The Gamble (I) (19 page)

“You’ll be all right now.”

His luminous brown eyes told her his bravery was slipping, now that she was about to leave him.

“You goin’, Agatha?”

“Yes, Willy. I have to.”

His chin quivered. She knelt beside the bed and brushed the hair back from his temple. “When you visit Mr. Gandy, be sure to drop by my shop and say hello to me.”

He didn’t answer. His lips compressed. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

May your soul burn in hell, Alvis Collinson, for treating this beautiful child as if you wished he weren’t alive, while I would give my one good hip to have one like him.
It was all she could do to keep her eyes dry.

“You’ll do that, won’t you?”

He swallowed and nodded. A tear slipped down his cheek.

She bent and kissed it, feeling as if her heart would burst its bounds.

The stench of the bedclothes seemed to linger in her nostrils all the way home.

Within a week Willy became a fixture at Agatha’s millinery shop. She’d hear the back door open and a moment later he’d be standing at her elbow asking, “What’s that?” “Why’re ya doin’ that?” “What’s this for?” He had been unfairly slighted in the education department. Though he was curious about everything, he had basic understanding of little. She answered each of his questions patiently, pleased by the way his eyes lit up at each new tidbit he learned.

“That’s a thimble.”

“What’s it for?”

“Pushing a needle, see?”

“What’s them?”

“What are they?” she corrected. Then she answered, “Stones, just plain old stones.”

“What y’ gonna do with ‘em?”

“Hold down the pattern while I cut around it... see?” Since she’d acquired the sewing machine, she’d subscribed to Ebenezer Butterick’s fashion journal and had ordered twenty of his tissue patterns, which had excited her customers and already brought in several dress orders. Today, however, she was cutting out the first of three scarlet-and-black cancan dresses. She selected stone after stone from a tin washbasin, weighting the tissue into place. With his chin on the edge of the high worktable, Willy watched intently while she cut out the skirt. His eyes documented how carefully she pushed aside each severed piece with the
pattern and stones still in place. He checked the washbasin, then the remaining pattern pieces.

“You’re gonna need more stones, Agatha.”

She peered into the basin. “So I am, Willy.” She affected a frown. “Oh, bother, how I hate to stop working to go out and get them.”

“I’ll go!” He was heading toward the door before the smile lifted her cheeks.

“Willy?”

He spun, brown eyes eager, hair sticking up on end. “Huh?”

“Take the basin to collect them in.” After dumping the remaining stones onto her worktable, she handed it to him. As she continued working, she looked up often and gazed out the back door to see him squatting in the dirt, his curved backside almost touching the ground, chin to knees, digging with a stick. He came inside five minutes later, proudly bearing a basin full of dirty rocks.

“Take them out back and wash them first or they’ll soil the cloth.”

He bounded outside but returned in seconds. “I can’t reach.”

She laughed and felt happier than she ever remembered feeling as she went outside to help him. While she bent to scoop water from the deep wooden barrel, she commented, “We’ll have to get you a little stool to stand on, won’t we?” Before she went back inside, she added sternly, “And make sure you get those hands clean at the same time.”

When he came back in, his soiled clothes were covered with damp spots where he’d dried the rocks. He huffed and puffed, carrying the heavy basin, but set it down proudly at her feet.

“There! I done it!”

“I did it,” she corrected.

“I did it,” he parroted.

She made a great show of examining the rocks. “And a fine job, too. All clean and—my goodness!—even dried. Go out front and ask Violet for a penny. Tell her I said you earned it.”

His face grew radiant, the cheeks rounded like October apples. Then he spun and darted through the curtain. Agatha smiled at the sound of his giddy, high voice.

“Hey, Vy-let, Agatha says to ast you for a penny. She says t’ tell you I urnt it.”

“She did?” came Violet’s reply. “Well, now, just what did you do to earn it?”

“Picked ‘er some rocks and washed ‘em and dried ‘em.”

“She’s right. That’s hard work. I don’t know what we did before we had you around here.” Agatha imagined Willy’s shining eyes following Violet’s hands as she fetched a penny from the cash drawer of the desk. A moment later the front door slammed.

He Was back in less than five minutes with a sarsaparilla stick. Sucking it, he took up his stand beside the work-table again.

