Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (22 page)

Dominic took Odessa to see Helen Anderson two weeks after they
had first met. Nic seemed glum, burdened by the work of the store,
not at all glad to see it do a brisk business from the first day it opened.
Only the reprieve from Sheriff Bannock's constant calls seemed to
buoy his mood. Whenever Odessa was with him, she watched as he
paced and wrung his hands, lost in his own world of thought. Was it
the sheriffs unwanted pursuit of their sister, or something else?

The bruises on his face, his grimace when he helped her down
from his new carriage, as if in pain, were not lost on her. He was
fighting again. How? Where? And the question the whole family had
asked for years ... why?

They waited on Helen's porch, shielded from the sun. She
answered the door herself and greeted Odessa like a long-lost
friend-"My, haven't you made some gains these last weeks!"-and
then shaking her brother's hand. "A bookseller by day, a fine trade,
young man. But aren't you also a fighter by night? Shorty St. Clair?"

Dominic's eyes shifted away from her in embarrassed surprise and
he shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Just a bookseller. Though my sister
would tell you I've scuffled with one or two men in my life." He flashed
them both grins, trying to charm them. "I wouldn't mind staying," he
said, "but I must fetch the latest shipment for the shop down at the depot.
Joe's expecting me. May I return for my sister in an hour's time?"

"Make it two hours," Helen said decisively. "We have some work
to do and it can never be cut short."

Dominic was off then, moving as if he could not escape fast
enough, and Helen stared at Odessa. "Keeps his own counsel, does
he?"

"All his life," she returned.

"Come," Helen said. "Sit on the settee and I'll pour you some
Earl Grey. The biscuits are from the bakery down the street, lemon!
They're divine. Try one."

Odessa accepted a lemon biscuit and relished the tangy sweetness of the treat. "Mrs. Anderson, you said you came to Colorado
Springs to chase the cure too."

"Call me Helen, please. And yes, more than fifteen years ago now."
She reached down and showed off her bulbous waist. "Obviously, the
wasting disease is long gone. And those biscuits are of no assistance.
Ever since I was young, people told me to eat, that I was nothing but
skin and bones. Now women actually ask me if I should eat at all!"

Odessa covered her mouth and laughed along with her hostess.
It had been a long time since she had met a woman as free and vivacious as Helen. "What do you believe it is? What is it about this place
that heals?" Odessa asked as she settled in her seat.

"It's all they tout. The clean, dry air. Maybe it's wandering land sacred to the Ute Indians. Or the mountain's shadow. Maybe it's the
bracing exercise and good food that is part of the sanatorium's regimen, although there was no sanatorium when I arrived. I'd nearly
died three times by the time I dragged myself here at a friend's
invitation."

"You never left?"

"Too afraid to leave again."

Odessa thought of Bryce, getting sick every time he went East,
of her own longing to return home.

"But Colorado is big territory to feel confined in," Helen said
with a grunt. "Come, finish your tea and tell me about yourself and
your family. You're obviously a reader, if you know my books."

Odessa studied her new friend, weighing what to tell her. "I am.
And I ... I have ideas for a book of my own."

"Oh?" Helen asked, lifting her eyebrows in pleasure as she bit
into another biscuit. "How lovely! What is it about?"

"It's a story, a story of a woman in a strange, new place, trying to
find her sense of home again." Odessa hesitated, suddenly shy. "I'm
only beginning. I have all these things in my mind, but I can't seem
to get past page one. I write it over and over again."

"Force yourself to page two, then page three. When you complete the chapter, then allow yourself to reread and edit. But only
once. Then force yourself to the next chapter."

"But what if the first is not right? If it doesn't meet my
expectations?"

Helen sat back. "One can always go back and rewrite it yet
again. But, Odessa, if you never have something ready for editing,
something of substance, then you'll never get anywhere. You won't see your story as a whole, only a partial work. And partial works can
never ever be done, correct?"

Odessa sat across from her hostess, absorbing her words. "Correct."

"It's a bit like the farmers used to say back East. `Too much rain,
bad crop. No rain at all, no crop.' You need a crop. Worry about the
rain later." She sat forward. "What are you afraid of, Odessa?"

Odessa pictured Papa in his office, tossing a manuscript to the
burn pile. "Worthless," he declared, over and over. Was that what
held her back? Fear that her father would declare her work worthless?
She glanced at Helen. "I don't know," she said.

"A bit to think about, eh? Well come, then. Let us be off to the
darkroom where we will see your photograph."

She rose and moved off. Odessa followed her, lost in thought.
The woman could cover as much territory in conversation as she
could with her camera. Did she have Helen's courage, somewhere
deep within her? Or did she really fear her father's disapproval so
much that it kept her from moving forward? Might she find a way
to write for her enjoyment alone, as God had created her to do,
whatever the outcome?

The clean scent of the chemicals, liquid in vast trays, assailed
her nostrils when they entered the room, lit only by a ruby lantern.
"There, you see? Light enough for us to move in and do our work,
but dark enough to not harm the photographs." Helen moved forward and removed the holders from the edge of the glass plate. "This
was the last photograph I took from the trail."

