Chapter 37
KODIAK
When Alice wrote those words, I don’t think she realized how difficult returning to her would be.
I lay low in the shadows, still in my jailbird denims. First thing is I need to get to looking different.
Lord knows my size already sticks out like a bucktooth, but it never ceases to amaze me how far a gentleman’s costume can get you.
I keep to myself till dark, resting in an alley till my wound quits bleeding. There’s a gentleman’s outfitter I passed on Market Street. Behind the glass, mannequins in suits and bowler hats, gloves on wooden stands, polished boots on a shelf. This joint should have just what I need.
Alleys nearby marine supply shops and blacksmiths are rich with scrap metal, bent nails and short, useless strands of wire. Those scraps find utility in the haberdasher’s lock as it clicks open. Much more subtle than a brick through a picture window.
Inside reeks of perfumes and tonics, nearly chokes me. But it’s a good sign. They’ll have toiletries here. I scan the space in the dark; a copper pipe travels along a brick wall behind a long oak counter. Indoor plumbing. Seems I’ll get cleaned up proper here.
The register till gapes like an open dresser drawer, nothing but moonlight gleaming inside. Looks like my pockets’ll stay empty a while longer.
I move quiet through the rows, running a hand along the wool.
French loom, most likely. My father had a tailor in the capitol that would order swatches from overseas.
Fine weave, dark gray—something a banker might wear to church.
From a hook, I lift a bowler hat and a pair of gloves, soft as milk.
I take the jacket and matching trousers, then a clean shirt from the stack.
Too small at the shoulders, but most are without a bit of tailoring.
Alice would know just what to do. Have me cleaned up in no time flat.
Goddamn. The thought of her hits me square in the gut, knocks the wind out of me. I been alone most my life, never thought I’d feel this kind of loss. But since she’s been gone, I’m all outta sorts. There’s a wound in me no one can see, runs straight through like I ain’t whole no more.
Ain’t just the things she’d do—making my coffee, fixing supper.
It’s looking for her when the sky turns that bruised purple, when it smells like rain and I realize she ain’t there.
It’s laying under the stars wanting to hear her go on about this one and that one, asking stupid questions just to make her laugh.
The grief wants to choke me, but I shake it off.
I’ll get back to her soon enough. In the meantime, need to clean myself up some.
In the rear room, I find the basin beneath that copper pipe.
The handle groans, then gives a thread of water, cold enough to sting.
I strip off the striped denim, stiff with dust and dried blood, and let it fall in a heap.
The wound along my side’s crusted over, ugly but holding.
I wash the worst of the dirt away, the water turning pink before it clears.
A shaving kit waits on the shelf. Straight razor, a cake of soap that smells of cloves.
I work a lather, careful round the scabbed edge of my jaw.
The blade’s sharp; each stroke takes years off me.
I trim my hair with the scissors, clumsy but better than a prison barber’s hack.
When I finish, the man in the mirror looks almost respectable.
A bottle of cologne stands among the brushes. I dab it on, too much maybe, but the scent covers the road and the blood. The gloves slide over my hands like a disguise sealing shut.
I gather what I’ve used and set it back near enough to right.
A glass case out front is loaded with watches and gold cufflinks.
Once the lock talks, the panel slides open.
I just take what I need. One watch to add some legitimacy to this act.
Another to pawn in a pinch. It’ll be a day or more before the shop owner knows what’s missing.
Let the law think I’m traveling in my old denims, that Galveston is already a speck over my shoulder.
I shove all my shit in a leather bag for the road and pull the door open a crack. Outside, the lamps along Market Street burn low, and the Gulf wind whispers between the buildings. I step into it, collar turned up, a gentleman by moonlight and nothing more.
The fog’s rolling in off the bay, thick enough to hide a man if he moves quick.
I stick to the shadows along Strand Street, boots scraping on the cobbles.
Seems every window’s got a poster—Train Robber Still at Large—and though the face sketched there looks half stranger, the name cross the top is mine.
The rail yards are out. They’ll be watched. A man who robs trains can’t run from them the same way. So I head for the docks. Lamps along the piers are smothered in yellow halos. The wharf creaks underfoot. Out in the dark, ropes groan as the tide pulls at them.
One ship’s working late. Small cargo steamer, maybe a dozen men moving wearily, stacking barrels under the hiss of lanterns. Across the barrels I read the letters PASC.
Pascagoula, maybe. East, out of Texas.
