Pamela Morsi (20 page)

Pansy put her hands together as if imploring Heaven.

“Night after night the peddler prayed. ‘Lord, give me that mule to pull my wagon.’ Day after day he prayed. ‘Lord, give me that mule to pull my wagon.’ “

She looked at Rome once more.

“Finally one day up in Heaven, God called Saint Peter over and said, ‘Peter, see that the peddler gets that old mule.’ Saint Peter said that he would take care of it ‘The peddler’s been praying for a long time,’ Saint Peter pointed out. ‘He will surely be happy to get that mule.’ God sighed and told him, ‘Yes, I suppose he will. I had a crack team of chestnut geldings in mind for him, but the man just seemed to have his heart so set on that tired old mule.’ “

Rome chuckled and shook his head. “That’s a funny story, all right, ma’am,” he said. “But what is it supposed to mean?”

She walked over to him. He opened his arms as if to embrace her, but she took his hands in her own and held him, looking him closely in the eye.

“It means, Mr. Romeo Akers, do not set your sites too low in this world,” she said. “God may have bigger plans for you.”

Rome squeezed her hands and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“I should call Reverend Holiday,” he teased, “and tell him that you’re maneuvering for his job.” Pansy shook her head.

“Not me,” she said. “God and I haven’t been on speaking terms since Grover’s death. But I trust Him to look out for the people I care about, even if I choose to look after myself.”

Rome’s expression grew serious, as if he wanted to say more. Pansy was pretty sure that she didn’t want to hear it.

“You’d better get on out of here,” she said. “Vera Pearsall is probably timing your visits and it wouldn’t do business any good to have folks thinking that you’re spending far too much time with me.”

He kissed her again, this time on the lips, but it was as chaste as the other had been.

“You’re right, I’ve got to go,” he said. “And a week from Sunday is a very long time away.”

Rome picked up his ice tongs and headed for the door.

“I’ll let you know what happens on Sunday,” he promised. “For all I know, Amos Dewey may challenge me to fisticuffs right there in the middle of the park. The fireworks kissing booth could be as explosive as the fireworks themselves.”

Pansy smiled and waved as he walked out the door and then whispered to herself, “Not if I have any say in it.”

After he left she hurried upstairs to change her clothes. The royal blue would be the gown to wear. It was perfectly modest and yet cut in a way that showed her figure to fine advantage. Of course, she knew from experience that wearing it uptown would have every man in Cottonwood turning to get a better look at her.
But that was all right, she decided, as long as she was able to capture the attention of the man she sought.

She didn’t truly know Amos Dewey’s heart. Only a couple of weeks ago she would have said she thought him incapable of love. But she was not so sure anymore. He was not exactly the cold, dead shell of a man she had thought him to be. Pansy knew that he was aware of her. And if he was aware of her, he
could
perhaps become jealous, as Rome intended. He could run back to Gussie Mudd with a marriage proposal. And the silly woman would accept it, never imagining how much better off she could be. Pansy was determined to see that didn’t happen.

She dusted her face with La Blanche powders and tinted her lips and cheeks with Blush of Roses. Her hair was neat and tidy. Deliberately she pulled loose a couple of strands around her face. She looked a little tousled, a little wanton, a little bit more than Amos Dewey would be able to ignore.

The man had suggested that she had syphilis. That infuriated her. The insufferable conceit of believing that you know all and understand all made her furious. But she recognized that she was as much to blame for his misunderstanding as anyone. She had dared the community to think what they would. And they certainly did. Now she had to suffer the consequences. If things went her way, she would at least redeem herself in her own eyes.

A quarter hour later, her blue parasol with the black lace trim overhead, she made her way up Brazos Street toward the center of town. She felt a rather surprising case of the nervous jitters. It was a condition that rarely bothered her. She cared so little about her life that risks no longer held much fear. Being trampled by
runaway horses or struck down with a fatal disease seemed a fair enough end to a sad, broken life. She would never seek out calamity. She wouldn’t throw herself from a cliff or drink poison. But if something tragic happened to her, she wouldn’t really mind it so much either.