“Wanna suck?” He pointed the stick in Agatha’s direction. Knowing how rarely he got candy, Agatha realized the value of a lick. She hadn’t the heart to say no.

“Mmm...”

“Sassparilly.” He rammed it back into his mouth. A minute later he inquired, “What’s that?” One stubby finger pointed.

“That’s powdered chalk.”

“What’s it for?”

“Pricking.”

“What’s pricking?”

“That’s what it’s called when I mark the places where I must stitch this dart together.”

“What’s a dart?”

“A dart is a row of stitching that holds the cloth together and gives the dress shape.”

“Oh.” He scratched his head vigorously, working the sarsaparilla stick on his tongue as if it were the plunger on a butter churn. He watched her hands intently. “You gotta get that chalk through them tiny holes?”

“That’s right.” The only markings on the thin paper were holes of graduated sizes, each size having its own meaning. She carefully sprinkled fine powdered chalk across them and rubbed it in before fastidiously removing the
pattern piece, leaving a series of clearly marked white dots. “See?”

“Garsh!”

“Isn’t it remarkable?” She, too, was still awed by the new patterns and her sewing machine. Work had become exciting.

She curled the pattern piece and tapped the chalk back into the glass pot. Willy scratched his head and chewed up the last of his sarsaparilla. “Could I try doin’ that sometime?”

“Not today. And most certainly not until you wash those sticky hands.
And
the edge of the table!” She looked pointedly at the smudged spots where his fingers had been resting.

After that day he began showing up with cleaner hands. But the rest of him was still a mess. He scratched his head constantly. He wore the same clothing day after day. He smelled abominable. Agatha spoke to Reverend Clarksdale, but it seemed to make no difference. Alvis Collinson paid no more attention to his son than before. But the attention Willy lacked at home he got in Agatha’s workroom. The hours he spent there became the brightest of her day, and of his, too, she suspected.

At nighttime her W.C.T.U. work continued. She made it a practice to attach herself to any of the groups except that including Evelyn Sowers. She set up a routine of visiting four saloons each night, ending, regularly as clockwork, at the Gilded Cage. As time went on, more and more local men signed temperance pledges. Few of them, however, were Gandy’s regular customers.

He was too innovative to lose any.

The night Agatha stationed herself outside his door and read aloud from
Seven Nights in a Barroom,
he hung out a shingle advertising free popcorn.

The night she distributed pamphlets entitled “Help the Heathen Cowboy of the West,” he offered a token good for one free bath at the Cowboys’ Rest in exchange for each pamphlet handed in at the bar.

The night she led the ladies in the song, “Lips That Touch Whiskey Shall Never Touch Mine,” he posted a
list of the newest drinks available at the Gilded Cage—concoctions with such intriguing names as gin slings, mint juleps, sangarees, sherry cobblers, timber doodles, and blue blazers.

The night she led the ladies in the old Christian standard, “Faith of Our Fathers,” he nodded at Ivory, who immediately chimed in with a piano accompaniment. Then Gandy stood behind the bar and directed his entire clientele in the most rousing rendition of the song Proffitt had ever heard... in or out of church! When the “amen” faded, he grinned at Agatha and announced, “Free sardines at the bar! Come and get ‘em, everybody!”

When she passed around a collection bowl seeking donations for the movement, he announced the keno pot would double that night.

Yes, Gandy most certainly was innovative. But Agatha had come to enjoy the challenge of trying to best him.

One evening, before his crowd arrived and before her constituents gathered, she walked into the Gilded Cage and headed directly for the bar. Gandy was on its near side, leaning back with his elbows resting on its well-polished edge, watching her approach. His Stetson was pulled low. He puffed on a cheroot without touching a finger to it. His ginger-brown waistcoat was immaculate. And his dimples were intact.

“Well, what brings you in so early, Miz Downin’?” He always called her “Miss Downing” when others were around.

She handed him a copy of “Help the Heathen Cowboy of the West.”

“My free bath token, if you please, Mr. Gandy.”

He glanced down at the pamphlet, removed the cheroot, and broadened his grin. “I have t’ presume you’re serious.”

She nodded. “Most certainly. A pamphlet for a token, I believe the sign says.”

He took the pamphlet and flicked through the pages. “1 hope y’all don’t expect me t’ read it.”

“Do as you like, Mr. Gandy. My token, please?” she repeated amiably, holding out a palm. She and Gandy hadn’t
the slightest problem confronting each other with the utmost civility even while issuing challenges back and forth.

