The Comanche Kid, page 27
Bill and Jack Straw and Big Mike came by to wish us well and everyone shook hands all around. I thanked Big Mike for getting us through and putting up with me, and Jack Straw told me he had indeed saved his money and he was going back to his sister to help out, but he sure wished he could go on one more adventure.
I said it was a noble thing to help his sister and I admired him, and wasn’t that going to be an adventure in itself, and I wished him well. We shook hands and he had to duck away because his eyes were all wet and he was still drunk.
Shakespeare had explained to the boys what their pay was to be, that we were looking for Sally and it could be dangerous. I told them we would be leaving in another day or two and they should get whatever supplies they needed for the journey and to not be so drunk that they couldn’t ride.
Tommy Deuce said, “Hell, you sound just like Big Mike!” Then he apologized for swearing in front of a lady.
It felt strange to give orders. Even though Shakespeare had gone in halves with me, I realized it was my journey and they were hiring on with me and I was responsible for them, just like Big Mike was responsible for the herd and the dozen hands that rode with it.
When evening came, Shakespeare and I went back to Delmonico’s for supper and I had him order a bottle of champagne. It tasted so good I had him order another, and he laughed at that and told me to slow down, but I told him for the first time in a long time I felt giddy and happy and I thought my luck was changing. He told me to slow down again, but he didn’t try to stop me, and I couldn’t see the harm in feeling that good.
We left Delmonico’s and we walked back to the Dodge House. I said we should look at the map again and plan our route, so we went to my room, him holding me by the arm to keep me steady. I rolled the map out and we both sat down on the edge of the bed, holding it across our knees, and the idea of sitting on a bed with him seemed wild and dangerous. I didn’t need to wonder what Ma would say if she could have seen us.
The room started to turn on me so I kicked off my boots and I threw the map on the floor and crawled onto the bed, leaning up against the headboard. Shakespeare kicked off his boots and did the same, the two of us sitting there like an old married couple, and we chatted away.
I asked him about his family and he told me his father had been a judge in Corpus Christi and that’s why there had always been books around, but his father also had a large spread outside of town and that’s where the cattle come from, and his mother was always reading and thought women ought to be able to vote and she was always helping neighbors or people in trouble and bringing home stray dogs. They were a family of raconteurs as well, he said, and I had to ask him what a raconteur was. He went on and talked about how the loss of his brother March had hit the family hard, then there was the influenza, and he was the only one left standing, for some unknown reason.
I told him I knew what that felt like.
I asked him what his name was and he did that sad smile. “You first.”
“Maybe someday.”
He said, “Same here.”
I closed my eyes to try and stop the spinning. I told him about my family and about Pa coming from Ireland to Tennessee and then moving west from Tennessee and meeting my mother when he was working as a hand in Comfort. Her parents were Swiss German and they didn’t want her marrying someone Irish, but that’s how it happened after all. When he went to fight for the South they were done with him, especially after Ma’s brother was murdered by Southern sympathizers when he was caught trying to sneak off and join the Union Army. I didn’t remember my grandparents very well at all, and I was a twin. After the war they both moved farther west, and boy was that ever a mistake.
He said, “Well, I suppose so … ”
My stomach started to cramp and I said, “Oh dear God.” Something hit hard and I scrambled off the bed and tried to get across the room.
He saw where I was going and got ahead of me and took the pitcher out of the washbasin. I was on the floor now, doubled over and heaving, and he got down on the floor with me and put the basin in front of me.
I gagged and choked and heaved and I felt like I was being knifed in the belly. Then it all came up, the supper and the pie and the coffee and the champagne. I heaved and heaved into the basin, and I swear I heaved up more than what could have been in me and I thought my ribs were going to break. I was bathed in sweat and even my shoulder hurt. I wanted to die and just be swallowed up into the floor I was so embarrassed. When it all stopped I lay there, and I couldn’t speak.
Shakespeare sat on the floor with his hand on me, and he said, “I’m going to clean you up now.”
I said, “Oh God no.”
He stroked my hair and he said, “I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”
I tried to cover my face as best as I could, just like I’d done when the Comanches beat me. He got the pitcher and the towel and washcloth and took my shirt off and pulled my soiled trousers off, and he began to wipe me clean. He said, “After all it’s not like I haven’t seen you unshucked before.”
When he had washed me off, he picked me up and carried me to the bed and put me in it. I rolled away from him and turned my back to him, curling up into as small of a ball as I could make. He sat down beside me, and I felt his fingers trace the scar on my shoulder blade.
I flinched away from him. “Please don’t.”
“Looks like you had an angel wing removed right here.”
“Yeah, some angel I am.” He traced it again and I let him do it, and then he put his whole hand on it and just held it there.
“It’s so ugly,” I said.
“It’s a battle scar.” He went on, saying, “Coriolanus was supposed to go down to the town square and show his battle scars to the people in order to be appointed to some high office, but he was too arrogant to do it, saying everyone knew he was a war hero so what did he need to show his scars for, and it ended up costing him his life.”