I watch a minute, counting heads, listening.
One man, the purser maybe, sits behind a crate with a ledger open.
I straighten the bowler, smooth the coat, make myself tall and certain.
A man with purpose draws less attention than a man skulking in the dark.
When I step into the light, the nearest deckhand don’t even pause.
The purser looks up, squinting. “Passenger business is daylight hours.”
I meet his eyes. “Not passenger. Freight. Wallace & Sons. Textile shipment under McKinnon. I’m to ride with the crates, sample inspection when we reach Pascagoula. McKinnon swore it’d be cleared.”
He frowns, ledger open, but don’t find the name. I press before doubt sets in.
“Look here,” I say, reaching into my vest and pulling the gold watch.
The shine of it is enough to help him see things my way.
“Invoice might’ve been misfiled in the rush, but you’ll surely find it in your morning post. Freight’s paid, that’s certain.
” I hold the watch out to him. “Here. I’ll let you hold it. Collateral.”
The purser glances again at the watch, then at my gloves. Men trust gold, always have. He takes it, turning it over in his hand. The lamplight glints on the glass face like a wink, and he closes it in his fist with a knowing look. I ain’t getting that watch back.
“You’ll ride quiet, then. No meals, no complaints.”
“I’m nothing if not quiet,” I say.
Dropping the watch into his pocket, he nods toward the gangway. “Find a bunk aft.”
Seems we understand each other. I step aboard, boots thudding on damp planks. The ship smells of oil and iron. As we push from the wharf, the city blurs into fog, only the cathedral spire left to mark the place I’ve burned behind me.
Two nights of keeping my head down later, we come into Pascagoula through thick air, rich and green with pine and mud. The docks smell of fish and coal. A poorer sort of town, less polished and more forgiving than New Orleans and Galveston.
No one stops me when I walk ashore. The purser don’t even look my way. He’s got his watch, and I’ve got a name that don’t belong to any poster in Mississippi. Fair trade.
The streets off the wharf are a cross between boardwalk and mud. A telegraph office buzzes two doors down. I pass a grocer hauling shutters open and a barefoot boy sweeping sawdust into the street.
My pocket is light, the pawn watch gone. But I’m clean, dressed, and standing in a place where nobody cares who I’ve been. No wagons idle, no horses hitched. From here, the road bends north and I start walking. Alice is a long way off, but I’m finally facing the right direction.
By the second day on foot surrounded by a lot of nothing, I’m half starved, half limping, and aching for a meal. Toward dusk, I come on a store at a crossroads. L. Poole Mercantile & Sundries, the sign says, letters faded, shop wrapped in honeysuckle.
A cat sleeps in the window beside jars of penny candy. Smoke rises from the chimney out back. I straighten my coat, brush the dust from my cuffs, and step inside. The bell over the door gives a sharp little ring. Smells sweet inside, like peppermint and sugar.
An old woman stands behind the counter, white hair wound in a tight knot, apron faded to the color of flour. She looks up from her ledger and takes me in, eyes moving slow, measuring.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” I say, touching the brim of my hat. “Name’s Wallace. Been on foot since Pascagoula. Horse left me short of town.”
She looks me over again. “You don’t strike me as a man used to walkin’.”
“Never planned to,” I say, smiling tired. “Luck turned sudden.”
She nods like she’s heard it a million times. “You’ll eat first. Then talk about luck.”
She has me wash up at the pump, then sets me at her kitchen table. Beans, cornbread, fried chicken. I try to mind my manners but the hunger wins out, and I eat something fierce till my hands stop shaking.
When I look up, she’s watching me with a small, knowing smile. “You’re headin’ somewhere important?”
I set my fork down. Lying to her would feel like kicking a dog, so I give her half of the truth. “Yes, ma’am. North. There’s a woman waitin’ on me there. Alice. We were to be married, but life came between.”
“You plan to set it right.”
“I aim to.”
She stands, crosses to a cupboard, and comes back with a folded paper. When she presses it into my hand, I feel the crisp edge of bills.
“Enough for a train ticket to Meridian,” she says. “You’ll make better time.”
I start to shake my head, but she stops me with a click of her tongue. “Don’t argue with an old woman. I got no use for money I can’t spend, and the world needs a few more weddings.”
I laugh. “You’re kind, ma’am. Kinder than I deserve.” I pocket the bills and stand. “I’ll see her right. I promise you that.”