The guests buzzed and fed like a guild of grasshoppers.
Nellie said, “Should I pass the almond cake?” Her hair was damp around her face, but instead of looking hot and sweaty, Nellie looked fresh and dewy, a morning flower turning toward the sun. Will, who’d been hired to play, seemed to notice too. Jessa caught him staring after her sister and the red-headed beauty Oneida Garrett as well.
Nellie repeated her question about the cake. “Do I pass then?”
The soiree, as the missus called it, was in full swing, hard to hear above the din. “No,” said Jessa. “Wait ’til the coffee’s brewed.”
“This party’s as fine as frogs’ hair,” Nellie said, using one of their late grandfather’s expressions. “I hope it keeps going and going.”
Jessa considered her tired feet and back. At 10:00 p.m. the party was still crackling. The mister looked drunk, his shirt damp. Jessa thought he might be airing the paunch by the end of the night. The missus also appeared a bit moppy, her neck flushed and her voice louder than usual, but she was wholly in charge of her faculties. She moved about the room like she was doing a contra dance, making patterns across the floor, left, right, across. Every guest had had the pleasure of her attention, hand to arm, an imitation of intimate conversation. Jessa knew for a fact that none of the thirty or so guests were her close friends; she could only reach her close friends by letter or daydream. The missus must have made peace with the fact that this group would have to do. The only woman not buzzing around Mrs. Martin, vying for attention, was Mrs. Posey, who set herself in the parlor’s largest chair and let the town come to her. She got all the news first and was never stingy about exchanging it.
The women, including Mrs. Garrett and her daughter Oneida, seemed eager to hear about St. Louis from the missus. “The nation’s fifth largest city,” the missus had declared more than once that evening. When Edna Miller, the undertaker’s very young wife, had made the unfortunate mistake of confusing St. Louis with Chicago and asked about the Columbian Exposition, the missus had launched into a spirited attack on Chicago’s crowds, anarchists, and stench. Jessa wasn’t sure what anarchists were, but she understood they were vile. “Of course, how silly of me. St. Louis is so much nicer,” said Mrs. Miller, even though Jessa was pretty sure young Mrs. Miller had never been outside of Texas.
Nellie had taken to life at the Martins like a duck to water. Because she’d gotten the boys to sleep halfway through dinner, she’d been able to come downstairs to help. She was chatting with Miss Oneida Garrett as if they were bosom companions. The pale green dress the missus had given Nellie to wear had needed no alteration. She looked like a guest. Jessa was also wearing new clothes. A dark gray linsey-woolsey skirt, a percale waist, and a full apron, trimmed with a highly starched three-inch ruffle. No mistaking her for a guest. She stood against the wall, invisible, only there to fulfill someone’s next request. In contrast, her sister forged ahead, refilling punch glasses and trying to look busy so she could remain downstairs. The missus didn’t seem to mind. The plates had all been cleared and washed, and the Arbuckle’s was brewing.
It felt close to ninety degrees inside. No one in Texas spent September entertaining indoors, but the missus would not be dissuaded. All the windows were open, but the curtains hung flat, no breeze to be had. Jessa could see Will, through the parlor window, smoking a quirley with Mr. Banks, one of Rayner’s three attorneys at law, and Captain Rayner himself, who’d missed dinner and had spent most of the party outside. Will had played the piano quietly during the meal, but now the missus wanted him to sing as well. The missus approached Jessa, who was carrying a tray of meringues. She was just about to ask Jessa something when Nellie came up.
“Miss Campbell,” she said to Nellie, “would you please summon the talent?”
Nellie froze, a look of utter confusion. Just as Jessa was about to hand her little sister the meringues and get Will herself, Nellie’s puzzlement vanished.
“I would be delighted to procure Mr. Keyes,” said Nellie, practically bowing.
Jessa wondered who this strange creature was that used words like “procure.”
“Good girl,” said the missus. “What would we do without you tonight?”
Nellie basked in the praise.
“And you too, Jessa.” The missus spoke over her shoulder as she walked away.
Nellie bounded out the door. Through the window, Jessa watched her approach Will and the men. Her sister was no longer bouncing, but gliding, reminding Jessa of the missus—perhaps the length of the pale green skirt created the illusion. The lamps from the house cast a faint glow on the four of them, like yellow moonlight. Nellie shone, as pretty as the moon. Will stamped out his cigarette. He must have said something amusing because Nellie laughed. The men watched her in a way that raised Jessa’s hackles. “Nellie!” Jessa barked from the window, as if her sister had done something wrong.
As Will arranged his sheet music at the piano, the missus summoned Jessa.
