Haymarket (2 page)

“If you stop callin’ me boy, I might jes’ tellya.”

Lucy laughed out loud. “It’s about time you made a protest! Beginnin’ to think you hadn’t started to shave. How old
are
you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Don’t look it. Me, I’m eighteen. And I promise you:
nobody
calls me girl.”

“Bet they call you lots of other things. Like beautiful.” Albert was shocked at his own boldness.

“If I let ’em,” Lucy said impishly. “Now I’ll tell you what, as a reward for standin’ up for yourself, I’m gonna get you some proper food after all. Maybe even some dried herring, or a piece of cod.”

“I’d sure appreciate that. Don’t be servin’ up no more teasin’, though. I can’t manage that too well.”

“Well too bad, ’cause that’s me. Maybe you’ll get used to it,” Lucy threw back at him as she moved toward the kitchen. Suddenly she stopped and turned around. “Well what
is
your name?”

“Albert Parsons.”

Lucy looked thunderstruck. “Albert Par—I don’t believe you!”

“Am I famous or somethin’? Maybe for collectin’ taxes on time.”

“You were proprietor of the
Spectator
. Ain’t that right?”

“Didn’t know I had a reader this far north.”

“You probably had one reader—me. I came across a copy at the general
store in Cleborne. They were usin’ it to keep the flies off the home-cured meat. I read the first page standin’ up. That was it. Read it every week from then on, had to send to Waco for it. ‘Albert Parsons.’ Now there’s somethin’ unexpected!”

She paused for a moment. “From now on, you can call me Lucy. As for my brown skin, we may or may not talk more about that some day …” She turned into the kitchen and quickly piled some dried fruit, cheese, herring, and lemon crackers on a platter.

“Does that mean I’d be welcome to stop by when I find myself in these parts?”

“That might depend on how much my uncle owes,” Lucy said slyly. “He’s not likely to offer hospitality to a tax collector.”

“Taxes? What taxes?” Albert said with a laugh. He rustled ostentatiously through his papers. “I don’t see no Gonzalez on my lists. Either your uncle’s all paid up or, as the law do allow, he avoided payin’ by workin’ on the roads and bridges for a dollar a day. Yup, I guess that must be it.”

Lucy returned with the platter of food and put it down in front of Albert. “This ain’t cookin’ exactly, but it’ll hold you till you get to your next place.”

He thanked her profusely and began to eat. He’d forgotten how hungry he was.

Lucy was about to join him at the table when one of the Mexican women appeared at the door and called out something in Spanish. Lucy went over to her and the two chatted quietly. Albert knew little Spanish, but he could judge from Lucy’s soft tone with the woman that the combativeness she’d leveled at him wasn’t the sole way she fronted on the world. Finally, the woman said, “Gracias, señorita,” and disappeared.

“A circuit rider’s comin’ through this afternoon to hold services,” Lucy explained. “Amelia wanted permission to leave the fields early.”

“A religious service?”

“Methodist. Amelia’s Roman Catholic, but there’s no church like that ’round these parts. Don’t know
what
she gets out of a Methodist service. They hold it in a tiny little place made of logs; was meant to be a schoolroom but the teacher quit after a month. Not even any backs on the benches, so you can’t catch up on your sleep. Amelia loves best the outdoor revivals; they get to work themselves into a frenzy under some brush arbor, screamin’ like a pack a lunatics.”

“Don’t sound like you’re a believer,” Albert said good-humoredly.

“There’s lots of things I believe. But none of ’em got to do with angels and a great white father. Are
you
a godly man?” Lucy sounded as if she might just yank the food away if the answer was yes.

“When I was little, my family made me go to church. But that was a
long
time ago!” Albert laughed. He almost mentioned Aunt Ester and how her devout fervor nearly caught him up when he was a boy. But no, he thought, she’s not ready for Aunt Ester.

“Glad to hear the superstition didn’t catch ya.” Lucy sat down beside him at the table and started picking away at some prunes. “The one time I’ve ever gone to a meetin’ was when Dr. Mary J. Walker come through here last year.”

“Who’s that? Never heard of her.”

“Most men haven’t. She’s a campaigner for women’s rights. When Mary J. Walker came to Brenham, a crowd pelted her with eggs at the railway depot. She never did get to give her speech. I had to go to Hillsboro to hear her.”

