35

Daisy

c. 1890

 

 

No sound.

I listened.

To nothing.

I existed, but I did not exist.

My soul hovered above my body.

Little by little, my spirit returned. It entered through my toes and moved upward until it filled my whole body. Folded over the stump, in the lap of the warm, wise wood, I discovered peace.

Inside the palm of the universe. I was a mote in space. But part of something larger.

How much time had passed? At any time my master, brother, friend, lover, my god, might return.

Using the stump, I managed to lift myself up onto my elbows. I tried out my feet and somehow managed to stand. My only desire: to escape the shed.

The night air cooled my burning cheeks. Half of the moon was sheared off by the clouds that hurried by. I thought about running. Since I was unable, I quietly reentered the house and prepare my departure.

The moment of my greatest peril had passed. Or so I thought.

I entered through the kitchen door. Soiled dishes were stacked up on the table next to the ice-cold stove. In the parlor, and upstairs, all was chilly and silent. The Reverend’s overcoat, and Chris’ cloak, absent from the hooks in the entry. No doubt they were scouring the waterfront dives for a waft of Edith’s whereabouts.

I climbed the stairs. In a porcelain bowl on her nightstand I bathed my injured hand. The pain made me nauseous and wobbly. I scrubbed the red-purple puncture wound with caustic soap, determined not to cry out though no one was inside the house. After, I wrapped it up in a strip of a linen pillow cover.

I didn’t bother to look for my satchel. Nothing in that chamber belonged to me; I had no possessions, except the mustard yellow cloak—a gift from a soul-sister who had fled. I pulled the house keys from my apron pocket, slipped off the apron, and laid it carefully on the seat of the umbrella tree in the front hall. Then I walked out the front door, pulling the cloak around me tightly, as I locked the door and slipped the skeleton key through the mail slot.

I will not describe my descent to the waterfront or my stumbling retreat through the empty streets of the sad city. What if I couldn’t find Jake? What if he had already departed? How would I get home? Despite the throbbing in my hand, or perhaps guided by it, I made my way to Point Hudson.

At the top of the dunes, I halted. Was that Jake Cook’s tent, rippling in the breeze. Beyond that, the dugout canoe that would carry me home to Dungeness. Real, or a mirage? Excited, I began to run. The rush of the wind met the swell of the Sound as the heel of my boot snagged on as greasy beach log.

Automatically, I put out my wounded right hand to break my fall. The pain took my breath away. It was as if grit and salt had been injected directly into my wound. I didn’t pass out. But I can’t remember if I cried out or not.

Climbing up onto the log, I pressed my left thumb hard against the wound to staunch the fresh flow of blood that oozed from it. An icy rain began to fall. As the freezing droplets slid down my spine, they pricked at every nerve. I felt light-headed. If I lost consciousness? Salvation was near at hand, yet somehow out of reach.

“Can I help you, miss?”

The ex-officer, about forty-five or fifty, might have been handsome. He reached out. “Are you hurt? You poor hand. Let me see it.”

At one time a fellow of exceptional strength, now his physique was wiry, undernourished. His greasy hair fell down his stringy neck. A disease in the red left eye made it weep. He had an incomplete beard that started on his upper lip and disappeared into the collar of his degraded uniform.

Suddenly I remembered. Was this not the same fellow who had pocketed an untaxed tin of opium? And nearly tossed Christopher in jail? Was ex-officer Smyth a fellow I could trust?

I had no one else.

I opened up my right fist.

Ex-officer Smyth drew back. “Shall I take you to the marine hospital? Never mind. If you try to walk, you’ll faint. I’ll go for a doctor—”

“No! It doesn’t hurt—well, not much. Besides, I haven’t a cent.”

If Smyth called a doctor, I’d end up back in the Mathieson parlor. Add to that, I might need the coins in Carl’s purse, tucked into my pocket, to survive.

Smyth winced. “No money?”

“No,” I lied.

He peered at me, hard. His injured eye oozed blood and pus. He sensed that I was not telling the truth. I sensed that he badly needed a drink.

A flutter next to my right shoulder.

Feathery fingers.

An Indian girl, eleven or so, perhaps younger. Her thick hair in braids, her face smeary. She wore a black silk Chinese jacket, with elaborate scarlet-and-gold trim. Fancy, but not warm. She had no shoes.

Timidly she stroked my arm. By the light of a small campfire the black satin lining of Edith’s cloak shimmered. Mesmerized, the girl fingered a brass button.

I asked Smyth, “Is she yours?”

The ex-officer nodded.

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

The girl replied, “Daisy.”

Smyth sneered, and said, “She ain’t my daughter.”

It took me a minute to comprehend his crime. Was it possible that her parents had agreed to this arrangement? No, not possible. If she were older—a sad marriage contract—but not this.

Daisy beseeched me with round eyes. My pity turned to rage. What courage. Despite the abuse she had suffered, she had not lost her capacity to respond to the pain of a stranger. My hand throbbed. For one instant I recognized my mother Annie at the same age, equally vulnerable, just as brave.

“Git,” Smyth commanded.

The little girl did not move.

He raised up his fist. He pulled back and aimed. Then, comically, like the blackguard in a melodrama, he stumbled back.

Daisy, a mere shadow on wing, condensed into darkness.

The tent flap fell.

Smyth repeated, “No money, not even a penny? A working girl like you?”  Inconsequentially he added, “You think you’re better than me?”

Was I? Daisy, a child, felt my pain long minutes before I noticed hers. If I refused to help her now, how much better or worse was I than this scoundrel Smyth, so eager to get by that he inflicted suffering on others without really noticing or caring?

“Here,” I said.

With the fingers of my left hand, I pulled. The fish emitted flinty moon sparks.

Smyth folded the earrings into the pocket of his greatcoat, much better than Daisy’s. One or two waterfront pubs might still be open, to sop up the loose change of folks who had lost everything.

Smyth set off, shoulder against the wind. His brute form became one with the hunkering dunes.

Using my injured right hand to grip the wool, I managed to undo the mustard cloak. I checked the pocket for Carl’s little purse. If I had not distracted Smyth with the silver fish, in not very long he would have found it and pilfered it.

I fell to my knees and squatted next to the flap.

“Hullo?” I whispered. “Daisy?”

No answer.

“Do you want to go home?”

Silence. Then the tent fluttered.

“Yes.” She sniffed.

I laid down the bundled-up cloak in front of the tent flap.

“Go. Now.”

I stood up.

The stars swirled.

I had lost everything: The Aia’nl, the earrings, Edith’s cloak, and Carl’s purse. For the sake of a little girl. In exchange, I had acquired a mite of her courage.

Down the beach, half a mile, I discovered Jake Cook’s tent. I lifted the flap. Stretched out, Jake’s lean figure, still wearing his boots. Next to him, a youth. No doubt, the second puller. If Jake trusted him, so did I.

In the narrow place between the sleeping boy and the rippling canvas, I eased in. I propped up my throbbing right hand on top of his muscular shoulder. I pressed my muddy tear-streaked cheek into the small of his back.

My little brother Charley.

He smelled clean, woodsy, and peaceful.

Feverish, I slept.