Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

Although he hadn’t been invited, Some Horses appeared at Graver’s elbow as they ordered their first round of drinks. The bartender hesitated, then asked for the Indian’s order and passed on to the next man.

“At least Fleming serves Indians,” Some Horses said. “Reddy usually doesn’t even let me in the door. Mex or Negroes neither.” Then he added with a small grin, “Prices so high it’s probably lucky.”

Graver had wondered why they stopped at Fleming’s first. He’d never had the liquor habit and knew little of the saloons in town. The men were well on their way to liquored up when they decided to move on to Reddy’s. The bartender looked relieved as they quickly drank and shoved each other stumbling through the door into the dark wind that blinked the kerosene lamps and made it hard to push the door shut behind them. Outside the men tightened hats on heads and leaned into the sand and dust the wind blew into their faces, making it hard to talk without getting a mouthful of grit. Despite the string of new streetlights, the night seemed especially dark as the wind tossed flowerpots and wooden shipping crates and burn barrels in their way. Larabee was already staggering and too drunk to notice as he trudged across the street toward the small cave of the saloon on the corner a block down. Black Bill tucked his head and turned sideways to protect his face with an arm while he held on to his Stetson. Jorge imitated him while Irish Jim strode forward, face up, inviting the elements, hat nailed on head. Graver glanced at the black clouds boiling above and the wall of darkness that steadily advanced from the west, backlit by lightning that raced across the sky. When it struck the ground he felt a queer tingle up his legs followed by a nearly deafening roll of thunder. The men picked up their pace, walking faster until they broke into a run as the glow of the windows drew near.

Here it comes, Graver thought as he felt the rush of cold wind on the back of his neck, followed by icy drenching rain. By the time they reached the overhang of the porch roof, his boots had filled with water, and his feet squished with every step. The men around him shook their arms and hats and took turns shoving each other out of the shelter of the porch into the hail that pounded the metal roofs up and down the street, stinging the tied horses so they milled and bumped each other and tried to break loose. Finally, Larabee, as self-appointed leader, pushed open the door, and they crowded into the dimly lit room so filled with smoke it sat in layers that the three girls floated through as they brought drinks to the men seated at the small round tables.

The woman behind the bar seemed composed of various parts, a left arm, a right shoulder, one breast, half a face that arranged and rearranged in the fog. Graver glanced around to see that Some Horses, Jorge, and Black Bill had silently separated from the group and disappeared. As he came to the smooth oak bar, he saw the sign barring anyone of dubious origin, including those with skin darker than the bartender’s palomino horse. Graver guessed it was probably sun bleached, too.

He got a beer and leaned against the bar with Larabee at his side. “So where’s this girl?”

Larabee grinned, somewhat sobered from the dousing. “Downstairs.” He put his hand on Graver’s arm. “Wait a few drinks. It’s better that way.” There was a peculiar light in his eyes. Graver thought about leaving, but the prospect of the long ride back to the ranch in a downpour rooted him to his spot. Every cowboy stood in a small pool of water dripping from his clothes. They were a sorry lot, soaked, battered, half sporting some sort of bandage. The hands holding drinks told the tale of hard work: swollen, misshapen knuckles, fingers that wouldn’t close or had pieces missing, marred with seesawing scars and rope burns. The faces around him were burned into deep brown or permanent red, making it almost impossible to determine any man’s age, let alone race. How could Reddy be so sure about skin? He wondered where the three men had gone.

Graver felt a stab of regret that he hadn’t gone with them as the smoke lifted briefly to reveal tobacco-colored walls. Yellowed newspaper photos, articles, and posters of rodeos and particularly two white horses with a young girl standing on their backs, Roman style, filled the wall to his left.

“That Reddy?” He nodded at the poster and nudged Larabee, who was staring at one of the worn-looking women, a skinny brunette wearing a thin, shapeless dress whose red shine had been washed to a faded pink. Droopy gray lace along the bodice revealed the slight cleavage of her small, tired breasts. She waited for the reluctant drinkers to drop a few coins on her round tray, straightened her back, brushed a hank of limp brown hair from her eye, tilted her head, and closed her eyes as if her own touch were the only comfort she knew. A pair of silk stockings with a run laddered up the side revealed narrow, trim ankles.

Larabee shook his head and nodded at the tired woman. “That’s Nance. Her old man went rodeoing, left her with three youngsters and a cardboard shack at the edge of town when the bulls finished with him.” Larabee took a swallow of beer, sounding more sober by the minute, as if the beer countered the effects of the whiskey. “She’s working dark to dark putting food on the table for the little ones. Shame to see her like this.” He glared at the cowhand who tried to pull her onto his lap and fondle her breasts at the same time as she pushed him away with a tired smile.

“Damn fool Lister, married her and worked for Drum a time, couldn’t cut it. Never did grow up. Guess he figured it out about the time his brains were stewed with arena dirt.” Larabee turned to lean his elbow on the bar and direct Graver’s attention to the wall of photos and newsprint.

“That’s Reddy’s daughter Imogene on the poster. Genie, they call her. Followed Lister right down the road, she never came back neither. Guess she met some young fool and stayed gone, the way I heard it. Made a bundle trick riding. Enough for Reddy to sell this place to his other daughter, Lucille, and retire to drinking full time. Lucille lives outside town with a pack of half-wolf dogs and a herd of Indian ponies, while he holes up here in town, street behind this one, over by the firehouse.” He took a sip of beer as his gaze followed the skinny brunette making her way between tables to the bar, where Lucille waited.

The woman barkeep wore a plain black skirt and a black shirt, ironed crisp but faded, that came to a V at the neck over skin already developing the matted texture of a country woman. Her face wore a neutral, manly aspect with its oval shape and slightly shadowed upper lip and jaw. Her eyes revealed nothing as the thin brunette dropped the round tray on the bar and shoved the change toward her. Lucille swept it into her waiting palm with the edge of her hand and dropped it in a cigar box on the back of the bar. She drew four beers in a row, topped each with a perfect crown of foam, and placed them precisely on the tray. When she was done, she considered the woman propped on an elbow with her eyes closed. Lucille reached out and looped the lock of spent hair under a long finger and lifted it back across the woman’s head. When Nance raised her face, she wore a tired smile, and Lucille gave her arm a quick squeeze and nodded to the men at the table in the corner, who had begun to wave and stomp their feet.

Lucille wiped the bar, lifting glasses and mugs and working her way to Graver. When she stood directly in front of him, she stopped and measured him with her eyes.

“You need something?”

Graver wasn’t sure what impulse made him raise his chin at the sign barring Indians, Mexicans, Negroes, Chinese, and anyone of mixed blood. “What’s that mean?”