Again he leaned back against the bar, elbows caught up as before. Over his shoulder he instructed, “Give the lady a bath token, Jack.”

The cash register rang and Jack Hogg extended a round wooden slug. “Here ya go, Miss Downing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hogg.”

“Best time to go down to the Rest is probably early in the morning before the cowboys are up.”

Her neck grew pink; no respectable woman in the state of Kansas would be caught mummified in a place like the Cowboys’ Rest. Still, she returned politely, “I’ll remember that.”

She turned to leave.

“Oh, Miss Downing?” She turned back to Jack. “I got a shirt ripped out under the arm that could use a little stitching up on that sewing machine of yours.”

“Bring it over any time. If I’m not there, Miss Parsons is.”

“I’ll do that.” He tipped his bowler and smiled. She no longer thought of the livid half of his face but imagined how handsome he’d been before it became scarred.

As she passed Gandy, he picked up a platter from the bar. “Have a sardine, Miz Downin’?”

She glanced at the platter, then up at him. His dimples declared very plainly that he expected her to decline.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Gandy. I don’t mind if I do.” She detested fish, but she plucked one from the platter and popped it into her mouth without hesitation. She chewed. Stopped. Chewed again and swallowed, then shivered violently and squinted hard.

“What’s wrong? Don’t like sardines?”

“Shame on you, Mr. Gandy! Have you no conscience at all, feeding your customers fish that are as salty as the seven seas?”

“None whatsoever.”

“And popcorn, which I’m sure is the same.”

“Next week we’re bringin’ in fresh oysters. Not as salty, but a delicacy nevertheless.” He cocked one eyebrow and
hefted the platter. “Have another?”

She glanced wryly at the lineup of slick fish. “Free enterprise, I suppose you call it.” He set the platter down and laughed. She licked the oil off her finger and thumb. “What will you think of next, Mr. Gandy?”

“I don’t know.” His gaze was totally friendly and winning. “I’m runnin’ out o’ ideas. How about you?”

She didn’t laugh. But it took great self-control not to.

Agatha decided it was best to be frank with her fellow W.C.T.U. members and tell them she was doing work for Mr. Gandy and his employees.

Evelyn Sowers puckered up and snorted. “Consorting with the enemy!”

Agatha had expected this. “Perhaps it is, but to a good end. Ten percent of all the profits I earn from Mr. Gandy will be donated to the cause. As you all know, our coffers are very slim.”

Evelyn’s mouth remained sour, but she offered no further argument.

Jubilee, Pearl, and Ruby came for a fitting. They sashayed through the back door in lazy fashion, chattering and laughing, wearing their dressing gowns. Pearl’s was pink. Ruby’s was purple.

Jubilee’s was turquoise-green.

Agatha tried hard not to stare at it.

The three laughed and came inside the shop proper. “Hello, Agatha. Hello, Violet. Howdy, Willy.”

Willy left Agatha’s side to run and meet them. “You gonna try on your new dancin’ dresses?”

Ruby tweaked Willy’s nose. “Sho’ nuff.”

“I’m gonna peek under the door and watch you dance in ‘em.”

Jubilee affectionately turned him by a shoulder. “Oh, no, you’re not, young man.”

“Am, too.”

“If I catch you, I’ll paddle your backside.”

Willy wasn’t threatened. He smiled and shook his head confidently. “Uh-uhhhh.”

“How do you know I won’t?”

“’Cause I’ll run and tell Scotty and Agatha and they won’t letcha.”

With her hands on her hips, Jube leaned down and rested her forehead against Willy’s. “Pretty smart little scalawag, aren’t you, Willy Collinson?”

“Agatha says I am.”

Everyone laughed. Pearl tousled Willy’s hair.

He lifted brown eyes to her. “I been helpin’ Agatha make your dresses, Pearl.”

“You have!”

“Ain’t I, Agatha?” He turned excitedly to her.

“Haven’t I?”
she corrected, beaming down at him. “He most certainly has. He puts the weights on the patterns after I lay them on the fabric.”

Violet added, “And he helps keep the ruffles from curling while Agatha and I do the gathering.”

Ruby rested a fist on one hip and assumed a falsely supercilious pose. “Well, would y’ feature that now!”