“Run up and get every last fan for these people. I don’t understand not carrying one, but that’s farmers for you.”
Will started off with “Daisy Bell.” Jessa could hear the opening lyrics as she climbed the stairs: “There is a flower within my heart, Daisy, Daisy, planted one day by a glancing dart.” Jessa hurried to the bedroom. The fans were stashed in various drawers and boxes around the room. She went about collecting them but was in such a hurry that she knocked over the vanity stool. In the adjoining room, little Gabriel cried out at the noise. She stood as still as a broken clock, hoping he’d go back to sleep. One, two, she counted, and then he wailed. She rushed to the boys’ room before he woke his brother. Poor lamb was a sweaty mess. She took a cloth from her pocket and wetted it with water from the glass beside his bed. She pressed it to the back of Gabriel’s neck and squeezed a jot of water down his nightshirt. She made sure he was free of covers and lowered him onto the bed. She wiped the limp blond curls away from his face and, remembering the many fans in her pocket, unfolded one and gently fanned the boy. The boom-de-boom of the piano vibrated up through the floorboards to the bottoms of her feet, even through the prison of her shoes. She could hear Will beginning a new song but couldn’t make out what it was. Her fanning got slower and slower. Again she was still. One, two, three . . . She tried to rise, but Gabe started to cry again. Whether he was awake or not she couldn’t tell, but clearly he was miserable.
“Shhhhhh,” she whispered, re-wetting the cloth. She was missing the best part of the evening. She felt resentment well up inside her, toward the child, toward Nellie, who was downstairs, toward Will, who kept on playing. The feeling rattled her from the inside, like bile. She could taste what it’d feel like to be mad at the world, and she didn’t like it. No one had done anything to her. She settled her back against the headboard, flipped the cloth over to the cooler side, and waited.
When Jessa returned downstairs, the missus seemed irritated by the delay but wouldn’t allow for an explanation.
“Our girl here has fans. Please take one,” she said to the overheated room. “All right, Mr. Keyes, how about ‘After the Ball’ for our final number?”
Mr. Martin broke in. “Enough of that piddle. You must ride for the brand, young man.”
“Yes, Mr. Martin, as you say. The boss calls it,” said Will.
“Play us a cowboy song then. A clean one.”
“Ah, there’s the challenge,” said Mrs. Posey. The guests laughed. Mrs. Posey seemed to follow a different set of rules than Mrs. Martin or Mama, making bawdy comments, talking over the men.
The room went quiet, save for the sound of the guests fanning themselves, a delicate whoosh, whoosh, like the far off beating of insect wings. Will appeared to collect himself. He looked thirsty, and Jessa wished she had thought to bring him water.
When he began his last song, all showmanship seemed to vanish. Jessa had heard the song before but never so slowly.
As I walked out on the streets of Laredo
As I walked into old Laredo town,
I seen a poor cowboy, wrapped in white linen
All wrapped, for they had gunned him down.
The song was a lament, and as he sang it, she suddenly knew that he had things to atone for. Everyone did, of course. Romans 3:23 was as known to her as her own name: “For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God,” but there was something else, a particular sin. He’d do anything for his brother he’d said. Somehow, the weight of what he carried made her feel more secure. They were both stumbling children of God. Flawed and in need of clear-eyed companionship. Everyone else fell away, and she was alone with him in the room.
I see by your outfit, you are a cow puncher,
This poor boy said from his lips of flame rouge.
They done gunned me down, run off and left me,
Here on this backstreet, just like I was dead.
Nellie must have been singing under her breath because suddenly the missus had her hand at Nellie’s back and pushed her toward the piano. The spell was broken for Jessa when Nellie’s sweet soprano joined Will’s alto. Nellie seemed to match him in soulfulness, which surprised Jessa greatly. Nellie had always had a sweet voice, but a girl’s voice; she sang because it amused her, not because it fed her soul. Or so Jessa had thought. It occurred to her that you can never really know anyone. Despite the heat a chill like loneliness settled around her shoulders.
Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
And play the dead march as you bear me along.
Take me to the green valley, there lay sod o’er me,
’Cause I’m a poor cowboy, I know I’ve done wrong.
When they finished the song, Will took Nellie’s hand, possibly congratulating her. They were both grinning and it made Jessa uneasy. Jessa heard a guest ask if Nellie was the Martins’ niece, but she didn’t wait to hear the answer.
“See to the guests, Nell,” Jessa said curtly then poured a glass of water for her piano player. When she brought it to him, he slid his hand up the side of her leg and gave it a squeeze. She felt That Feeling again. His hand was so quick, so bold in the room full of people. A word came to her: misdirection. When she looked up, Nellie was staring directly at her. Did she see anything?
