Karen Memory

Chapter Four

Since we was closed and since it weren’t raining, after I just about licked my plate Connie took advantage of my gratitude to send me to the market. I wanted to check on Priya — and Merry Lee, sure, but really mostly Priya, and I wasn’t sure if I liked myself more or less for being honest enough to admit it — but Miss Lizzie got that line between her eyebrows and told me that neither girl was to be disturbed before midnight at the earliest. When I, of course, would probably be hard at work stargazing. Or ceiling gazing, since you can’t see much in the way of stars through plaster, or Rapid City’s constant fog and clouds.

So Connie claimed I needed a distraction and put a pile of net bags in my hand and sent me off to the market with Miss Francina to shop for supper. Even though it was sunny — albeit already getting on toward evening, this late in the year — I hooked an umbrella on to my arm. I was wise to the ways of Rapid City. We had accounts with some of the merchants, but Miss Bethel — who kept the books — signed me out a fistful of paper dollars. I’d heard some in the old Confederacy wouldn’t touch the hundred-dollar notes with their portraits of Abraham Lincoln, but given gold rush prices all up and down the waterfront I was happy to fold up a couple and shove them in my button pocket. She also handed me a pile of pennies and trimes and cartwheels, for making change with.

Miss Francina and I walked along beside the cart, to stretch our legs and because it was more pleasant than jouncing. The road was fair enough dry — I skipped over a few stinking puddles — and all around on the horizon the mountains were out in every direction, looming up out of blue distance like genies standing in their smoke.

The Bayview Market is two lies in just one name — Rapid City has a Sound, not a Bay, though what the dictionary difference is I couldn’t be the one to tell you, and you can’t see the water from it anyhow on account of the shipworks dry docks — but it is just about hard enough by to smell the sea, and it’s about my favorite place on earth, barring my own private bedroom. It’s a long redwood building the size of those dry docks, up on stilts and with the doors guarded by wooden stairways on account of maybe flooding, what with where it sits. Redwood stands up to a soaking, anyway, and it was built long before the street-raising plan went into effect. Now it’s just eight feet up from the road instead of thirty, even if the road isn’t quite finished yet.

You used to be able to row to it when it flooded. Now there’s talk of putting in stone steps, the better for folk to fall down ’em and split their heads when the granite slicks up in winter. Still, it’s full one end to the other with market stalls. There’s hothouse flowers in January, and oranges from China and alligator pears from Mexico, and the freshest seafood you ever tasted in your life. Scallops as big as your hand, that you cut and eat like a filet steak. Oysters by the gross and by the dozen, plain briny honest fare for whores and tradesmen alike. Agate-red salmon and agate-green lobsters that turn a whole different, brighter red when you boil them. Saffron, cinnamon, nutmeg, peppercorns. Sea salt in great soft, sticky flakes. Cheese from as far away as Vermont and France. Blackberry wine and good brown local ale. Fresh-baked bread, coffee beans like green pearls, tea that’s come from as far away as Priya did. Anything you have ever eaten or wanted to eat, basically, and a slew of other things besides — baskets, cloth, Singer sewing machines right out of the Sears catalog. Even made-up clothes for the prospectors heading north who didn’t bring nobody to sew a thing for them. Really sew, I mean, though I suppose most wives know a bit about the other kind of sewing, too.

I could spend a week walking the sawdust-strewn planks of that place, nibbling samples of sardines and candied salmon. So it’s a good thing Connie sent me with a list, because otherwise I might wind up bewildered and wandering the aisles until I wasted away to a haint. (There is more than a few stories that the Bayview is haunted. Mostly I think they’re jokes. Mostly.)

Miss Francina and me bought three kinds of bread — which I stuffed into a net bag — and two kinds of cake. She took charge of those. We also split a small apple pie as a snack. Most of the other fruit was only good as preserves by now, though you could buy some ready canned in glass jars as pie filling, but the end of the apple harvest was still coming in and the pie tasted like paradise with ginger sugar sprinkled on top. So I guess I got my pie anyway, and you know it turned out I did need it after all. We got ten pounds of onions, half-white and half-yellow, and arranged with a butcher to deliver fifty pounds of fresh beef and venison, and similar provisioning from a fishmonger. The potatoes would be delivered, too. The greengrocer had some of those Chinese oranges with the real soft skins, and I filled up a bag with ’em and another bag with Brussels sprouts. They’re just fancy cabbage, but the johns will pay extra for ’em and I like cabbage well enough.

The eggs and the milk came to the house on delivery, so we didn’t have to worry about those.

