So Wild a Dream Page 7

  Sam backed into a corner, uncertain. Immediately Rhondalynn was upon him. “Would you like a drink?” She took his hand and led him to a highboy where several crystal decanters of amber fluid glistened. Sam had never seen such elegant glassware before. Rhondalynn poured a drink in a fancy-looking goblet and handed it to Sam, then the same for herself. “It’s cognac,” she said, “the finest French cognac. And, honey, it’s a dime for each one.”

  Sam fumbled two dimes out of his hunting pouch and dropped them into the dish half full of dimes next to the decanters. Then his first taste of the liquor, which looked like whiskey, took away his consciousness of the price. Fire! He blinked several times at Rhondalynn, and his eyes watered.

  “Aren’t you sweet?” she said. “I could take to a young stud like you.”

  He coughed, covered it by tossing the whole drink down, and felt like gases must be exploding out his ears.

  Ten and Lucia headed upstairs holding hands. Ten threw an encouraging smile back at Sam.

  “Want another drink, honey?”

  “I’m good,” Sam rasped out.

  Annabelle switched to a livelier tune, and Rhondalynn stepped into a dance. After a few steps she smiled all warm at Sam and held her hands out. He shook his head no, jostling his thoughts. The illusion of Katherine living as a whore was driving him crazy. But the picture of what they did that day in the woods—that was driving him crazier.

  Finally Rhondalynn stopped dancing and walked over to the liquor. She looked coquettishly at Sam. He backed into a corner.

  Suddenly Janie was in front of him, and now she looked up and met his eye. Then back down. “Would you like to sit with me?” He did, on a padded bench like a church pew.

  She glanced up shyly, and down, and seemed unsure of herself. He knew just how she felt. “I like you,” she said. She put her hand on his. They sat. Eyes up, eyes down, eyes accidentally catching each other and darting away. She had the same feelings he did, Sam could see.

  But wild thoughts popped up like jack-o’-lanterns in his mind. Pictures of her doing what he knew she did (though he didn’t feel sure about that). Pictures of someone putting a curse on her that made her work in a house like this. Pictures of himself abducting her into the night, to a better life. He looked at her and then turned his head away fast to keep from locking eyes. He listened to her delicate breath catch, and finally ease out. He felt a pang of liking for her. Then wild thoughts stampeded out of the dark and trampled him, and he couldn’t stop them.

  He was embarrassed for her. He was mortified for himself.

  After a while she turned, lifted her face, and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Would you like to come upstairs with me?”

  He would. He nodded.

  She led him by the hand up the steep, narrow stairs.

  The room was tiny—there was no place to sit but the bed. Sam stood. With a hand Janie drew him down beside her. He couldn’t look at her. This was humiliating.

  She laid her head on his shoulder. He ignored it. She stroked his hand. He just sat there.

  Finally she said, “I need a dollar.”

  He dropped dimes all over the floor in his rush to give them to her.

  She waited patiently for him to pick them up, then brushed his cheek with her lips again and said, “I’m not wearing anything under this shift.”

  Sam heard her words of abasement and looked into her pathetic eyes and blurted out, “I’m just so sorry for you.”

  For a fleeting moment Sam thought he saw a wild amusement in her face. But no, he saw, she was demure. “Want to talk?”

  He nodded yes.

  Ten was practically skipping as they walked down the road in the crisp night air. “Damn, was that fun. That Lucia, she’s hot. She’s …”

  He looked at his friend, tromping dully along. “Who’d you go up with?”

  “Janie.”

  “How was she?”

  “I just feel so bad for a girl in a spot like that.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, how did she get there? Where’s her family? Why isn’t someone taking care of her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked her but she wouldn’t say.”

  “Sa-a-am?!”

  “Don’t you think about things like that?”

  “Sam, what happened up there?”

  “We talked.”

  “Just talked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You give her a dollar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “To talk?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Sam, she’s a whore.”

  “She’s a sixteen-year-old girl that’s lost her way.”

