Unbridled Dreams (16 page)
Irma looked more closely at the three tickets.
To St. Louis.
She could feel the goose bumps as she began to realize what Daddy wasn’t saying. And he kept not saying it as he buttered a dinner roll.
“Of course we’ll need
other
tickets to make it a perfect May Day, but I have it on good authority—I telegraphed a friend named Bill—that those tickets will be waiting for us once we arrive at our destination. Which,” he said, “is a
secret.
And not to be discussed with
anyone.
”
Irma nodded.
“So the question is: Can you put your mother’s concerns about you to rest? Can you reassure her that you are feeling
much better
so that she can go to Chicago as planned?”
“Of course, Daddy.” Irma nodded. “I understand. And . . . never mind about the luncheon I wanted to have. We’ll do it another time.”
Daddy gestured at her plate. “I’m sure it would help put your momma’s mind at ease if I could go on and on about how much you ate today.”
Irma slathered butter on a roll as she asked, “May I have dessert?”
B
READ OF DECEIT IS SWEET TO A MAN
;
BUT AFTERW ARDS HIS MOUTH SHALL
BE FILL ED WITH GRAVEL
.
Proverbs 20:17
KJV
She’d been here before, but it had always been in a dream, and something always happened to pull her out of the scene and down a tunnel into other places where dissonance and the absurd reigned supreme. But tonight the aroma of freshly graded earth was real. Her seat was solid, just like the thousands of other seats rising in stair-step fashion away from the Wild West arena. Irma closed her eyes and listened.
Footsteps.
Boots clunked and shoes scuffed as people clamored to their seats.
Laughter
as ticket-holders shared their anticipation. And, every now and then, a whinny or a snort—faint because the sounds came from behind the curtain and past the performers’ tents, where temporary corrals and stalls housed buffalo and bucking broncs, tame elk and horses.
Opening her eyes, Irma looked down at the Wild West program in her lap. Large letters across the top proclaimed
Buffalo Bill’s Wild
West.
A pen-and-ink profile of Bill Cody dominated the center, but it was flanked on one side by a mounted Indian chief and tepees, and on the other by a cowboy and covered wagons. “
America’s National
Entertainment,”
the program heralded in inch-high letters, “
led by
the famed scout and guide Buffalo Bill.”
As Irma traced the images and letters with her gloved fingers, goose bumps crawled up her arms and across the back of her neck.
The Wild West program was more than a printed order of events. Irma paged through it slowly, scanning the historical profiles of great Civil War scouts and frontiersmen and the notes about the various Indian races as well as the
vaqueros.
She would keep it forever, and when she was old she would tell children stories about the day a girl’s dream came true. She would talk about the train ride across the prairie and how they changed trains in the vast station in Omaha and then arrived in the even more vast station in St. Louis. She would describe the excitement she felt when she and Minnie followed Daddy out of the Laclede Hotel and climbed aboard a cable car to cross St. Louis en route to the fairgrounds. And she would speak of almost crying with joy when finally, after descending from the cable car, she caught sight of the canvas arena cover announcing
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West
in foot-high letters. She would do her best to tell these stories, but it would be nearly impossible to find words to describe exactly how she felt sitting here in the stands waiting for the performance to begin; waiting to see Monte and Ned Bishop ride into the arena; waiting, too, to see Shep Sterling in all his Wild West glory; and waiting for the moment when the performance was over and she and Minnie would follow Daddy onto the back lot and surprise all three cowboys.
The Wild West Irma had seen with Uncle Charlie and Aunt Laura in Omaha was nothing compared to this. This Wild West boasted a twenty-member band and concession stands serving popcorn and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Monte had told her the stands in St. Louis would seat about twenty thousand people. Tonight they were full.
Night.
As she looked around her, Irma thought that might be the most amazing thing of all. Light fixtures mounted high on poles anchored to the front of the grandstand illuminated the entire arena. More lights focused on the scenic canvas backdrop painted to suggest a wide open prairie and vast blue sky. It was as close as a person could come to being magically transported into the West.
