Texas Born (28 page)

Zaccheus paid the driver the nickel fare,
swung the suitcase aboard, and hopped up. He took a seat right
behind the driver's, and settled back on the bench. The wooden
slats were hard and uncomfortable, but the shade was pleasant and
welcome. It was a lot better than lugging the suitcase on foot.

There was the snapping of reins, and slowly
the horse began to move and the tram wheels began to turn.

Main Street, Quebeck, was like a lot of other
main streets he had seen, only it wasn't as green as most. Water
was scarce, and for things to grow, they had to be carefully
nurtured. Old houses with gingerbread- fretted front porches were
set back in dusty little front yards, interspersed with flat-roofed
buildings in need of paint and repair. A lot of ground floors held
shops and businesses. There was a hardware store. A variety store.
A grocery store. A post office. A nickelodeon. Dogs barked at the
traction and made halfhearted attempts to chase it, but it was too
hot, and after a few barks they slumped back down. A few dour women
got on in front of the post office, their dusty pastel dresses long
and prim, their hats shading them from the sun. Zaccheus doffed his
boater politely and they smiled tightly. It was too hot to exchange
meaningless pleasantries. Then, just ahead, Zaccheus saw a
three-story pink gingerbread house.

He leaned forward. 'That Miss Clowney's
rooming house?' he asked the driver.

'Sure is,' the driver replied without looking
back, and the traction slid to a smooth halt.

'Much obliged,' Zaccheus said, and hopped
down, light and agile, to the dusty, sun-baked street. He stood
clutching the suitcase as the tram pulled off again. He stared up
at the house. It had obviously seen better days, yet there was
nothing remotely neglected about it. Honeysuckle curled bravely
around the porch posts, and other robust specimen plants abounded,
some the likes of which he had never seen. But the piéce de
resistance was a mighty blooming wisteria, luxuriantly foliaged,
that seemed to climb straight up into the air until it found
purchase on the shingled porch roof up which it crept. It continued
to climb around windows and flower boxes filled to bursting with
blooms, until the fragile ends of it clutched a great brick chimney
which rose majestically into the cloudless sky. The rooming house
was an oasis against the blazing summer noon, a welcoming, cooling
sight for tired eyes and parched skin. Only a discreet sign, half
tucked away among the thickly leafed wisteria, hinted that this
house was indeed a business establishment. The sign was oval,
painted pink like the house, and was lettered with neat, florid
green script, half of which was obscured by the wisteria
leaves:

CLOWNEY'S RO

ROOMS BY THE WEE

Zaccheus turned around and looked at the
opposite side of the street. A simple two-story flattop house, as
plainly utilitarian a structure as the rooming house was
decorative, squatted squarely, a hitching post running along the
long narrow porch. A large black-and-white sign hanging above the
screen door read:

THE GOOD EATS CAFÉ

He crossed the street, climbed the porch, and
went inside, the screen door banging shut behind him. He found
himself in an intimate, noisy little dining room, obviously very
respectable and scrubbed clean. Checkered tablecloths draped the
square tables, which were surrounded by bentwood chairs. The
wine-dark wallpaper was homey and faded, and Victorian pictures
were framed in dark heavy molding. Despite the dark colors, there
was a brightly welcoming, cheery atmosphere to the room, perhaps
owing to the luncheon crowd or to the tiny bottles on each table
that held small, freshly cut bouquets, or the newspaper rack in the
corner from which hung several copies of the
Quebeck Weekly
Gazette
.

'May I help you?' a soft female voice asked
with forced politeness.

Automatically Zaccheus took off his boater
and held it against his chest. He turned around.

The woman who had spoken was young and very
pretty in a pert sort of way, with a heart-shaped face framed by
two lustrous dark pigtails tied with robin's-egg-blue ribbon which
matched the color of her eyes. She was wearing a calf-length
smocklike dress with a high collar, loose long sleeves, and a huge
waist pocket which hung heavily, full of jingling change.

'I'm looking for Miss Clowney,' Zaccheus
said. 'They tell me she owns the rooming house across the
street.'