“Sounds to me, Lucy, like maybe you’re too quick to think the worst of men.”

Lucy looked surprised. She wasn’t used to being challenged; it brought a little heat of pleasure to her face. “Well do tell, Mr. Editor.”

“Just so you know, I’ve been a reader of
Woodhull & Claflin’s
since it started publishing last year. Do
you
read it?”

“Victoria Woodhull’s nuthin’ but a high-priced whore,” Lucy said loftily, avoiding the question.

“That’s what they call every independent woman.”

“They wouldn’t dare call
me
that.”

“Well, not to your face maybe. Besides, you got your facts wrong. It’s her sister, Tennessee Claflin, who’s mistress to Commodore Vanderbilt. Or at least clysterin’ him, as the rumor has it.”

“Doin’
what
to him?”

“Clysterin’. Hear tell it’s real popular back east, at least in fancy circles. Clysterin’s like an enema, but it goes
way
up and massages the prostate, makes the old Commodore feel spry as a youth.”

“That’s a pretty bold thing for you to be sayin’ to me, Albert Parsons. I suppose I should be miffed. Or even kick you out.”

“That’d be play-actin’, and you know it. I don’t think you shock too
easy. Fact is, I get the feelin’ I could say ’bout anythin’ to you.”

Lucy tried to conceal a smile. “In time you might be able to,” she said. “But you and me, Mr. Parsons, only known each other less than an hour.”

“Still, I feel I know you. That don’t happen often, but when it does, it happens quick. And please stop callin’ me Mr. Parsons.”

“Awright, I will. See: I ain’t contrary all the time. Now how about some coffee to finish with?”

“Sounds fine.”

As Lucy headed back toward the kitchen, Albert called after her: “You still haven’t answered my question, you know.”

“What question?”

“You read
Woodhull & Claflin’s
paper or don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.” Lucy said quietly. “And you know what: I feel shamefaced ’bout it. I
oughta
read their paper. And until I do, I oughta keep my mouth shut about the character of those two ladies.”

Having expected a combative response, Albert was surprised at Lucy’s capitulation. “Good for you, Lucy Gonzalez!” he said. “Not only a woman of strong opinions, but not afraid to question ’em! Mighty rare.” He paused. “You know what?”

“What?” Lucy asked, her voice sounding girlish and happy.

“You and me goin’ to get along real fine. As fine as can be. When can I come callin’ again?”

“Ain’t you the bold one!”

“Well, don’t want you to start callin’ me
boy
again.”

“Bessie do seem a mighty thirsty girl. I’d say you best bring her by often; cain’t stand seein’ an animal suffer.”

“You callin’ me an animal?!” Albert said, laughing.

“Can’t be that often, though. You’re a Waco man, Albert—that’s sixty miles from here!”

“Next few months, I’m workin’ right in these parts. After that, something’ll come up. You leave all that to me, hear? For now, stoppin’ by’s as easy as slippin’ into my saddle.”

And stop by he did. Often. He’d complete his revenue circuit in as short a time as possible, trying not to drive Bessie too hard, and when she did tire he’d croon sentimental verses in her ear that made her whinny with pleasure
and pick up her gait. But sometimes a full week would pass before he was able to get back to the ranch; the thinly settled north country around Woodson and Elbert made for difficult travel and delays. Hearing a tax collector had arrived, people were far more likely to flee into the fields than to emerge from them to shake his hand. Lucy would grow uneasy with waiting, her ear anxiously tuned for the sound of Bessie’s hoofs on the courtyard stones. Sunsets were the worst time; all her life they’d made her melancholy, conjuring up the streaked-red end of things. When Albert was away, she tried to find herself at twilight storing roots in the cellar or checking on the wine corking, chores previously left to others.

Not that she let Albert know the extent of her unease. For the first few months after they met, she remained wary, keeping up her tart, distancing banter, never putting food in front of him that might seem too wifely-complete and setting out the same indifferent wine for him that she served the farmhands. Even when alone with him, she veered the conversation to public questions or to asking him about his family background, while offering only scraps about her own. Albert had little conceit but was as willing as the next man to talk about himself. Eager to please her, he let her set the cues. When Lucy said she wanted to hear all about life in Waco, since she’d never seen the place, Albert cheerfully complied, describing in detail the small, wooden buildings on either side of the town’s one commercial street; the steady swirl of dust and horse manure that filled the air; the general emporium that offered denim and calico dry goods and, irregularly, home-cured meats, syrup, butter, cheese, coffee, and, on rare occasions, peppermint sticks for the children; the patent medicine store stocked mostly with quinine and calomel and dispensed in seemingly random amounts by a “druggist” who masqueraded as well as the town’s doctor; the many saloons and the lone hotel—a place with more bedbugs than beds, where lodgers were given the choice of doubling up or sleeping in the cowshed.