By the time I’d sent Miss Francina back to our hired cart for the third time to drop off packages, I was feeling quite pleased with myself. Miss Francina is nothing but good qualities, but none of those good qualities is the patience to cook well or do the kind of picking over potatoes for green spots it takes to handle the marketing. I’m good at it — it’s no fussier in detail than grooming horses — and I was feeling pretty smug about my good work and Connie’s trust as I shouldered a net bag of onions with one hand and picked over mushrooms in a bin with the other. I think I was even humming to myself — some fashionable tune that Pollywog, who was opera struck, had been playing on the parlor baby grand while the Professor wasn’t looking.

I’d never take so little care now. But the hand on my wrist caught me by complete surprise. Of course, I flatter myself that my enemies — and now I know I got enemies, which weren’t a word I would of used in those days — wouldn’t do anything so careless now, neither. They’ll have learned a little respect.

But as I said, I wasn’t expecting nobody to grab me just then. I guess I was young yet and not too smart. I just stared at that hand on my wrist in shock. It was big, scarred across the back, curls of coarse tawny hair sprouting between the knuckles. Exactly the sort of hand you might expect to grab you unexpectedly, except for the woman’s dainty gold ring on one pinky.

I followed the broad bones of the wrist up to the elbow and the rolled-up calico sleeve. Home-sewn, it looked like. Somebody cared enough about this fellow to hem his clothes with care.

As for me, I didn’t care much for him at all. He was squeezing my arm something fearful.

My eyes snapped up to his face. He wasn’t as tall as his hand predicted, but he was even broader. He had bad teeth and good skin, dark blond hair greased into ringlets, a red silk kerchief inside his collar tied in a fancy knot. I didn’t know for sure he worked for Peter Bantle, but let’s say I could guess.

“You’re one of that Damnable woman’s tarts,” he said. He had a pleasant light voice. I thought Pollywog would of called it a tenor. He sounded more surprised than mean. “Well, you’d better come along with old Bill now.”

Nobody nearby seemed to notice he was grabbing me. Or if they noticed they didn’t care, even though I wasn’t tarted up just then. I was wearing my plain blue muslin country dress and a carriage coat for marketing, and no paint. Amazing what people can fail to see when it’s a man doing it to a woman, even a respectable-looking woman.

I hit him across the kisser with ten pounds of onions and he let go of my arm.

The net bag held, to my surprise. A couple of his teeth were less sturdy, as I surmised from the way he staggered back, clutching at his mouth, and then worked his jaw, doubled over, spat red — my stomach lurched — and grimaced. Around us, people withdrew in a circle — some watching, some walking hastily away. Behind me, the greengrocer pulled the boxes of mushrooms out of harm’s way.

Bill blinked tears from his eyes, then fastened his gaze on me. “Bitch,” he snarled — why they never think of anything cleverer I’ll never know. When he lifted his hand up again, this time there was a fighting knife glittering in it.

But by then, I had the umbrella in my right hand, the wrist still red and burning from knocking his clenched hand loose. A knife’s sharper, but an umbrella has reach, and mine has a pretty good steel ferrule to the tip. He was a lunge-and-slash fighter and he had the weight and reach on me, but Bruce Memery taught me to brawl when he taught me to shoot — and to ride — and when Bill stepped to his right to dodge my umbrella’s swat and swiped at me again I surprised him by not jumping back but instead spanking him across the hand with the onions again. It worked — his hand went up — and I jabbed him in the breadbasket with the umbrella. I might of gigged him like a frog except the ferrule struck on one of his canvas braces and so it just made him oof like a mule when you deflate her for saddling. More’s the pity.

He went skidding backward, buying me a couple of seconds, but the Spanish notch on the back of the Bowie snagged in the net and the onion bag ripped. Onions bounced everywhere.

I heard myself panting, watching the onions roll. A quick glance left and right didn’t show me anything else I could use to foul the knife, and the umbrella wouldn’t stand up to more than one or two cuts. There was no sign of Miss Francina, and even if she heard the cries going up and came at a run she’d hit the press of people going the other way. It would take her too long to get to me. With the knife out, the crowd was pulling back farther, and still nobody stepped in to help me. I could try to jump the greengrocer’s stand, but a bustle and petticoats weren’t designed for acrobatics.

Bill looked at the torn bag in my hand and smiled, showing the teeth I’d busted. A little spit-thinned blood dripped down his chin. At least he shaved; I think I would of puked for sure if it were trickling through stubble.

