The Gamble

“I will,” the bay replied disgustedly, following Gandy’s lead.

  “And not only inside, behind ‘em, too.”

  “What if I go deef? It ain’t no good t’ git water in your ears.”

  “I promise y’ won’t go deef.”

  “That’s what Gussie says, but—”

  “Gussie?” Gandy’s palms stopped scouring his chest.

  “Yeah, she checked my ears and—”

  “Who’s Gussie?”

  “Agatha. She says when she was little her ma always called her Gussie; an’ she said I could call her it, too. Anyway, Gussie, she checked my ears an’ said...”

  Gandy heard only bits and pieces of what Agatha had said. Gussie? He sat back, thoughtfully ladling water over his chest, fitting the nickname to her face. His hands stopped moving. Why, of course... Gussie. He smiled and reached out one long arm, dried his fingers, men plucked a cheroot from his vest pocket. When it was lit, he lazed back contentedly with his knees sticking up like mountains, arms cradling the top of the tub, thinking of her.

  A curious woman. Moralistic to a fault, but with an underlying respect for everyone and everything that won his respect in return. She had an amusing way of challenging him where temperance matters were concerned. He’d come to almost look forward to her appearance in the Gilded Cage each night. Yes, she crusaded beside all the others. But her campaign was tempered by an abiding belief in man’s basic rights to live his life as he saw fit. When he thought about it, it became downright admirable; on the one hand, she could sing and hand out pamphlets and solicit signatures on a temperance pledge; on the other, she could allow that Gandy had a perfect right to run his business along with the other saloon owners in town.

  Another of Agatha’s dichotomies absorbed his thoughts. She was fascinated by Jubilee and the girls. Though she tried to pretend she wasn’t, there were times when he caught her studying them as if she found them the most entrancing creatures on earth.

  And the boy. She was particularly good with the boy. Too bad she never had any children of her own. She’d have done a much better job at raising them than would a reprobate like Collinson.

  Gandy glanced over at Willy and chuckled. The lad was doubled forward with his chin and lips just below the water’s surface looking as if he enjoyed every minute in the tub.

  Gandy blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. “Agatha made you some new duds.”

  Willy’s head popped up. His eyes rounded in disbelief. “She did?”

  “Britches and a shirt.” Gandy nodded sideways. “Over on the chair with mine.”

  “Garsh...” The water dripped off Willy’s chin as he became transfixed by the stack of folded clothing. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “Reckon she wanted it t’ be a surprise.”

  Willy’s eyes remained riveted on the chair while he stood up. “Can I git out now?”

  “You sure you’re scrubbed clean?”

  Willy raised both elbows and gave each armpit a cursory check. “Yup.”

  “All right.”

  A glistening backside pointed Gandy’s way as two wet heels thumped on the floor. Gandy reached for the towels, tossed one to Willy, and stood to use the other. Willy gave his body no more than a quick hit with the wadded-up towel before he dropped it in the puddle and headed for the clothing.

  “Hey, not so fast there, sprout. You’re still drippin’. Come here.” Gandy slung his own towel over one shoulder and hunkered down with Willy between his knees. He grinned at the way the boy shivered and huddled. But Willie seemed unaware of anything except the fact that new clothing waited on the chair. While Gandy swung him this way and that, drying his back, armpits, ears, the boy craned toward the chair as if his head were mounted on a spring.

  “Hurry up, Scotty.”

  Gandy smiled and released Willy with a pat on his backside. “All right, go.”

  The britches were blue muslin. Willy gave no thought to underwear. He hitched his buttocks on the edge of the chair seat and slipped impatiently into the new pants. Agatha had put a drawstring at the waist. Willy cinched it up and crossed to Gandy, staring down his belly. “Tie me up.”

  “Put your shirt on first and we’ll tuck it in.”

  The shirt closed up the front with white mother-of-pearl buttons. It was made of blue-striped gingham and the sleeves were several inches too long. “Button me.”

  Gandy smiled secretly and did as ordered. The buttons held the cuffs from slipping over Willy’s small hands. He tied the drawstring at Willy’s waist and tucked the strings inside, then held him by both hips.

  “You look pretty spiffy, boy.”

