Calico Palace (85 page)

Marny turned as she heard footsteps behind her.

Pocket came in, his hand out and his face bright with a smile of welcome. A good-looking man, Marny thought, with his firm jaw and regular features, and well dressed in a dark business suit and a crisp white shirt. “Glad to see you, ma’am,” he was saying. He crossed to the table and drew out a chair. “Sit down.”

Marny spoke frankly. “Pocket, if it’s not convenient for you to talk to me now, say so. I can wait, or I can come back later.”

“It’s perfectly convenient right this minute,” he assured her, standing with his hands on the chair back.

Marny made a gesture toward the table. Lying there was a large sheet of paper with some sort of diagram on it, several smaller sheets covered with figures, and a lot of pencils. “I did interrupt something,” she demurred.

He shook his head. “Nothing but a chat with Mr. Fenway.”

“Anything important?”

“Just passing the time of day, ma’am. Mr. Fenway came in to get a paper he asked me to keep for him after the fire. I gave it to him, and we were gabbling a bit when Hiram came in to say you wanted me.”

“All right,” said Marny. She took the chair he was offering her. As she sat down Pocket gave her an endearing smile.

“Hiram told me this was a personal matter. Want me to shut the door?”

“Yes, you nice thoughtful man, I wish you would.”

Pocket complied. He came back to the table and sat down across from her, pushing his own papers to one side. Marny laid the portfolio on the table. She took off her gloves and laid them beside it, and came directly to the purpose of her visit.

“Pocket, I want a favor. Will you write a letter for me?”

“Why yes ma’am,” he answered amiably. “Glad to oblige.”

“It’s a letter I want written,” said Marny, “but I don’t want to write it myself. And it’s not one that I’d want a lawyer or some other stranger to write for me. It’s got to be a friend.”

“I’m a friend,” said Pocket.

“Yes you are,” she returned with decision. “And what’s more, you can keep your mouth shut.” She smiled at him. “Promise?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Pocket. He smiled back at her. In a businesslike voice he asked, “Now who’s this letter going to?”

“Dwight Carson,” she answered. “In New York.”

If Pocket was surprised he did not show it. He simply said, “Dwight Carson, yes ma’am. What do you want me to tell him?”

“I want you to tell him about his buildings,” said Marny. “Tell him all seven stood through the fire. Tell him six of them—all but this—stood while everything around them burned.”

Pocket nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“When the
Alta
gets to New York,” Marny continued, “he’ll see his buildings in the list of those that survived. But I want him to have details, more than the paper has room to give. His work means a lot to him. I don’t think he ever told anybody in San Francisco but me, how much it means.” She opened the portfolio. “I’ve had Bruno make these sketches. Each picture shows one of Dwight’s buildings the way it looks now, standing solid among the cinders around it.”

She handed him the sketches. Pocket examined them with approval. “Mighty clear. Bruno does good work.” Raising his eyes, Pocket added, “And Marny, this whole business—writing to Dwight Carson, and having these pictures made for him—this is a right friendly thing for you to do.”

Marny smiled. “When you write to him, tell him how fast the Calico Palace got back into business, and Hiram’s bank, and all the rest. Tell him everything you can think of that he might want to know.”

“Everything,” said Pocket.

“And please,” Marny went on, “there’s another bit of instruction I want to give you.”

“Yes ma’am?”

Marny picked up a pencil and turned it between her fingers. “Pocket, when you write about the Calico Palace, don’t mention me in particular. You can say, ‘Norman and Marny and Hortensia are all back at work as usual’—that will let him know I didn’t break my neck jumping out of a window, if he’s still interested. But don’t say anything to suggest that he and I ever knew each other personally.”

“I understand,” said Pocket.

Marny flashed him a look of esteem. “You know,” she returned, “I believe you do understand. Not everybody would. You’ve got what the ladies in Philadelphia used to call ‘delicacy of mind.’”

His lips twitched humorously. “I never heard that one before.”

“Whether or not you ever heard of it,” said Marny, “you’ve got it.” She looked down at the pencil in her hand. “Pocket, when Dwight gets that letter, he’ll want to show it around. If you say anything special about me, he might be embarrassed to show it around. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yes ma’am,” Pocket said quietly, “it makes sense.” He added, “And you know, Marny, I think you’re right delicate-minded yourself.”

