The Gamble (I) (29 page)

Scott’s eyes opened and he smiled. “Sprout,” he said affectionately, holding out a palm.

“Gussie says I can’t hug you or jump on your bed or nothin’.”

“She does, huh?” Gandy’s brown eyes lifted to Agatha as she stood holding the boy’s hand. The two of them looked right together. It felt right having them here. He had the insane urge to fold back the blankets and invite them both to lie down beside him and talk about foolish things and laugh with him.

“Hello, Agatha,” he said quietly.

“Hello, Scott. How are you feeling?”

Confused,
he thought. “I’ve had better days, but Ruby says, long as it’s throbbin’, y’ know it ain’t dead.”

Willy looked up entreatingly, his hand still resting obediently in hers. “Can I go stand by him? I promise I won’t jiggle nothin’.”

“Of course you can.” She released his hand and smiled as he crossed the room with uncharacteristic solemnity and inched as close to the bed as he could without touching it. Scott’s good arm hooked him around the waist and pulled him against the edge of the mattress.

“You’re lookin’ mighty spit-shined there, sprout. Smellin’ pretty, too.”

“Gussie made me take another bath.” His tone took on additional disgust.
“Then
she made me go to the barbershop!”

“She’s a nasty one, isn’t she?” Scott teased, flashing Agatha a dimpled grin.

Willy stuck out his stomach and rubbed it. “Got my new britches an’ shirt back, though, an’ my boots, too. An’ Gussie bought me new underwear!”

“She did, huh?” Scott’s eyes wandered to Agatha while his large hand roamed the small of Willy’s back. A lazy smile tipped up the corners of his mouth.

Agatha spoke up briskly. “Yes, she did.” She brought a side chair and placed it next to the bed for herself. “But Willy’s already paying it off by sweeping the floor in the workroom and running to fetch my mail. We’ve had a busy day.” She sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

“Did you know my pa is dead?” Willy inquired without preamble.

Scott’s hand stopped rubbing and rested along the boy’s ribs. “Yes, Willy, I did.”

Willy went on. “Was you there when he got shot?”

“Yes.”

“Did... did
you
shoot ‘im?”

“No, son, I didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

Again Scott flashed a glance at Agatha. Dan, too, was Willy’s friend. Not wanting to disillusion the boy, Gandy answered evasively, “A man he was playin’ cards with.”

“Oh.” Willy thought a moment, stared at Scott’s bandage, and asked, “Did you get shot, too?”

“No, I had a little accident with a knife, that’s all.”

“Pa’s knife?”

Scott cleared his throat and elbowed himself up a little straighter. “Listen, Willy, I’m really sorry about your pa, but I’ve got things worked out so you won’t have t’ worry.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come on up here and I’ll tell you about it.”

Willy clambered up and sat beside Scott, his brown eyes intent on the dark face lying against the white pillows.

“I had Marcus clean out a corner o’ the backroom downstairs. You know—the one where we keep the extra bottles and the brooms and things? He set up a little bed
down there for you and that’s where you’ll sleep from now on. How does that sound?”

Willy’s face lit up. “Really?!”

Agatha experienced a stab of regret even as her heart swelled with gratitude toward Scott. Reason told her she couldn’t take Willy in to bunk beside her permanently, but she’d rather hoped his situation would remain unsettled for a few more nights. However, if there was one place Willy liked to be, it was with Scott. He’d be utterly happy in a shakedown, even in the backroom.

“But in the mornings you’ll have t’ get up and help Dan pile all the chairs on top of the tables while he sweeps. And you’ll have t’ help Jack wash glasses. And when the cuspidors need cleaning, that’ll be your job, too. Agreed?”

“Gee, Scotty, really?”

“Yessir.”

In his excitement Willy forgot himself and fell forward to give Scott a fierce hug. Scott winced and drew in a sharp breath.

“Willy!” Agatha hurriedly pulled him back. His expression immediately turned remorseful.

“Oh... I... I forgot.”

“You’d better get down,” she said quietly. “Another day when Scott is feeling better you can sit with him.”

He clambered down and turned toward the bed with guilt drooping his boyish face. “I din’t mean to hurt you, Scotty.”

Scott forced himself to forget the sharp stabs of pain in his arm. “It’s all right, sprout. You just gave me a twinge, but it’s practically gone already.”

Forgiven, Willy brightened immediately. “Can I tell Charlie an’ the other guys where I’m gonna live?” he asked excitedly, referring to the boys who sold food at the depot.

