The Whip (22 page)

Thirty-Six

Somewhere in the back of her mind Charley knew that Jim was right. But try as she may, she couldn’t let go of the whiskey.

It was during her involuntary time off that a new horse came under her care, a mature, chestnut-colored gelding. He was an unpredictable and temperamental horse and therefore was about to be put down. So she took him in. The horse had been passed around so much that no one could pinpoint his exact history, but wherever he came from, Charley thought, people must’ve treated him rough. Tabbris was his name.

Tabbris was a jittery gent who tossed his head and stomped his feet as if to show that he was always ready to bolt or rear. He had wild eyes…even when he seemed to be resting.

One morning Charley entered Tabbris’ stall. She called out to the horse, as she always did with him before she entered, and held out an apple for him. He gobbled it from her hand. “Come on now, boy, we’re going give you some new shoes.”

Tabbris snorted and stomped.

“You’re going to like them,” she said. “Won’t be any trouble at all and afterward you’re going feel like a fine young colt again. Now don’t be nervous, boy…it don’t hurt at all.”

Charley led the stubborn horse from his narrow confines and into a larger space cleared out for doctoring the horses. Tabbris seemed more restless and anxious than usual. But Charley overlooked it and her good instincts. She had always tried to follow her instincts with her animals but age was beginning to creep up on her. Her patience was not at all like it used to be…and neither was her once agile body. It was stiffening and hurting as she leaned in toward the horse. She felt a damn ache in her knees and another down her back into her leg. An ache like wire twisting around bone. And as usual these days, her head was pounding from her days and nights drinking. She pulled a bottle of Paines Celery Compound out of her pocket and took a healthy swig. It seemed like she was also living on every snake oil remedy she could find.

She sidestepped the large snorting animal, turned to the open window, looked up at the approaching rain clouds overhead and took a deep breath of crisp air. Out of nowhere a rough cough erupted from her chest. And another…and again. It left her breathless and surprised and dizzy. Shit…was it the beginning of old age or the influenza? Neither a good sign.

Still coughing, she turned back to Tabbris and knelt down to begin shoeing him. All of a sudden she was overcome by the faintest memory of her first rain. What a strange sensation…her mind floating backwards so far…so fast. She smelled straw, dampness. Her jarring memory took only a tenth of a second but that was a tenth of a second too long. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the image. And then she glimpsed the horse turning but was not quick enough to dodge the explosive hoof coming toward her face. She did not hear her own scream. She felt an unbearable, searing, infinite pain. And then, darkness.

Thirty-Seven

Charley became aware of a familiar voice.

“You think he’ll come out of it?” said Ben.

“Sure was a nasty kick,” said Jim.

Charley moaned. Her head was throbbing.

The moon-faced Doc Jarvis came into focus. “Looks like our patient is coming around. Charley…you’ve had a bad accident. Your horse must have kicked you in the head. Somehow you managed to stumble across the road to your neighbors, and they found you and brought you here. I’ve cleaned you up and stitched you up and you’re going to be okay. Jim and Ben are here.”

Charley’s hand went up to her left eye. She felt rough cloth.

“That’s a bandage,” Doc Jarvis went on.

Charley remembered another time in this room when she had removed bandages from her chest and Jarvis had repaired her rib. The woman had been revealed that day under the dirty flannel shirt. Today, nothing in his voice seemed to betray that secret.

“You’re going to keep the bandage on until you’ve had a chance to heal.” His tone was even, yet somehow foreboding.

Charley felt Jim’s hand on her shoulder.

“You’ve lost the eye, Charley,” said Jarvis. “You’ll be able to see just fine from the one that’s left. When the healing is done you’d best wear a patch. You know you’re very lucky. You could have been killed.”

“A patch,” Ben chimed in. “One-eyed Charley. That sounds pretty fine to me.”

“As soon as you heal up,” Jim said, “you got your job waiting for you…on the terms that we spoke of a couple of weeks ago, of course. Looking forward to having you back. Now, we’ll help you get home. And we’ll all stop in to check on you and see if you need anything.”

Charley closed her one good eye and felt herself bathed in darkness. She opened the eye and saw the hairs in Doc Jarvis’s nose. Closed it and saw nothing. Opened it and saw Ben’s tobacco-stained teeth. Her head was throbbing.

“Got me a headache something awful,” she groaned. “Got any whiskey?”

