Cottonwood (34 page)

“This is private property,” the man said. He had a shotgun trained on my head.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just out taking pictures.”

“You might have asked.”

“Didn’t know where to find you.”

“You Ogden?” he asked. “You were out here that day.”

“That’s right. You’re Linder.”

He nodded and lowered the shotgun. “I guess I don’t mind if you take a few pictures.”

“You want some lunch?” I said. He shook his head no but invited me to go ahead and eat, and as I tore into the chicken he informed me that I was correct in assuming that there were more bodies buried on the farm.

“In ’78 I bought this place from the fellow who had it after the Benders, and he told me he come across some bones down where the creek runs. Couple of years after that my old dog come running up to the back door with half a man’s hipbone in his teeth, and one time I busted up a skull with my plow. Them damn lazy Benders didn’t dig deep enough.”

“Did you tell the sheriff ?”

“What for?” he wanted to know.

Linder had known all four of the Benders well, as the farm was a mere quarter mile from his, and he sought them out on occasion for the purpose of speaking German. He told the story of the afternoon the Benders were discovered to have been gone, and then he told a story I hadn’t heard, of an incident that had occurred after the posses had left the scene of the crimes.

“I went home that night, and went to sleep, and sometime in the night they broke through my front door and tried to hang me.”

“Who did?”

“Some of the people that was over at the Bender place, twenty of them or so. They’d been drinking and they wanted to know was I in league with the Benders. I told ’em no, but they didn’t care. They dragged me out of bed and tied a rope into a noose. Then they put that around my neck and threw the other end over the branch of a tree outside and then they took turns hoisting me up into the air.”

“What the hell for?”

“To make me say I was with the Benders. I wasn’t, though, and I wouldn’t say it. After a while I passed out.”

“And they left while you were unconscious?”

“Yes, sir. I woke up on the ground a while later, all alone. I guess they’d had all the fun they could get from me.”

“You see those women they put on trial in Cottonwood?”

“Sure, I testified at the hearing. That old lady’s American, and Mrs. Bender talked German like she was from Freiburg, or maybe Strasbourg.”

“Didn’t do any good, did it?”

“No, too many people wanted to see them two hang.” From the northwest the thunderheads still approached, and he watched them carefully for a minute. “Well, Mr. Ogden, there’s work to be done yet. Good day.”

He left, and I finished up the chicken with a small amount of the wine. I had already packed away the camera and its accompanying paraphernalia when I caught sight of a two-seated black buggy headed towards me from the east. At its reins was Maggie Leval, and she betrayed no emotion whatsoever as she approached, not until she got within ten feet of me and slowed to a stop; then she gave me the shyest version I’d ever seen of that wicked secret smile of hers, the one I’d seen that first night in Cottonwood when she and Marc came. We’d crossed paths a dozen times since my arrival in Cottonwood without exchanging greetings, and I had come to believe that she hated me. The note she’d sent had offered some hope, but the real reprieve was in that look she gave me. That on my own face must have been one of great relief, for she brightened further and hopped from the buggy and strode toward me. We held one another for a moment—she smelled of lavender and soap—and then she pulled away.

“I brought a blanket, just in case you hadn’t,” she said.

We did not waste time, as I had feared we might, on the recriminations and tears that I knew would come eventually. Instead in rather short order we were pressed in an embrace on the blanket she’d brought. Our clothing was soon shucked, mine hastily tossed aside onto the grass, hers folded neatly upon the seat of her conveyance, and the only words she spoke came as I descended the length of her body to place my tongue upon her: “No one’s done that to me in fifteen years,” she murmured.

Naked, she revealed herself to have broadened since our last meeting, which pleased me more than it did her. As I exulted atop her, glorying in the nearness of her and intoxicated by her lovely face, timing the rhythm of my downstroke according to her least unspoken suggestion—an intake of breath, an arching backward of the throat or spine—I felt an abrupt, sharp jab on my right buttock. It burned, badly. My legs stiffened and I thrust myself forward rather faster and harder than I had been doing, resulting in an unintended ejaculation. This coincided with a delighted squeal of surprise from my paramour; looking upward, extracting myself from her, I saw a honeybee flying away to its doom, its rearmost part embedded in my ass.

