Rattlesnake (22 page)

“I
want
to.” Shane narrowed his eyes. “What do you think I’m going to spend my money on, anyway? My flashy clothes? A new shiny truck? If I want to blow a few bucks on tissues and cough drops, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But I haven’t done anything for you.”

“You haven’t….” Shane stopped, looked away, and sucked on his bottom lip. “I won’t tally what you’ve done for me because you won’t believe me anyway. Let’s try this instead. What are we?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“You and me. We’re friends at least, aren’t we? We’ve known each other less than two weeks, but we’ve had a lot of sex, and I’ve cleaned up your puke, and you looked right at my scars and didn’t turn away. I figure that at least makes us friends.”

Jimmy was uncomfortable with the entire conversation. He stepped back, and when Shane followed, stepped back again, until he was pinned against the window. “We’re friends,” he said softly. The words felt strange on his tongue.

Shane rewarded him with a bright smile. “And friends don’t keep score. You do something for your friend because he needs it or it’ll make him happy, and helping him makes
you
happy, and that’s trade enough. Maybe nobody showed you that before, but they should’ve.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Want to hear a story about Rattlesnake Murray?”

That was a lot better than discussing anything personal, so Jimmy nodded. “Sure. Hit me.”

“Well, he was getting up in years. He still poured whiskey at the bar here, but maybe he needed a little help, least on a busy night. That was fine. He had kids, grandkids. One night a stranger came into town. He sat at the bar and got to chatting with George, like fellows do, and he told how he’d just come through Jamestown and he’d watched a man named Barth Foss tried for murder, and they were gonna hang him the next day. That got George’s attention because he knew Barth. Barth’s father was an old pal from George’s mining days, and he’d held Barth on his knee back when he was just a baby. Old man Foss had died years back.

“Now, I know nowadays Jamestown’s just a short drive from here, but back then it was a half-day’s ride on horseback or by wagon, and longer on foot. The hour was late, and that road was dark as sin at night. But old George put on his coat and went walking.

“By the time he reached Jamestown, the sun was just coming up, and I imagine he was more than a little footsore. But he marched straight to the jail and told the deputy on duty to get the sheriff and the judge, pronto. While he was waiting for the sheriff to show up, George talked to Barth through the bars of the cell, getting his story.

“Now, pretty soon the sheriff appears on horseback, with the judge not far behind. But word’s gotten around that something’s up, so half the town’s following along, coming to see what’s what. As soon as the sheriff dismounted, George walked up to him and demanded he release Barth. The sheriff said he couldn’t, on account of Barth being convicted of murder and sentenced to hang.

“George said Barth Foss was an innocent man. ‘I’ve known him since before he could crawl, and he’s no murderer.’ I think maybe the judge and sheriff knew George by reputation if not by acquaintance, and so they knew they were only buying trouble if they didn’t listen to him. By then, the townspeople wanted to hear the tale too. Entertainment.

“Now, I don’t know what George said that morning, but it must’ve been good. Because they freed that man and someone even gave George and Barth a wagon ride back to Rattlesnake.”

Jimmy had been leaning against the windowsill, listening intently. “Was Barth really innocent?”

“Dunno. George found Barth a job here in town, and Barth never again got in trouble with the law. He got married and had kids. There are still a few Fosses left. I went to high school with one of them.”

“Is that a true story?”

“Who the hell knows? I guess if someone wanted to, he could look up the records in Jamestown and see what they say. My point, though, is George never expected his old friend to pay him back—the man was dead. And he didn’t need anything from Barth. But Barth’s father was a friend, so George walked those dark miles to Jamestown on his old legs and did what he could to save the son.”

Jimmy hung his head slightly, thinking. “I’ve never been accused of murder.”

“Glad to hear that. But you see? Compared to what my ancestor did, fetching a few things for a sick friend is nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Jimmy said, looking him in the eye. “I don’t get presents. People don’t do things for me.” That was true. The last gift he remembered receiving was when he was a kid, maybe seven or so, and there was a Christmas toy distribution for the poor. He had gotten a set of plastic figures: horses, a truck and trailer, and two bowlegged cowboys. Fuck. He’d forgotten all about that until just now.