“Who’s Coriolanus?
“A Shakespearian tragic hero.”
“I don’t think I qualify as a tragic hero.”
“If your pride gets you killed, you just may.” He leaned over and he kissed the scar, several times, over and over again. I grabbed the bed linen and clenched it with my fists in order to let him do it.
When I woke up, it was dark and he was sitting in a corner reading a small Shakespeare book by lamplight. He saw I was awake, and I couldn’t think of what to say.
He stood up, putting his book away in his shirt pocket. Standing over me he said, “I wanted to make sure you’re OK. You get some rest. Bang on the wall if you need me.”
I could hear his boots hitting hard across the wooden floor and his spurs jingling and I heard his hand on the door, and I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone.
I said, “Don’t go.”
He stopped.
“Stay with me.”
TWENTY-NINE
I didn’t turn to look but I heard him cross back. He sat on the edge of the bed and I heard his boots hit the floor. He lay down next to me and put his arm around me. He smelled like sweat and dust and horse and he smelled like prairie flowers and the hot wind off the plains, and he smelled like the night sky. I didn’t even know what that meant but it was what I thought. I was glad he was bigger than me, and I felt as if now not even the nightmares could get to me.
I woke up long before dawn and the room was still dark, and I realized he was under the covers now, behind me, his arm around me and my breast cupped in his hand. At first I was shocked at how close he was and I feared what Ma might think, but I left his hand there. I began to breathe easy and I didn’t want the sun to come up so we could stay like that forever. I loved his hand being on my breast, as if he was holding all of me, everything that I was, in just one hand.
I leaned into his hand and I whispered, “You can have me if you want.”
I didn’t know if he was even awake, but then I felt a kiss on the back of my neck and his hand moved to my other breast, and then it began to trail down my body and over my belly and I rolled onto my back so he could have me, and I reached back and grabbed the iron railings of the headboard as he moved up on top of me. He was still dressed and his clothes were rough and he was kissing me and I could feel his buttons and pockets pressing into me, and then I was scared. The fear was like a wave off the gulf, rolling over me, and I was afraid of what Ma would say and I imagined Preacher haranguing me and I feared the Comanches were in the room now and coming for me out of the darkness. My breathing froze up, and then Shakespeare was off me.
I curled up again and I said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and he said, “It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,” and I felt ashamed for being so frightened. We were quiet then, and with his hand resting on my scar, somewhere in there, I fell asleep.
It was bright again when I woke up, and just like before, there he was in the chair, reading. I looked around, and there was a brown paper package sitting on the foot of the bed. I said, “What’s that?”
“Look and see.”
I felt as if every bone had been pulled out of my body, but I dragged myself out of the bed and I didn’t even care if he saw me naked. I knew there was nothing attractive about me, so what the hell. I walked across the room naked and I got a drink of water from the pitcher, and then I opened the package.
He had been out already and he had bought me new clothes to replace the ones I had soiled. And there with the new clothes were ribbons, ribbons of different colors, pink and blue and red and yellow and green, and they took my breath away.
“Saw you looking at the ribbons,” he said. “Thought you’d like them.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll pay you back.”
“It’s a gift. There’s no need.”
I put the new clothes on and I picked up the pink ribbon and fingered it. I said, “I’ll wear this if I ever feel pretty.”
He closed the book and put it in his shirt pocket and he said, “You’re pretty now.”
I just smiled at him, and I put the ribbons away.
We got something to eat and I had a hard time looking at him. When I did, he smiled at me and made small talk about how hot it was going to be that day, right? And the nights seemed as hot as the days, didn’t they? And the wind across the plains never seems to stop, does it?
I didn’t know what to say to anything he said.
We met Monty at the stables again and he said he would finish preparing the wagon and we could leave tomorrow, calling me “boss.” I couldn’t help but think again how the world was turned around and upside down, and that gave me an idea.
As we left the stable, I whispered to Shakespeare, “Follow me,” and I led him back to the Dodge House.
We went upstairs and down the hall to my door and there were no words spoken as I let him into my room. When the door was closed behind us, I turned and pushed him up against the door and I kissed him and he held me and kissed me back, and then I told him to take off his clothes, and I began to unbutton his shirt.
He tried to stop me, saying, “Kid, I want to, but you don’t need to do this. I understand.”
“It’s OK,” I said. “I figured something out about being frightened.”
Our hands were trembling as we started undressing each other.
We both stood there naked and we kissed again and he was tall and lean and his muscles from working the horses and riding all day were like cords. I ran my hands over him like I’d always wanted to, discovering him, and he touched me, slowly, all over. We were both covered in sweat, the day was so hot already.
I took him by the hand and I led him over to the bed and I said, “Lie down.”
