by Susan Patron
Antoine set his hat on the back of his head, the way the sheriff wears his, so his whole face was visible. My eyes were drawn to the thin white scar running through his eyebrow.
“I otta arrest you, you mud-caked piece of jerky,” he said, extending his hand to me, palm up.
“Hold on,” I said. “Turn sideways to the audience with your back to me and stick your hand out behind you.” He did. “Clink, clink, clink,” I said. “Coins falling into your palm.”
“He’s taking bribes and doin’ somethin’ else at the same time,” someone suggested.
“Yes,” I said. “With your other hand, unlock the door to a jail cell. Clank, clank, clank.”
The men laughed.
“Out comes a big, tall, clean, rich man,” I continued. “He throws paper money, scrip, all over the stage. It’s worthless.” Remembering what Mrs. O’Toole’s boarder had said, I added, “The deputy shoves a poor old sick man who can hardly walk into the cell. He’s coughing.” Two Horribles immediately acted these roles, adding their own words and exaggerated gestures.
I was filled with a new and thrilling sense. We were sketching out a play, and they were waiting for me to tell them what should happen.
Antoine said, “So, Bodie is work and dirt. What else?”
“Gold. Everything that happens in this town started with gold,” I said. “Everyone who’s here came because of the gold, even people who don’t work at the mines, the ones who sell vegetables or practice law or ride around in the middle of the night wearing masks.” I thought a minute. “We start with … a bank clerk. He’s bald and fat and bad-tempered.”
Antoine said, “Hey! Wait a minute!”
The men laughed again.
“It’s true-to-life,” someone said. “Tell us the rest.”
“Am I hired?”
Antoine frowned. “We never had a female write the skits before,” he said doubtfully.
“She’s only a schoolgirl,” the man called Butte added.
“But,” Big Bill Monahan answered, “there are always a lot of women in the audience. I think they’ll like a skit with dirt and work and gold in it. I bet Miss Angie has seen and heard a few things while scrubbing the floor and shaking out the rugs. And she can make up a nom de plume so no one’ll know our playwright isn’t a man.”
Antoine shrugged and looked uncertain. “Need to think about it,” he said. “Meanwhile, let’s get the ‘playwright’ home.” We resumed walking but in looser formation. Antoine Duval and I didn’t talk until he said, “You haven’t told the third thing.”
Smarting from his dour response to my Horrible ideas, I said, “A heart injured by fierce indignation.”
“Ah,” he said. “That’s good.” I didn’t know whether he meant it was good I’d used some words from Swift or that he agreed with the sentiment.
We had arrived at my home. When I left the Horribles, some of them bowed to me from the waist and doffed their hats with mocking but good-natured exaggeration, actors acknowledging a schoolgirl playwright.
One of them even blew a kiss. I have no idea which one it was.
Saturday, June 19, 1880
Dear Diary,
Eleanor begged me to visit her, for strange things were happening at her home. She would not reveal what sort of things, but her distressed and mysterious air drew me. As soon as I arrived, Mrs. Tucker clasped me to her and said how proud of me she had been at Mrs. O’Toole’s boardinghouse. Then she collapsed in a chair and tears started in her eyes.
“Oh, Mother, please don’t cry now,” said Eleanor.
“You are right, dear, it is unbecoming. Yet I must explain to Angeline how ashamed I am of my own frailty. I ought to have allowed Eleanor—and allowed myself as well—to go with you to Mr. Johl. Those ladies are simply cruel. It takes pluck to stand up to them. I most distressingly lacked it.” She seemed as if her heart were breaking.
“Oh, Mrs. Tucker,” I said, startled and pleased beyond measure to be described as having pluck, “it is so kind of you to say this, but you give me more credit than I deserve. Please do not trouble yourself further. Those ladies at the meeting would scare anyone, I believe—even the Bold Bad Boys from Bodie.”
