Buttercup (12 page)
She moved in slow syncopated swirls as she eventually peered at her audience through her long lashes. She rolled her hips, letting the music take hold of her. Dancing was like that. She and music had their own understanding. With her body oiled, her hair picked out with wild flair and a yellow flower in her ear, she knew she was quite striking.
Della worked the momentum of her hip dance, and a collective sigh escaped the men. These men boys would deny it later, but all were captivated.
Running her hands over her bare breasts and down her tummy, she warmed all over. Then she let go. The flowing skirt of feathers barely covered her snatch with the frenzied shake of her hips. Her dance increased in its pace. Her breasts bounced and her feet drummed the beat into the floor. She dropped, spread her knees, and worked the crowd into a sex-induced craze. Soon the townies, seduced from their reservations, began to chant her name. Della whirled to one end of the stage. She shook her romp all the way down and worked it back up. Rolling her hips, she molested her sex, fondled her nipples, and ran her tongue over her pouty lips. With her mind clear of anything, she got down low with her hands to her knees, thrusting her pelvis at the men and then again upright to her feet. She danced the hooch like no other woman could. The crowd of men went wild. Della managed a smile. Gyrating through her dance around stage, she was free as any hooch dancer could ever be. Her eyes swept many faces as the tempo of the music commanded her groove. There, at the back of the tent, one lingered.
Silvio watched her intensely, his stare barely seen under the brim of his hat. He wore a long wool coat that was more expensive than the dusty jackets of the miners. This man stood absolutely still. Della lost her step. She quickly recovered, working the men on the other side of the stage. Her attention was called away by some drunk begging for a sniff.
But the chill remained in her bones. She looked back once more and the stranger was gone.
“Give it up boys, if you want more Buttercup!”
***
***
She did as she was told. Della walked off to a chorus of boo’s. Tiny grabbed her hand just beyond the curtain. “Lone Wolf, he say Danique’s spotted your gangster.”
“Silvio? It couldn’t be.”
“Others, too. Think two of his crew were in the gambling tents.
Look like the ones on the wanted posters. I want you to go. Do as I say, now.”
“Tiny, we don’t have to. If he came here, it ain’t for me. He don’t know the truth of Sylvester.”
“Shut your mouth!” Tiny hissed. “Of course he isn’t here for you or Sylvester. He wants revenge. Are you that fucking dense that you don’t know the difference?”
Della visibly winced. Her battered heart shriveled up just a bit more. “You right. Of course you is,” she said bitterly.
“I got them looking for Sylvester. He been put in Joyce’s train car waiting for you. Now go!” Tiny ordered.
She nodded. Out of the back of the tent she hurried out into the night. The first thing she saw was the moon. Could it be Silvio after all this time? He would certainly want revenge for what happened to him and his friend. Still her heart fluttered that it might be more. Maybe, just maybe he didn’t blame her or her carnie family. Maybe he’d return just for her. She pushed aside that wishful thought. She was there. Like the others, she did nothing when that mean sheriff dragged him away after Tiny and Lone Wolf beat him. Through the darkness, she followed Peanut. He kept casting her looks over his shoulder. They were looks that made her tighten the front of her robe. The wind whipped through the bone yard, pushing her along. Della kept looking back. Looking for Silvio.
“Wait! Peanut, wait.”
“C’mon, Della. Now.”
“Sylvester’s with Joyce,” she said, turning and running for Joyce’s train car. Peanut caught her in a few steps. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her from her feet. She was pushed up against the nearest boxcar. Her legs were forced apart by her struggle and constant kicking.
Peanut held her by the shoulders grinding in between her legs.
“Mmm…Buttercup. He keep you all to yourself. You knows I want you.”
“Let me go!” she screamed, clawing at his face until he did. Peanut stepped back, holding his cheek with a very deep scratch. He glared at her. She glared back. “You lay another hand on me and draw back a nub!”
“Whore!”
“I tell Tiny you broke his rule at a time like this, when we got an outsider in our yard. He kill you!” she shouted over the wind.
Peanut's mean glare wavered. He looked back at the midway. Della smelled his stench on her and gagged. She held down her disgust and her fear. She stepped to him. “Now, we goes and get my boy, and you stay back. I don’t want you around Sylvester no mo’ either. You hear me!”
“Get ‘er done already!” Peanut grimaced.
Della bolted for Joyce’s. She yanked the door open and hurried inside. The panic and sorrow building in her chest eased when she found her baby boy sleeping in Joyce’s arms.
“Tiny, shut down the girl’s tents. You know your gangster is here?”
“He come for revenge. Yes, I know.”
“Go on now. I’ll keep him until it’s over. Then have him bought to you.”
Della hesitated. “Maybe I can take him with me?”
“I have him,” Joyce snapped. She held Della’s child to her bosom. A pang of motherly need went through Della that she repressed. “If that gangster come after you and Tiny, what he gon’ do if he find he got a half-breed boy too? Ya think of that?”
She hadn’t. Della could only imagine the rage of a man caged for wrong doing he wasn’t guilty of. She could only imagine the amount of resentment and anger Silvio felt for the carnies. Seeing a child that the world said shouldn’t exist may only make it worse. Silvio had no war with Joyce. Sylvester was best with her.
“You got a point,” she said sadly.
“Now go. Stay put until Tiny say. You hear?”
“I hear.” Della walked over to where her son lay sleeping in Joyce’s arms, unaware of the danger outside of the train car. She ran her hand back through his wild locks, similar to her own. She leaned in and pressed a motherly kiss to Sylvester’s cheek. “Have Stan or Lone Wolf bring him to me as soon as it ova’”, Della pleaded. “I want him with me as soon as possible.”