Marny did not answer this. She said, “And you won’t tell him I suggested this letter.”

“No ma’am,” said Pocket. “Now, how shall I go about that? Let me think.”

He reflected. After a minute or so he said,

“I’ll say I’m writing to thank him for taking a load off my mind. Since his other buildings stood up, there’s no reason for me to worry about the library if those hoodlums should set another fire. Is that a good reason?”

“An excellent reason,” said Marny, “because you’ll be telling the truth. It is a load off your mind.”

“You’re mighty right it is,” he agreed with emphasis. “Every time I look around and see those other six buildings still there, I’m reminded that if they are fireproof this one almost certainly is too. It’s a cheering thought. I was plenty scared that night.”

Marny drew a tremulous breath. “Pocket, when I think back on that night—when I remember those hours of looking down at the fire and wondering if the Calico Palace would stand through it—I can’t tell you how scared I was.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” he said with sympathy. “I know how tough it would have been for you to lose it.”

Marny shivered at the thought. There was a pause. Pocket gave her a look of comradeship, real and warm. He went on,

“If you should lose a strongbox full of gold, gold worth as much as the Calico Palace, that would be hard. But not as hard as losing the Calico Palace.”

There was another pause before Marny answered. When she did, her answer was another question. “Pocket, how did you know that?”

He considered a moment or two. “Well ma’am,” he said, “when a person loses money, or a thing he’s bought with money, if he still has his health he can generally get it again.”

She listened, saying nothing. Pocket continued,

“But when a person loses something he’s put thoughts into, something he’s created, he’s losing part of his own self. It’s like a part of him dying.”

Marny remembered how she had felt when she watched the old Calico Palace fall to pieces the night of the first fire. She had felt then as if a part of herself had died.

“And the Calico Palace,” Pocket said, “is
you.
Every picture, every rug and table and pack of cards and every bottle at the bar, is part of you. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Marny said candidly. “That’s right. I love the Calico Palace. I love it more than anything else I’ve ever had. That’s why I’m so grateful to Dwight for building it the way he did.”

Pocket leaned back in his chair. He looked at her thoughtfully, his warm hazel eyes admiring the locks of red hair escaping under the brim of her bonnet, her well-fitted dark blue dress, her strong supple hands. Before his scrutiny Marny laughed a little.

“After all this time, don’t you know how I look?”

“I like the way you look,” said Pocket.

“Thank you. And now it’s time I let you get back to work.”

“Not yet.” He tapped the papers on the table. “There’s no hurry about this.”

“Well, it’s time I got to my cards.”

He shook his head. “No it’s not. If you started now you’d have about a twelve-hour day, and you don’t love the Calico Palace that much. Not even if it
is
all you’ve got.”

“Pocket! I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I’m saying it,” replied Pocket. “That’s why you were so terrified about losing it.” He looked at her keenly as he asked, “Don’t you ever want anything more than that, Marny?”

Marny stared at him across the table. Pocket had never spoken to her like this before. She exclaimed, “What are you talking about?”

“You,” said Pocket.

“You’re not being very polite.”

“I’m not trying to be polite,” he returned. “I can be polite without any trouble. But it’s a lot of trouble to be honest, and I’m being honest now. You’re a pretty fine person, Marny, and you deserve more than you’ve got.”

Marny was hearing him with astonishment. “Such as what?”

Pocket looked straight at her. “Marny, it’s not much to be in love with a pile of brick and iron. Don’t you ever want something that can love you back?”

“Pocket,” she said in a voice of wonder, “what are you trying to tell me?”

“Men are always falling in love with you,” he said.

“In San Francisco,” she replied tersely, “that doesn’t mean a thing. I’m not the trustful sort.”

“But you’re the lovable sort,” said Pocket. “You’re mighty lovable.”

“Oh,
damn
!” burst out Marny. She looked down. Her forehead on her hand, in a low voice she said, “Pocket, we’ve been such good friends. Don’t go and spoil it now!”

“What am I spoiling?” he asked. He sounded genuinely surprised.