(By saying this, dear diary, I hoped to bring out a smile on Mrs. Tucker’s face, for most of us residents tolerate our town’s fearsome reputation as reported in all the newspapers. This is said to be the wildest place in the West, plagued by gunfights and lawlessness and treachery of every sort. In fact, all of that is true, as Papa can attest by his many hours in courts of law. But as long as we women and girls do not interfere with those Bad Boys, they are courteous and even gallant in our presence. We are safe enough—or at least so Momma has always claimed—if we stay levelheaded and keep out of the way.)
Mrs. Tucker did brighten for a moment, and then she said she had to hurry to an appointment with Miss Williams to discuss Eleanor’s future education. I am trying hard to be unselfish and glad for Eleanor, for it would be a fine thing for her to go to school in the east, yet the idea of losing my new friend pains me.
Almost as soon as Mrs. Tucker had gone we heard a strange kind of moaning from the rear of the house. “What is that sound?” I asked Eleanor, for it was giving me gooseflesh on my arms.
“My father,” she said.
“Another attack? Then, Ellie, I must be going.” I do not wish to remain in a person’s house when her father is moaning. I do not want to know the personal and private reason for this man’s misery, especially when he shares a terrible, ancient secret with my own father.
Eleanor grabbed my arm. “Wait, Angie,” she urged. “Come see him.”
“Ellie! I saw him that other day and it was dreadful. I am sorry for him and for you, but my presence here cannot help.” Mr. Tucker, for all his joviality and goodwill, tipping his bowler hat to ladies on the street, was not a person I wished to encounter. A kind of villainous weakness radiated off him like heat. I remembered Momma’s warning, that she did not trust him.
“Listen to me, Angie. He won’t even know you are there. I need for you to see something. It is a matter of life and death.”
It was clear from her eyes that this was the truth; she did need me. Reluctantly, I allowed her to lead me to the back of the house.
Eleanor tapped at a closed door, and there being no response beyond the continual moaning, she opened it to a small parlor. There on the floor, his back to us, sat Mr. Tucker. He sat like a prisoner in a chairless cell, his knees pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them. Hatless, his head seemed smaller, his hair thin, a circle of baldness on top. At first I feared that he was ill, but then I heard the sound of a stream, felt unusual coldness in the air, and caught a glimmer of red.
Eleanor said, “I think it’s the little girl.” She spoke in a flat tone. Either her father did not hear or did not care.
“Yes,” I said, and felt again the profound sadness of the child’s torment. “Why—do you not see it?”
“No, at least not so clearly as in your father’s room. But I have heard him mumble about the cape and the drowning. My mother does not know about it. He sees the vision only when she is away from the house, and I am certain he hasn’t told her.” Mr. Tucker reached out his arms, but I knew from his moans that the small child stayed just beyond his grasp. I remembered how it fell into the stream and what would happen next—the silent entreaty, the anguished cries from afar, the terrible black holes for eyes. I could not force myself to stay there, nor could I bear to hear the hoarse sobs of the man on the floor. I escaped, pulling Eleanor with me and closing the door.
“Angie, I cannot abide this,” she said, clinging to my hands, once we were back in the front room. “My father is going mad, and although he was always quick to anger and capable of violence, this is now worse. The ghost haunts him continuously. He is greatly frightened.”
Eleanor herself was frightened, and no wonder. I asked, “Have you confided any of this to your mother?”
She shook
her head. “I cannot. I sense that if my mother learned about the ghost child she would do something … dreadful. Perhaps she would turn on my father, and he would … it does not bear thinking. I do not know why, but—Angie, you have seen it twice. What can it mean?”
Of course I have wondered this often, dear diary, but it is so odd, so unlike any experience in the past, that I have no answers, and all I see in my mind is the plaque on Papa’s door. I stood there gripping Eleanor’s hands, trying to think of something comforting to say, when over her shoulder, through the window, a face peered in.
It was Ling Loi.
I ran as quickly as possible to the door and flung it open, but Ling Loi had already gone. There was not a trace of her. I was beginning to feel the most extreme exasperation about that girl. Eleanor wondered aloud why I was dashing about throwing open her front door. Was there another ghost outside? I assured her that this was no ghost, nor anything to fear, and reluctantly said my good-byes, as much work awaited me at home.