When Maggie understood what had provoked my spasm she laughed, and after a minute to get used to the idea so did I. She plucked the offending stinger from my ham, and we sat down on the blanket, in my case very carefully putting the weight on the left cheek.

“What do you think of Marc,” was the first thing she asked, and I suppose I looked confused when I responded.

“I suppose I was glad to learn I hadn’t killed him,” I said.

“Not that Marc.” She stuck out her leg and playfully smacked my face with the sole of her delicate foot. “My son. He looks like you, don’t you think? Even more than Clyde does.”

“I suppose he does. He’s a good boy. Doesn’t seem to know I’m anything to him.”

“I don’t know. Now that you’re in town people are talking again. I’m sure he’s heard things.” She slapped my ham where I’d been stung, causing me considerable pain, and I let out a cry. “That’s for not answering my letters.”

“I suppose I deserved that.”

“You deserved worse. I don’t suppose you even opened them?”

Those were, of course, the letters I’d burned, the still-sealed envelopes marked PLEASE READ! URGENT! “No, I didn’t, or I would’ve gone straight back to Greeley.”

She shrugged. “It occurred to me you might not have even read them, out of pigheadedness. After I’d been here a while, just before Marc was born, I tried to write you again, with Renée’s return address, but they came back undeliverable. If Marc had found out he’d have thrown me out.”

“I suppose Marc wishes me no good.”

“He’s not glad you’re back. He wanted to keep Clyde and Gleason from hiring you on at the studio, but they overruled him. Now he doesn’t want young Marc working there, but it turned into such a row he gave up and let him stay.”

“I thought it was odd the boy was still working with me.”

She blushed. “I threatened to tell him the truth and Marc backed down. He’s afraid I’ve forgiven you, thinks I might fall back into my old bad habits now that you’re in sight. That’s one reason I didn’t make any contact at first. It’s taken me this long to get his guard down.”

I stood, because my reclining pose was becoming untenable. “Are you going to stay with him?”

“It’s a little quick to be talking like that, isn’t it? After just one afternoon on the grass?”

“Maybe.”

She lowered herself to her elbows, her breasts prominent and pale in the piebald sunlight splashing through the cottonwood’s branches. The southeastern half of the sky was still clear, and the thunderheads were so close by in the other half that I thought I could hear the rain showering the trees in the near distance.

“The rain’s going to reach us, isn’t it?” Maggie said, the thought just then dawning on her. She stood and walked to her carriage, with the light from the southern sky fading to pale.

“Afraid so,” I said.

“We’d better go, then.” She began reapplying her corset, and before she had it halfway laced up she stopped. “Who knows how long ’til we get another chance to be alone like this?” she said, and loosened its laces again. The thing slipped to the ground, she stepped out of it and returned to the blanket.

I didn’t want to get rained on, but with my prick stiffening in the wind I decided she was right. After a quick look around me to check for any further hostile
Apes melliferae
, I dropped to my knees and surrendered to instinct.

The blanket was growing damp by the time we were done, and we both hastily dressed as the more violent part of the storm neared.

“I’m going to have to be getting back soon, and we can’t be seen coming from the same direction at the same time.” Maggie’s buggy had a canvas folding top to protect her from the storm, and I helped her attach the waterproof storm curtain to the sides of it. The wagon I’d hired had no such cover, but I agreed to wait an hour before following her back; in the meantime I went over to Linders’ house seeking shelter but found no one there, and instead stood next to the wagon holding an umbrella, which offered little protection from the nearly horizontal wind-borne torrent. By the time I actually started back I was as drenched as if I had jumped into a pond.

I skirted the town limits to the north in case anyone had noticed Maggie’s homeward route. The bouncing of the carriage on the slick, rocky terrain caused me considerable pain, and so I mostly rode tilted to my left, hanging awkwardly as though the buggy were about to overturn. My spirits were so high, though, that I found my own predicament amusing, and by the time I rode into town from the north I had formulated a plan to leave town with Maggie and our son. Tying the horse and carriage to the rail before the studio in the early evening, the rain still coming down hard, I laughed at the idea of sneaking out of Cottonwood with Maggie again.

