Way Back

by Williams, Abbie;

  “My birthday passed last month. I’m just a year shy of a full score, now,” Axton said.

  I thought for a minute. “You’re nineteen?”

  He nodded, looking over at me from his rocking chair. There was a sense of openness about him I found reassuring, despite everything; I wanted to beg him not to leave, as he would surely do any moment. The sun had already vanished. He’d placed his hat on the faded gray porch boards and sat with both boots braced on the rickety railing, like a kid. The lantern light spilling from Rilla’s back windows fell across the half of Axton’s face turned toward me; he offered a bashful grin. Lowering his voice, he admitted, “I’ve never been with any of the girls here. They tease me something fierce about it but Uncle Branch says I oughtn’t to. ’Course, he thinks of me as a boy. I figure he always will.”

  I had been briefly introduced to several of the women employed in Rilla’s saloon earlier today. I couldn’t conjure up any names but their faces loomed in my memory. I said, “Some of them don’t seem much older than you.” I hesitated, not sure if he would be embarrassed at my next question; it didn’t take a genius to observe that Axton was lonely. “Are any of them your friends?”

  Axton seemed surprised I would ask, replacing his booted feet onto the floor and leaning forward. “Naw. They’re busy and they’d expect me to pay them for their time, anyhow.”

  I studied him for a few silent seconds. Maybe I was every bit as lonely, or maybe I was searching for familiarity in his face, desperate to forge a connection. Axton didn’t fidget under my gaze – I recognized he was just as inquisitive about me. His hair was uncombed and shaggy, waving back from his forehead and falling along his temples; in the glow of multiple candle lanterns it took on a burnished, red-gold hue. He was much taller than me, wide through the shoulder but otherwise slim as a heron. His eyes were a deep, mossy green. Even when not smiling, his suntanned face retained a sense of easy humor. I had to admit that beneath the multiple layers of dirt and grime, Axton was really good-looking. He, however, seemed completely unaware of this fact.

  According to our earlier conversation, the business establishment in which I’d been offered a place to live in exchange for helping with the daily washing, as per a tentative agreement struck between its owner and operator, Rilla Jaymes, and me, was well-respected and well-visited; known as Rilla’s Place, it was one of five local saloons. The town was built around a small spring, near which the railroad depot was stationed. A round wooden water tank, girded by bands of steel, was visible from the second-floor window of Rilla’s and bore the name of the town in stenciled white letters – Howardsville. There was a general store, which housed a post office, adjacent to Rilla’s, and in the alley between her building and another saloon stood a small wooden shack with a canvas door, which she had referred to as ‘the laundry.’ I had yet to see inside this space.

  “Miss Ruthann, you must be tired,” Axton said, changing the subject. “You ain’t fully recovered. Though, you look a fair amount better than when we found you.”

  “I feel a little better.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Physically, at least, my state of being had improved. I hadn’t eaten anything solid and my stomach was growling. “Do you think there’s any real food around here?”

  Rilla gave me the distinct impression that she would put up with me for now, but not completely willingly, and I was hesitant to ask direct questions of her. She was a tough-looking woman far too old for the sort of make-up she plastered on her face, including sticky reddish lipstick used to enlarge her lips. But she had allowed me, a stranger in every way, to remain in a room in her saloon, had offered me a job and provided me with soap, clothing, and a small tin of smelly green salve for my peeling, sunburned face and arms; therefore, I couldn’t be too harsh in my opinion of her. But it didn’t change the fact that her eyes were flat and unfriendly.

  Axton jumped to his feet, then immediately bent to retrieve his hat. “Of course! I’ll be back directly. You wait here.”

  As though I had anywhere to go.

  Left alone with his rocking chair, which continued rocking even without him, ghost-like, I listened to the sounds trickling from the saloon, chattering voices and laughter, the clink of glasses and bottles. The piano music was rollicking now. Somehow these were all sounds I knew and recognized; the real answers I needed seemed only to mock me, hovering just beyond my consciousness. I could neither coax nor demand them forth.

  Who are you? How can you know your name but not who you are?

  What are you doing here?

