Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality: The Complete Novels Wild Angel and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell (35 page)

Without hesitation, she struck with the knife, a smooth hard stroke that sliced across the side of his throat, cutting through the carotid artery. Jasper fell, his breath rattling in his throat as hot blood pumped through the slash, flowing down his neck, down his chest.

She stepped back, watching him with the same steady gaze, still smiling faintly, seeing the hatred and fear in his eyes fade as consciousness left him. His breathing stopped.

She left his body there. The wolves would not touch it—human flesh reeking of tobacco and whiskey held little appeal. Other scavengers would find him. Jays would peck out his eyes. Coyotes and foxes would gnaw his bones. Over time, he would nourish the forest, becoming a part of the wilderness.

As Sarah turned away, Beka came to greet her. Sarah reached out to scratch the big wolf’s ears. Beka rubbed against her leg, and the other wolves crowded around, grinning. She felt wagging tails strike her, heads butting against her legs.

Beka lifted her head and howled, a low, sweet moan that climbed to echo from the walls of the canyon. The others joined in, a wild chorus of howls. Sarah tipped back her head and lifted her voice, joining the pack in a cry of triumph and completion.

“Apparently there is nothing that cannot happen.”

—Mark Twain

T
HE FLOOR WAS DRENCHED
by the time Sarah was done with here bath. Audrey had started with a basin of water, a washcloth, and a packet of her favorite bubble bath. Sarah had been fascinated by the bubbles, popping them at first, then tossing them in the air. That had led to splashing and entirely too much fun.

Audrey was drenched, too. But she couldn’t bring herself to scold Sarah. The girl was so innocent, so happy to be with her, that Audrey just didn’t have the heart.

Sarah was wrapped in a towel, sitting on the floor. Audrey had tried to get her to sit on a chair, but that just hadn’t worked. Sarah had squatted on the chair, straddled the seat as if it were the branch of an oak, squirmed and wiggled and tried to find a comfortable position, until Audrey finally relented and let her sit on the floor. Audrey had taken the chair and, while Sarah leaned against her leg, had carefully worked out the tangles in Sarah’s hair. Now she was brushing the coppery curls with easy, rhythmic strokes.

“Your hair is just like your mother’s was,” Audrey was saying. “Beautiful and difficult to manage. When it grows out, I’ll show you how to tie it up.”

Looking down at Sarah, Audrey wondered what had happened, out there in the woods. Sarah and Beka had finally come back to Grizzly Hill where Audrey and Max had waited. Sarah seemed exhausted, but happy. Before she had curled up by the fire to sleep, she told Audrey that Jasper was dead. Though Audrey had asked for details, Sarah did not provide any. She had simply shrugged. “I found him. Now he is dead.” The next day, they had brought Sarah back to Selby Flat.

The bruise on Sarah’s temple was fading. Audrey had been tending the wound on her right arm, and it was healing well. Soon, the visible traces of her encounters with Jasper would be gone.

Sarah’s eyes were half-closed; the rhythmic stroking of the brush had soothed her, relaxed her. She looked so sweet, so delicate. The poor lost lamb, Mrs. Selby called her.

“Hello?” Helen knocked on the bedroom door and poked her head in. “Have you seen Max?”

“He’s down on the porch, waiting for us. He offered to help me with Sarah, but I shooed him out. The last thing we need is a man’s help.”

That night, Professor Serunca’s Traveling Circus was putting on a show. The Professor had grown bored while locked in the back room of the general store. Rummaging about for something to read among an assortment of Temperance tracts and battered copies of
Godey’s Lady’s Book
, he had found a copy of W.H. Smith’s classic melodrama,
The Drunkard
. It was the perfect play for a small-town audience, and with a few modifications, he had found the play admirably suited to the players he had available.

The greatest difficulty had been finding a part for Ruby. But he had found a place for her at the end of Act Four, when Edward, the reckless young man who has been lured into becoming a drunkard and a wastrel, is felled by delirium tremens. What better scene for an elephant, the very symbol of delerium tremens? While Edward fell about the stage in convulsions that made the women shiver and the children squeal, Ruby could perform all her usual tricks, and it would fit the play perfectly.

Helen had already dressed for her role as Mary Wilson, the pure, long-suffering heroine. She was wearing her simple traveling dress, a fine costume for her part.