I wasn’t stronger, and quicker only helped me so far. I supposed I just couldn’t get lucky enough for Bill to trip on the onions and break his fool neck. If I was going to live through this — or get out of it without getting dragged to Peter Bantle’s house, and from there God knows what might happen — I’d have to be smarter.

As Bill stepped up — careful of his footing between the rolling skunk eggs, damn him to sixteen different hells (one for each piece) — I looked him in the eyes and pinned a smile to my face like I planned to appliqué it there. “So—” I panted. Each couple of words came out between a gasp. “I’m betting Peter Bantle don’t know one of his toughs goes about waving knives at women in the Bayview.”

Somebody in the crowd heard me. I knowed by the gasp I heard that wasn’t my own. I was just afraid that Bill might be too het up to realize he was doing something stupid — or too het up to stop doing it, even if he noticed.

I never had to find out.

Somebody pushed out of the crowd and stepped between us. It weren’t Miss Francina, neither.

I got a confused impression of a man’s big shoulders: black hair in ringlets on a black coat, black hat, tan deerskin range gloves, black boots chased with silver thread. Whoever he was, he was built on the scale suggested by Bill’s hands. I couldn’t see over his shoulder.

But even from the back, I recognized the gesture he made as he lifted his left hand to his lapel and ran his thumb under it, flaunting a star that must be on his breast. He flipped the wing of his duster back, and I saw his right hand cross his body and hover over the holster tied down to his left thigh with a rawhide string. There was another holster on his right thigh, but the butts of his guns faced the wrong way — forward. My da would of blanched to see that cross-body draw, but some people said it was faster.

“U.S. Deputy Marshal,” he said. A big voice to go with a big man, and I’d put him in Texas or Arkansas. “If I were you, mister, I’d put that knife away.”

Bill drew himself up, but he didn’t cringe. Pity. It’d make my life easier if he was cowardly as well as stupid. His voice dripped scorn and disbelief as he sneered, “Marshal.”

He lowered the knife, and the gun didn’t come out.

Bill said, “This slommack broke my teeth!” His voice came out hissy and bad, on breath flecked with red spit. I ducked back behind the Marshal so I wouldn’t have to see. It’d probably impress my rescuer less if I shot the cat all over his shoes.

“Is that so?” said the Marshal. He didn’t look back at me. “This little thing?”

There aren’t a lot of men who can get away with calling me a little thing. But I could of walked under this one’s arm, if he held it out straight, and he was about twice as broad as me.“She tried to stab me with that sword stick!”

“Miss?” the Marshal asked. “I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

Well, I don’t know when the last time was that a man called me miss when I wasn’t buying a chicken from him. “More or less,” I allowed. “Except when I stuck him with my umbrella, he was trying to cut me. And when I hit him in the face with a bag of onions, he was trying to kidnap me.”

“Huh,” said the Marshal, drawling. He had a good voice with that flat Arkansas accent laid over it. “I guess it goes to prove what they say. There’s two sides to every story.” He paused, tipped his head under the hat, and said, “Mister, I’d guess you’d like to get to a dentist.”

I peeked around the Marshal’s shoulder. Bantle’s man’s mouth did a funny thing, that must of hurt like hell over what was left of his teeth. My mama had bad teeth — they killed her when I was nine and that’s why Da pretty much raised me as a mustang-camp hellion — and I had an idea of how much pain Bantle’s man must be in. His eyes were glassy with it, his skin sweat soaked and pallid now that the fury was draining out of him. His jaw worked, and he swallowed — spit and blood, I imagined.

Thinking about it made me want to up my chuck. I swallowed, too.

The Marshal’s gloved hand alighted on the butt of his gun. Bill’s eyes followed the soft movement, and when he looked up again you could tell all the fight had puddled in his boots.

“Who gives a damned Negra a badge?” he asked no one in particular, and faded back into the crowd.

I blinked. The Marshal turned sideways, towering over me but keeping one eye on Bill’s retreating back. Once the crowd hid Bill, the Marshal’s hand came off his gun and he ducked down a little to talk to me more level like, so I could see more than the line of his chin.

He said, “Then I reckon my reputation don’t precede me.”

He was a stone handsome man, and I say that even though for me humping with men is just how I earn my crust and covers. His cheeks and chin were scraped clean around a thick, well-trimmed mustache, and his brown eyes shone. His face was also brown and shiny as a toasted coffee berry, and he smelled like fresh coffee, too. I thought he might of been about forty years old. He weren’t forty-five.