Minnie had been poring over her own program, but when a band member dropped something, she started and looked up. She pointed. “Is that Jason and Jonathan? Oh, look—they’re wearing holsters. With guns!” She laughed aloud. “Imagine that. Growing up out west and the first time you strap on a gun it’s to play your trumpet in a band.”
“Ah,” Daddy said, “but don’t they look the part of rough and ready cowboys? And
looking
the part is important in show business. At least that’s what Bill told me when we had our last meeting about the money end of this production.”
Irma tapped the cover of her program. “Did you see the page about the band? They make them sound like world-renowned musicians.”
“Mollie will be so proud,” Minnie said. She beamed up at her uncle. “Thank you, Uncle Otto. I’ll treasure the memory of this weekend forever. I don’t know how you convinced Aunt Willa to let us come, but I’m so glad you did.”
Irma went back to reading her program—or at least pretending to read it. It was only natural for Minnie to assume Daddy had told Momma all about this trip and convinced her to agree to it. After all, Uncle Charlie and Aunt Laura never disagreed about anything. At least not in front of their children as far as Irma knew. But whatever Minnie might believe, Irma was fairly certain that when it came to this trip, things weren’t settled at all between her parents. She was almost tempted to feel guilty. Or to worry. But then she reminded herself that Daddy could handle Momma. He always had. And besides, when Momma got back home and realized how much it had meant to Irma, she wouldn’t be able to stay mad for long. Eventually she would have to forgive them all, just as the Bible said.
Seventy times seven.
“Your Aunt Willa and I want you both to have the time of your lives this weekend,” Daddy was saying. “If it is in my power to provide it, I’ll do it. In fact, you should be thinking about which of those stores along Broadway you want to go in tomorrow morning. I know better than to take a woman to St. Louis and not allow time for shopping.”
As the stands continued to fill Irma nodded at the scenic backdrop. “That obnoxious reporter who was on the cable car with us is going to have a time of it proving his theory about Annie Oakley hiding behind there to do all of Bill Cody’s shooting.”
Minnie laughed. “Especially when you consider he said the whole thing worked because the hole Miss Oakley used was camouflaged inside a knothole in a painted tree.” She motioned toward the backdrop. “No trees. No knotholes.”
Irma looked at her father. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell him you know Buffalo Bill—and that everything he was saying was just so much . . . bull.” Momma would have scolded her for using the word, but Mr. Gregory Harrison’s ridiculous claim deserved even stronger language. “He was more than just pompous and annoying, Daddy. He was
lying.
You should have defended Mr. Cody.”
Daddy shrugged. “I was enjoying listening to all his balderdash. Just think how embarrassed Mr. Harrison is going to be when he watches tonight and realizes Bill really is a good shot.”
“Well, I hope wherever he’s sitting he
can
see,” Irma said.
Daddy pointed above them. “There are two searchlights up there,” he said. “Nate Salsbury told me the operators will hone in on the sharpshooters and there will be no doubt when they hit their glass balls or clay pigeons. If he’s watching, Mr. Harrison will see irrefutable evidence that William F. Cody does his own shooting.”
“Even so,” Irma sniffed, “he was rude. I hope we never see him again.”
A blue-eyed boy about Maggie Mason’s age slid in next to her. “I’m Jack Payne,” he said, and put out his hand. “Have you ever been to the Wild West before?”
“Not like this one,” Irma said as she shook the boy’s hand.
“I’ve been waiting ever so long to come,” he said and looked up at the prim-faced woman with him. “Father’s been too busy, but it’s my birthday in a few days, and so he finally gave Miss Farnham permission to bring me.”
Miss Farnham, who introduced herself as Jack’s governess, motioned for Jack to sit down. The woman seemed disinclined to talk very much, and Irma decided Jack must be used to entertaining himself, for the moment he sat down he began to leaf through his program.