“Meet me later,” he said.
“I can’t.”
Just then Oneida and the missus came up to the piano.
“That was lovely, Mr. Keyes, even if it was my husband’s pick.” The missus slurred a bit on “husband’s.” She fanned herself in an almost violent way then seemed to give up. “Please don’t tell me it gets hotter than this.”
“I won’t tell you then.” Will smiled, his dimples winking.
“I complained to Miss Garrett, but she doesn’t seem to mind the heat. Do you, Oneida?”
“Oh, I mind, but you can’t argue with summer, Mrs. Martin.”
Will laughed like the red-headed girl had said the funniest thing. Jessa couldn’t get over her coppery hair, pulled up in an elaborate twist, as sleek as silk, even in the damp, hot room.
“In St. Louis, we have the shadiest parks with enormous fountains,” said the missus. “Perfect place to cool down.”
“There’s always the river,” said Will. “Refreshment for the unrefined.”
The river. Jessa remembered their legs intertwined, dangling into the cool waters.
“You call that piddly thing a river?” said the missus.
Jessa thought about how formidable the river could get when rain ran off the Double Mountain and fell faster than the prairie could absorb it, how it had almost kept her father from holding her brother Newt’s hand on his deathbed during a great flood.
“When your measuring stick is the Mississippi, I’d imagine it does seem a paltry body of water,” said Oneida.
“You prefer a wide and fast body, do you, Mrs. Martin?” said Will.
“And you don’t, Mr. Keyes? You’re satisfied with a skimpy little meandering body of water?” The missus practically tittered.
The three of them seemed to put unnecessary emphasis on the word “body,” playing some kind of game. If Will was such a threat, a man to be avoided, why was the missus talking to him this way?
When the missus excused herself, Oneida reached out and touched Will’s arm. Words were exchanged, but too low to hear. It would be so easy to lose him, Jessa thought. Perhaps she already had. Perhaps singing with Nellie had done it, or staring into Oneida’s wide green eyes. Never had she felt this way about anyone. Just then Will looked up and locked eyes with Jessa. Oneida continued to talk, but he wasn’t listening to her. He was waiting on Jessa. Jessa in the awful apron. Jessa with her jealous heart. She nodded.
After the guests left the Martins spent a little time discussing their triumph, and then Mr. Martin moved over to the table and lifted the damp cloth Jessa had placed over the roast.
“Seems to be quite a lot of meat left,” he said.
“People don’t like to eat a lot in the heat,” said the missus. She moved to the sideboard and helped herself to another drop of sherry.
“Still. Seemed a little tough. Miss Campbell,” he said, “you must be careful not to overcook the meat.”
When Mr. Goodsite’s man had delivered the meat that morning, supposedly from Mr. Martin’s “yearling,” Jessa could see by the dark color and large size that the roast was from an old cull cow, not a young, healthy steer. Still, she didn’t want to contradict the mister. She said nothing.
“But look, it’s pink,” said Nellie. “I don’t believe it’s the cook time, Mr. Martin.”
“You don’t?” he said. “And what do you know about it, other-Miss-Campbell?”
“The meat was pretty dark to begin with.”
“And this means?” he said.
“Maybe the animal’s old. Isn’t that right, Jess?” said Nellie.
“Could be.” Jessa was afraid of upsetting the cattle baron.
Mr. Martin seemed to consider this. “I’ll bet that’s why Goodsite didn’t deliver it himself. This is not one of my beeves. I knew it.”
“You’ll have to sort it out with him, Elias,” said the missus. “I’m going to retire.” The missus went upstairs with her sherry, but the mister carried on as if she remained.
“He’s probably thinking of how much we can make on the hoof, doesn’t want to part with the meat before then, but they’re my animals, and I’ll eat one if I damn well please.”
Jessa and Nellie stood by. They wanted to collect the roast but didn’t want to become part of the mister’s growing agitation. Jessa’s only concern was how to escape the house unnoticed.
“Bet he doesn’t send jerky like this to Rockefeller. I’ve a right to a decent steer. If I get any runaround, I’m going straight to Keyes.”
Will had assured Jessa his brother had nothing to do with Goodsite’s cattle swindle; she hoped Mr. Martin would see it that way.
The mister went to the sideboard and bypassed the sherry in favor of the decanter of whisky behind it. He poured himself two fingers worth. “Those two better not turn out to be a pair of four-flushers ’cause I’ll see ’em hanged.” Glass in hand, he mounted the stairs.