She placed it film side up in the first tray of water, making sure
it was well covered. Helen pulled several bottles from her shelves and
mixed a concoction of water, potash, bromide of potassium, and a few drops of oxalic acid. She removed the plate from the tray and
washed it with the solution she had just mixed. In seconds, traces of
an image began to appear. "See the air bubbles?" she said. "You have
to remove them or they'll distort your image." Then she moved it into
a second tray of water, using a pair of metal tongs to hold it. After
several more minutes, a picture of a beautiful waterfall emerged from
a fog of milky white into a clear image. "That's just up from where I
discovered you," she said, looking at Odessa. "Been there yet?"

"Not yet. It's wonderful."

"Best about this time of year. Encourage the trail nurse to go a
bit farther next time. But it'll be spoiled for you, now that you've
seen it in my fine photograph," she said with a grin. "Now, on to
your first photograph." She moved back to the stack and tore the
holders off the next plate. "Go on, hold it by the edges and ease it
into that first tray."

Odessa did as she was told, then flowed the developing liquid
over her plate, watching the image emerge. Was that a boulder? A
man's shoulder? Impossible to tell yet. "Helen, why did you call my
brother Shorty St. Clair?"

"That's his fighting name."

"What fighting name?"

Helen met her gaze steadily. "Take the tongs. Move it into the
next tray."

Odessa did as she was told, but still waited for her friend to
answer her question.

After a moment, Helen sighed. "Your brother fights for money
over in Colorado City. He's quite good, actually. One of the best I've
seen."

Aghast, Odessa glanced at the older woman again. "You? You
attend ... fights?"

"Indeed I do. It's thrilling." She shrugged. "I'm not particularly
proud of my fascination. But there is something primal about two
men in a ring. Something I'm trying to capture in my writing." She
moved past Odessa and peered into the tray. "Thought you wanted
to take a picture of the whole group."

"I did!" Odessa cried. "Did I make a mistake?"

"You tell me." Helen gripped the corner of the plate and lifted it,
dripping, into the air.

It was a photograph of Bryce. Alone among the rocks. Casual.
Thinner-he'd gained more weight since then. But with those smiling eyes ...

"I can't take that back with me. They're all waiting for me to
return with the photograph of the entire group."

Helen unsuccessfully tried to hide her laugh, giggling, a deep,
rumbling sound within her barrel chest. "Who's the man?" she said.

"Bryce. A ... a friend."

"Handsome friend. Must've happened when I told you to center
your field of vision and then focus in."

"I,Iuh..."

"Odessa, a photographer follows her eye, to that element or
nuance or pose that truly draws her, much like a writer is drawn
to certain words, something that becomes the epitome of what she
envisions. You did that here. There's nothing here of which you
should be ashamed."

"But I took a photograph of a man. There is something oddly
... intimate in it."

"Isn't there?" She lifted her eyebrows in shameless delight. "We'll
let that cure and dry here on the line. You may return tomorrow to
fetch it."

"I can't take that back with me," Odessa repeated. Her chest was
constricting. She could hear the familiar, high whine ...

Helen closed a heavy black drape between them and the room
bathed in red light, then opened the door back into the parlor.
"Easy, Odessa," she said, leading her back to the settee. "Just breathe.
Breathe." She stood back, hands on her hips, staring down at her.
"You St. Clairs have quite the secrets, don't you? I can't wait to make
Moira's acquaintance."

Dr. Morton appeared beside Odessa one afternoon, where she
practiced her archery with Bryce and Charlotte and five others,
shooting targets painted onto a hay bale. "Miss St. Clair," he said,
pausing, as if unsure of what to say. "Most unfortunate news has
reached us," he continued. "Amille's husband has passed away."

Bryce lowered his bow and frowned. "John? What happened?"

Oh no, was all Odessa could think. While Amille's health
improved under the doctor's care, her mind remained fragile. And
something happening to John DeChant ... she shared a quick glance
with Bryce.

"Cave-in at his mine. The sheriff down there found him. Said he
went to check on him after he didn't show up at church."

Bryce lifted fingers to his brow and rubbed, as if he might scrub
the frown from his forehead. "John was a regular. Never missed."

"I was hoping you might come with me to tell Mrs. DeChant,
Miss St. Clair. She's obviously taken a liking to you. Perhaps your
presence will lend some comfort during this terrible time."

Odessa set down her bow and nodded, following behind the
small man as they entered the sanatorium and climbed the sweeping
stairs to the private rooms. She glanced over her shoulder. Bryce was
right behind her.

They rounded the corner and on leaden feet, moved past Odessas room and on to Amille's. The woman was dozing in a chair by the
window, sunlight streaming over her shoulder. The doctor moved
forward, but Odessa said, "Please. Dr. Morton. Perhaps-perhaps it
will be better coming from me."

Doctor Morton considered her over the rims of his glasses and
then stepped aside, gesturing toward the woman.

Odessa covered the remaining steps and knelt at Amille's feet.
She was so fine boned, so fragile yet. And Odessa knew she missed
John, missed her husband. Saying a brief prayer for courage and
comfort, Odessa reached out a hand and took Amille's.

The woman stirred and then opened her eyes, looking into
Odessas. She immediately seemed to sense that something was desperately wrong. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, no," she said in anguish.
How did she know? Did Odessas face hold some of the sorrow that
John's had when he had to tell his wife that he had found their little
girl, that there was no longer any hope that she was merely lost or
wandering?

"No, no, no, no," she said, tears already streaming down her
face.

"Amille," Odessa said, nearly choking on her name, tears now
running down her own face. "I'm so sorry, my friend. But John has
died. He is gone."