Five

May Tremaine’s new shoes were not meant for walking. She had blisters on her feet the size of dimes—about two dollars’ worth, judging by the sharp pains that stabbed her with every step.

Most of the stores and shops had shut down, late afternoon filling the streets of Denver with shadow. She felt tired and dirty. If she didn’t find some work now, it would mean another night in the wagon yard, and that man there was going to expect reimbursement tonight. He had told her as much when she left this morning.

She saw a door ajar down the street and quickened her step, though it felt like walking barefoot over sharp rocks. The sign simply said HARDWARE, a commodity about which she knew nothing. She reached for the door, but it opened before she could grab the brass handle, and a man stepped onto the street.

“Sorry,” he said. “Closed for the day.”

“No, I’m looking for a job,” May replied.

The man turned his key in the lock. “Well, we’re not hiring.” He turned to walk away.

“Wait!” May cried. “Please, wait.”

The man stopped in the street and turned.

“I have no money. I have no place to stay. I’ll work for room and board. Just until I find something else. Please. I’ll do anything.” She gestured toward the store, but she knew the man would take it the wrong way.

He smiled with one side of his mouth as his eyes traveled down her skirt and slowly back to her face. “My wife wouldn’t approve of that sort of arrangement. Good luck.” And he left, shaking his head as he walked away.

May thought about that man back in the wagon yard. It wouldn’t be so bad. He had bathed last night, and had made sure she knew about it this morning, having worn oil in his hair and a clean shirt. But where would it get her? A restless night on a bed of straw? She would be better off hiring herself out as just a regular whore. At least then she would get paid.

Up until a couple of days ago, May thought she had made it in Denver. She had landed a job in a shoe shop, and the cobbler had advanced her a pair of shoes, as hers was pretty much worn out. The job had gone well for a week. Then, two days ago, while cleaning up after hours, the cobbler had followed her into the back room. When she reached up to put a pair of shoes on a high shelf, he grabbed her from behind, squeezing her breasts with both hands, pressing himself against her.

She had gasped and wrenched violently away, elbowing him in the mouth as she stumbled and fell to the ground. She sprang and ran, made it to the door, and bolted out to the street.

“Hey!” was all the cobbler said as she ran away.

She had made just enough money that week to earn the shoes that were giving her blisters now. She walked on. She wasn’t going to sleep on that wagon yard straw again tonight.

May didn’t know what she did to make men come after her like that. When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see a pretty woman. She thought her eyes and her lips were too large. Her face was too wide, her chin too weak. She had always wanted to be tall and skinny and able to run like a deer. But she was of medium height, too curvaceous to be considered skinny, even though she carried no extra weight. She didn’t see herself as pretty, but men had been groping for her since she was fifteen.

It had started with her uncle, the husband of her mother’s sister, an army captain back in Iowa. He was quite a dashing character, having done battle with Indians on the plains. It was true that May had flirted with him in a girlish way, but it never even remotely occurred to her that she might summon the monster in him. She was visiting on the army post for the summer, and her aunt had gone to town one day, leaving her alone in the captain’s quarters. The captain came home in the middle of the morning, asked her to come into the bedroom, and pushed her onto the bed, falling on top of her.

“If you scream again, I’ll hit you,” he said, pressing his hand hard over her mouth. “You’ve been wanting this and now you’re gonna get it.” He felt like he weighed five hundred pounds on top of her. And though she cried the entire time, he seemed not to notice, and even told her how good she made him feel.

There were others who tried—men and boys—and she let the more persistent ones succeed. May came to believe that this was a terror all girls just suffered because men were bigger and stronger, and because they harbored that monster in their hearts. When she told her best friend about it, her friend never spoke to her again. Then she knew her life was different. It wasn’t all girls; it was just she. She honestly did not know why. She never purposefully sent signals to any men, but they swooped down on her like birds of prey when she was in any way alone or vulnerable.

When she met Charlie Holt, he seemed different. He was from Kansas and had come back to Iowa to visit family. He was far from refined, but impressed her with his honest talk. Built solid from toil, he nevertheless seemed gentle. He courted her like no man had ever done, taking her to church services, sitting with her on the porch. At twenty-three, he was four years older than May. He had been farming for five years in Kansas and had a sod house built there. He described the country in simple words that made her want to see it. Two weeks after she met him, they were married.

