Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

Dulcinea turned to the lawyer. “Since my husband used Rivers, perhaps it would be best for me to hire you instead. Do you have an office?”

He tipped his head to the right and they walked past the Emporium to the next building, where his rented office was a small, stuffy room on the first floor, divided from a patent medicine retailer and dentist by a flimsy wall that forced both men to conduct their business in melodramatic whispers.

Dulcinea paused in front of the open door Chance held and glanced back at Graver. “Will you complete the order at the Emporium and meet me at the livery stable?” She gazed at the dog, who watched her with growing love in its eyes. Then, as if realizing the two boys had been missing and quiet for some time, she looked down the street, stared at the door to the beer parlor. “And find the boys. We’ll need them at the stable.” She picked up her skirt and swept through the doorway.

Inside the Emporium Graver found the bolts of fabric Vera had requested; noting the array of colors and textures, he fingered the plush velvets. His wife, Camellia, came to mind, how pretty she’d been when they’d first met at a soiree. She’d worn lilac silk and velvet, a complicated dress that favored her wide hips and narrow waist and small bosom—and she smelled like a heady, sweet flower, her namesake, she’d told him with a laugh. She’d always preferred pale shades that complemented her white-blond hair and skin that burned in the harsh prairie sun as soon as she’d left her parasols and broad-brimmed hats behind in Kentucky. After they came west, it burned over and over until only the raw red skin remained, even in winter, and her fine hair turned brittle, lifeless. When she died she was like a locust shell, the remains left behind after her real self crawled away. He vowed that day he’d never remarry, and never again bring children into a world that would kill them as easily as flies.

He searched his pockets for the lists from Vera and Dulcinea, whose paper irritated him with its sweet perfume, and he held it between two fingers, away from his body as he walked. Everything about that woman irritated. Scented paper. French soap. Boxes of chocolates. Marshall Field’s, when they had a perfectly good wish book from Sears, Roebuck. She wouldn’t last, he concluded, though a nagging buzz in the back of his head said she might. So far she’d proven herself tougher than most women who lost a husband and had a man like Drum Bennett to deal with. He smiled at the way the old man raised her hackles.

“I cannot sell goods to you if you insist on coming through the front door. I told you to come round back, hand me your list, and wait by the steps.” Haven Smith, the store owner, had to look up to stare into the bland face of the man beside Rose. A Southern Methodist preacher with a tendency to thump the Bible he kept by his register when all else failed to impress, Haven stood only five feet four inches and had the poor luck of never convincing a woman to leave Kansas City for the fortune of life in the Sand Hills. Now he took his loneliness out on everyone, especially Indians and homesteaders, whose poverty was a sure sign of disgrace in the eyes of the Lord, at least that was how he preached it to his congregation on Wednesday nights and Sundays.

The Indian pushed the scrap of packing paper, covered with thick letters scrawled with what appeared to be the burnt end of a stick, toward the white man and muttered a word Graver couldn’t hear.

The storekeeper clenched and unclenched his fists and made no move to pick up the paper. The Indian had exceptionally large hands with powerful fingers. His face was puffy as if from drink, but the small determined mouth, stern eyes, and square jaw suggested he was not a man prone to weakness.

“I’m not touching that filthy thing,” Haven Smith growled and shook his head, the gray hair curled in tight, possessive knots, glittering in the poor light of the store.

Graver stepped forward, leaning around Rose, who stood with head high, her shoulders wrapped in a black-and-red shawl trimmed with ribbon work, elk teeth, and tiny bells, and then reached over the head of the small girl who accompanied them, whose eyes were fastened on a jar of candy sticks. Picking up the list, he held it under the lamp and read aloud the small necessities. Smith blinked through his smudged square glasses and did not move.

The storekeeper ignored Graver and fixed his gaze on the Indians. “I told you to get out and come through the back there. Now git.” He started to turn, but Graver grabbed his arm.

“You want the Bennett Ranch business, you fill this order right quick. These are Mrs. Bennett’s guests,” Graver spoke in a low voice, his lips near Smith’s ear. Then he picked up the man’s hand, shoved the paper into it, closed his fingers around it, and squeezed with his own until the man’s eyes watered, then released him. “Understand?”

Smith shrugged, glared at Rose’s family, and stomped away to fill the order. It took a few minutes, during which Graver lifted three candy sticks from the big jar and handed them to the little girl, receiving a shy smile as reward. When Smith returned he opened his mouth to protest, then glanced at Graver and thought better of it.

When the order was assembled and wrapped, the Indian reached for it, but Smith raised his finger and shook it like a schoolmaster at a child. “No no no.” He smiled. “You pay this time.” He swung his eyes to Graver and lifted his brow. “Unless your benefactor wishes to contribute something more. Sir?”

Graver had nothing, which he suspected Smith knew, and wanted to back away, but couldn’t now. He’d overstepped. He could try to put it on the ranch account and repay it working without wages. Before he could suggest it, Smith said, “Ah, I thought not,” and pulled the order back across the counter.

“I paid. I have credit here. That picture—” He tipped his head in the direction of the dusty penny postal picture cards that stood on the counter for travelers and hill folks.

Smith smiled, the lamplight reflection on his glasses hiding his eyes, and leaving two burning holes. “Only one left. No more credit unless you take another. And this time, I want your wife and little girl, too. Indians are real popular now. Especially in fancy regalia, so bring that with you next time.”

Graver pulled the postcard from the rack. The man was dressed as a chief with full eagle feather headdress. Over the front of his beaded shirt a bone bib hung from his neck past his waist, and around his hips a wide beaded belt with long streamers. He wore beaded leggings and moccasins, and a fine quill-trimmed blanket over one arm. At his neck he had tied a cowboy-style kerchief. The same determined face looked beyond the camera without a trace of embarrassment.

“This does not include my family,” the man said. “And I think I will not be posing for more of your pictures.” He leaned toward Rose slightly and said something in the quick, husky syllables of their language. She lifted the beautiful shawl from her shoulders, revealing the shabby, stained blue man’s shirt she wore tucked into her patched skirt, which was held by a belt decorated with red, black, and yellow beaded stars on a white background. She laid the shawl on the counter without looking up to see the storekeeper’s greedy expression as he eyed her belt.

“The belt, too, and we’ll call it even.”

Rose murmured to her husband, who shook his head. Reluctantly, she untied the piece and set it on the counter next to the shawl, but kept her eyes on it. The little girl solemnly placed her candy sticks on the counter, too.

“Get those dirty things off my counter.” Smith shoved them toward the child, who wouldn’t raise her eyes, and let them fall and shatter on the floor. The child’s chin quivered, but she remained quiet even as tears rolled down her cheeks.