Joyce looked at the boy who carried mixed blood. She kissed the child’s forehead. “You know he’d never want this child. Don’t you?”
Della didn’t know who Silvio was six years later. She didn’t know him six years before. But she felt the beat of his heart once. A man that could give that passionately couldn’t hurt his own son, no matter the conception. “No. I don’t. But I won’t risk Sylvester’s life on the foolishness of what I think could happen. He safest with you,” she relented.
Joyce nodded.
Della left, reluctantly. Peanut scowled at her. He grabbed her by the arm, marching her toward her train car with his shotgun pointed south but his eyes watchful. Obediently, she let him lead her inside.
“You stay put. I’m keepin’ an eye out for your fella. Got a bullet with his name on it.” Peanut gave a lopsided grin. When Della didn’t react with anger nor fear, he removed a pistol from the back loop of his pants.
He placed it in her hand. “If he get passed me, you fire it, and the boys come runnin’.”
The weapon felt like a brick in her hand. But she was a good shot.
Lone Wolf had taught her how to use it and the bow and arrow. “Bring me my boy when it’s ova’. I want him with me. Don’t forget, okay?”
Peanut sneered, then left. Della set the pistol down on her small dresser. She picked up some tossed aside toys and then dropped them in a chair. She put a hand over her eyes and another to her tummy. The churn and summersaults rolling through her stomach had her feeling nauseous with worry.
He had returned.
Deep down inside she feared and prayed he would. Now that he had, what was she to do? Arm her self? Plead her case? Fight for understanding, maybe forgiveness? Introduce him to a son that grows more crafty and intelligent by the day? Lowering her hand, she held it out before her face and found it was actually racked with tremors.
Della almost laughed out loud.
Silvio had returned
. Good for him. If he burned the place down it would serve Tiny right for what he done. She went to the closed cedar chest near the bed she and Sylvester shared since he was an infant. She carefully lifted the hutch. Covered on top were pictures, many. Al worked the photo booth. He loved taking pictures of Sylvester. Della smiled at his fat round face. He was such a beautiful child.
She picked each photo up one by one and proceeded to stack them like tarot cards. Underneath it all, she uncovered her mother’s music box.
Gingerly, she bought it out of the chest with both hands. Underneath the inlay was the five bills, tucked where she had put them the night they created their son. Della smiled. She had never parted with them. To do so would taint and sully their union, the conception of her son. But there was no denying their night was not supposed to be. Sylvester was not to be.
Keeping the money and inventing a fantasy version of that night in her head, had left her weak. She’d been weak enough to suffer in silence under Tiny’s tyranny. She had no choice but to allow Joyce to be a mother to her child in moments when he needed her to be. And now, her weakness had her hiding from the truth, from the past.
Della closed her eyes as one lonely tear dropped down her cheek.
Every painful memory returned with bitter sharpness. She could still hear Silvio’s pleas for her to tell the truth, to help him. Then came his silent acceptance that she wouldn’t as they beat him. She hated how her fear of Tiny made her dumb, deaf and mute. The sounds of them cursing her lover and laughing as they ground him into nothing pummeled her heart.
Slowly she rose, expelling a mournful sigh.
The train car door opened.
Her back was turned.
Della wiped at her eyes, placing the music box back on the bed.
“Peanut, get out. I’m in no mood...”
Della turned to the answering silence.
She stopped.
A man had stepped inside. It wasn’t Peanut. It wasn’t any of the men she knew from the carnival.
It was him
. Della dropped the photos in her other hand. They floated to the floor, most of them uncovered. She bolted for her pistol, grabbed it in an instant, and aimed it in the next. She held the grip with both hands, her finger shakily on the trigger. “Whatchu doin’ here?” she stammered.
Silvio made sure the door was securely shut. He dropped down the little latch, locking her in with him. When his eyes stared at her, another cold wave of fear cut through her body. His handsome face was clear thanks to the lantern light near him. But he was different. A man.
Shoulders were broad. He was tall, expensively dressed and composed.
“If’in you don’t go, I’ll shoot. They’ll come. So. So. So just go. Ain’t nuthin’
here for you.”
“You sure about that, doll?” he said, his lips barely moving. He removed his gloves, his fedora. His dark locks were pressed to his head, but his thick dark brows over the bluest of eyes made the boy he once was, emerge again. He tossed his things to a chair she’d left her son’s toys on. Della winced. She stepped forward, covering a photo of Sylvester with her bare feet. She wondered if he’d notice. He didn’t. His attention was solely focused on her. And now she could see his face clearly. The mustache was new. His chin and jaw were more profound. There was hardness to the blue in his eyes, life hardness she could relate to. God help her. She saw her son in his face. It was Silvio. They’d only had one night, but she’d know him anywhere. “Why you come here?” she asked weakly.
He didn’t speak. Della held tight to the pistol. She thought of Peanut. How could Silvio just walk inside? She didn’t hear a gunshot.
“Where’s Peanut? Did you hurt him?”
“What is he to you?” Silvio approached.
“Don’t,” Della said, backing away. “Stop, don’t come close. I’ll….”
Silvio snatched the gun free from her hands, tossing it aside. Della blinked at how weakly she handed it over. But her shock was momentary.
She turned to escape him, finding herself trapped. He was on her in a flash. His arm closed around her waist. She was lifted back against his chest, off her feet. She didn’t scream. She forgot it was an option. Instead she struggled, twisting in his hold. He whirled her around and grabbed her by the top collar of her robe.
Della’s heart pounded. She looked into his eyes, pleading. She should have fired. Do it, if not for herself, for her son. Her finger was just that close to the trigger. But she didn’t. “I’m sorry for what they done. I…