Helen frowned, looking at Sarah. “What’s Sarah going to wear?” Helen asked.

Audrey inclined her head toward the dress hanging from a hook on the wall, a simple blue-calico gown with a lovely full skirt. It was Audrey’s dress, but she had already taken in the waist. “It may not fit perfectly, but one must make do on the frontier.”

Helen nodded, looking a little dubious. “Would you like me to stay and help you get Sarah dressed?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Audrey said. “You just run along and practice your lines. Sarah and I will do just fine.”

Helen closed the door, feeling a little guilty. She suspected that dressing Sarah would take longer than Audrey thought.

Max sat on the wooden bench in front of Selby’s Hotel. The sun was setting, and the main street was quiet—a few idlers in front of the saloon, chickens scratching in the dust, a mangy dog trotting across the street on very important business. Max could hear the sound of drunken laughter drifting up from the Hall of Comparative Ovations.

“Hello, Max.” Professor Serunca stood on the porch, surveying the street. He smiled at the setting sun, the idlers, the chicken, the dog with approval. “What a fine evening!”

Max nodded, but said nothing. The Professor sat on the bench beside him, regarding him quizzically. “You seem thoughtful, my friend.”

Max shrugged.

“I suppose it has something to do with Mrs. North,” the Professor said. “That would be my guess.”

Max frowned. “Well, yes. I’ve been thinking about…well, I’ve been thinking about what happens now. Audrey came here to find Sarah, and now we’ve done that. I’m just not sure…I want to…” His words trailed off. “I can’t quite decide what to do.”

The Professor nodded. “And by not deciding, you are indeed deciding. After all, every point is a turning point.”

“What?”

“Oh, it’s a saying where I come from. Every point is a turning point.” With his hand, the Professor drew a spiral in the air. “It’s usually represented as a spiral. You see, each point along any path is a turning point. You are always making decisions, even if your decision is to stay put.”

“I want to talk with Audrey, but there just hasn’t been an opportunity,” Max said.

“Yes, and the universe just keeps moving on, carrying you along with it.” The Professor shrugged. “My friend, sometimes you must make your own opportunity. I wish you luck. But now the universe must take me down to the barn to prepare for the show. I’ve been told that a reporter from San Francisco has come to cover our performance tonight. I’m most curious to see what he thinks of our efforts.”

Max watched the Professor head off to Butterfield’s barn, where the show would take place, tipping his bowler to the idlers as he passed. Clearly, he bore the town no grudge for the week he had spent locked up in the back of the store. He was a contented man, at ease with his world. Max wished he could say the same of himself.

In the distance, the Clampers broke into song. It was an old song by Stephen Collins Foster, the same fellow who had written “Oh, Susannah.” This song, “Nelly Was a Lady,” was a sweet, sad tune about an old slave mourning for his true love Nelly, who had died the night before.

Max sang along, under his breath. He had been married and living in Chicago when the song had first become popular. Hearing it now made him remember that time and think of his wife, long dead. When he had been arrested for counterfeiting, she had returned to her family in Boston.

He had written to her from prison. She had written back—cheerful letters, poking fun at Boston society. He had no clue that she was sick until he received a letter from his wife’s sister Bridget, saying that she had died: “Worn down by shame, despondent over her status, she succumbed to a fever.”

He wrote to his daughter—but he got that letter back from Bridget. “If you love your daughter, you will let her be,” his wife’s sister wrote. “I have adopted the child, and she is well taken care of here. Give her a chance to live an honest life, untainted by your past.”

He did love his daughter. He did not wish to taint her life. So when he left prison, he had booked passage to California and left his old life behind.

The Clampers stopped singing, but Max continued humming the tune, caught by a sweet feeling of melancholy. For the past few days, he had found himself thinking of the life he had left behind, remembering his wife, wishing he had been able to talk to his daughter before he left.

He heard footsteps behind him and glanced at the doorway. Mrs. Selby stepped out, carrying a lantern. She was hanging it on a hook by the door when Helen carne through the door, dressed for her performance. She stopped on the porch, staring at him. More than once in the past few days, he had noticed Helen studying his face, staring when she thought he wasn’t looking. “What’s that song you’re humming?” she asked him.