Monday, June 21, 1880
Dear Diary,
Moth season is upon us. Last year we had been ill-prepared, nearly losing our only good carpet and our three winter coats, plus Papa’s suit for court appearances. Momma and I had spent many hours patching moth holes in blankets and clothing. Now it is once again time to moth-proof the house, and this year I intend to do it well.
I needed to lay down a good layer of ground pepper mixed with camphor gum, strewn thickly under the carpet. This work is strenuous, as the furniture must be moved, the carpet taken up, the floor swept and washed, the anti-moth mixture applied, the carpet laid back, and the furniture restored. Momma is still too weak to help.
I returned home from school along Main Street, which was, as always, clogged by traffic of all kinds. A wide, shallow gulch—which at this time of year is filled with muddy water—runs along the center of the street, and everyone who passes is splashed or even drenched with that foul water. Trying to avoid this (I had no wish to wash my dress and oil my boots), I collided with a passerby and was pushed against Gillson and Barber’s general store window. A large man whose clothing had a thick, sweet odor reached down to pick up the school supplies I’d dropped, muttering apologies. While he did this I glanced into the store. I tell you all this, dear diary, so that you will see how it came to be that I spotted Ling Loi through the window, way in the back of the store. Her arm was being clutched in the eagle-talon grip of Miss Minnie Williams.
Mr. Ward, for it was he who had knocked into me, offered to escort me to his business establishment for a glass of water. “Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Ward,” I said, trying to keep Miss Williams and Ling Loi in my sight within the general store, which was thronged with customers. “I’m not in the least thirsty.”
Mr. Ward put his long, sad face to the window, evidently made curious by my curiosity. Yet I thought it may not be a good idea to call attention to Ling Loi.
“I am most intrigued by that new contraption,” I said, and indeed it was true.
“Ah, yes, intrigued,” he repeated. “By that contraption. Yes. A shower stall, I believe. Complete with overhead sprinkler.”
I shuddered. “How awful! Do you mean that the poor victim stands there while being doused by streams of water?”
“Oh, yes, by streams of water,” he said, “poor victim. A form of torture, barbaric, really.”
This talk of poor victims directed my gaze back to Ling Loi, held captive by Miss Williams. I knew I had to help her if possible. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Ward,” I said. “I know you have to get back to your caskets and … things.”
“Ah, to be sure. Must get back, now, to a death mask, another gunfight casualty, I’m afraid.”
Remembering the lifelike death masks I’d seen in Mr. Ward’s back room, I asked impulsively, “Would the same technique be used if you were to make a death mask of a … uh, a pig, or, say, a horse?” I did not wish to reveal my true reason for asking.
To my relief he did not at first seem to consider this a peculiar question. “A pig or a horse death mask,” he mused. “Interesting. The technique, yes. Quite the same I’m sure, though I have never faced the challenge.”
“I am sure you would be equal to it,” I said flatteringly. “And that technique, what would it be, exactly?”
“To make a death mask for an animal? Is that the technique you wish to know, Miss Reddy?” Now Mr. Ward’s soulful eyes widened. He made it sound as if I was going to embark on some bloody pagan ritual—maybe devil worship or cannibalism! He leaned over, putting his face near to mine, as if studying it for my own death mask.
I stepped back, glancing to the side quickly to be sure Ling Loi and Miss Williams were still in view. I decided it would be prudent to tell the truth. “I just … was thinking of the masquerade ball.” I felt myself blushing to a great extreme, sure he could read my daydreams about dancing with Antoine Duval exactly as if they were printed on my forehead. “My friend Eleanor and I are aspiring to make our masks especially dramatic this year.”
He nodded, as if all I’d said made sense. “Dramatic masks, yes, of course I see, Miss Reddy, how death masks would have come to mind, especially having run into me, an expert, if I may say so. Widely recognized as such, I might add.
“But an animal face? Oh, my dear, no. No, I should recommend your own face as a mold for your mask. But my techniques, involving plaster and a subject that is, well, deceased, that is, dearly departed, which is to say, and please pardon my bluntness, dead—well, these techniques of mine are not the same as you would use. Muslin strips would be your material, and a paste of flour and water, I should think. Being exceedingly careful not to cover the nostrils.” He took in a deep breath, evidently to show me the important function of nostrils and why one should not block them.
