Whippoorwill (26 page)

She tossed her dress on the back of a chair and slipped on her wrapper. Here, in the dark, alone in her room, her body was hers once more. She could sleep and dream, and savor the silence without pretending to bask in some man’s afterglow.

A dog barked suddenly—viciously. She glanced out the window then finally relaxed. Probably nothing more than a warning to some coyote that had come too close to town.

Her gaze shifted to the dark silhouette of Sophie Hollis’s house. The lights coming from there were not stark in the night, but rather muted behind the gathers of fine lace. Letty stared for a while, trying to imagine what life must be like for a woman upon whom society did not frown. Then she shrugged and turned away. There was no need dwelling on something she would never have.

She poured some water in a glass and took a long drink, then walked across the room to the bath awaiting her there. The water wasn’t as hot as it had been when Eulis had filled it up, but it didn’t matter. She and Will had a deal. Every day, regular as clockwork, she got her bath and Will’s customers got whatever they wanted from the whore in the red satin dress.

Her wrapper fell to the floor at her feet as she stepped into the tub, the water enveloping her as she sat. She would never be able to cleanse the filth from her soul, but she could have a clean body.

She thought of the preacher’s imminent arrival and picked up her soap and began to scrub. One thing would be certain. For the duration of his visit, her business would probably be nil. Which, when she thought about it, suited her just fine. It would be good to have her body to herself for a while.

HOWE LOW CAN HE GO?

Randall Howe was getting used to eating dust and jackrabbit. In fact, he considered it part of his penance for seducing a virgin and then running from the scene of his crime. The wagon master had assured him that they were only a day out of Lizard Flats now. His journey was coming to an end. After this, the destinations he chose would be his own. He thought of the wedding he was to perform and the sermon he was supposed to give in the makeshift church afterward. The thought made him ill. He wasn’t fit to bless the union of matrimony and he certainly wasn’t fit to speak the word of God.

At this point in his life, Randall Howe was a sorry sight indeed. He hadn’t slept the night through in days and couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. He kept seeing Charity Doone’s sweet face and knowing that he had ruined her life. But, he reminded himself, he had made many promises to God in return for forgiveness. Surely God had heard.

Then he sighed. God might forgive him, but Randall feared he would never forgive himself. There was a terrible weakness within him that he didn’t know how to fight. Prayer didn’t help. Promises didn’t work. Even fear for his own life had not been enough to stop him from tasting the sweetness of womanly wiles. And, no matter how far he traveled from Mehitable’s ranch, it would never be far enough for him to forget what he’d done.

His misery increased with each miserable jolt of the wagon wheels into the deep, hard ruts. And with each jolt, he repeated the solemn promise he’d made to God a few days earlier. No matter what, he would never partake of worldly things and wanton flesh again.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” the wagon master announced.

Randall stirred, taking note of the creek and the stand of trees on the bank. This was good. He would bathe, maybe even shave. In the morning, he would put on fresh clothes. He would arrive in Lizard Flats as close to the man he’d been when he left Boston, or know the reason why. He owed it to himself, and to the people who awaited him there.

When morning came, Randall awoke with a new sense of purpose. Just the scraping of the dirt from his body and the whiskers from his face had given him a new sense of purpose. It had been a symbolic cleansing of his soul.

He’d learned his lesson. Yes, he had. No women. Not ever. Again.

***

It was coming on evening when they pulled into Lizard Flats. The wagon came in from the far end of town, stopping at the largest building in sight, which happened to be the White Dove Saloon. When Randall Howe saw the local whore standing on the porch beneath the sloped-down roof, his heart skipped a beat. The red satin dress was like a beacon of hope in a long, dark night and the cascading curls she’d pinned up off her neck begged to be taken down. At that point, every promise he’d made to himself—and to God—began to sink with the swiftly disappearing sun.

God give me strength.

When the feathers decorating the neckline of her dress suddenly fluttered with the evening breeze, he added an amendment to his previous prayer.

And then strike me blind.

But when his prayers were not immediately answered, he knew himself well enough to recognize the symptoms. Unless a miracle occurred, he was about to sin.