“Ma’am,” he said. His duster’s black canvas strained over his shoulders when he tipped his hat. “U.S. Deputy Marshal Bass Reeves, at your service.”

And then Miss Francina burst through the crowd in a flurry of lace and wrath. She nearly took Deputy Marshal Reeves’ head off before I got between ’em, and we had some explaining to do while we picked the onions up.

* * *

Deputy Marshal Reeves had a gallant streak, and never so much as gave Miss Francina a double take — well, fair enough, a small second look, but he didn’t say nothing, and Miss Francina’s tall enough and pretty enough to deserve a second look under any circumstance and he didn’t say nothing. He offered me one arm — I had to reach way up to take his elbow — and Miss Francina the other and insisted on escorting us home.

Since me and Miss Francina had previously discussed it and elected to walk rather than rattling along in the cart with the turnips, this was not only no hardship — it was pleasure. I informed Marshal Reeves that in my opinion, his offer was downright neighborly of him. He explained that he was up from the Indian Territory in pursuit of a fugitive — that’s how he said it, “fugitive”—and it had been his pleasure to render assistance. Which is also how he said it.

He gave me and Miss Francina each a brand-new Morgan silver dollar, as a keepsake, too. I hadn’t seen one before, except in engravings in the newspapers, for they was new that year and only minted in Philadelphia. A dollar weren’t a lot of money in Rapid City, what with the big hissing ships chugging their way back and forth from Anchorage every couple of days, but it was a pretty thing.

The coin was large and heavy, bigger than a hub wafer candy. Much bigger than the fish-scale gold dollars I was used to, more like an eagle. It did have a woman’s face on it like a gold dollar, though, side on. Profile, I think you’d say. But it weren’t no Indian princess. It was a Lady Liberty, like on the gold dollars from before the war.

Except this was a different Liberty. She had a sterner look to her, a lifted chin, a good strong nose, and a plump line of her jaw. She made me feel stubborn, and like getting things done. Something about looking at her eased that funny shameful itch I’d been carrying since the night before, and I slipped her into my bodice for safekeeping.

“Karen honey,” Miss Francina said, “she could be your sister.”

She held her coin up beside me as if studying the likeness, and I laughed. I knowed she was just pulling my tail.

It felt good to laugh, though. At first, it felt like I hadn’t done it in about a thousand years, like I was creaky and my laugher needed to be oiled, but then I warmed up a little and it flowed naturally. I did catch Marshal Reeves looking at me sort of odd and sideways, however, as if he’d caught the false note and wondered.

He didn’t wonder long, because we passed what by the banners and placards must of been a Democratic Party meeting spilling out into the streets on every side of the folded former bank where the Brotherhood of the Protective Order of the Sasquatch met. There was men of every shape and size, but only men and those men only of one color, and nearly every one of ’em had a Klondike beard like he’d just landed from Alaska. They were too well fed for that, though, and they wore city shoes, though most of them didn’t quite fit in their clothing.

I saw the Marshal frowning after them, and Miss Francina frowning at her boots. A black man had reason to hate Democrats, for sure, but I felt like there was more to it that I wasn’t understanding. When we were far enough along to be out of earshot, I asked.

Miss Francina fluffed her lace sleeves, a sure sign of irritation, but I didn’t think it was aimed at me. She chewed her lip as if trying to find the right words to explain but never quite had to. Because after a look over to her for permission, the Marshal huffed his mustache out, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Voter fraud,” in a voice that dripped frustration. “Every one of those bearded men is going to vote two or three times, in different wards, depending on the skill of the Party’s barbers.”

“Oh,” I said. I was alive for the war, of course, but I mostly remembered it with a child’s jumbled sense of uneasiness, disconnection, and lack of self-determination. And it wasn’t as if I could vote. But I did remember President Hayes’ election, and the scandals instantly telegraphed across the nation when because of voter fraud three different states submitted two different slates of electors — one Democratic and one Republican. Congress had to decide, and some people said Republican Hayes had made a corrupt bargain with the Democrats to get his slate of electors ratified.

It occurred to me to wonder if Marshal Reeves had ever voted in an election. He had mentioned he was in from the Indian Territory, but his voice said Arkansas. Arkansas was a state.

This Marshal might of voted in 1872, I realized. And again in 1876. It wouldn’t of been possible before that. I wondered if it had made him feel different. Or if he had felt like he was making a difference, for that matter.

Of course, it’d never be possible for me. So when I thought about those men in the prospector’s beards voting three, four times apiece and selling every one of them … I don’t mind saying it griped me.