She supposed that was why she was willing to make this sacrifice. Why, after all that had happened, after all she had done to maintain her own self-respect, she was willing to lower herself to what people believed her to be. Somebody deserved to be happy. She was fairly certain that she never would be again, but she didn’t want that fate for Rome Akers. In fact, she didn’t even want it for Gussie Mudd.

Pansy reached the barbershop to discover that it was not nearly as empty and deserted as it had been upon her last visit. All along the wall and in front of the window, the chairs were full of men, each and every one of whom had both wide eyes focused directly upon her.

She hated it, but it played into her hands as well. Nothing could make a man act more foolishly than knowing other men were watching.

Joe Simpson sat in the big, fancily carved red-leather-and-mahogany barber’s chair. His face completely obscured by a lather of shaving soap, he was recognizable only by the bald spot on the top of his head. Above him, Amos stood poised with razor in hand, ready to make the first draw.

“Mrs. Richardson,” he said by way of acknowledgment and seemed far too displeased and disconcerted to say anything further.

“Mr. Dewey,” she answered. “If I could speak to you privately for a moment, sir.”

He plainly did not like the idea. He gave a quick,
almost guilty glance toward the men all dutifully cooling their heels in uncomfortable chairs. However, she knew that under no circumstances would he ask her to take a seat and wait her turn. No woman would be expected to linger in a barbershop. And one with Pansy’s reputation would incite far too much interest and speculation if she did.

Every other man might well be willing to take that chance. She knew Amos Dewey would not. Pansy gave only a cursory glance around. Each and every fellow in the place was staring at her and Amos in turn, and grinning like a fool.

Dewey perused the room as well, as if hopeful that he might see a private spot. There was, of course, not one available.

Finally, reluctantly, he gestured toward the rear door.

“If you’d care to step into the back room, ma’am,” he said.

Pansy crossed the room, head high, with every movement closely observed. She didn’t exaggerate her movements or swivel her hips when she walked. She didn’t need to. She simply moved slowly and the men’s imaginations managed to do the rest.

Amos politely held the door for her, but it opened inward. To hold it involved stepping halfway inside and narrowing the entry. As she came up beside him, she saw his Adam’s apple move when he swallowed. Pansy was tempted to brush against him as she went past, but did not give in to the evil temptation, knowing it would not ultimately serve her purpose and might completely frighten the man off.

The back of the barbershop was primarily used for bathing. It was a small area, damp and steamy with a closed-in, musty smell. A dazzling array of lead-lined pipes ran through the room, pumping in both water to
be heated and that coming directly from the tank. The large japanned bathtub took up much of the space, but was almost overshadowed by the huge heating tank on the fuel-burning hot boiler.

The boiler was rather noisy. Amos went to stand by it as if its very formidable bulk could bolster him. Pansy had no choice but to follow him.

She stood in front of him at arm’s length. Close enough for him to hear, but far enough away that he could still get a good look at her. He’d left the door open, so that they were in full view of the men by the window. But no one could possibly hear what they had to say.

“What do you want?” he asked, immediately coming to the point.

“I’m ready for you to look at my spot,” she said. “I don’t think I can bear the pain much longer.”

The last was added to elicit his sympathy. She could see by his expression that it worked, but not particularly well.

“You really must help me,” she implored.

“You want me to look at it now?”

“No, not now, of course not,” Pansy said, wondering if she had perhaps overplayed her hand. “With all these men here, I couldn’t possibly let you examine me.”

Amos glanced back in their direction.

“You do see what I meant about noses to the glass,” she said.

He didn’t answer, but he did offer a reluctant nod. Pansy didn’t have to turn her head in that direction to see that every eye there was looking straight at them.

Amos was silent for a long moment. She knew that he didn’t want to do it He wanted to just send her away. But she also knew that he wouldn’t. He was not the kind of man who could do such a thing. She counted on that.

“All right,” he said. “How about tonight after closing? I’ll put paper on the window and draw the drapes.”

“But how will you see what you’re doing?” she asked. “Lamps are such weak lighting. Wouldn’t it be better in daylight?”