Jenny bit down on her lower lip, nodded, and
glanced toward the kitchen doors. 'You'll have to wait awhile.
Auntie's in the kitchen. She won't be out until the lunch rush is
over. Sit down if you like . . . there's an empty table over there
by the kitchen doors. Do you want something to eat?'

He shook his head.

'You can leave your suitcase by the front
door. Nobody will take it.'

He smiled, gazing into her eyes, but it was
impossible to look past the surface. The irises were glazed veneer,
at once clear and yet opaque.

She eyed him intently and tilted her head. He
was aware of the faint sprinkling of freckles on her nose. 'Well,
I'd better be off and clear some of the tables,' she said. 'I'll
have Auntie come out soon as she can.'

'Thank you.' He took a seat and waited
patiently, watching her hurry back and forth, carrying steaming
plates of delicious-smelling beef stew from the kitchen and
returning weighed down by stacks of dirty dishes. From what he
could see, the place was doing a thriving business, especially
considering the size of the town. Each time the swinging doors
behind him thumped open and closed, an almost visible delicious
aroma of cooking hit him squarely, and the cacophonous clatter of
pots and pans was pronounced. Occasionally he caught the sound of a
woman's voice, firm but cultured, and the machine-gun staccato of a
second woman speaking laborious English mixed with rapid-fire
Spanish. He watched diners leave the money for their meals on the
tables and get up.

It was nearly twenty minutes before Elender
Hannah Clowney finally pushed her way briskly out through the
kitchen doors, wiping her hands on a towel. Her piercing gaze made
a sweep of the dining room. She wore a high-necked cream-colored
blouse with long tight sleeves and a cameo brooch pinned to the
collar. Her skirt was gray, with cotton ruffles which swept the
floorboards. She was thin and elegant, with chestnut hair streaked
liberally with strands of silver. Finally her eyes came to rest on
Zaccheus. She looked down at him with consternation. 'Oh! You
weren't served—'

'No, ma'am, that's quite all right,' Zaccheus
said hastily. He got quickly to his feet. 'You're Miss
Clowney?'

Elender inclined her head.

'I didn't come here for lunch, ma'am. They
told me to see you about a room.'

'I see.' Elender paused. 'How long do you
intend to stay?'

'Overnight, ma'am.'

'Hmmm.' She pressed her lips together. 'As a
rule, I rent out rooms to regular roomers only. On a weekly
basis.'

Zaccheus looked stricken. 'Please, ma'am.
This town doesn't have a hotel, and I'm very tired. The train
doesn't leave until tomorrow morning. The stationmaster said you
sometimes made exceptions.'

She nodded. 'Very well. One night it is.'

But as it turned out, he would stay a lot,
lot longer.

After she was satisfied that Jenny had
everything under control, Elender escorted Zaccheus to the rooming
house. 'It's a beautiful house,' he said as they crossed to the
other side of Main Street.

She stopped and gazed up at it, a faint smile
on her lips. 'Yes, it is, isn't it? Few people really see it, if
you know what I mean, it's been here so long. They all take it for
granted, myself included. Even I tend to forget that it has a kind
of unofficial honorific name.'

'Oh?' He looked sideways at her. 'And what's
that?'

She smiled. ' 'McMean's Folly.' That's what
we call it around here.'

'Why? Because of all the plants?'

She laughed. 'I see what you mean. But no.
It's the house's history. You see, after Neeland McMean went
through all the pains of having it built in Missouri, then having
it dismantled and shipped here and put back up, only to make his
bride less homesick—'

'She left him!' he blurted out
vehemently.

She looked startled. 'Why, yes. How did you
know?'

He blushed suddenly. 'I—I didn't,' he
stammered. Then he looked quickly away. 'I guessed it.'

'I understand,' Elender said softly. She
touched his arm gently. 'Women . . . have been known to be unkind.'
Her eyes clouded over as she remembered her own tragic youth. 'And
so have men,' she added painfully. Then she clapped her hands
briskly together, signaling a change of subject. 'Let's go in,
shall we? You're fortunate, you know. There's only one empty room.
It's quite a climb, though, and really very small, I'm afraid.'

It was on the third floor, in a circular
turret. Elender stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of
her, as Zaccheus inspected the room.

