by Sarah Dreher
“Boy,” Billy said, “you sure are short-tempered.”
“You’d be angry, too, if you suddenly found yourself in a strange town, in a different century, and you didn’t know how you got there, or what you were doing there, or how to get away, or if you’d even see your home again...”
Fear and loneliness made a huge ball in her chest that swelled and swelled—she found herself crying.
“Hey,” Billy said, slipping an arm around her shoulders awkwardly, “I’m real sorry. Honest. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” He stroked her arm gently. “Come on. Don’t cry any more, okay? I’ll help you get home. I promise. Just don’t cry, okay?”
She pulled herself together. “Okay.” Her nose was running. “Do you have a Kleenex?”
“Huh?”
“Kleenex. Tissue. Something to blow my nose on.”
“Sure.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a large handkerchief. “This all right? It’s clean. I didn’t use it yet or anything.”
“Thank you.” She took it, wiped her eyes and nose. “I’ll wash it for you.”
“You don’t hafta do that.”
“Really, it’s no…”
“Stoner, I can do it.”
Something about his voice made her look up. Something soft, velvety.
Billy put one palm gently along the side of her cheek. “I can do it,” he said again, and kissed her.
It wasn’t at all what she would have expected from an adolescent boy. From an adolescent boy she would have expected roughness, fumbling, coarseness to hide teen insecurity. But Billy’s kiss was soft, warm, tentative and yet sure and asking—like a woman’s kiss.
She felt her body respond, and pulled back roughly.
“Oh, Jeez,” the boy said. His face was scarlet. “I’m sorry. Jeez, I never woulda done that... I’m sorry.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“I never done anything that bad before. Honest.”
“Well,” Stoner said shakily, “you killed your father. That’s pretty bad.”
“Not as bad as this. Jeez, I swear, I won’t do it again.”
Stoner nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”
“I didn’t mean to…”
“All right.” Right now she had to get away from him. To think—not about what he had done—she had to think about her own reaction. The way her body had gone warm from head to toe. The tingling...
Shit, she thought. I’m stuck in the Nowhere of the Nineteenth Century, I’ve lost my clients’ car, and I’m getting turned on by a boy.
The Lesbian Nation had been taking some strange turns in recent years. Hard-core radical dykes calling themselves “hetero-dykes” and sleeping with men. Long-term couples breaking up because one of them was determined to have babies. Former lesbian separatists demanding space for their male infants at Lesbian Gatherings. And now this.
Maybe the Government was putting something in the whole wheat flour.
≈ ≈ ≈
Cullum Johnson shifted his aging bones in the saddle and looked off to the horizon. He had a sneaking suspicion he’d been nodding off just now, the dream of falling from a high place not a dream at all but just his mind putting together the impressions his body took in. Falling. Falling off his horse. The not-dream waking him before he really fell.
He’d caught himself nodding off a lot in recent months. And slipping from the saddle. Once or twice he’d bruised himself real bad. Once he’d had to lie on the ground until the dizziness passed and he could drag himself back onto his horse. He figured there weren’t too many falls like that left in him.
He pulled Toby to a stop and got down, stretching each joint and muscle until it worked right. The horse nudged him between the shoulder blades. “I know, Toby,” Cullum said. “You wanta see what’s over the next hill, and so do I. But you got to be a little patient. You have the misfortune to have an ancient gentleman for a boss.” He scratched behind Toby’s ears and breathed into his nostrils, the way the horse liked. “You’re a good horse, Toby. Damn near killed me breaking you, and I reckon these days I’d have given up and gone looking for something with a little less piss in ‘er. But I sure would have missed four exciting years, for which I thank you with all my heart.”
Sometimes Cullum felt guilty about Toby. He’d been a frisky colt, you could tell just looking at him he was born to high adventure. But Cullum’s adventuring days were about over, as he was reminded each year when the geese flew south and he felt his strength fly with them. Oh, he’d ridden the horse far, and hard. But not on a regular basis. Some days, he just saddled up and rode through the Tennessee woods kind of leisurely. And one summer, just a couple years back, he came on the horse unexpectedly one day—musing over something or other, he was, couldn’t recall now what was so darn important—and found himself muttering, “Looka that horse, running to fat. Body shouldn’t have a horse if they ain’t gonna keep it fit.” And then his mind cleared and he realized it was Toby, and when he thought back he remembered a lot of days when it just seemed too hot or too damp or too some-damn-excuse to leave the comfort of his cabin.
After that he’d done better, making sure the horse was exercised every day. He knew it was good for them both. But if it had been just him, he wouldn’t have bothered.
So he reckoned Toby had kept him alive, after a fashion. Not that that was a blessing necessarily. To tell the truth, he hadn’t much cared what happened to him after he lost the red-haired gal. She was some beauty, she was, and he’d courted her like she was a queen. Bringing her presents, playing the gent at all times. Got so she’d confide in him, place her heartaches in his hands, and he’d just spread his love over them until the hurt didn’t hurt so much. Once she’d even let him see her cry, pressed her pretty forehead against his big ugly shoulder and let her tears fall on his shirt. Telling him about the shoemaker who’d promised to take her west, and she’d believed him until that morning she went running down to his place of business and found he’d left in the night, bag and baggage.