  There has to be someone, some family, looking for you. You don’t belong here.

  Oh God, I should know these things.

  How can I not know these things?

  At least I knew my name, and clung to it with all my heart.

  “It is like a movie,” I whispered. I knew this word but not why I knew it, and tears washed over my cheeks. I watched a single star glint to existence in the darker sky above the fading tatters of sunset.

  “First star I see tonight,” I was compelled to whisper, and then covered my face with both hands, sick with confusion. My stomach, so recently hungry, curdled like sour milk.

  “Miss Ruthann! C’mon!” Though he had disappeared inside the building, Axton now popped around the far side of the porch and jogged up the steps. “You gotta see the moon!”

  He helped me to my feet and down the steps, leading me to the front of the saloon. I gasped, I could not help it, as we cleared the structure and the eastern sky came into full view – where a spectacular full moon floated an inch above the horizon, gleaming-white and otherworldly.

  “Oh wow,” I whispered, clutching the shawl together between my breasts, and Axton chuckled.

  “Wow is right,” he agreed, holding my elbow to his side, patting my forearm. He treated me with such tenderness I could almost excuse his awful body odor. It seemed no one here was bothered by one another’s bad smells except for me. Even the women who worked in the saloon, who’d spent a long time dressing and preparing for the evening, were stinky. Their fancy dresses had yellow, sweat-stained armpits.

  “Axton, I’m so scared.” The statement leaped from my mouth and I felt his body twitch in response, as though surprised by such an admission.

  “Well…” He spoke slowly, gathering his words. “I figure I would feel just the same. There ain’t anyone you know from Adam, anywhere in sight.”

  “See, that’s just what’s so crazy,” I whispered, watching the moon. Its outline blurred with fresh tears and I lifted my free hand, pressing my thumb to the corners of each eye in turn. I tried to explain, sensing him listening intently. “I know when you say ‘Adam’ you’re talking about a religious story. I’ve heard of that story, right? But I can’t remember my mother’s name. I don’t even know if I have a mother.” I choked down a sob and Axton patted my arm again, probably just wishing I would shut the hell up. “See, the thing is…I think I have a husband. A family.” I heaved with the force of a sob, tipping forward.

  Axton made a clucking sound of concern and shifted so I was sheltered in his embrace. I buried my face in both hands and wept, shaking with sadness, digging my fingertips against my eyelids. There seemed to be people murmuring in the background, people out and about on this beautiful summer night to marvel at the enormous moon, but I didn’t care what anyone thought, overwhelmed by my own pain.

  “Where do you think they are?” Axton asked after I had quieted, rubbing his palm over my back in a slow, continuous circle. He kept me close to his chest, where it was warm and I could cling to a shred of comfort.

  A squeezing fist clutched my heart at his gentle question. My eyes remained closed but the moonlight was brilliant enough I was aware of its pale glow. I whispered, “I’m so afraid. I’m af –” The word broke around a cry. I bit down on the urge to lose complete control and finished, “I’m afraid they might be…dead.” I could barely speak this word.

  I felt him flinch, though he must have been anticipating th
is response based on my reaction. “You don’t know, for certain?”

  I shook my head, feeling raw and weak. I wanted to collapse. “I’m so sad. There’s so much sadness inside of me. Where did it come from?”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Axton drew back but kept hold of my upper arms. “We’ll figure it out together, Miss Ruthann, I swear. Me and Uncle Branch ain’t gonna let anything happen to you.”

  Tears fell again, beyond my control; I was so grateful I could hardly speak. At last I whispered, “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough, Axton.”

  He offered a sweet smile, shrugging as if to suggest offering one’s time and help to a stranger was nothing out of the ordinary. The moon had lifted another few inches into the black heavens. I hadn’t seen it glide upward and yet it had moved, literally before our eyes.

  “The world’s a pretty interesting place, ain’t it?” Axton whispered, unconsciously echoing my thoughts. There was a hush in the air around our bodies, despite the sounds of escalating revelry from nearby buildings.

  I had to agree.