“Well, yes, certainly it would, but—”

“Then I’ll come on Sunday afternoon,” she cut in.

“Sunday?”

“You are closed on Sundays, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And everyone should be busy promenading in the park,” Pansy pointed out. “There will be plenty of daylight through the papers on the windows and you’ll be able to see perfectly well.”

“Yes, I suppose I could, but actually, I have another engagement on Sunday,” he said.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Pansy told him, apologizing. “That is perfectly all right. I do understand. I’ll come back sometime next week and see if we can set up another day.”

The idea of her returning in front of his customers elicited exactly the response she expected.

“No, no,” he said. “Let’s go ahead and get it over with, shall we? I can miss my other commitment.

Sunday will be fine.”

“I hate for you to cancel your plans,” she lied smoothly.

“It’s no trouble,” he assured her. “I don’t believe anyone will miss me.”

The crew to construct the kissing booth arrived early in the morning on Saturday. It was only a two-hour job. But the fact that a half-dozen men showed up to work turned it into a half-day project.

Joe and Perry had agreed to help Rome. Pearsall and the reverend showed up to tell them how they should do it. Pete Davies was there to complain about his wife. And Amos was on the committee, but kept his thoughts and words to himself all morning.

Completely unexpected was the arrival of Viceroy Ditham, carrying an eight-foot one-by-twelve to be used as a counter edge for the booth.

“If my little girl is going to stand here giving out kisses to fellows all afternoon,” he said, “I intend to make dang sure those young bucks ain’t going to get too close.”

“We’ll put the wide counter on this side,” Rome told them. “And put all the young women behind it. I’ll need another counter on this side.”

“Another counter?” Perry asked. “What for?”

Rome didn’t answer.

“We won’t need a one-by-twelve for this side,” he asserted. “A two-by-four laid flat will be plenty good enough.”

Perry looked at Joe questioningly.

“You’re not going to let us in on it?” Joe asked.

“I told you, there were a few big surprises,” Rome answered.

“I just hope you haven’t lined up the employees from Nellie’s,” Perry said, referring to the dance hall/saloon on the far side of the railroad tracks.

Rome chuckled. “You know, I didn’t think of that,” he said. “But there is still time, Perry. Why don’t you go down there and talk to the girls? Joe and I will build a separate booth for them. One that’s more like a shed, closed in on all sides and with a latch on the door.”

That brought a spate of ribald laughter all around.

“What’s the joke, gentlemen?” Reverend Holiday asked, coming up behind them unexpectedly.

Joe and Perry both looked guilty. But Rome refused to be shamefaced.

“Just a little low humor, Reverend,” Rome said.

“Ah …” the pastor said, nodding. “I do understand.

Sometimes a story is far beneath the level of Christian decency, but it’s so deucedly funny that it just has to be told.”

The men relaxed somewhat. Perry maybe relaxed too much.

“So, Preacher, did you hear the one about the buck-toothed gal who went on her honeymoon?”

Reverend Holiday eyed him critically. “That one may have to be told,” he said. “But it does not have to be told to me.”

The little building project went up with few problems or setbacks and no injuries, unless you counted Wade Pearsall hammering his thumb. The booth was eight feet square with a wide, overhanging slant roof to protect the complexions of the ladies. It had a nice counter on the east side and a narrower one on the north. The south side was open as the point of entry and the west was low and latticed to cut down on the sun but allow the breeze to blow through.

Just before noon, a delegation from the Circle of Benevolent Service, consisting of Kate Holiday, Madge Simpson, Constance Wilhelm and Miss Gussie, showed up with bunting, streamers and signs. Even more welcome, they brought lemonade and lunch.

They spread a couple of tablecloths on the ground and had an impromptu picnic. There was much laughter and good-humored gluttony.

The women showed the signs they’d lettered. Madge’s had a very large F on one side and then the rest of the words—’
IFTIETH ANNIVERSARY, ‘OUNDERS DAY, ‘OURTH OF JULY
and ‘
IREWORKS
— on the other.

Constance went for the more factual, gaily decorating the words
KISSING BOOTH
and
TWO BITS
, the latter indicating the price.