There was a substantial leak in the northwest corner of the studio; I mopped up the collected liquid and placed a pair of buckets underneath it, and I moved the props and backdrops stored nearby. Since no one was about, I lit the stove and disrobed, hanging my clothing next to it, and, naked, set about preparing the stereo views.

When I had finished my work I left the darkroom and found Clyde in the office, working on the books.

“How was your visit to the killing ground?” he asked, with no comment offered as to my state of undress.

“Not much to see any more. Got stung by a bee, never mind where,” I said. “How’d you know I was out there?”

“Gleason told me. He’s a little sweet on old Maggie. Mrs. Leval. He’s scared Marc’ll kill you or her or both.” He then turned back to his columns of figures and stopped speaking. My clothes were hot and dry in some parts, cold and moist in others, but I put them on anyway, wished Clyde a good evening and set out for dinner.

The rain had stopped. After returning the horse and wagon I stopped in at the White Horse Restaurant, as had become my habit in the evenings, and midway through my meal of ham and mashed potatoes Mr. Smight himself stepped through the front door and approached my table. He had on his fur coat, and he didn’t remove his top hat; his eyes were bordered with red, and wet. A few diners, those who knew us both, stopped eating and stared as he stood there, fuming, his arms folded across his chest. I was at a disadvantage, since I didn’t want a scene that would get me barred from the establishment, the only really good meal to be had in town outside of a private residence. I didn’t want to start taking my meals at the rooming house, either, since that would mean more time with Mrs. Kelley, whom I planned to wean from my affections as quickly as possible. My weight was on my left haunch, as the right one was still considerably sore from the bee sting, and this made me feel somewhat ridiculous as I looked up at him.

“If I hear you’ve been seen at the Braunschweigs’ I’ll take you the hell apart,” he said.

I had no idea what he meant, and I should have smiled and promised to stay away from there, but his stupid arrogance got my hackles up.

“I’ll go wherever I damned please, you ignorant beanpole.”

His big, knobby hands formed fists, and for a moment the prospect of a real donnybrook made me regret my impulsive bravado as he clenched and unclenched them, angry beyond speech. I made a point of remaining outwardly calm and even continued to cut, chew and swallow my hamsteak, until finally he turned away and strode to the front door.

“You keep your distance from her, Ogden, or I’ll kill you,” he yelled, stepping out the front door. He slammed it shut so hard it blew back open, and the owner hastened to close it again. A few seconds of surprised silence followed before people started eating and talking again. I finished my meal quickly and left, knowing what they were mostly talking about. For the first time, it occurred to me that Mr. Smight might be more than simply Marc’s
homme à
tout faire
. If his outburst had been anything to go by, he at least aspired to be Maggie’s as well.

My impulse, of course, was to hasten to the Braunschweig home, but instead I headed for Kelley’s, where my landlady and several of the other tenants were gathered at the downstairs parlor piano singing “O Susanna.” Upstairs in my room I put on a dry suit of clothes, then took the Dragoon out of my dresser drawer and loaded it. I was unnerved to realize as I descended the stairs that the group in the parlor was now singing “Johnny Get Your Gun,” but in fact it was one they sang almost every evening, and I succeeded in slipping out the front door without them inviting me to join up for a chorus.

On the stoop I looked about for Smight but saw no one. Keeping to the sidewalk I walked north to Seventh Street, confident I had no one on my heels, and then west. The night was growing cool, and I decided to cross the cemetery. Though there was no pavement therein it was grassy throughout, with very little mud exposed, though with each step across the damp grass my fresh trouser cuffs got wetter. It was dark that night, with only a quarter moon for illumination, but having my eyes accustomed to the darkness might prove a tactical advantage. I stopped at Tiny Rector’s lonesome grave and waited until I could easily make out the dates inscribed on the marker. I missed him at that moment more than I had at any moment since returning to Cottonwood, and wished he were there to offer some of his stern, commonsensical and useless advice.