  Willy pressed the shirt against his chest with both palms. “Ain’t they pretty?” He gazed down in wonder but suddenly spun from Gandy’s hands. “Hey, I gotta go show Gussie!”

  “Not so fast. What about your shoes?”

  “Oh... them.” Willy plunked backward onto the floor and slipped on his boots over bare feet—he’d come with no socks.

  “And hadn’t we better comb your hair?”

  “I ain’t got no comb.”

  “I do. Just a minute.”

  When Gandy was dressed, he sat on the hoop-back chair with an impatient Willy between his thighs. He parted his clean blond hair carefully and swished it into a perfect windrow above his brow, combed it back above his ears, and made a neat tail at his nape. When he was done he held Willy by both arms for inspection. “Agatha won’t know you.”

  “Yes, she will—lemme go!”

  “All right. But wait for me.”

  Outside, the man had to lengthen his stride to keep up with the boy.

  “C’mon, Scotty, hurry up!”

  Gandy grinned and hurried. The day was balmy. Agatha’s front door was open. Had it not been, Willy might have broken the window throwing the door out of his way.

  “Hey, Gussie, Gussie! Where are you?”

  He ran through the lavender curtains as she called, “Back here!”

  Gandy followed just in time to see Willy standing beside Agatha’s chair, chest puffed while he inspected himself and boasted, “Lookit me, Gussie! Ain’t I pretty?”

  Agatha clapped once and rested her folded hands beneath her chin. “Why, for the love of Pete, who do we have here?”

  “It’s me, Willy!” He patted his chest convincingly.

  “Willy?” She studied him dubiously, then shook her head. “The only Willie I know is Willy Collinson, but he doesn’t look all shiny like you. He doesn’t smell like fresh soap either.”

  Willy’s breathless words tumbled out one atop the other. “Scotty an’ me, we took a bath and washed our hair an’ he brung me my new clothes you made an’ he tied my string an’... well... but I couldn’t button an’ he helped me an’ I love ‘em, Gussie!” He catapulted himself into her arms and hugged her tenaciously.

  Gandy stood just inside the doorway watching. Willy kissed Agatha flush on the mouth. She laughed selfconsciously and flushed with happiness.

  “My goodness, had I known I’d get all this attention, I’d have made them days ago.”

  “An’ I cleaned my ears real good, just like Scotty said, an’ I scrubbed everythin’ an’ he combed my hair. See?” Willy raced back to Gandy, caught him by a hand, and tugged him forward. “Din’t we?”

  Agatha raised her eyes to Scott Gandy, standing above her. It was as close to being a wife and mother as she had ever felt. Within her heart fullness abided. At her knee the child leaned, touching her, smelling soapy, his shirt—with room for growth—standing out from his slight body in starched peaks. Close before her stood a man who, along with her, had made one small neglected soul feel happier and more cared about than he’d perhaps ever felt in his life.

  She reached up a hand, unable to say all that flooded her heart. Scott Gandy took it, held it tightly, and smiled down at her.

  Thank you, she mouthed silently above Willy’s head.

  He nodded and squeezed her fingers so hard the touch ricocheted off her heart.
/>
  Suddenly, they both became self-conscious. Gandy dropped her hand and stepped back. “He’ll need new socks and underwear. I thought we’d go over to Halorhan’s and pick some out.”

  As Agatha watched the two walk away, hand in hand, her eyes stung with joy.

  At the curtains, the boy swung around and flashed a quick wave. “See y’ later, Gussie!”

  Gandy’s brown eyes settled on her pale green ones. His wore an expression somewhere between a tease and a caress. “Yeah, see y’ later, Gussie,” he said.

  She blushed and dropped her gaze. Her heart fluttered like a cloud of butterflies lifting into the air. When she looked up, the doorway was empty of all but the swinging lavender curtains.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Alvis Collinson suffered from a perennial case of gout. On the morning following Willy’s bath, he awakened with both big toes throbbing. He tended to blame everything on Cora’s dying, his gout included.