It surprised her, because none of her roomers
had ever done that before, not in the way he did. Generally they
poked the mattress and peered into the wardrobe. He did none of
that. Instead, he stood back and noted the architectural details,
obviously fascinated by the elaborate plaster molding that
encircled the ceiling, and the three oriel windows that looked out
onto the street.

'I like it,' he exclaimed.

Elender, ever the practical businesswoman,
responded by saying, 'That'll be two dollars, in advance.'

He nodded, reached into his pocket, and
counted it out.

She pocketed the money and smiled. 'Supper at
the Good Eats Caf6 is served from five o'clock on.'

'I'm not hungry,' he said quickly, stifling
the growling of his stomach. There was no money to squander on
sit-down restaurant meals. The room cost enough as it was, but,
given its comfort, he felt it well worth the price.

'Of course you're hungry.' Elender permitted
herself a smile. 'The price of the room includes board over at the
café. Breakfast, lunch, and supper.'

He grinned sheepishly. 'Would it be all right
if I took my lunch today instead of tomorrow, since the train
leaves in the morning?'

'Then come across the street right now. After
lunch, you still have supper and tomorrow's breakfast coming to
you. You can unpack later.'

The Good Eats Café was empty. The lunch crowd
was gone. He took a seat facing one of the windows so that he could
look out across the street at the pink house. From the kitchen he
could hear the sounds of dishes being washed.

'May I help you?' a soft voice behind him
asked.

Zaccheus turned around. This time a different
girl served as waitress, and in one glance he could see that she
was the antithesis of the other. He thought her to be about two
years younger, about sixteen, he guessed; and whereas the other one
had been coldly pretty, with hard, opaque eyes, this one was the
exact opposite. She radiated a kind of fragile softness coupled
with deeply rooted strength and purpose. Her hair was the color of
golden wheat, pulled back in a fuzzy, thick ponytail, and her eyes
were translucent aquamarine—so translucent that he could feel
himself tumbling into their depths. She was dressed in a smock
identical to the other girl's, with the same huge waist pocket,
only hers was pale aquamarine to match her eyes. Despite the heat,
she wore spotless white gloves.

'Miss Clowney said I might have a late
lunch,' he said.

Elizabeth-Anne nodded. 'I'll have Rosa heat
up the stew. If that is all right with you?'

Zaccheus smiled. 'Right now, anything would
suit me just fine.' He eyed her hesitantly.

'Will there be something else?'

He fixed his gaze on the tablecloth, two
fingers running in place. 'I was just wondering . . .'He glanced up
at her and blushed. 'You're Miss Clowney's other niece, aren't
you?'

Elizabeth-Anne felt the force of his
brilliant blue eyes and lowered her own eyes demurely. Her voice
was soft. 'In a manner of speaking, yes. Auntie adopted me
unofficially many years ago, after my parents were killed in . . .
in an accident.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

She smiled ruefully. 'That's quite all
right.' Then her quivering smile broadened as she paused. Almost
furtively she extended a gloved hand. 'My name is
Elizabeth-Anne.'

He got to his feet and they shook hands, and
her strong, firm grip surprised him. 'That's a very pretty name,'
he said softly, staring deep into the limpid, shifting shoals of
her eyes. 'Mine is Zaccheus How-Hale.' For an instant, and he
didn't really know why, he had been tempted to blurt out his real
name to her. Just in time, he covered his blunder. Ever since St.
Louis, he had gone by the name Zaccheus Hale.

'You're a new roomer?' she asked with
quickening interest as he sat back down.

He nodded. 'Only for the night, I'm
afraid.'

The corners of her lips seemed to tighten.
'Oh. I see,' she said with visible disappointment. For a long
moment they locked eyes. There was something very attractive about
him, she thought; that, and something else that she had difficulty
putting her finger on. After a moment she realized what it was. A
kind of reckless excitement that he seemed to have suppressed
smoldered deeply within him. He was unlike any of the young men she
knew around here. Somehow, he seemed special.

'Well, I'll have your lunch ready in a
moment,' she said quickly, suddenly afraid of her own runaway
emotions. She made a nervous gesture of running her gloved fingers
down along her sides; then she pirouetted swiftly and retreated
into the kitchen.