“Glad to oblige,” said Ben. He sidled over and lifted her back so she could rest against his arm. With his free hand he poured spirits from his flask into Charley’s mouth. How tender a man can be was what Charley thought as she grimaced and swallowed and then lay back on Jarvis’s doctoring table to rest.

A good kick to the head, if you survive it, is bound to make you examine your life, one way or the other. You might think the loss of an eye would have sent Charley further down into her dark spiral. But oddly, it seemed to do the opposite.

You get a choice when you hit the bottom. And half-blind Charley felt like she was now spread-eagled, face-down in manure. For a moment it was such a relief to be lying there…to not struggle anymore.

But as she lay on her bed recovering, she kept hearing Jonas’ voice over and over. That under all the shit was something good…if you were willing to dig through it. What the hell good could come out of losing an eye? Losing a baby? What about all the other bad things that had happened? What was the fucking good in them? She thought about it—for a long time.

She realized that her work as a whip had been good. Her freedom. Her friends. Even the ones that were gone…the time she had with them. All that still didn’t change the lonesomeness though.

But then it came to her…just change your mind about it. About everything. Shit. That was it. What an idiot she was. It was that simple. Just decide to stop struggling and embrace it all as a gift. And in a single second, everything is different.

She was feeling somehow restored, revived. All her senses were on fire. And now from atop the stagecoach there was plenty for Charley, even with one eye, to see. From her perch she could see California growing, changing as more and more people took root. Her attire now included a black patch. People, even the newspapers, called her One-eyed Charley. Cock-Eyed Charley. That Wicked Hoss Done You Charley. She had become famous in her own little world. She had made peace with her loneliness. What she saw and felt now, even more than before, was wind and speed and mastery.

Thirty-Eight

Three years later Charley made the decision to move to a steadier climate. The changes from season to season in Sacramento were aggravating her constant cough and rheumatism. She discussed her situation with Jim, and he suggested that she move down south to the Watsonville area and start taking fewer and shorter runs out of that office. So she sold her property at a fair price, packed her belongings and headed down to the Pajaro Valley. She purchased a twenty-six acre ranch with a two-room cabin, stable and apple orchard for six hundred dollars just outside of Watsonville, California, near the Seven Mile House stage stop.

With much more time on her hands now, she became an avid reader of newspapers—
The Watsonville Pajaronian
—in particular.

The world around her seemed to speed and twist and tumble in ways she could not fathom. In 1860, the year the United States was brawling and wrestling with itself over slavery issues, the Pony Express advertised for young riders but stated that only orphans need apply. The Pony Express made its first run to the west carrying 49 letters and 3 newspapers, delivered to Sacramento in tip top shape, all the way from St. Joseph, Missouri in the record speed of eleven days. The new hero of the day was young Tom Hamilton, who had weathered everything from hostile Indians on the prairies to storms on the mountains to make that first delivery.

Hell, Charley thought, as she turned the page to more interesting news…if she was seventeen again, she could’ve done it in nine days.

Charley was becoming political. Her usual routine, when she wasn’t working, was sitting in the saloon with her newspaper spread across the table, debating the issues. She loved to read aloud and have great violent arguments with anyone and everyone willing to disagree with her, particularly about the issue of equal rights for both Negroes and women.

She even voted in the election of 1868 for General Grant. As she made her mark on the ballot, she wondered in passing, if she might be the first women to vote in these United States. Of course, as a man.

Thirty-Nine

Watsonville, California

1876

Charley was finishing her lunch when she heard someone
coming up the porch steps of her cabin. She opened the front door to find an older woman standing there…she had sun baked skin and silver hair. Her eyes…something familiar about them. In that second, Charley looked down and saw at the woman’s feet, a valise. Oh my God…the perpetual bestowing valise.

“Anna?”

“Of course it’s me, Charley. What the hell happened to your eye?” Anna peered into the cabin. “My God…your place looks like shit. And so do you. How long since you’ve eaten a decent meal? Are you going to let me in?”

“I’m sorry, Anna. It’s just that you look…I mean it’s been how many years? What a shock to see you. It’s been a long time…I’m sorry…come in.” Charley grabbed the valise. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, thank-you. I haven’t eaten since last night at the stagecoach stop.”

Anna followed Charley inside. She took off her coat and hat.

Charley poured a bowl of soup and placed it on the table with a tin of crackers. “Sit. Please. It’s not much.”