  “She’s a whore. And if she’s sixteen, it’s one long sixteen. Been there three years I know of.”

  “She looks sixteen.”

  “Last year she looked like a New Orleans floozy, wore a bright sash and a full skirt and swung it around a lot.”

  “What!?”

  “She hadn’t discovered her pathetic act yet. This suits her better.”

  “I don’t think it’s right to talk this way about her.”

  “Didn’t you want to do anything with her?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did you want any of those women?”

  Sam walked a few steps before he let the words out. “I guess I wanted Rhondalynn.”

  “Why’d you pick Janie?”

  “Felt so bad for her.”

  They walked through the darkness in silence.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Rhondalynn reminds me of my girlfriend. I wanted to jump on her and go.”

  They dangled their legs off the end of the dock near the steamboat. With the swish of the river half-covering his voice, Sam spilled out the whole story. His resentment of his brother, his attraction to Katherine. Their hour of passion in his special Eden. “The very next day they announced their betrothal.”

  “Betrayal by betrothal,” quipped Ten.

  Sam tried not to hear the flippant tone.

  “Katherine was the snake in your Eden.”

  On came his story. How he ran off. Owen’s lying warrant for his arrest, which cried out for revenge. What a good time he had floating down river, except maybe for dreaming about Katherine sometimes. Then tonight Rhondalynn set off a waterfall of feelings in him.

  “Let’s go back,” said Ten. “Let’s go back and you frig Rhondalynn.”

  “No way,” said Sam.

  They dangled and kicked their legs in silence.

  “Yeah, we got to go back,” said Ten.

  “No way in hell,” Sam said louder.

  Silence.

  “What do you want to do, then?”

  “Eat.”

  “Yeah, let’s eat. Yeah, let’s do that, let’s eat.”

  The Queen City Tavern was hopping. In the jumble of tables, conversations, card games, shouts, entreaties, mugs, glasses, and bodies, it took several minutes to find Grumble and Eleven. By good luck they were eating.

  “Chicken and dumplings!” cried Grumble. “Go to it!” Sam wondered what chicken and dumplings was.

  “A dime!” Eleven put in enthusiastically.

  They ladled bowls full, cut bread off the loaf and buttered it, and paid the counter man. Sam wondered how long his four dollars would last in Cincinnati.

  They joined their friends at the barrel and dug in. Sam liked the taste, thick, creamy and a little sweet. Chicken was good after all that deer meat.

  “Make any money?” Ten asked.

  Eleven grinned.

  “A bit,” said Grumble.

  “I got ninety-five cents,” said Eleven. “Most money I ever made in an hour.”

  “Show me how it’s done,” urged Ten.

  Grumble did it without a word. First he shuffled an entire deck with a dexterousness even Sam had never seen. Then he showed an ace in his palm, turned his hand over and back and it was gone, over and ba
ck and it was there again. Then he reached over and plucked the same card from under the flap of Sam’s hunting pouch. He cocked an eye at Ten.

  “I get it.”

  Now Grumble drew out the gentleman, lady, and boy with a hoop of hearts. He demonstrated his ultra-dexterous shuffle, then in moments his arthritic shuffle. Both times he turned over the card Ten picked as the boy with a hoop. Once it was the old man, once the lady.

  “I get it,” said Ten.

  “Really?”

  “For sure.”

  “For fun and profit. Actually, I have more larceny up my sleeve. Who will be my fellow trickster this time?”

  “Me,” put in Eleven.

  Grumble waited.

  “Better be Sam,” said Ten. “He’s gonna need the money.”

  “I do not,” said Sam.

  “Yeah, you do. Annabelle’s.”

  “Annabelle’s,” crowed Grumble. “Waltzing the mollishers.” Grumble talk for whores. “I’m sure you boys like that. Actually, I could use all three of you. One to be the star of the show. He will get the most money.”

  “Sam’s the man,” said Ten.

  “Not me,” said Sam.

  “You’ll need that money before the cock crows,” Ten said with a grin.