Shane stood up, walked over, and cupped Jimmy’s face in his hand. “I will do things for you. If you let me. If you stay.”

Maybe sensing Jimmy’s unease, Shane stepped away. “Have to get back to work. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jimmy remained against the window long after the door was closed, shivering slightly, trying to calm the storm in his head.

“A
RE
YOU
sure you’re feeling up to working?” Belinda asked on Friday morning.

“Definitely.”

She looked at Jimmy speculatively. “Fine. But nothing too strenuous. We’ll really need you tomorrow, and I don’t want you dropping on me then.”

“I’ll take it easy today,” he replied with a smile. And he did. He spent some time on his inventory project, which at the current rate was going to last another century, and replaced a few of the air filters in preparation for the upcoming air-conditioning season. He also looked over some of Belinda’s fixture selections for the bathroom remodel project; he liked her choices. He took a break to join Shane at Mae’s—French Toast Friday—but ate faster than usual and then left to sand ugly paint off an antique table he’d found in the basement. It was nice wood and he wanted to refinish it. Belinda could undoubtedly use it somewhere.

Shane came looking for him just as he was washing up. It was nearly four in the afternoon, and Jimmy was thinking he’d take a short break before resuming work. He really wasn’t 100 percent yet. Maybe he’d join the geezers on the bench.

But Shane had another idea. “Come with me,” he said.

“Where to?”

“Surprise. Get your jacket because we’re going outside.”

After three days almost entirely indoors, that sounded fine to Jimmy. He fetched his jacket and waved to Belinda in the lobby. She seemed to be in on Shane’s plot, because she simply waved back.

The rain had cleared along with Jimmy’s illness, giving the sidewalks a fresh-scrubbed look. Shane paused in front of the bar’s big windows. “If Belinda got the supplies, do you think you could build a couple of big window boxes? Not just those sidewalk boxes we already have. I saw an old photo of the inn once, and there used to be flowers here. It looked nice, even in black and white.”

“Yeah, I could manage that much construction, I guess. Would the city care?”

Shane waved a hand dismissively. “The mayor and two members of the city council are relatives. I think we can persuade them.”

Window boxes would look nice. Jimmy imagined them in the height of summer, a circus of blooms tumbling everywhere, attracting bees and butterflies. He almost regretted that he wouldn’t be around to see it.

Shane led him slowly down Main Street for two blocks before turning onto one of the narrow streets running uphill. A young woman holding a baby waved at them from her front porch. Jimmy didn’t know her name, but he’d seen her and her husband at Mae’s, along with the baby. Next door to her, a little green bungalow sported a sign for a law firm, and next to that, a brown-and-white cottage housed a CPA. Shane turned left onto Washington Street, which paralleled Main. A grand Victorian dominated most of that block, its front lawn converted to a small park, complete with play structure and benches.

“This was George’s house,” Shane explained as they drew closer. “He willed it to the city. Some people say it’s haunted by the ghost of his first wife, but that’s bullshit because this house wasn’t even built before she died.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Jimmy said. But when Shane gave him a probing look and then frowned, Jimmy redirected the conversation. “Are you a descendent of his first wife or second?”

Shane grinned. “Second. The first was a girl he’d met back east, but I think she was too delicate for life out here. She died of consumption. I don’t remember her name. But wife number two was Althea Stewart. According to family legend, she came out west to be an entertainer.”

“Prostitute?” Jimmy asked.

“Maybe. Probably. But then she figured out she could make easier money baking cakes for the miners.”

“I didn’t realize pastries were so sought after.”

“It wasn’t the pastries. Women were in such short supply that the men would pay a lot for anything made by a woman or just to spend a few minutes in a lady’s company.” Shane chuckled. “I guess men who liked men saved a few dollars. Anyway, Althea did well for herself and was already pretty rich when she met George. They hit it off and had a bunch of kids, and one of those kids was my great-great.”

“I didn’t see her grave at the cemetery.”

“Now, that’s a good story too.”