  The room in which I’d spent the week recuperating at Rilla’s was now to be mine for the foreseeable future. It was located at the end of a creaky, uncarpeted hallway, one of six closed doors. Axton escorted me inside the saloon, cheerfully suffering the subsequent teasing from both the women circulating the floor and several of the men elbowed up to Rilla’s bar. As much as I longed to avoid attention, not to mention interaction, Axton and I seemed to draw it; I was shocked at the comments men and women alike felt free to direct our way. Rilla Jaymes, packed into a dress so pink it hurt the eyes, stood at the end of the bar smoking a skinny black cigarette; she appeared deep in conversation with two men, her free hand resting on her hip, a wreath of silver smoke hovering over their heads like a raincloud.

  “Hoo-hee!” shouted a man at one of the gaming tables, lifting his glass in a sloppy salute. “Young feller’s finally getting a taste of a woman! Don’t nobody tell his pappy!”

  “She’s a pretty one, too. Got them sweet curves what makes for a good ride.”

  “Looks like she got all her teeth, too. Watch out for bite marks, young feller!”

  One of the women sidled into our path, forcing us to halt, her impressive cleavage showcased in a tight-fitting bodice. She hooked a finger between two buttons on the front of Axton’s shirt and stroked his chest. “Darlin’, I told you I’d take care of you the first time.”

  Axton’s cheeks heated to broiling but he only tipped his hat brim in a polite gesture. “I ain’t taking advantage of Miss Ruthann. I’m just escorting her to the stairs, see.”

  “Darlin’, you come up with me and take all the advantage you want.” She let her index finger trail down his belly toward the front of his pants but Axton’s attention was diverted by yet another voice, this one from a man probably not much older than him, with a scraggly yellow beard.

  “Who you got there? How long you gonna take with her, pup?” He sounded less like he was joking than the others and my stomach twisted into hard little knots.

  Axton retained calm but tightened his grip on my arm, shifting us so that I was not so visible to the man. “She ain’t working the floor.”

  “Why the hell not?” the man demanded, but Axton did not rise to this bait, instead leading me around the woman and toward the wide staircase which dropped from the floor above; I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder, feeling the bearded man’s gaze penetrate a spot in the middle of my spine.

  Axton murmured, “Don’t pay no mind. He can’t follow. No one’s allowed upstairs unless it’s with one of the girls. C’mon, let’s get you a plate and then I best head for home.”

  I was terrified to be left alone but asking him to stay was out of the question. I tried to muster the courage to bid him goodnight, anxious sweat gathering at my hairline and beneath my arms. He led me along a short, dim hallway to the back of the saloon; I’d seen this space by daylight and knew it was a kitchen of sorts, containing a hand pump, cupboards, and pantry shelves. A single candle glowed from a wall holder and I spied a second staircase, narrow and dark. The back porch, where Axton and I had been watching the setting sun, was only steps away, the screen still propped open by the jug.

  “I found some cornbread and honey when I was in here earlier,” Axton said, indicating a plate on the small table in the center of the room. He found a discarded lantern and took a moment to light it from the candle on the wall. “Take these up to your room. You’ll be safe there.”

  My heart would not slow its nervous pace. He handed me the lantern and the plate, and I was glad to have full hands so I wouldn’t relent to the urge to clutch his shirtfront and beg to return home with him.

  “Will you come back tomorrow, Axton?” I prayed he would say yes.

  “Of course. Me and Uncle Branch aim to look out for you.” He hesitated, obviously concerned. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait here until you’re safe upstairs.”

  “Thank you for everything.” My throat was closing and I turned away and stumbled up the steps, unwilling to cry in front of him a second time.

  “Good-night, Miss Ruthann. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”

  I heard his footsteps retreating down the back porch steps as I hurried upstairs, the lantern swinging in my grip and throwing erratic splashes of yellow light. I retreated to my room, realizing immediately there was no lock. My gaze swept over the furniture, desperate to find something to shove against the door; despite Axton’s assurance that no one could venture to the second floor without accompaniment, I was taking no chances. The bureau was too heavy, as was the bed; the chair would have to do. I wedged it beneath the knob, thankful the door swung inward. Breathing hard, I rested my forehead to the scarred wood for several heartbeats. The saloon was in full swing but the sounds were muffled by the closed door.