She answered without looking up. “Pocket, I’ve thought often, one reason I like you and Hiram so much is you’ve both let me alone. You’ve treated me like a person, not just a female body.”

She stopped abruptly. Pocket said nothing. He sat listening, waiting for her to go on. Still without looking up, Marny added,

“In this town every woman not absolutely repulsive gets chased until she’s tired of it. We like to be noticed, we like to have men think we’re attractive—but what we get here—it’s a pestiferous nuisance.”

“Now you listen to me,” said Pocket. He spoke in the voice of a man who meant to be heard. “I’ve lived here as long as you have. Longer. I know what you’re talking about. I don’t wonder you get tired of it. But I’m talking about something else.”

Her head still down on her hand, Marny said, “I wish you’d stop talking about it.”

“I won’t stop,” Pocket said firmly, “and you’re going to hear me. I’ve thought about you quite a lot in the past few weeks. And I’ve found out—I was really surprised to find it out, Marny, but I did—I’ve found out that I love you and I want to help you be happy. And I believe if we were married—”

Marny’s head jerked up. “Married?” She gave a short little laugh. “Pocket, don’t be a fool. Why on earth do you want to marry me?”

“Because I love you,” said Pocket.

Marny’s eyes met his across the table. “All right, you innocent country bumpkin, let’s get this straight. I’m not the domestic type.”

“No, and I’m not an innocent country bumpkin, either,” said Pocket. He spoke with humorous derision. But more seriously, he added, “Marny I’ve thought about this long and hard. I do love you.”

As she heard him, Marny was shaking her head in disbelief. “Pocket, how long have you been thinking about this? When did you make up your mind?”

“After the fire,” said Pocket.

His words puzzled her. She had seen Pocket several times since the fire, and not once had he made an ardent gesture. “What did the fire have to do with it?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you how it was,” said Pocket. “You remember that morning, when we were all together and Hiram told you Captain Pollock was dead, and then you told me how he had come at you with that big revolver?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“That’s when it started,” said Pocket. “Not all of a sudden. Right then, when we were talking about Pollock, I thought what a rat he was and what a coward, and if he died in the fire it was no more than he deserved. I was pretty tired just then, not in shape to do any real thinking. But after I got organized, back in the routine of business, it kept coming back to me. I thought about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I got mad and every minute I thought about it I got more mad. That man wanting to kill you, and you with nobody to take your part but a cat.”

Marny said nothing. She listened, her eyes intently on him.

He continued, “And all the time here was I, about as good a shot as you could find this side of the Rocky Mountains, and I wasn’t anywhere near you. After a while it came to me, the reason I was so mad. I was mad at Pollock, of course, but mostly I was mad at myself. Mad at myself for letting you stay so long with nobody around who really cared what became of you, when all the time I could have been right there. I do care what becomes of you, Marny. I was so surprised it was almost a shock, when I found out how much I cared. But then I knew it was love.”

M
ARNY SAT STILL, HER
fingers laced on the table before her. She looked down at her hands, those strong, talented hands, more skillful with cards than any other hands in San Francisco. At length, without raising her eyes, she spoke.

“Pocket, that’s beautiful. I’m touched. I’m truly touched. But before I say any more, give me time to think.”

She stood up and walked over to a window. Standing there, she looked at the pane without noticing what lay beyond it. Pocket stood up too. Pocket was never able to remain seated while a woman was standing, whatever her reason. After a while, without turning around, Marny said,

“Pocket, I know you like me. But I don’t think you want to marry me.”

“Oh yes I do,” he assured her promptly.

“But why?”

He answered with artless candor. “Why Marny, because I love you.”

“Oh Pocket,” she exclaimed, “how do you know you love me?”

Pocket considered. After a moment he said, “Marny, on a clear night when you look up at the sky and it’s full of stars, how do you know it’s beautiful?”

She gave a soft little laugh. “You’re too romantic to be real, Pocket, but you’re a dear.”

“But I mean it that way,” he answered with boyish astonishment. He reflected for another moment, and added, “Maybe you’re wondering why I took so long to find out that I loved you, when we’ve known each other so well. I’ll tell you. Back in Kentucky, I had some trouble about a girl. I told Kendra—has she ever said anything about it to you?”