“Don’t see why not.”

“An’ can I tell ‘em about the job you give me?”

“Gave
me,” Agatha corrected.

“Gave me.”

Gandy managed a chuckle, though his arm still hurt like the devil.

“Go ahead, tell ‘em.”

“But, Scotty?” With quicksilver speed Willy’s face became somber again.

“What now?”

“I can’t help Dan with the sweepin’ tomorrow, ‘cause my pa is gittin’ buried an I gotta go to the fune-rull.”

Scott felt a lump form quickly in his throat. The boy’s ingenuousness went to his heart like a hunter’s arrow. “Come here,” he requested softly, “but take it easy this time.” Ignoring the pain in his arm, Scott stretched toward the edge of the bed and extended his healthy arm in welcome. Willy came carefully, as ordered, and when Scott’s strong dark hand pulled the small body against his wide chest, when his coarse, unshaven cheek rested against Willy’s blond hair, his voice grew low and unsteady.

“The day after tomorrow’ll be fine, sprout. And I’ll ask the doc if I can get up tomorrow so I can be at the funeral, too. How’s that?”

“But Gussie’s gonna take me.”

Scott shifted his gaze to Agatha, still sitting beside the bed, watching Willy with a telltale tear in her eye and a sympathetic droop to her lips. At that moment her pale, pale eyes moved to Scott’s very dark ones.

Gandy spoke softly, his bearded jaw catching strands of Willy’s fair hair. “Gussie is a very dear lady. But I think I should be there, too.”

The graveside of Alvis Collinson brought more mourners than he probably deserved. His friend, Doc Adkins, was there, and so was a fat, raw-boned woman named Hattie Twitchum, who wept noisily throughout the ceremony. Alvis had spent a lot of time at Hattie’s since the death of his wife, and rumor had it that the last two of her seven children bore a remarkable resemblance to Collinson. Mooney Straub stood beside her, sober for the first time in memorable history. And every employee from the Gilded Cage was present: Jack, Ivory, Marcus, Dan, Ruby, Pearl, Jubilee. Standing in a tight little cluster of their own were Scott and Agatha, holding the hands of Willy between them. They looked very much like a mother, father, and son. Willy
wore a brand-new store-bought suit, which was a miniature of Gandy’s—white shirt, with everything else black. Agatha stood in a high-necked black bengaline dress with generous leg-of-mutton sleeves that narrowed sharply at the elbows, and a black shepherdess hat pitched forward on her head, crowned by a crisp black veil tied into a wide bow above the back brim. Gandy had one arm in his jacket sleeve, while the other hung against his ribs in a white sling.

Willy didn’t shed a tear throughout the entire ceremony. When Reverend Clarksdale tossed a handful of soil on top of the coffin and quoted, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Agatha glanced down at him, expecting him to crumble. But though he clung tenaciously to her gloved hand, and to Scott’s much larger one, his eyes remained dry.

As the ceremony progressed, she glanced more often at Scott’s uncharacteristic paleness. Even through his tanned skin, the pallidity was evident. When the service had begun, he held his hat in his right hand, reserving his good left hand for Willy. But after some time he placed it on his head, as if even the effort of holding it in the weakened hand grew tiring.

When the final prayer ended and the noisy weeping of Hattie Twitchum faded away, Agatha thanked Reverend Clarksdale, who inquired after Willy’s welfare.

“For the time being, we’ll look after him,” she replied.

“We?”

“Mr. Gandy and I.”

Reverend Clarksdale’s protuberant green eyes seemed to pop out farther, but Agatha decided she owed him no explanations. Furthermore, she could tell Scott had overtaxed himself.

“Thank you again, Reverend Clarksdale. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Gandy needs to sit down.”

By the time they’d climbed aboard one of the waiting black carriages, Scott’s color had faded to that of tallow. He leaned back into the corner of the seat. Ivory saw him droop and came to take the ribbons. Marcus saw, too, and nudged Jube and made motions among himself, her, the boy, and his own wagon, then pointed to the prairie and rocked as if taking off for a ride.

Jube pointed to herself. “Me, too?”

Marcus nodded and Jube smiled.

She went to tell Willy, “Marcus has a carriage all paid for for the whole day. Shame to take it back to the livery stable and not get his money’s worth. What about the three of us taking it out for a little ride?”

Willy shrugged and glanced up first at Scott, then at Agatha.

