Chapter Twelve
A Trying Day
The next morning, Oscar and Trick headed out again.
My injury hardly pained me at all while moving around in bed by then, and when Miss June changed the dressing, she said I should start walking around more.
So, after a small breakfast in the room, I went downstairs with a book Sally had lent me and sat in the parlor.
’Twas nice to enjoy the morning in peace and quiet, while the girls slept in upstairs.
A cathouse didn’t normally come alive until after eleven or twelve, since most of the business was done in the evenings and at night.
I’d woken when Oscar had gotten up, which had been early, and ’twas a good thing we’d left the party and gone to bed when we had.
I reckoned the others had stayed up until the wee hours to make the most of a rare night off.
The book I was reading was The Call of the Wild by Jack London.
’Twas set in the Yukon and ’twas about a dog that was half St. Bernard and half wolf, and about the life he went through as a sled dog then a fighting dog.
Seemed like he was gonna constantly change owners until he died or broke free of human hands.
I was enjoying it, so far. I knew the land up there, so the descriptions of the area resonated with my memories.
I kind of felt like that wolf dog, Buck, in the sense that I hadn’t felt I belonged in the outlaw life I was leading, but I hadn’t seen a way out of it.
I had felt trapped by circumstance and pitted against my fellow man, like Buck had found himself alert to the threats of the sled dogs he was forced to associate with by circumstance.
“The dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck, and under the fierce conditions of trail life it grew and grew.
Yet it was a secret growth. His newborn cunning gave him poise and control.
He was too busy adjusting himself to the new life to feel at ease, and not only did he not pick fights, but he avoided them whenever possible.
A certain deliberateness characterized his attitude.
He was not prone to rashness and precipitate action; and in the bitter hatred between him and Spitz he betrayed no impatience, shunned all offensive acts.
“On the other hand, possibly because he divined in Buck a dangerous rival, Spitz never lost an opportunity of showing his teeth. He even went out of his way to bully Buck, striving constantly to start the fight which could end only in the death of one or the other.”
I disappeared into my head while reading and, before I knew it, ’twas on about noon and the girls began to come down the stairs, yawning and pulling their peignoirs about them as they came.
“Good morning,” I said to young Sally, who had lent me the book I was reading.
She smiled and glanced at it.
“You enjoyin’ it?”
“Yes, I am. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”
“When you finish it, you’re welcome to come to my room and pick out another one, Jimmy. I got a lotta books.”
I wondered how a woman who could read and presumably write had ended up in a cathouse.
The Angel was the most fancy and well-run establishment I had seen, but ’twas still not an ideal place of employment, unless you had nowhere else to go.
Of course, simply because Sally could read and write didn’t mean she hadn’t fallen afoul of the random rules of an unjust society and ended up an outcast. Perhaps she’d had a child out of wedlock or had been assaulted and her reputation ruined by a man’s hand.
I was blessed to have been born a white man, because it seemed the world was made around our whims, and though my life hadn’t been ideal and had been difficult, I reckoned that if I’d been female ’twould have been ten times worse, and I’d have likely ended up in disgrace myself and without another means of survival except what Miss June’s girls had.
At least she took care of them as best she could and gave them a safe place to do their business.
For ’twas a business. They provided a valuable service to men who had no other outlet, and they should be paid handsomely for that. They should be able to screen their clients, as they did here, and demand to be treated with respect.
Sally sat down in one of the armchairs and gazed out of the gauzy curtains at the street, her expression hard to figure out. She seemed sad.
“You all right?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said, turning to flash me a wide smile. “Nothin’ much to complain about, I guess.”
I held my tongue. ’Twas true that The Angel was a far sight more comfortable than a lot of other cathouses. But ’twas still a cathouse, where Sally had to sell her body and her smile for enough money to live on.
“Where are you from, Sally? Did you grow up here in Telegraph Creek?”
She shook her head. “No, I was born in New York City,” she said, and I about fell off the settee.
“New York City?” I said, amazed. “Why, that’s miles and miles from here.”
“Yeah,” she said, leaning back in her chair and regarding me with caution, perhaps deciding whether she trusted me enough to be honest about her past. “My momma died, and my daddy brought me west, through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota then up to Canada. I reckon he was hoping to get to Alaska, for the gold. But we only made it this far.”