Kansas wasn’t as beautiful as May had hoped, but she made a home there. About the time she started to like it, her husband went to town one night and got drunk. Over the next few months he started drinking more frequently, turning ugly when he came home.

“I don’t know why I married you,” he said one night. “God, if I’d known you was barren, I never would have.”

May didn’t understand these things, but she didn’t see how she could be barren when she had been pregnant before. When she was eighteen she had suffered six weeks of sheer mortification when she became pregnant by a friend of her older brother. She never told anyone about the pregnancy or the miscarriage, adding the memories to the other ghosts that trailed her.

“Another thing,” Charlie Holt added. “You tried to make me think you was a virgin, didn’t you? I knowed the first night we was married you was a far sight from a virgin.”

The next time Charlie came home drunk, he hit her in the face with his fist for no reason, then passed out on the bed. May had been pinned down and shoved around a couple of times, but she had never been hit. It hurt bad when Charlie hit her and made her feel like some kind of scared varmint animal in a trap.

Weeds grew up in the cornfield, and Charlie lost his draft horse in a card game. May kept a fine garden that helped to feed them, but one night Charlie poured kerosene down each row and burned it. “Teach you to mock me, goddammit, woman!” he cried, a whiskey slur stringing his words together.

May tried to stop him, but he grabbed a barrel stave and hit her with it until she was curled up on the ground whimpering.

That was all May Tremaine intended to endure. After Charlie finished his bottle and passed out, she made sure he wouldn’t wake up by ringing a frying pan on the top of his head. She then packed everything she could carry and left in the middle of the night for Denver. She took her maiden name back and tried to forget she had ever been married to Charlie Holt.

She had heard that men out beyond the frontier held a higher view of the fairer sex, as women were scarce out there. Well, maybe it was true for other women, but not May. The cobbler and that man at the wagon yard had convinced her. She was doing something to provoke them. She would stop it if she knew what it was, but she didn’t know. Now she was hungry and starting to think that she should use it to her advantage—whatever it was. They were going to keep coming after her, anyway. She might as well get paid for it.

Limping, she came to the house of red curtains she had seen earlier in the day. How did one apply for a job as a whore? Walk in? Maybe she should use the back door. She sat down on the front steps of the place and squinted back the tears. Maybe this was all she was good for. She had heard stories of whores marrying wealthy men out west. Maybe this was where her fortunes would change. Things couldn’t get worse.

As she took off her shoes to soothe her feet, the door flew open and a cowboy staggered out, yelling as if he had a herd before him. A trail boss followed the cowboy and pushed him so hard that the cowboy tripped down the steps past May. He rolled when he hit the street and came up with his fists in front of him. Then he saw May, opened his hands, and adjusted his hat.

“Well, howdy,” he said as the trail boss stepped off the stairs to the street.

May just looked away from the cowboy as she rubbed her feet gingerly.

“Where was you thirty minutes ago?” the cowboy said.

The trail boss laughed. “You mean thirty seconds.”

“Hey,” the young drover said, squatting in front of May, “you comin’ off work or goin’ on?” He grinned and put his hand on her knee.

She drew away, glancing at the boss for help, but the older man just stood staring. “I don’t work here,” she said. “I was just resting.”

“Come on with us,” the cowboy said, grabbing her wrist. “We’ll go dancin’ or somethin’.” He stood and pulled her toward the dirt street.

She tried to wrench free, but his grip twisted her skin. “My feet hurt,” she said. “I can’t go.”

He jerked her toward him, clamping an arm around her waist, lifting her from the steps. “I’ll carry you, then. You don’t even have to step on them sore feet.”

The trail boss sighed. “Now, you better leave her be.”

“We’re dancin’,” the cowboy answered.

May tried to push herself away, but the cowboy squeezed her as if he would break her back. She twisted her face away from his whiskey breath, and as she writhed in his grasp, she caught sight of a man trotting toward her on the street. A good-looking young man, well built, wearing an oilskin hunting coat.