  “No I won’t,” said Sam.

  “Let’s just pretend you will,” said Ten.

  Sam complained all the way through rehearsal, but they saw he was taking to the idea. Afterwards Grumble said they needed a tavern where none of them had been seen. Amber’s Grog Shop looked fine, especially because it was crowded.

  Sam, Ten, and Eleven went in first, Sam using his new walk. He crimped his right foot sharply inward, painfully lifted and set down the whole leg stiff-kneed. In fact, it did hurt, in this awkward position. He followed Ten and Eleven doggedly, not looking at anyone because he didn’t want to be pitied. They got mugs of ale and found places at a trestle table toward the back of the shop. Sam wondered if the men already seated would object to Indians, but they said nothing. Maybe the “civilized” clothing made the difference.

  Grumble slipped in quietly, moving like a man who didn’t want to be noticed. He made his way obsequiously to the counter, paid for his mug, and retired to a nearby wall, as though afraid to intrude on any drinkers by sitting down.

  Soon Sam went for a second mug. Every step said, This hurts but I’m not giving in, and I’m too proud to accept help. The counter man refilled his mug without a word, and Sam started back to his table.

  As he neared Grumble, the cherub fixed his eyes on Sam with a look of great compassion. He started to reach out, but hesitated. Started to speak but stopped himself. Made an anguished face and restrained himself by clasping his hands around his mug in front of his chest.

  Sam gave him a supremely disgusted look.

  This was more than Grumble could bear. “Excuse me, I beg your pardon most humbly, but I … No, I dare not.”

  “Spit it out, old man.”

  Grumble lowered his head, shook it, and murmured soundless words. His manner said, Certainly I am a pitiful old man, and deserving of the contempt of this young fellow who bears his affliction so nobly.

  “I said spit it out.”

  Grumble’s face jerked up into Sam’s, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, it’s intrusive of me, unforgivable really, but I …”

  Sam looked around at nearby drinkers and got their amused sympathy.

  “But what? Exactly what?”

  “Your affliction is so grievous, it hurts me to see you, when I know I can help. But I mustn’t, truly, I mustn’t.”

  “Help?” Sam said loudly and sarcastically. He lifted his deformed leg up, hoisted it further with both hands, and plopped it on the table so all could see the twisted foot. “God gave me this. What could you do about it? Are you more powerful than almighty God?” He turned and shared a laugh with the men watching, more and more of them.

  “I have no power at all, actually,” said Grumble meekly.

  “Damned right you don’t,” Sam lashed at him.

  “But I am a vessel.”

  “A vassal, he says,” Sam called to the crowd. “Fancy word for a low-life.”

  Men hooted.

  “I claim no status, indeed have no status, but …”

  “But what?” Said loudly and harshly.

  Grumble answered hesitantly, tremulously. “I have a gift.” He continued in the tone of a sorrowful admission. “It so pains me to see such suffering. I could help you.”

  “Help me?! I been all the way to Philadelphia with this leg. The most uppity doctors in this nation have looked and shook their heads and despaired, I tell you despaired, of their helplessness in the face of this leg.” He drew a deep breath and rose to his crowning statement. “Go as God made you. It is not for man to contend against what God has done. That’s what them doctors said.”

  This struck the crowd silent.

  Grumble wrung his hands. Clearly he did not want to pursue the matter any further, but … At last he went on in a voice as soft as a child’s. “Indeed. Just so. I agree. My gift is … My gift is to call forth the power of Holy Spirit and heal. I have the healing hands.”

  “Healing hands?” roared Sam. “Healing hands, my ass. You are an impostor. You are a quack. You’re one that pretends to help and in fact tortures me more!” With these last three words his voice rose into a cry of anguish.

  “I beg you,” said Grumble, looking around nervously at the crowd. “Let us go somewhere private. Let us go somewhere …” Now his voice, though still soft, moved confidently. “I will lay healing hands upon you, sir. I know I can.”