  You are all right. It’s all right.

  But I wasn’t. I was anything but all right.

  A small oval mirror hung above the bureau, upon which I’d set the plate and the lantern; its reflective surface doubled the flickering light, snagging my gaze. Moving as slowly as someone in chest-high water I approached the mirror.

  Your name is Ruthann, I thought, studying the eyes staring out at me from the rippled glass. The candle flame created patterns of light and shadow over my sunburned face. I lifted my hands and traced the outline of my chin, my nose and lips. You have looked at yourself many times before. I know you have. You know who you are.

  As though to force recognition I became frantic, unbuttoning the layers of borrowed skirt, blouse, and underskirt, wriggling free of the small corset that left red grooves in my white, freckled skin, red grooves that appeared even more grotesque as they crisscrossed the mud-colored bruises on my torso. My ribs ached as if beaten with clubs but I didn’t care in this moment, letting the garments fall to the wooden floor. I stood naked in the puddle of material around my bare ankles, cupping my breasts, gliding both hands downward over my belly as though sculpting clay, to the triangle of dark hair just below. There was a distinct quickening within me and I pressed the base of both palms to my pubic bone, sliced by a sense of deep urgency.

  Who are you? Why are you here?

  I tore at the braid in my hair, shaking out its length. My hair was heavy and dark, hanging nearly to my hipbones. Fear and agony blazed hot trails through my chest. There were no answers, no matter how desperately I longed for them. I shuddered with a need I could not explain, running my hands up and down my bruised, wounded body. Tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping from jaw to collarbones, wetting my chest. I rubbed my thumbs over the tear tracks, wanting to beat answers from my mind, wishing I had the ability. My eyes were stark with fear.

  “Help me,” I begged the empty room. Downstairs I could hear the sounds of a party in full swing. I reeled, struck by a rush of dizzy nausea, and gripped the edge of the bureau to stay upright, overwhelmed by what I knew was in my memory that I could not currently touch. Panic swelled behi
nd my heart and I pressed one hand over it as if to contain both the panic and the gouging ache of sadness centered there. I knew these feelings would consume me if I let them and so I clung to my one defense, as I had all day.

  “My name is Ruthann,” I whispered, staring hard at the hazel eyes in the mirror. “My name is Ruthann Rawley.”

  Naked, I crawled onto the narrow bed; the sheets and pillowcases had not been changed since I’d lain in them the past days and nights, reeking and dirty. I supposed with the morning light I would have my work cut out for me over in the laundry shack; if I stood up and went to the window, I could have drawn aside the curtains and looked down upon it. I curled into my own arms. In the next room over I heard a door open, close, and then the sounds of muffled laughter, a woman’s voice and a low-pitched response. Not a minute later a headboard began a steady, repetitive thumping against the wall behind my bureau, followed by the sound of a man groaning.

  I turned my cheek to the damp, soiled pillow, closing my eyes. Over and over, as though praying, I whispered, “Ruthann Rawley.”

  Chapter Three

  TWO WEEKS PASSED AND THE PATCHWORK OF BRUISING ON my body and the aching in my ribs diminished. The weather remained fair and I watched the moon wane until it resembled a fingernail paring, before disappearing altogether. Every evening Branch and Axton came to sit on Rilla’s back porch with me, where we would admire the setting sun and they would tell me about their day. In turn, I would inform them about mine – long, repetitive days spent doing laundry. From what I’d learned, laundry meant bending over.

  I either bent over a washboard to scrub undergarments or bent over a cauldron of steaming water, into which I would dip load after load of bigger items, such as bedding. And a whorehouse, I’d also learned, produced piles of soiled bedding. Using a long wooden paddle, I swirled the sheets and flannels, letting them boil clean before lifting them out. Once they’d been cranked through the drying press, a clumsy contraption I hated on sight, I hung the heavy items over clothesline ropes strung between Rilla’s and the adjacent saloon. Rarely did other women from Rilla’s offer their help but I preferred to work alone because it meant I didn’t have to make conversation with semi-hostile strangers.