“Miss Farnham,” he said after a few minutes, “it says here that Colonel Cody knew General Custer, too. Do you think Father could have met Colonel Cody? Perhaps he has and he just doesn’t remember. He doesn’t seem to remember very much about being in the army.”
Miss Farnham muttered something Irma couldn’t quite decipher, although it was clear the woman had very little interest in engaging her charge in conversation. She was sitting ramrod stiff, her hands folded in her lap. Irma could almost imagine the woman mentally ticking off the minutes until she could leave.
“You read very well,” Irma said.
“Thank you,” the boy said. “Mama taught me before she died. She said I learned very quickly.”
“Well, I think you are very clever,” Irma said. “And I’m sorry about your mama.”
Miss Farnham patted Jack’s knee. It must have meant “be quiet,” for Jack thanked Irma and then immersed himself in the page of the Wild West program showing a biography of Shep Sterling. Irma found the page in her own program and read about Shep’s exploits in Texas.
“Audience members will be grateful for Shep Sterling’s introducing the
management to long-time friend and fellow Texan, Miss Helen Keen,
who will delight crowds with her fearless riding and winsome smile.”
Long-time friend? Winsome smile?
Irma closed her program. Maybe it was better to
experience
the Wild West before reading about it.
When the band began to play the
“
The Star Spangled Banner
,”
Jack Payne was immediately transformed from bookworm to wiggle worm. Clutching his program to his chest, he scooted to the edge of his seat and began to rock back and forth and chant softly, “Here they come . . . here they come . . . here they come.”
Irma leaned forward, too, internally joining the boy’s singsong chanting.
Sadly—at least in Irma’s opinion—no “they” appeared at the conclusion of the first song. Instead, a lone man dressed in black, except for a huge white sombrero and a red kerchief knotted around his neck, stepped out from behind the backdrop. Quiet descended on the arena. A spotlight followed his progress as he strode toward his rostrum, his spurs rattling with every step. In a golden voice, he welcomed the crowd to the evening’s “exhibition of skill, tact, and endurance created by men who have gained their livelihood on the plains.” Anticipation hung in the air, a taut wire of expectation waiting to be strummed by the Grand Entry. Finally, the announcer took the red kerchief from around his neck and waved it in the air.
Jack couldn’t stand it. “Here they come!” he hollered and stood up on his chair. Laughter erupted as everyone else got to their feet. Irma stood on tiptoe as mounted Indians, cowboys, and vaqueros marched single file into the arena. “Do you see them?” she asked Minnie. “Do you see any of them?” Her heart pounded as the line grew longer and the performers moved their horses into a trot. Still, Irma couldn’t find Shep. Or Monte. Not even Ned Bishop. The applause got louder, transforming into cheers when the horses began to gallop.
Finally, when the Wild West troupe had formed a long line stretching across the wide end of the horseshoe-shaped arena, Minnie located her brother in the lineup. “There’s Monte!” she said, pointing. “And there! There’s Mr. Sterling!”
Monte looked wonderful in a bright blue shirt with a kerchief knotted at his neck. Shep Sterling smiled and waved his white Stetson while his palomino gelding danced in the spotlight. A gleaming golden coat, four dazzling white socks, and a silken tail that literally touched the ground would have been enough to dazzle any horse-loving girl, but there was more: a black leather show saddle and bridle decorated with silver that flashed in the lights. The sight of Monte had thrilled Irma’s heart, but Shep Sterling on his palomino took her breath away.
Irma could sense Minnie watching her reaction when Buffalo Bill’s beautiful rancheras finally came into view. All Irma could muster was disappointment. Not one wore anything like Liberty Belle’s imagined finery. One woman’s butternut-colored skirt and waist reminded Irma more of her own walking suit than something designed for performing. Other than an abundance of fringe, the costume’s only decoration was an ivory scarf.