  “Healing hands?!” The words were accusation. “If you make such a claim, if you offend us with this arrogance, show us. Show here what you can do.” Now he shouted out. “Heal the lame!”

  “Show us,” called Ten from the rear.

  “Make him PROVE IT!” yelled Eleven.

  Other men took up the cry. “Show us!” “Prove it.”

  Some of the men in front stood up, like they wouldn’t let Grumble leave until he backed up his words, and would thrash him thoroughly when he didn’t.

  Grumble looked at the aroused crowd fearfully. He stuttered, “All right. All right. I will …”

  Now his movements took on authority. “Make room, please. He will lay here where all can see.”

  A half dozen men moved their drinks to clear the way. Grumble nodded to Sam, and he stretched out full length on the table, right in the sloshed-over beer, and closed his eyes.

  “I need silence,” Grumble said at large, in a voice of assurance. “Utter silence.”

  He lifted his face to the heavens and moved his lips in silent prayer. His face grew radiant. His body swelled with power. No man in the room heard his words, but every one of them would have sworn to their eloquence, their power, their glowing beauty.

  Then Grumble turned to the prostrate form of the poor sufferer. He held his hands in silence over Sam’s hip, but did not touch him. Over his knee, without touching. Over the ankle.

  Then, for a moment, he withdrew into himself, head down. Suddenly he thrust his hands high, as though to call down some power higher than man. He brought those hands to Sam’s sad, inward-turned foot.

  The room was a hush. Men didn’t breathe.

  Grumble reached out with a single forefinger, paused dramatically, and eased Sam’s foot straight. Nothing more. Exactly that, and all of that.

  Sam opened his eyes and regarded his right foot. Everyone could see the wonder in his face. For the first time in his life it was straight.

  He pushed himself to the end of the table and let his legs dangle toward the floor. First he put weight on the left foot. Then a little weight on the right. He stood, weight equal between the feet, right foot still straight.

  Murmurs began, and swelled.

  Sam stepped forward on the left foot, then on his right. He threw the entire crowd a triumphant grin. Two more steps. Four. He ran
a few steps and leaped into the air. He danced.

  Uproar. A hundred men sang out their acclaim.

  Sam sank to the floor and wept.

  Grumble stood above him quietly, eyes down, beaming. He helped Sam up.

  Sam waved his arms for silence. He took both of Grumble’s hands in his. “What is your name, healer?”

  “Ada. Ada Gleason.”

  “Thank you, Ada. I can never thank you enough.”

  There were tears in the crowd, and recommitments to religion, and new conversions.

  “Thank the Holy Spirit,” said Grumble. “I am only a vessel for his power.”

  Sam shook both of Grumble’s hands vigorously. “You’ve changed my life.”

  “God go with you.”

  “I must do something in return.”

  “I want nothing.”

  Sam was getting agitated now. “What can I do? Anything. I have to do something.”

  “Pay the doctor,” called Ten.

  A dozen voices echoed, “He’s a real doctor. Pay him.”

  Sam’s hand dived into his pouch and came out with coins. “Here’s a dollar. I’m a poor man, but take it, please. You’ve changed my life. You’ve saved my life.”

  “I couldn’t. No. I can’t. No, thank you …” Grumble was backing away.

  Sam grabbed him by one elbow and thrust the coins into his hand.

  “Take this or I’ll never feel all right about this gift. I’ll never truly feel the joy of walking, and running, and dancing.”

  Grumble took it.

  “Thank you,” said Sam, bowing.

  “You’re very welcome,” said Grumble.

  And men charged forward. The first wanted help with his lumbago, it bothered him something terrible, he was a wood splitter and could hardly work sometimes. He only had a few coins, but …

  Grumble touched the back sacramentally and predicted that it would get better and better over the months.

  The second man was suffering from rheumatism in his hands. He was a clockmaker and some days couldn’t do the fine work. And could he offer two dollars for the generous help?

  The third man seemed to get sick every winter, like consumption, it knocked him down for two or three weeks, and he sure would like to get through a winter in health. It was worth these coins to him …