“I should have known,” she’d said in her pretty voice. “A fine man like him, with an honest trade—he wouldn’t want a used woman like me.”
He’d patted her silky hair in a comforting way, and wished he hadn’t been wearing that scratchy old plaid wool. If he’d known she was going to put her sweet skin against him, he’d have spent his last dollar on a shirt of pure satin.
Yeah, he’d loved that little red-haired gal. Didn’t care that she was an unchaste lady. Shucks, most gals were unchaste ladies these days—if they weren’t married or teaching school or making dresses. Maybe even if they were. Didn’t seem right, though. Man could go off with never a look back, leaving the woman behind to make the best of it in a town that treated her with scorn.
That little red-haired gal hadn’t done a durn thing wrong, not a durn thing every other woman in town hadn’t done. Trouble was, she’d gotten herself carried away with passion and sweet talk, and done it without benefit of clergy.
He wanted to help her. Didn’t have much money, but he shared what he could. And listened to her troubles and wiped her tears. And then he made his only mistake.
He asked her to marry him.
She’d looked at him kind of perplexed, and then got real quiet for a long time, staring down into her lap. When she looked up again, she had the most sorrowful look on her face, it nearly broke his heart. “Cull...” She was the only one who called him Cull. It made a special feeling in him. “Cull, you’re my dearest friend in all the world. But I never...”
That was when he remembered he was old.
He tried to laugh it off, real fast, before it could hurt what they had between them. But he knew it was too late. They both knew it. He took her out walking a couple of times after that, but the old easiness was gone. After a while he quit stopping around for her. He knew it made them both too sad.
A couple months later, he’d come out to the barn one winter morning and found his old mare, Foxfire, d
ead in her sleep.
It took him a long time to care about anything again. He let the cabin go unpainted that spring. The only crops in his garden were the ones that came up on their own.
But he needed a horse. At least until he made up his mind for certain to die. Seen too many folks kind of waste away, neither here nor there on the issue of living or dying, letting nature take its course so as to avoid personal responsibility. And personal responsibility was one thing Cullum Johnson never avoided. Lot of folks didn’t think much of bounty hunting as a way of life, but by God that was his calling and he was damned if he’d apologize for it.
So, as long as he was going to go on taking up space on this planet, he might as well do it with a little dignity. And dignity required eating and wearing decent clothes and working a little from time to time when the need arose. And that required a horse.
He buried Foxfire and went looking, and there, just three farms over, was Toby. Like he’d been waiting for him.
Cullum gave the gelding’s neck an affectionate squeeze and swung back into the saddle. “Let’s move along, boy. Days ain’t get- tin’ longer, and I ain’t getting younger.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The next day it began to snow. Hardly noticeable at first, the day as warm and sunny as the last. A few thin little clouds hung in the robin’s egg sky. Then a few more. By mid afternoon, snow was falling intermittently in misty flakes.
Stoner tossed the last of the split logs onto the wood pile and set the axe in the chopping block. She wiped the perspiration from her face with her shirt sleeve.
Darn. She’d hoped Billy would come by with the wagon, so they could go have a look at that burned farm. As long as she was stuck here, she might as well try to shed a little light on the mystery. Maybe she should have told him what she had in mind. He’d promised to try to get away in the early afternoon, but Dot must have needed him.
A little band of Indian woman stopped by to do business with Blue Mary, trading for the things they needed but were refused at the Emporium.
Maybe they were setting the fires, to drive away the settlers. That’s how it went in Hollywood’s version of the story. But Blue Mary had said they hadn’t had trouble with the Indians. And, anyway, if they did do it, they wouldn’t just set the fires and slink away into the night. They’d have made sure the settlers knew who had done it. That’s how it worked with political statements.
What she needed to do was take a walk and try to think this through and maybe come up with some brilliant ideas about getting back to 1989. Impossible to think in the cabin, where Blue Mary and the Arapahoe women were chattering and laughing and generally raising a ruckus.”
“I’ll be back in a while,” she said, as she slipped into her parka.
One of the Indian women detached herself from the group and came toward her. She said something in Arapahoe.
Stoner looked to Blue Mary for translation.
“Your coat,” Blue Mary said. “She’s curious.”
She took off the parka, held it out.
The woman drew back.
“It’s okay,” Stoner said, and smiled.
The woman fingered the material gently, turned back the bottom flap, ran her hands along the hem. She lifted the coat in one hand, bounced it up and down for a moment, then turned and looked at Blue Mary with raised eyebrows.
“She doesn’t understand how it can be so light,” Blue Mary explained.
“It’s the material,” Stoner said. “Rayon and Thinsulate.”
The Indian woman looked at her. “Ray-on? Thin-su-late?”
Oh, boy. How do I explain synthetics? “It’s...it’s...well, it’s not real. Someone invented it, made it. Probably for the Space Program. You know, for the Astronauts… on the moon.”