“You been in Waco all your life?” Lucy asked at one point. “Seems to me I’m hearin’ a little Yankee twang when you talk.”

“You got a good ear, Lucy. Both my folks came from up north, father from Maine, mother from Jersey. Guess some of it rubbed off.”

“Carpetbaggers, eh? Well, there are worse sorts.”

Albert didn’t know whether she was teasing him or not. “Carpetbaggers?! I’m talkin’ 1830! That’s when they moved to Alabama, so
Daddy could try his hand at a shoe factory. I was born in Montgomery, lived all my life in the South, most of it right here in Texas. Fought with the Lone Star Grays during the War.”

“You—what? A Northern boy and a Southern Confederate! Seems to me you’re one or the other.”

Albert massaged his arms across his chest, as if shielding himself from an unexpected blast of cold air. “Fact is, Lucy,” he said quietly, you can be both. I was, anyway. Thing is, you see, I was only fifteen at the time.”

“At the time of
what
?” Lucy could feel her impatience rising.

“When I ran away from brother William’s house and become a powder monkey with the Grays.”

“Brother who—? How many stories you tellin’ me at once? Should I be writin’ all this down so I can memorize it later?”

Albert sighed. “Well you asked.”

“Didn’t ask for the whole family Bible in one readin’!”

“Okay then, it’s like this. My folks, you see, both died before I was five. William took me in and raised me. Leastways, gave me a home. But it was Aunt Ester”—whoops, Albert thought, how did that slip out? Too late now—“it was Aunt Ester who actually raised me, taught me my values. I owe that woman everything, everything about m’self that I like anyway. I don’t mean William wasn’t good to me. He taught me lots of—of practical stuff. Like how to shoot a rifle and ride a horse, how to hunt antelope. Trained me as a printer’s devil, too—that was when he was proprietor of the Tyler
Telegraph.”

“Aunt Ester was his wife?”

Albert sat back and sighed. “You sure I haven’t told you about Aunt Ester?” Well, he thought, let’s just get it over with. “Aunt Ester was … was a house servant … awright, a slave … in my brother’s family …”

Lucy pushed back her chair and stood up. “Where’s this brother of yours now? He still in Tyler?”

“He and his family moved to Galveston. He’s a cotton factor now. A big shot. During the War he was a general.”

“You sure
he
didn’t teach you your ‘values’?” Lucy started moving around the room, dousing the candles, picking up loose items from the floor. Albert jumped up.

“My God, Lucy! I was fifteen years old when I joined the Grays! Hot with excitement, that’s all, couldn’t hardly sit still. Hell, I didn’t even
know why the War was being fought! Just got caught up in the fever and fireworks!”

“I knew why it was bein’ fought.” Lucy’s voice could have frozen a whole cod for the winter. “The War was fought to keep black people in chains.”

“They kept tellin’
me
it was about states’ rights. Puzzled me no end. I thought only people had rights, not states. But I didn’t trouble m’self much. Before the War I didn’t have opinions, I had energy, and needed to do somethin’ with it. I grew my ideas later.”

“No doubt you’ll tell me all about that, too.” She snuffed out the last candle. “But not tonight.”

And over time he told her about that and more, though never again mentioned the Grays—nor his service in the renowned McInoly Scouts under Major General W. H. Parsons, commander of the Confederate cavalry west of the Mississippi. She wanted especially to hear about the
Spectator
, how in the world he’d ever found the money to start it up and why, in less than a year, he’d closed it down.

“When I got mustered out, I traded a good mule—all I owned in the world—for thirty-five acres of corn standin’ ready for harvest. The owner, he was a German man, just wanted to get on that mule and get the hell outta Waco.”

“How’d you bring it in?”

“Huh?”

“The harvest. How’d you bring it in? You sure don’t look like a farmin’ man.”

“I hired some black men, freed slaves, who knew the fields like the back of their hands.”

“That was nice for you.”