I was quiet while we walked, chewing that over with the rough weave of the Marshal’s sleeve warm against my gloves. He seemed to be taking in the sights, and Miss Francina indulged him. There were some smells, too, but mostly those weren’t so enjoyable.

All around us, Rapid City was booming. We could hear the scrape and rattle of the huge logs being skidded down Skid Road, not two blocks over, and the cursing of the men trying to control their overworked mules as the animals in turn strained to control the logs scraping over paving stones. The streets about boiled over, teeming with carriages and pedestrians and steam cars and the threat of fatal collisions. Scaffolds held up a half-constructed building on every block, and there was a steam shovel or a hydraulic crane at every site. I’d swear the scaffold and construction companies just moved ’em around from week to week as new tenements and blocks of offices were thrown up with abandon in every direction, each one taller and more gilded than the last. After the Chinese lynchings and then the riots in San Francisco the previous year, nobody had wanted to hire the Chinese ironworkers left over now that the biggest planned rail lines were built. But that was all forgotten now, qualms sacrificed on the altar of the goddess Necessity, as Miss Bethel would say.

Finally, we came to Madam Damnable’s, and Marshal Reeves gallantly handed us onto the ladder, then followed us down. At the bottom, by the red cut-glass lanterns flanking the door, he paused. The locksmith and the glazier had both arrived, and the stoop was a confusion of ladders and toolboxes and boards laid across the inevitable puddles. It looked like we’d be open at dinnertime. A young rat skittered past. Trying to look ladylike in front of the Marshal, I didn’t kick at it.

“Well,” the Marshal said. Again, I waited for the double take, the comment. Instead, his silver star glittered in the oblique evening light as he dug in a pocket of his duster. He came out with a parchment roll with a label gummed to it that read: Chase and Company, and I laughed, suddenly, remembering that I’d compared the silver dollar to a candy like this.

Up at street level, I could tell by the sounds that the cart had arrived, and that Crispin was going about unloading it. He’d bring the loads in by the upstairs door around back, where there was a dumbwaiter to bring them down to the kitchen.

The Marshal stuffed his range gloves into the pocket the candy’d come out of, then peeled a hub wafer off the pack and offered it to me. Wintergreen, my favorite. It was a gift, I knowed. But he touched it with his bare fingers rather than offering me the parchment packet to pick my own one out, and so I knowed it was also a test.

I plucked it away from him and put it past my lips, dry and starchy and sweet. It barely fit in my mouth. Soon, the edges started to crumble against my tongue. He gave the clove one to Miss Francina, and we stood around and sucked for a bit. When I had swallowed enough to talk again, I asked him, “Do you wish to come in?”

Marshal Reeves tipped his hat again. “I’ve a wife at home, miss.”

So he hadn’t misconstrued the lanterns. He just hadn’t overmuch cared that my new friend Bill was telling the truth about my line of employment.

Having a wife wouldn’t stop a lot of men, but I wasn’t about to point that out to the rare bird who would let it. So Miss Francina tried another tack. “We have a good cook. I think Karen and I owe you some measure of thanks for rescuing us, Marshal Reeves.”

His smile ruffled his mustache. I thought of draperies. But he shook his head again. “Miss Wilde. Miss Memery. The pleasure of your company has been more than adequate recompense.”

She glanced at me. I made my eyes wide. She covered a smile and said to the Marshal, “We could keep a look out for your fugitive. If you came in and told us about him.”

But a third time, he declined. “I’d rather word didn’t get back to the desperado that I’m hunting him,” he said simply. He patted my hand and Miss Francina’s and, in a swirl of duster panels, vanished back up the ladder into the nascent twilight above.

I palmed Lady Liberty, warm from my bodice, and considered her stubborn profile. How much did they pay U.S. Marshals, that he could afford to hand these out like candy drops?

Miss Francina and I went around to the side door to get inside. Miss Francina went back to the kitchen to oversee the unloading. I went to give Miss Bethel her receipts and change.

In the parlor — still without clients — Miss Bethel was pouring what looked like bright chips of confetti into a crystal candy dish. I wandered over and looked. They were pink and white candy hearts, and they looked just like the hub wafers. A whole shipment of Chase and Company candy must of come in by freight train, I realized, and now everybody in the city could get some. We’d all be sick of them before the last parchment-paper roll got eaten up.

A moment later, I realized each one had some words on it. I picked one up that had bounced out of the bowl. Married in satin, love won’t be lasting.

My mouth still tasted of hub wafer, so I flicked the heart back in with its sisters. “Suits us,” I said.

Miss Bethel winked.