  Damn you, Cora, for goin’ and leavin’ me without no woman t’ do for me! Toes throbbin’ like a pair o’ bitches in heat, and I have t’ git up and fend for m’self. No hot breakfast waitin’. No clean shirts t’ put on. No woman t’ fetch the coal and heat the water. Goddamn women, anyway—no good when ya got ‘em and no good when ya ain’t. And goddamn Cora the most, always harpin’ at me t’ be somethin’ better, do somethin’ more refined than pokin’ cows. Refined meanin’ somethin’ fancy like Brother Jim, who gits hisself a panty-waist job as Registrar of Deeds just about the time the land agents started blowin’ up this part o’ the country t’ strangers. Brother Jim who dudes hisself up in fancy suits ev’ry mornin’ and walks down the boardwalk t’ his prissy office doffin’ his hat t’ the ladies as if his farts don’t stink. Why, hell, Cora couldn’t look at Jim without her eyes buggin’ outta her head and her tits swellin’ up.

  And nobody was gonna convince Alvis Collinson that miserable brat wasn’t Jim’s bastard. More than once Alvis had come home unexpected and caught Jim sniffin’ around Cora. And her nose was twitchin’ too, goddammit to hell if it wasn’t!

  Not tonight, Alvis, I’m too tired. As if once she got a sample of Brother Jim her own husband wasn’t good enough anymore. Then she had the nerve to drop her whelp and check out for good.

  Come on, Brother Jim, show your face around this town once more—just once!—so I can whip the piss outta you and dump your brat on you, where he belongs. I’m gettin’ tired o’ bein’ tied down by that little thorn in the side when he ain’t even mine.

  In the kitchen, Willy stood on a chair, on tiptoes, peering into a small milky mirror hung high on the wall. His fine-yellow hair gleamed with water. Painstakingly, he ran the comb through it, parted it on one side, then sliced it flat over the crown of his head from left to right. He tried to swish it back just like Scotty had done, but it wouldn’t stand up in the sideways peak. He tried again and failed. He clamped the comb between his knees and used his palms this time, shaping the crest as if it were made of piecrust dough. After several attempts, he had finally done it fairly well. Boy, is Pa ever gonna be surprised!

  He clambered off the chair, dropped the comb on the table, and went to the bedroom doorway, beaming with pride.

  “Pa, look! Lookit what I got!”

  Alvis scowled at the doorway, nursing one aching toe. It was the brat, already up and dressed. “Lookit what?” he growled.

  “These!” Willy rubbed his breast pockets. “They’re from Gussie and Scotty. Gussie, she made me the britches and shirt, and Scotty, he bought me the new boots after him an’ me took a bath together down at the Cowboys’ Rest.”

  Collinson’s eyes narrowed on the boy. “Scotty? Ya mean Gandy? The one from the saloon?”

  “Yeah. First he give me a goin’-over with kerosene. Then we took our bath and—”

  “And who the hell’s this Gussie?”

  “Agatha, down at the millinery shop. She gots this new sewin’ machine Scotty bought for her, and she made me new britches and this new shirt, too.”

  The gout seemed to spread from Alvis’s toes to the rest of his body.

  “Oh, she did, huh? And what right’s she got takin’ over my kid, huh? Wasn’t ya dressed good enough t’ suit her?” Alvis struggled to his feet. “She the one behind that damned snoopin’ preacher man come pokin’ his nose ‘round here? Is she, huh?”

  “I don’t know, Pa.” The light went out of Willy’s face. “Don’t you like my new things?”

  “Git ‘em off!” Alvis hissed. Then he rummaged through the clothes he’d dropped beside the bed last night, searching for his socks. “Just like Brother Jim, ain’t ya?” he mumbled, while the confused child tried not to let his disappointment show.

  “But they’re...”

  “Git ‘em off, I said!” Barefoot, Alvis lunged to his feet. He stood before the boy with his fists clenched, dressed in a filthy union suit with the legs cut off at mid-thigh, the back hatch sagging. His whiskered face contorted with rage. “Ain’t nobody tellin’ me I ain’t dressin’ my own brat good enough, ya understand?” Willy’s lower lip trembled and two tears formed in his eyes. “And quit that snivelin’!”

  “I ain’t takin’ ‘em off. They’re mine!”

  “Like hell ya ain’t!” Collinson caught the boy by the back of the collar and tossed him onto a scarred wooden chair. It screeched, tilted back on two legs, then clattered onto all fours. “Where’s your old boots? Git ‘em on, and your britches and shirt, too. I’ll show them uppity sons-a-bitches t’ keep outta my bus’ness! Now, where’s them boots? I told ya, boy, t’ quit your snivelin’!”