“And first, of course”—he touched my cheek with one hesitant fingertip—“a thick coating of liniment, a protective ointment such as a mixture of mutton suet, resin, and beeswax. Or buy a ready mixture called Vaseline at the apothecary’s.
“Should you need any … advice, or any … materials, or even a … demonstration, please do not hesitate to come to me.” He made this offer in a strange, insistent way, as if he were eager to participate in my pagan ritual himself. Mr. Ward was an exceedingly odd person, in part due to his very awareness of and even pride in these oddities. “Ah!” he cried, straightening up. “Here comes your little friend and your teacher, Miss Williams, isn’t it? The pair you have been watching, I presume? Well, I shan’t keep you, my dear.”
And just as Ling Loi and Teacher emerged from the general store, Mr. Ward lurched off on his stiff, long legs, leaving me gaping after him.
Moth prevention treatment would have to wait. True, I dreaded the work it entailed, but I was fearful that Teacher had formulated some horrendous scheme to send Ling Loi away, so I decided to follow them. What if the girl should suddenly be thrown on the afternoon outbound stage, in the clutches of fearsome orphan-guards (these I imagined to look much like prison guards—bad-tempered and gray-skinned)? If an abduction happened, I would need to hatch a rescue plan on the spot.
Although Miss Williams still clasped Ling Loi’s arm, the two walked easily together and carried on an animated, non-stop conversation that I would have dearly loved to hear. Alas, I was forced to remain many paces behind so as not to be discovered spying, as I had been by the observant Mr. Ward. But Ling Loi was swinging her little cloth bag, and I could see her smiling up into Miss Williams’s smiling face. All that smiling between them was so strange as to be almost sickening.
At length they arrived at Johl’s butcher shop, but instead of entering, they nipped between it and the dressmaker’s shop next door, and went around to the back. I turned my head toward the street as I followed past Mr. Johl’s window, in case he was looking out. I had done nothing wrong, but nevertheless was seized by a need for secrecy.
I crept cautiously between the buildings, listening for voices ahead, increasingly worried that Ling Loi was fall
ing into Miss Williams’s insidious trap. If he were there, my father would have saved her, but since he was not, this task fell to me. I determined to rise above all danger, even though my own life be threatened. Yes, even should I be kidnapped and tortured and mutilated. Thus fortified by my own thoughts, I advanced and peeked around the corner.
Mortification! Waiting for me, hands on bony hips, was Miss Williams herself, whose stern frown smacked me the same as if I’d crashed into a wall. I resisted the urge to flee. Though Ling Loi seemed to have disappeared, I glimpsed a corner of her jacket behind the outhouse.
But then the back door of Mr. Johl’s shop opened a crack and the little brown pup shot out in a frenzy of excitement. It found Ling Loi and then took off around the corner at top speed, followed by the girl. Then the door opened fully; the woman holding it was dressed in a beautiful shimmering blue gown such as one would wear to an evening at the theater or, I imagined, to ascend into heaven like an angel. She stepped outside and said, “Oh, Miss Williams! How kind of you to have brought a friend.”
Miss Williams said, “You mean Angeline? But I—” She stopped in apparent confusion.
The woman was looking at me closely. She smelled partly like the puppy and partly like grasses that grow at the edge of a stream. The corners of her mouth curled up and her eyes crinkled at the edges, as if she had a private, funny secret. Despite that amused look, her nose was straight and severe, her eyebrows wistful, her honey-colored hair a flounce of curls that shone in the sun. They were the type of curls, real ones, that never needed the heated clamp of a curling iron.
I tried to smooth my frizzled wisps of bangs, feeling nervous and shy. She grinned suddenly and said, “Angeline Reddy! You’re the one who had the courage to speak publicly on my behalf at that dreadful Committee of Arrangements meeting. Oh, Eli was so grateful! He said either he would have roasted those women on a spit or they would have skinned him alive.” She clasped my two hands in hers.