He did so, saying, “Kid … ”
“No, don’t speak,” I said, and I knelt on the bed beside him and I ran my hand through his hair, looking for the copper. “Everything’s been upside down and turned around ever since my family was killed. Every day I’ve been scared about something, whether it was Sally being lost or me freezing to death, or being hit by hail or lightning, or being run over by a stampede or drowning in a river crossing, or One-Eye finding me and cutting my throat, or Big Mike being mad at me, or whether or not you liked me, or what Ma would think about anything I was saying or doing, or if the horse I was to ride the rough off of was going to break my neck, or if the dead Comanches were coming back to haunt me.”
I threw my leg across his body and I held on to his shoulders and I leaned down and I kissed him.
“I’m sick of being afraid,” I said. “I’m done with being scared. If the world is turned around and upside down, then I’m turning things back around right now.”
I began to ease down onto him and it felt like lightning was going through my whole body, and again he said, “Kid … ”
I was struggling to breathe but I said, “My name is Jane Fury. I’m sixteen years old. Fury is an Irish name. You can call me Jane.”
He stared at me, his eyes wide and blue, then his hands went to my face and he ran his hands through my hair, smiling and saying, “Glad to meet you, Jane. I’m only a little older than you. My name is Roy Finnegan. Finnegan is an Irish name. It means fair one. Roy is French. It means king.”
“You’re king of my heart, Roy.”
And he said, “Jane.”
Light seemed to course through my whole body and I gasped. It felt good to hear my name on his lips and I touched them with my fingers like I’d always wanted to and I whispered, “Say my name again.” He did, and I felt my name on his lips and I said, “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do, Roy,” and I liked how it felt to say his name.
I looked into his eyes and he looked back into mine and he had the same look he had when he marveled at the stars. I remembered he pointed out a constellation of stars one time named Equuleus and he spelled it for me, saying it meant “little foal,” and when I saw it I was struck by what a miracle and a mystery the world was, and that’s how he was looking at me.
And as we touched each other, his heart beat so hard in his chest I swear I could feel it thundering against my legs, and the pounding of his heart and his blood rose into my hips and butt and spread up into my whole body until my heart was pounding with his heart, and he was bringing me out of the dark forest of fear and hate I was living in, and together we broke free of the dark forest and into the sun and the open air and we were flying high over a field of green grasses and prairie flowers. I was covered in sweat and my hands and arms were high in the air and Shakespeare’s hands were in my hair and on my face and on my shoulders and then on my breasts and running down my ribs to my waist and hips and butt and legs. I was free and I could breathe because everything was air and sun and blue sky and flowers and open fields. Somewhere in there I was screaming, and then I was weeping because nothing could touch me or hurt me because I was free of all loss and fear and pain, and I was in his hands. He looked at me as if I was some kind of miracle, and that’s what he said, “Thy life’s a miracle,” and I knew he was quoting from one of those plays.
I collapsed down on him and he was as wet as I was, as if we’d been underwater and just come up for air. I held him, and his hands caressed my back and his fingers traced my scar and he whispered in my ear, “Maybe you’re not an angel, maybe you’re Pegasus, but you’ve lost one of your wings. Pegasus and Equuleus. The winged horse and a little foal, both.”
I whispered back to him, “If you die, I’ll kill you.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“It does to me.”
I don’t know how long we lay there like that, covered in sweat, the hot sun pouring through the window and the hard wind blowing the curtains, but however long it was, it wasn’t long enough.
When we got to the stables the next morning the hands were there, the wagon was ready, and Jack Straw was waiting for us, looking all sheepish. When I asked him what he was doing, he said he needed a job, that he was a fool and he’d gotten drunk again the night before and had lost all his money, and if I could afford another hand he’d like to hire on. He held his hat in his hands and looked at his boots a lot, and his kit and saddle were just behind him on the ground.
I looked at Shakespeare and he just shrugged. I thought, to hell with the money, why not? Who wouldn’t want Jack Straw as a traveling companion.
“Sure, Jack Straw. Thirty dollars a month.”
He said, “I’ll save every penny of it.”
We left Dodge, heading southwest, crossing the Arkansas River, Shakespeare trailing the remuda and Monty driving the wagon. I led the way with Abraham, Jack Straw, Shady, and Tommy Deuce, and we were following the direction General Dodge had drawn on his map.
We traveled day after day, the prairie stretching out before us, seeming so vast and empty, and the wind was relentless. The wagon and the horses and the hands could all have been swallowed up, and no one would ever have known we were gone. That’s what I began to feel sometimes, a goneness.
At night, Shakespeare read from the plays. I didn’t know if it was the words he spoke or the stories themselves or the sound of his voice, but when he read aloud I found myself thinking, we’re not so lost and alone after all, here’s where home is, here where I can hear his voice, as if his voice was the true center of the universe. When he wasn’t reading or talking, I remembered how hard and lean his body felt against mine, but that made me lonely, like a pleasant memory of something I might never have again.
At night, when I got panicky about how alone I felt, I held on to Ghost’s reins, desperate for her to calm me, but sometimes even she was quiet. Even the chatter of the hands or Shakespeare’s voice didn’t help, and often in the mornings I would be sick at my stomach and I’d throw up, and the feeling and the sickness would come and go.