The streets were deserted save for a dog and a couple of kids running toward home before dark. The wagon master climbed down from his rig and began to unload Randall’s bags, but Randall hardly noticed. Framed by swinging doors and the lamplight from the hanging chandeliers in the room behind her, the woman was a sight to behold.

The lines in her face were softened by the shadows of dusk, and so Howe did not readily see them. Her body looked soft and welcome to a man who’d ridden a wagon seat until it felt as if his hip bones had come through his rump. And then she smiled and he started convincing himself that this one wouldn’t matter. She sold herself on a daily basis and nothing he did to her could be misconstrued as a lie. It wasn’t as if she would expect anything from him other than her pay. It wasn’t as if she counted. She was only a whore. He never even noticed when the wagon master drove away.

Letty had seen the clerical collar. It was the preacher everyone had been waiting on. She was beside herself with glee. Will the Bartender would never believe it, but she, Leticia Murphy, was going to be the one he would first greet. She pulled her feather boa across her cleavage in an attempt to cover her breasts and took a step forward.

“Welcome to Lizard Flats. I’m Letty,” she said.

It was all Randall could do to nod.

Letty got nervous. Embarrassed by the flush that spread up his neck and cheeks, she looked away. It shamed her to think he must be shocked by her appearance. But curiosity won out and she started the conversation over again.

“You are him, ain’t ya? I mean… you are the preacher everyone’s been waitin’ for?”

Randall doffed his bowler, bowing just low enough to get a better than average view of her barely concealed bosom.

“Yes, madam, I am. Reverend Randall Ward Howe at your service. Maybe you would be so kind as to show me to an hotel?”

His voice made Letty shiver. It reminded her of the culture in James Dupree’s speech. Then, angry that he’d made her think of Jim, she blurted out.

“The hotel has been full for days, but there are a couple of rooms over the saloon that Will the Bartender sometimes rents out. He went to get himself a haircut for the funeral, so I can’t let you have no key until he gets back.”

Howe frowned. “What funeral?”

She eyed the preacher up and down, taking absent note of the fine cut of his clothes and thinking of how this man was going to put his blessing on Sophie and Alfonso’s wedding.

“I guess the one you’ll be performing tomorrow after the wedding, and as I hear it, none too soon. The old codger they brought in to bury is stinkin’ up the place somethin’ fierce.”

Howe dabbed at the sweat coming from the roll of fat beneath his chin. “Good Lord! Don’t you people have an undertaker?”

This time Letty laughed aloud and pointed behind her to a man who was passed out in the floor and slumped against the bar.

“All’s we got is Eulis, there. When he’s sober, which is hardly ever, he digs the holes and plants the bodies. When he’s drunk, he sometimes forgets to cover ’em up.”

Howe tried not to show the horror he felt. Maybe he’d been wrong last night. Maybe God had truly forsaken him by abandoning him to this wasteland. And if that was so then it shouldn’t matter if he sinned just one more time—for old times’ sake—before he continued down the missionary trail that fate had set him on.

Howe gave her one of his show-me-some-pity smiles. “I’m travel-weary to my bones. And since your boss isn’t here, would you be so kind as to consider letting me, ah… rest in your rooms until his return?”

Letty had heard too many invitations in her lifetime to ignore the one she’d just been handed. She started to snort, and then inhaled instead. Maybe she was mistaken. It would be a disaster if she offended the man the whole territory had been waiting for. Then his gaze slid downward and she saw that he was peering through the feathers to the valley between her breasts.

Letty knew leers when she saw them.
So preacher man. You got itchy man parts just like every other male who comes through these doors.

“Would you care to follow me?” she asked.

Howe picked up his bags, watching her hips swaying beneath her dress as she led the way upstairs. His loins were beginning to surge as he watched the ripple and roll of her body beneath the tawdry silk.

I’m not going to mind this ride at all.

When the door closed behind them, Letty turned, and the glitter in her eyes was as hard as Randall’s dick. “It’ll cost you a dollar.”

Howe’s hands shook as he dug in his pocket. He would have given her a five-dollar gold piece and considered himself getting the best of the bargain.