  “But I like th... these. They’re a pre... present from Sc... Scotty.”

  Collinson dropped to one knee and jerked the boots roughly from Willy’s feet. The angle of his big toe against the floor caused a shard of pain to shoot up his leg, incensing him further. “When I decide you need new boots, I’ll buy you new boots, ya got that, boy?”

  Willy’s eyes streamed and his chest jerked as he tried not to sob.

  “Now git on your old ones!”

  “I ain’t g... got ‘em.”

  “What d’ you mean, you ain’t got em?”

  “I j... just ain’t.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I d... don’t kn... know.”

  “Goddammit to hell! How can ya lose your own boots?”

  Willy peered up fearfully, his thin chest palpitating as he held in the sobs. Collinson’s fists clenched and he yanked the boy roughly off the chair onto his feet.

  “Ya lose your boots, ya go barefoot. Now gimme the rest.”

  Minutes later, when Collinson limped angrily out of the house, Willy threw himself on his bed and let the pent-up weeping escape. His hot tears wet the tender white skin of his freckled arm as he cried against it. One skinny bare foot curled around the opposite ankle as he rolled up in a ball. The crest in his gleaming gold hair, which Alvis hadn’t even noticed, became disheveled by the sour bedclothes.

  Agatha’s heart slammed into her throat when the voice roared from the front room.

  “Where the hell is ev’rybody!”

  Violet hadn’t arrived yet. Agatha had no choice but to answer the call herself. She shuffled to the curtains and parted them. Immediately, the gruff voice shouted again.

  “You the one they call Gussie?”

  She composed herself forcibly. “Agatha Downing is my name, yes.”

  Collinson squinted, recognizing her as that “temperance bitch” who was always stirring up trouble lately, the same one who had stuck her nose into his business once before when Willy had come looking for him at the saloon.

  “You’re outta line, missus.” He flung down the shirt and pants on top of the aviary display case.

  “Miss,” Agatha retorted tightly.

  “Aw, well, that explains it, then. Ain’t got no whelps o’ your own, so ya take over other people’s.” Holding Willy’s new boots in one hand, he brandished them at her nose. “Well, git yourself som
e o’ your own. My boy don’t need your charity. He’s got an old man, and I’ll see after my own. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Collinson glared at her hard, then headed for the open door. Before reaching it he turned back. “And one more thing. Next time ya go whisperin’ things t’ the preacher, tell him t’ mind his own goddamned business.” He started for the door again and once more stopped to demand, “Where the hell’s Gandy? I got words for him, too.”

  “More than likely still asleep upstairs.”

  He threw her one last glare, shouldered around toward the door, then disappeared. Agatha’s heart was still thudding sharply when she heard the sound of shattering glass. She hurried to the front door just in time to see Collinson fling the second boot through a window overhead. “Gandy, wake up, ya son-of-a-bitch! I’ll buy my own boy’s boots, so stop interfering! The next time ya take him to the Rest for a bath, you’ll need one yourself t’ wash off the blood—ya hear me, Gandy?”

  Curious heads poked out of doorways all along the boardwalk. As Collinson limped down the middle of main street, he glared at Yancy Sales, leaning out the door of his Bitters Shop. “Whaddaya gawkin’ at, Sales? Ya want a boot through your window, too!”

  Every head withdrew.

  Upstairs, Gandy awakened with the first crash. He braced himself up on his elbows and squinted into the morning sun beaming in the window on the far side of Jube.

  “What the hell...”

  Jube lifted her head like a prairie dog peeping from its hole. “Mmm... mmm...” Her face fell into the pillow and Gandy rolled across her to look at the boot lying beside the bed.

  He flopped onto his back and uttered, “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Wh... zz... tt?” came Jube’s muffled voice.

  “The new boots I bought yesterday for Willy.” He closed his eyes and thought how long it had been since he’d gotten into a rip-roaring fistfight. It would feel mighty good again.

  A quiet knock sounded on his door. He rolled from the bed, naked, and stepped into his black trousers. Barefoot, he padded to the sitting room and opened the door.

  Agatha stood in the hall, hands clasping and unclasping nervously.