano of French burled walnut.
“Madam says a man dark as chocolate plays music at night.” Minta skipped her fingers across the keyboard.
Fools Gold crawled toward the sound.
“Don’t let her get stepped on,” warned a woman who stood framed by the doorway.
“Yes, Madam. I mean no, Madam.” Minta scooped Fools Gold up off the floor.
“Mama Min, Mama Min, gy-ee Fro-gold.”
“She wants me to give her more music,” Minta said.
“Let me help you get settled, dear. Then your wee girlie can play.”
“I don’t have much, Madam, just my lockbox and some clothes from Colorado Springs.”
“Bless the church folk from Colorado Springs,” Robin said. “They can donate their rags and feel so damn virtuous, all at the same time.”
Eyes downcast, Minta said, “I don’t go to church no more.”
“A Christian’s not a Christian just because he goes to church, any more than a man’s a calf ’cause he drinks milk.”
“My sister would lock horns with you over that, Madam. She lives on Papa’s dairy farm, at least she did. I’ve got some old letters inside my lockbox, but they stopped coming after Minneap’lis. She doesn’t know I joined the profession.”
Minta followed Robin Redbreast up the stairs, thinking how aptly named was this short, stout woman with her crest of dark hair, her brown eyes, and her pointy nose. Robin even clothed herself in red gowns and black capes.
“There are seven bedrooms. One’s mine.” Robin gestured toward a paneled door with a window inset. “That there’s the viewing room where guests can choose their Angel of the evening. My girls are called Angels.”
“How’d you come to name your house Little Heaven, Madam?”
“I picked out my blue velvet portieres from a shop damaged by the fire. Got them real reasonable. The gents who papered my walls and tacked my carpets seen my portieres, blue as the sky, and they wanted to paint stars on the ceiling. I was going to call my house Robin’s Roost, but the first to knock on my door said the inside looked like heaven.”
“I like Heaven better than Roost, Madam.”
“There are five other Angels.” Robin’s foot touched upon the second-floor landing. “Dee, come meet Minta. Deeee!”
“Hold your horses, Madam, I’m coming.”
“Horsies?” Fools Gold glanced left and right.
“Hush, poppet, and stop squirming.” Shifting the child to her left arm, Minta shook the hand of a woman whose blonde hair swung down past her knees.
Fools Gold reached for Dee’s long strands. “Gold,” she said. “Gy-ee Fro-gold.”
“She wants you to give her your hair,” Minta explained.
“What a sweet little girl. Fro-gold?”
“Her name’s Fools Gold but she has trouble saying it.”
“Can’t blame her. That’s too big a handle. If you don’t mind, I’ll call her Flo.”
The bedroom after Dee’s belonged to a Chinese woman whose face topped a long ivory neck. She had a shingle of pure ebony hair and sat in front of a dressing table, her slanted black eyes staring at her mirrored reflection.
“That there Angel’s called Swan. She keeps to herself.” With an apologetic shrug, Robin knocked at the next door.
The woman who answered wore a transparent robe, ruffled at the bodice and hem. Minta had an immediate impression of a fluffy kitten until the girl raised large onyx eyes, set in a face the color of creamed coffee.
“This here’s Minta and her daughter Flo,” said Robin. “How are you feeling today, Cassandra?”
“Ca va bien, Madame.”
“Have you had your chamomile and poppy oil?”
“Oui, Madame.”
“If you require a purge, ask Hummingbird Lou to prepare some ginseng root.”
“Oui, Madame. Merci, Madame.” The girl smiled at Minta, curtsied, coughed, and closed her door.
“Consumption,” said Robin. “Cassandra came to us from Louisiana. Our mountain air should cure her. My other two Angels, Maryanne and Maryjane, are twins. They occupy separate bedrooms unless a gent pays for both at the same time. I believe they’re shopping on Bennett.”
“Wheee, mam,” said Fools Gold. “Mare-see, mam.”
“Flo reminds me of my little girl, though mine never tried to talk French.” Robin’s eyes misted and she honked into a lacy handkerchief. “After you’re settled, bring the child to Hummingbird Lou’s room, just outside the kitchen door. Lou’s our cook. You do understand that Flo cannot sleep in your bedroom.”
Minta nodded. “Thank you for your goodness, Madam Robin. You won’t be sorry. I’ll work real hard.”
“Hush, my dear. It’s me who should be thanking you. Already the word has spread that my house has got itself a brand new, freckle-faced Angel.”
Reaching inside her skirt p
ocket, Minta pulled out a bottle. “I’ve been using White Lily Face Wash.”
“No need. We’ll negotiate your fee by the freckle.”
“If that’s true, your gents won’t be able to afford my services.”
“They’ll pay.” Robin opened the door to a small bedroom. “This is yours, Minta. Welcome to Little Heaven.”
“Lil hef’n,” Fools Gold said. “Mare-see, mam.” Vastly pleased with herself, she added, “Horsie.”
“Did you hear that, Madam? Fools Gold, I mean Flo, loves horses, and when Cassandra said mare-see . . . oh my!”
Minta’s braying laugh wafted through an open window, startling the rancher who strolled toward the parlor house.
John McDonald glanced up at Little Heaven’s second story. He had left his horse at the livery, planning to spend a few hours with Dee. But maybe he’d stay the whole night. After all, he didn’t hear much womanly laughter on the ranch. Dimity hardly ever smiled, and she had taken to wearing a hair shirt. For penance, she said.
Eleven
By the year 1902, Little Heaven had acquired electric lights and a telephone. Its parlors were warmed by furnace grates but the bedrooms still relied on coal stoves.
Since it was summer, Mama Min’s stove squatted, unlit, looking like a headless black widow spider with red rust markings on the underside and four legs too fat and lazy to spin webs.
Perhaps a magic spider would spin her some new cobwebby clothes, light and airy, thought Flo. After all, she’d read about a magic elf who cobbled shoes.
Flo sat on the floor. Her undershirt, attached to pantalets, had been sewn from a bed sheet. The fabric was threadbare, but much more comfortable than her brown wool dress, crumpled in the corner next to the spider-stove. Her toes were dirty and she played with her favorite toy, her dead mama’s nugget ring. “There’ll be a hot time, a hot time, oh, a hot time in the old town tonight,” she sang softly. “I better put this, oh put this, oh, put this here nugget a-way.”
She stood up and tiptoed toward the jewelry box on top of the vanity. Her fingers brushed against a crystal perfume bottle. It teetered and fell with a loud thunk.
“Spit!” Flo dropped her dead mama’s ring into the jewelry box, sat on the floor, and turned her face toward the spool bed. Hidden beneath pink velvet cherubs slept Mama Min.