Anna sat down and began to devour her soup. Charley watched her eat in silence. It was so hard to believe that after all this time it was Anna sitting in front of her. It felt like another one of her dreams.

“You want something to drink?” Charley said. “All I got in the place is whiskey.”

“Sure. Why not.”

Charley poured both of them a glass.

“Thank-you, Charley. Funny. Yes? You cooking for me.”

Charley smiled.

There was a long pause as they both sipped their whiskey.

“I swore I’d never cook another meal after Silvio died,” Anna said.

“Silvio?”

“My late husband. Old Italian gentleman. We lived in the Salinas Valley. He owned a small lettuce ranch. Oh God, Charley. I learned to hate lettuce. He made me work with him in the fields. He left me the ranch though. I sold it and made a little money. I lived in a boarding house for a while but despised it. All those gossipy old biddies.”

“How the hell did you find me?”

“I went to Sacramento. The man who bought your place said you had moved down to Watsonville. So I went to the Wells Fargo office here in town, and they gave me directions to your place. What about you? What happened to your eye?”

“Horse kicked me in the head. Was drinking too much after you left. Didn’t have my wits about me. No matter though…can see just fine.”

“Why’d you move down here? I thought you loved Sacramento.”

“Wanted some easier weather. My sciatica was getting to me in the cold. So Jim, you remember Jim Birch? He’s gone now. Went down with a ship in a gale south of Cape Hatteras. Anyway…he suggested for me to move down here and do fewer runs. You know I’m not a young colt anymore.”

“I’m so sorry about Jim. I liked him. Aren’t you lonely without all your friends though?”

“Ben and Hank drop in whenever they’re down this way. I’m friends with the neighbors, the Harmon’s and their son, George. And I’m an Odd Fellow…a great group of men…we do a lot of good things for people. I like Watsonville. It’s simple here…and peaceful. Life has been good. Except for the fucking sciatica…I’ve thought of you often, Anna. Hoped life was good for you, too.”

“I have a favor to ask you Charley. For old time’s sake. I was wondering…what you thought about me coming back. To live here. With you.”

“Live with me? I didn’t ever think that you’d forgive me, Anna. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’m not angry with you anymore. I understand now why you chose to live your life the way you did. In my travels, I’ve heard of other woman just like you. And I know you didn’t mean to hurt Tonia…that you loved her.” Anna took a little sip of her whiskey. “Life is empty, still. Sad. Thought maybe…thought it might be less so if I came back.”

Charley stared into her glass. Strange how once in a while God gives you what you didn’t even know you needed. She hadn’t realized how she missed Anna until she saw her again.

“I’d like that,” Charley said. “I’d like you to stay here with me. If that would make you happy. Whatever I can do. Thank-you for saying that you aren’t angry with me anymore. That means a lot to me…unpack your things Anna. Make yourself at home. Welcome back.”

Anna continued to call her Charley. Charley continued to pass as a man. And at this point, it’s not like she could have gone back even if she had wanted to. What with lips and teeth stained brown by chewing tobacco, her raspy voice, leathery skin shaded under a battered hat, a particular swagger to her walk, and an ease with cigars, whiskey and cards—her act had long ago become truer to who she was than the truth of her anatomy. The other whips, her passengers, and the world at large, all treated one-eyed Charley as a man. No use in changing who she’d become. She’d tried that once.

The balance between Charley and Anna had tipped, however. No longer was Anna a doe-eyed female pining for Charley’s affection. She had wandered, and all she had found was that she missed the comfort and security of her old friend Charley. She also knew that she didn’t want to die alone in a damn boarding house.

So Charley and Anna slept together in the same big bed in the Watsonville cabin. They had talked about how if only Charley were a man, this relationship could have been one of Watsonville’s happiest marriages. The community already saw them as the perfect couple.

One summer night, in that big bed after more than a few glasses of wine, they had tried to find some comfort in each other’s body. But it had come to no avail.

They ended up roaring with laughter. They both agreed what an incredible joke life sometimes brings you in the end…not exactly what you planned. So even without the blessings of connubial bliss, the two friends made a vow that they would be there for each other.

Friendship, true friendship is a curious dance. Why does one recognize and embrace one soul and yet not another. What is that? That something unspoken. Perhaps it is a long ago remembrance of another time, another place, those same familiar eyes shining out. Always we are searching for those recognizable eyes…so that we might at last be recognized ourselves.