Blue Mary gave a little giggle. “Without being rude, dear, might I suggest you not say things like that? You sound quite mad.”
“Sorry.” She turned to the Indian woman, raised her hands palms-upward, and shrugged. The universal symbol for “Go figure”.
The Indian woman grinned and said something to her.
“She says it’s warm,” Blue Mary translated.
Stoner nodded. “Very warm.”
The woman spoke again.
“She says you’ll need it,” Blue Mary said. “There’s going to be a blizzard.”
“You must be mistaken,” Stoner said to the Indian woman. “It’s a beautiful day.”
Blue Mary translated.
The woman stared into her eyes as if trying to warn her of serious danger, and spoke rapidly.
“She says November sun is like a man. Warm on the outside but with a heart of ice.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stoner said.
“She’s right, you know,” Blue Mary said. “The weather out here can be treacherous.”
Stoner looked at the Indian woman, at her thin cotton dress, the threadbare shawl around her shoulders. “Here,” she said, holding out her parka. “You take this.”
The woman dropped her eyes to the floor and shook her head.
“Please,” Stoner said. “I want you to have it.”
Blue Mary hurried around the table and drew her aside. “They won’t take charity,” she said softly. “You’re shaming her.”
“I’m sorry.” She caught the woman’s eye. “I’m sorry.” She pointed to herself. “Foreigner. Ignorant.”
Blue Mary translated.
The Indian woman smiled and patted Stoner’s hand reassuringly.
“I do wish she’d take it,” Stoner said to Blue Mary. “Her clothes are so...so inadequate.”
“If you really mean it,” Blue Mary said, “go out for your walk. Leave the coat on the ground. Then it will seem as if she found it.”
“Will they know it’s for her?”
“They’ll know.”
Stoner slipped into the parka, looked around the room, and cleared her throat. “Guess I’ll go on out to the outhouse,” she said loudly and casually.
The Indian women conferred among themselves.
Blue Mary told them what she’d said.
“Ah,” said one. “Pee-pee.”
“That’s right,” Stoner said. “Pee-pee.”
Another round of buzzing and whispering.
“They wonder what’s wrong with you,” Blue Mary said.
“Wrong with me?”
“They think you must be deformed.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re afraid for anyone to see your private parts.”
That did it. Blushing down to her toes, she turned and stormed out of the house.
She took off the parka, dropped it by the side of the dirt track, and strode off across the prairie.
≈ ≈ ≈
The messenger picked his way through the fog-choked alleys. One hand clutched the collar of his meager cloth coat tight around his throat. Some day the fog would kill him, he thought. But he was still glad to be back in San Francisco.
He found the door he was looking for and knocked. Waited, shivering, until it opened a crack and the old Chinese woman looked out.
“Chang,” he said.
The old woman opened the door a little wider and he slipped inside. It was warm there.
He looked around. These people had money. Not a lot of money, but more than most Chinese in America. Their furnishings were old, but cared for. Rugs lay on the floor, and thick drapes hung by the windows. A lacquered chest stood in one corner of the room.
Merchant class.
The old woman brought him tea, fragrant and warm. He sipped it gratefully. As he looked up over the rim of his cup, he saw the young one standing in an inner doorway.
He had heard about her. Her cousins who worked on the railroad had spoken of her beauty often. She was destined to marry well, they said. Her beauty was legendary among the San Francisco Chinese.
The messenger had to smile. Her cousins were fools. Their most enthusiastic descriptions didn’t begin to touch her radiance. Eyes as d
ark and rich as the cone flowers that dotted the slopes of Mount Shasta. Hair so shining black he could almost feel its silkiness with his eyes. Graceful, delicate hands that hovered like hummingbirds over the tiny cakes and lifted the translucent china teacup to her carmine lips. Although she wore the American style dress, full skirt and ruffled bodice, her posture and manners were as Oriental as those of the Empress. Such a woman was a treasure, and would bring Honor to her family.
He finished his tea and delivered his message.
The old woman gave him money as May Chang turned and went to her room.
Before the door was closed, she had taken down the carpet bag she used as a suitcase and begun to pack.
≈ ≈ ≈
The creek bed was dry as dust, but still showed the channels, smooth as flowing hair, where the water had run during the September rains. The banks were high, the ground below flood level scoured clean of all but a few large round rocks. When the stream was full, it must be quick and treacherous. But it ambled down from one of the burned farms. Burned in the summer, Blue Mary had said.
Stoner strolled along the bottom, running a little from time to time. She might not make it all the way, but she could see if anything had washed down. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly. But it was better than doing nothing. Beneath the soft dust that rose around her ankles, she could feel the hard-frozen, clayey ground. Stopping for breath, she leaned against the bank and watched the sky.
It was nice out here. Quiet. Solitary. She could feel her mind relax.
The clouds were gathering together into a few large clouds, fluffy and pristine as whipped cream.
A hawk flew overhead, slowly, searching the ground.
She supposed pickings were pretty slim this time of year.