“I’ll bet we could find some jackrabbits or some prairie dogs,” Jube cajoled.

They were a remarkable group, Agatha realized again. Scott needed rest. Willy needed diversion. Marcus and Jube stepped right in to provide both.

But Willy wasn’t as enthusiastic as they’d hoped. Obviously, he was anxious to get settled into his new lodgings instead.

Agatha put her arm around Willy’s shoulders. “Scott needs to go home and lie down,” she explained. “His arm is bothering him. Wouldn’t you like to go out with Marcus and Jube for a while?”

“I s’pose,” he answered unenthusiastically.

Shading her eyes, Jube looked up at Willy. “You haven’t had your dinner yet. Maybe we could all take a picnic.”

The suggestion brought the first spark of interest to Willy’s brown eyes.

“A picnic?”

“Why not?”

“With lemonade?”

“If Emma Paulie made some today. And if Marcus agrees.” She turned a fetching smile on him.

“Hey, Marcus,” Willy called, “can we take a picnic?”

Marcus agreed and within ten minutes the three of them were pulling up in front of Paulie’s Restaurant in a rented Studebaker buggy with shining yellow wheels and a bouncy black learner seat.

Emma Paulie had not made lemonade that day. But she had baked chicken, fresh bread, and pumpkin pie. She packed these in a peach crate, and along with it they took a jug of sarsaparilla and Marcus’s banjo.

They turned the wagon northward, crossing the Union Pacific Railroad tracks and setting off across the prairie, leaving behind cattle trails, the town, and the graveyard.

It was a clear day, and the sun was warm on their backs. Overhead lambs’-tail clouds dotted a true blue sky. Around them Kansas stretched as flat as a stove lid. The undulant grasses sang a sibilant song, while from overhead a circling hawk watched them pass.

A killdeer scuttled away from the wagon path, trailing its tuneless note, and Willy asked what it was. Jube said she didn’t know, but later she pointed out a meadowlark perched on a hackberry bush.

Marcus was content, listening to Jube and Willy chatter, glancing now and then at the boy’s blond head at his elbow, and Jube’s white one on the far side of the seat. Today was one of the rare times when she hadn’t worn white. Against her dress of somber indigo blue, her fairness shone like a star in the midnight sky. She was the most beautiful creature God had ever created. And she certainly had a way with Willy. The lad had totally forgotten his original hesitation about coming and gazed up at her now, enthralled, as she gestured at the clouds and sang robustly:

Oh, he flies through the air with the greatest of ease,

This daring young man on the flying trapeze.

His movements are graceful, all girls he does please

And my love he has purloined away...

“Sing it again, Jube!” Willy piped up when the song ended.

She looked down at him from beneath the brim of a high blue hat. “I will, but I’ll need a little help.”

“But I don’t know it.”

“It’s easy...” She taught him the words.

Oh, once I was happy, but now I’m forlorn...

Soon the two of them were singing loudly, their voices ringing across the boundless prairie, Jube’s rich and true, Willy’s off-key, missing words here and there. When they
ended the last chorus, he crinkled up his nose and asked, “What’s purloined?”

“Stolen.”

“Oh. Then how come we don’t just sing
stolen
away?”

Jube considered a moment, then turned toward the driver. “I don’t know. Marcus, do you know?”

Marcus didn’t know, but he loved smiling into her almond-shaped eyes. And he loved the tilt of her small, pretty nose, and the mole on the crest of her cheek, and her heart-shaped mouth that seemed always to be smiling. He tried to remember a time when Jubilee had grown snappish or pouting, but he could recall none. Her temperament was as bright as the rest of her. Their gazes held for some moments across the top of Willy’s head, their smiles half formed, their bodies rocking with the motion of the rig. He wondered if he’d ever been happier in his life. He felt alive and vibrant, and he gloried in each precious moment of her company.

The only thing that marred his bliss was the fact that he could not tell her how he felt. How beautiful she looked. How he revered her, would do anything for her, give her anything it was in his power to give.

They picnicked in the middle of the prairie amid the abundant blooms of late summer. Wild aster in pale violet, blazing stars in heliotrope, goldenrod in rich yellow. But no wildflower could ever match the beauty of Jubilee.

While she spread the blanket and knelt to unpack their food, Marcus sat cross-legged in the grass and took up his banjo. Immediately, Willy pranced over and hugged his neck from behind.

“Play somethin’ fast, Marcus!”