“An old song.” He sang the line that gave the song its title: “Nelly was a lady.”

She scowled at him, and he wondered if his rendition of the song was really so bad. She turned away abruptly, hurrying past the idlers. Max stared after her, then glanced at Mrs. Selby, hoping for some clue as to what was going on.

“Poor girl,” Mrs. Selby said. “She’s very upset. I think you should talk to her.”

“You do?” Max shook his head. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.”

Mrs. Selby frowned and he knew he had given the wrong answer. “Well, I suppose I could.”

Mrs. Selby smiled.

Max set out after Helen, aware of Mrs. Selby’s eyes at his back. He caught up and fell into step beside her. “Have I done something to offend you?” he asked. “If so, I apologize. I certainly didn’t mean…”

“My father used to sing that song,” she said. Her voice shook. “He called me Nelly.”

“He did?” For a moment, the breath seemed to stop in Max’s throat. “Who…who was your father?”

In the distance, the Clampers hooted and called. Otherwise, the night was very still.

“He went to prison when I was five. I never heard from him again. He was from Chicago. My aunt said he was a gangster.” She was walking quickly with her head down, as if she had to watch each step she took.

The drunken singing began again, but Max was not listening. Though the night was warm, he felt a sudden chill. He squinted at Helen, realizing now why her smile had seemed so familiar. Her mother’s smile. Her mother’s eyes. “Nelly,” he said, his voice breaking.

She kept walking, head down, refusing to look at him. She was angry with him, he thought, ashamed to be associated with him.

“I wasn’t a gangster,” Max said. “I was a foolish young artist, and I was in love with your mother. I had to marry her, and for that, I needed to make money. So I did.” He had to hurry to keep up with her. “It was foolish. A terrible mistake. I know that I brought shame on her, shame on you. I’m so sorry for that.”

She stopped then, and turned on him. “Why didn’t you come see me?” she said. Her face was wet with tears, but her voice was angry. “Why did you leave me there alone?”

“Your aunt said you were better off without me,” he stammered. “She said, ‘If you love your daughter…”’ His voice faltered, and he could not finish the sentence. “So I left. You were better off without me.”

Suddenly, Max found himself with a young woman in his arms, weeping on his shoulder. “I wasn’t better off,” she wept. “I hated it there. After Mama died…” A new torrent of tears stopped her words.

Max patted her back awkwardly. He had held her in his arms when she was a baby. He had sung her to sleep when she was a toddler. Now she was a young woman, and he did not know what to do. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world. Here…” He fumbled in his pocket for a kerchief.

“Helen!” Cassidy stood in the street, glowering at Max. His hands were in fists. “Are you all right? I was coming up from the barn to get you.”

Helen extracted herself from Max’s arms and composed herself with an effort. “I’m fine,” she managed to say. Max offered her his handkerchief, and she blotted her tears and blew her nose.

“People don’t usually weep because they are fine,” Cassidy said, eyeing Max with great suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

“Max…” Her voice faltered. “Max…” She could not continue.

“Helen is my daughter,” Max told Cassidy. “We just figured it out.” He shook his head, watching Helen dry her eyes again. “I should have known it all along. She has her mother’s smile. And she’s just as beautiful as her mother was. But I’m an idiot, and Helen had to tell me…”

Max struggled through a muddled sort of explanation. By the time he was done, Helen had managed a tremulous smile. “We have to go,” she told Max. “The show must go on. I…we…let’s talk more later.”

Max nodded, and she was gone, her arm linked through Cassidy’s. “Tell me what that was all about,” Max heard Cassidy say. “My aunt told me that my father was a gangster,” he heard Helen say. “But it turns out that he was Max.” The rest was lost in the distance.

Sarah stared into the mirror. She did not recognize the creature who looked back.

To please Audrey, she had put on the dress. It made her look and feel like a stranger to herself, like one of the white women she had watched from hiding. The full skirt and pinched-in waist gave her body a different shape; the full skirt billowed around her legs. She felt confined, restrained.

But Audrey seemed very happy. “You look lovely,” Audrey said. “That color is perfect on you.” Her red-gold curls, which Audrey had pinned up so carefully, were already starting to come loose, escaping to curl around her cheeks. “When your hair grows out, it will be much easier to pin it up.”