Letty took the money and tucked it away when he wasn’t looking. It didn’t pay to trust any man. Even a man of the cloth.

***

Reverend Randall Ward Howe would never have imagined—not in his wildest dreams—that it would cost him a dollar to die. But that is exactly what he did—right in the middle of a hump—right on top of Leticia Murphy.

Letty felt the air and the life go out of him all at once. In her line of work, men often shot their wad before they even got it in. And no matter how loud they bragged to their buddies about their prowess, she’d watched their lust go limp on a regular basis. But she’d never, not once, had one die on her before.

With a panicked grunt, she pushed him up, then off of her. His purpling face and deflating belly were more than she could handle. She grabbed her pillow, clamped it over her face, and commenced to screaming until goose feathers came out between the threads in the ticking and into her mouth.

But time passed and Randall Howe continued to hog his share of Letty’s bed. When she could think without coming undone, she knew she had to make a plan. And since she was naked, the first thing to do was get dressed. Every few seconds she would give his body another push, just to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake. To her continuing dismay, she hadn’t.

“They will hang me for sure! People have been coming for days to hear the preacher from back east, and I’ve gone and killed him in a bed of sin.”

With that, she began to shake.

But as with everything bad, there comes a time when weariness can overtake grief and fear. It happened to Letty just about the time she began to get mad. She leaned over the bed, peering into the preacher’s sightless eyes.

“It’s your fault, you stupid lout,” she muttered, then reminded herself. “I can’t just let him lay. I’ve got to do something!”

No one argued with her decision.

She yanked his hands across his belly, then folded his arms across his chest and covered him with a spread. Now he looked like the corpse he was, lying cold and still beneath the makeshift shroud. And with that thought, came another, followed on the heels of the wildest scheme she’d ever concocted. But if it worked, no one would be the wiser and she just might escape the hangman’s noose. She bolted for the door.

The silence of the bar was odd, almost eerie. She couldn’t remember a day when there hadn’t been at least a half-dozen men milling about, unwilling to go home.

Will the Bartender was still gone. She thought of Truly Fine, who’d left here over a year ago, and while she wished now that she’d been on that stage with Truly, the solitude in which she found herself was all the better to play out her hand.

To her relief, Eulis was right where she’d seen him last, passed out on the floor beneath the bar. Letty nudged him several times with the toe of her shoe. He didn’t budge.

“Eulis!”

He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

Letty bent down and grabbed his long, bushy beard, yanking it back and forth until his head lolled on his neck like a yo-yo.

“Dang it, Eulis, wake up!”

He groaned and rolled, squinting through swollen lids as the overhead lights all but blinded his vision.

“Letty? Izzatchu?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she hissed. “Get up.”

“Wha’ the hell are you doin’?” he muttered, and swiped at Letty’s hands. “Dammit, ’at hurts.”

She glanced nervously toward the door. If anyone came in now, her plan would be ruined before she had a chance to set it in motion. Thankfully, there was no one in sight.

“Get up!” she whispered. “I need your help.”

“Can’t. I’m in my cups,” Eulis said, and rolled over on his side.

Letty grabbed him by the ear, yanking hard enough to bring tears to Eulis’s eyes. “I will skin you alive and stake you on an ant hill if you don’t get up.”

As drunk as he was, it was the word
ant
that got his attention. Every now and then he still found a dead one in his tangle of beard.

He groaned and staggered to his feet. “What the hell do ya’ want?”

“Come with me,” Letty said, and all but dragged him up the stairs.

“Now see here,” Eulis mumbled, trying to regain his freedom before the whore pulled him into her room. “I ain’t able to help you out like this none. I’ve been drunk too long to get it up, and that’s a fact.”

“I don’t need that kind of help, you ass. I need you to help me hide something.”

She pushed him through the door and slammed it shut behind them.

Even for a drunk, the body on the bed was impossible to miss. Eulis staggered backward. He’d seen plenty of dead men in his days, but none laid out on a whore’s bed, covered with a thin cotton spread, and not a stitch of clothes to his name. It was a sobering sight that sent the last fumes of alcohol flying from his whiskey-soaked brain.