By now they were close enough to the big house that Jimmy could read the wooden sign hanging on the front porch:
Rattlesnake Public Library
. He was surprised when he realized that was apparently where they were headed, but he didn’t have a chance to ask about it because Shane was still talking about Althea.

“She was quite a bit younger than George. When he died, their kids were grown and everything, but she was only in her early sixties. She told everyone she was tired of California and ready for more adventure. She gave all her stuff away except for a bunch of money and whatever she could carry in one suitcase. Then she took the train from Jamestown to Oakdale, found a ride from Oakdale to San Francisco, and got on a ship heading for South America. Her kids got letters from her for a few years—you can see ’em in the town museum—but then the letters just stopped.” Shane stopped too, at the bottom of the library’s wooden stairs.

“What happened to her?”

“Nobody knows. But we’ve spent a hundred years wondering about it.” With a hand on the railing and tiny grunts of discomfort, he walked up the stairs.

Jimmy followed, thinking about Althea. Whatever her fate, at least she hadn’t died like Tom Reynolds, with nobody to miss her. Maybe that knowledge had comforted her wherever she spent her last minutes.

They passed through a small, stuffy foyer into a space so large it must originally have been several separate rooms. Bookshelves partially obscured the period-appropriate support pillars, and looking past more shelves, Jimmy caught glimpses of faded old wallpaper, fancy wood molding, and a few large paintings in ornate frames. “It’s nice they didn’t”—he began loudly, then dropped his voice when he remembered where they were—“ruin the house’s character when they made it a library.”

Shane nodded and whispered back. “Probably they thought it would piss off the ghost.”

Several large wooden tables were scattered throughout the room, as were worn but comfy-looking reading chairs, but only a couple of people poked among the stacks. Not surprising on a beautiful Friday afternoon.

“Why are we here?” Jimmy whispered.

“You said you needed something to read.” Shane swept his arm theatrically. “Here’s something to read.”

Jimmy had spent a fair amount of time in libraries over the years. They were good places to pass the time—dry and warm and quiet—and they had public bathrooms. Even if it was obvious you were homeless, librarians wouldn’t kick you out as long as you didn’t bother anyone. And of course you could read all the books and magazines you wanted to. He couldn’t explain why
this
library, which looked cozy and well loved, made his skin feel too tight. He wanted to go back out into the sunshine.

“I used to love this place,” Shane said wistfully, running his fingers over a shelf full of books about Socratic philosophy. “I’d come here after school whenever I could, and in summer I’d pester people to drive me into town.”

“That’s interesting—that a kid who wanted to be a cowboy was such a bookworm.”

Shane shrugged. “I liked to read about cowboys, actually. I could always tell when an author had never gone near a horse and was trying to fake it. And it was my own way of having adventures. I didn’t need to see the world if the world could come to me.”

He looked so sad that Jimmy wanted to embrace him. He didn’t do it, but he held his tongue about wanting to leave the library.

“I haven’t been in here in a long time,” Shane said. “But I doubt they’ve moved much around. What kinds of books do you want?”

Jimmy wasn’t that picky. He had favorites, but he read whatever came his way. He’d picked up a lot of surprisingly useful information that way. “Fiction, I guess. Uh, literature.”

“That’s upstairs.”

“I don’t have to—I can find something down here.”

Shane glared at him. “I can manage one damned flight of stairs.”

As it turned out, there was an elevator—ADA requirements, probably—but Shane took the stairs anyway, hanging on hard to the ornate bannister. The second floor had also been opened up. About a third of the space housed children’s books, complemented by tiny chairs and bright posters. The remainder contained adult fiction.

Jimmy wandered the aisles with Shane in his wake. Sometimes Shane drew a book off the shelf only to look at it for a moment, sigh, and return it.

“You can’t read even slowly?” Jimmy asked.

“I can manage something simple, like a sign or Charlie’s lists. But anything longer… the words get all mixed up in my head and I can’t make sense of them. I’ve tried audiobooks. I do better with them. But it feels weird, cooped up in my apartment listening to somebody talk at me. And I get too distracted if I try to listen anywhere else.” He managed a wry smile. “And don’t ask me to write anything. I had shitty handwriting and was a crappy speller even before the accident.”