I shook my head. “Must have been a rough life for a girl. ‘Specially a—a—”
“A colored girl?” She gave me a little smile that held all the sadness of the world.
“Most of life is hard for any girl, I reckon. Harder than ’tis for any man.
” She blinked and looked at the floor. “Even a white woman who grows up in wealth and comfort can die in a second from birthing a child. And if you’re colored, like me?
Well, things is even harder. But I don’t wanna think about that.
” She looked around her at the fine furnishings of Miss June’s parlor.
“Here, in this place, I’m treated the same as any of the others—and that suits me fine. ”
“That’s good,” I said.
“My momma died birthing me. And I swore I weren’t never gonna have children, e’en though that’s what they say all women are made for.”
I thought about that for a while.
“My friend, Irene, in Port Essington? She’s married, and she don’t want children. I reckon ’tis a woman’s choice, whether to have little ones or not—or it should be.”
Sally shrugged. “Sometimes it happens, and nobody can help it.”
“True enough,” I said. “Where did you get your learnin’, Sally? If you can read novels, you must have had some.”
“Oh, my daddy was smart and educated. He made sure I learned my letters and my numbers and sent me to school when he could.” She gave me a look that spoke volumes.
“He was a good person, my daddy, and I loved him very much. I reckon…I reckon he wanted more for me than the life I’m leadin’. But it can’t be helped.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sally nodded. “Well. I’m fed and I’m clothed.” She gazed at her peignoir then gave me a wry smile. “In a manner of speakin’… And I’m surrounded by good people. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”
I thought back to my life with them outlaws.
“I reckon that counts for a whole lot, Sally.”
We sat in silence for a bit, listening to the sounds of the town out of the window as people moved about.
Miss June kept the doors locked until about three or four in the afternoon, so we didn’t have to worry about men coming in to look for comfort as yet.
’Twas nice to sit in the quiet and talk with Sally.
From the sounds of more movement and noise upstairs, I figured more of the girls would come down soon, looking for breakfast and easy conversation.
“What’s it like in Port Essington, Jimmy? You and Oscar got a good setup there?”
I hadn’t thought about home in a while. I’d been so anxious to get here, then concerned about my leg and now worry about Oscar. All of a sudden, the memory of our beautiful new home and the people we’d left behind made my throat ache.
“Yeah. Real good.”
She smiled and raised her brows, urging me to continue.
“We got some good friends there,” I said, suddenly remembering my conversation with Carson before we’d left.
I hoped Carson was enough of a friend to us that he’d keep our secret.
He’d said he would, and I had no reason to doubt him, except for an eerie sense that things had gone well for us and that was bound to end at some point.
’Twas the same sort of feeling I had with Oscar out in the world without me, that my life was too blessed, and I didn’t deserve this happiness.
“We built a house,” I said.
She raised her brows in surprise.
“You did? You and Oscar?”
I laughed. “Not only us. We had a lot of help, since we didn’t know how.
’Twas a huge undertaking, but we got it done, and our house is standin’ and”—I blinked, remembering how it had looked and how it had felt to be living in it—“’tis such a lovely house, Sally.
I never thought I’d ever live in a house like that. ”
“Oh! Is it real grand?”
I laughed and shook my head. “Nah, ’tis a plain two-story house made of regular lumber. ’Tis plain, I reckon, but ’tis real cozy and has lots of space for the two of us. More’n we need, probably, but I’m plenty grateful.”
Sally nodded. “I’m glad you and your beau—excuse me, your husband—are happy and able to be together. You’re lucky to have found each other, I reckon. ’Specially because of the way the world is.”
“I know it,” I said, emotion rising in me, and unease because my young husband was out riding with Trick—and who knew where he was right now.
Just then, a couple of the other girls came down the stairs and convinced Sally to go to the kitchen with them for some breakfast.
“You want somethin’, Jimmy?” Sally asked. “Cook makes cinnamon rolls sometimes for breakfast, and they’re mighty tasty. I can bring you one, if you’d like?”
“Sure. That would be awful kind of you.”