There was no doubt as to the desperation of our finances. It was as if the nothing that inhabited our fields had taken on a will of its own. The nothing was ubiquitous and powerful and patient. It was all of these things as much, if not more so than we, but it was not nearly as clever or as nimble. Pa and I ducked the nothing and its intentions as spryly as we could manage.
"If you do not bend, my dear girl, you will surely break!" His attitude was defiant optimism. I wished it would catch in me, like a spark that could ignite my own honest engine and drive me confidently into the unknown. But it was a cancer in him, effecting his every movement and thought without any promise of contagiousness. Instead, I wore his outlook like a mask. My costume of cheer kept quite secret my bitter resentment toward the fields and the sun, and the nothing there between. Behind the security of my disposition I grew to personify and resent other inanimate objects. The railroad train was a particularly egregious offender. The tracks, like a finger, pointed directly to a clear, but impossible way out. The steam whistle screamed its "All aboard! All aboard, but you, Lucene!" And the omnipresent nothing sat its obese self comfortably in my seat on the passenger car. Twice everyday, I watched that railroad lead others off to live my life. Funny then, how I never once observed the train bring its fortunate passengers in to town.
Morrison had been progressing ambitiously for years. Money seemed to breed more money. Families arriving to claim and build homesteads and cattle ranches were followed by enterprising and business minded men, who saw promise in the development of the town itself. Charles Hubbard opened the Morrison Station Inn and Saloon and Andrew Bingham started the Bingham Bank before I was born. When Philip returned from France he worked closely with Dr. Mills to open the apothecary between the General Store and the Post Office. Hardly any soul in Morrison seemed to be from Morrison, and though I knew the land was Indian territory not long before the beginning of my life, it seemed to me that we had always just been there. Neither Pa nor Mama ever spoke having lived, or of coming from anywhere else. It was as if they simply sprung from the land, like the wheat, fully grown and already married.
A wicked storm stampeded across the plains. Wind and rain thrashed at the wooden houses and barns. We took cover in our dank cramped cellar, fearing a mighty twister would sprout up, throwing its unpredictable root down into our house. The twister never came, and by morning the rain had retreated and the sun had emerged. We were all so grateful then. We praised that mighty sun and all of its healing warmth and light. But the rain had not returned. The wind visited us often, unaccompanied by damp grey clouds. The town stagnated. Frozen in time, partially developed, we all waited, suspended, drying out.
Charles Hubbard was a fastidious man who kept very regular hours. He insisted he be in bed and asleep by ten o'clock every evening, and was adamant that he awake at six o'clock every morning to personally see after the tidiness of his rooms. He kept a very neat Inn, but in the days of the dust, the Saloon was the only thing keeping the Inn open. Mr. Hubbard was forced to extend the hours of the Saloon very late into the night, and it was only Pa, with his warm nature and his deep integrity that Mr. Hubbard would have mind the bar while he slept, and it was only at dawn that Pa would walk his fields muttering to himself and dreaming plans, before he'd come in to sleep.
While Pa shucked the nothing at the Saloon, we jived in any way we could. Frank whittled small creatures from fallen branches, and Pa carried them with him to the Saloon nightly, where patrons could buy them for a penny a piece. For my part, I began seeing to the laundry and the housekeeping for Mr. Bingham. I had known Aida Bingham in school, and Pa's reputation for honesty extended to me. I was hired on to the honorable but humiliating position.
Of my earnings, I handed over to Pa all but the little I saved for my escapes. None of my confusion, of my opaque grudge ever alighted on Pa. My wanderlust was my own. I cherished it, and nourished it alone, in secret. My saving was dual in application, but singular of purpose. For the gratification of my immediate need, I put aside one dollar every month, with which to buy a new book. With a book I could escape to any reality, earthly or otherwise on demand. In the words I found relief, fuel for my mind, and for my dreams. The remainder of my savings was stashed, along with the postcard from Paris, in a small jewelry tin that belonged to Mama. This I kept under my pillow.
And so it was that I found myself upon leaving the Binghams on the hunt for a new book. The sun glowered down with it usual despotism. The shade cast on the square by the buildings was crowded. As my eyes adjusted to the hot dim, I began to decipher the faces of my fellow pedestrians. And there, unmistakably in the door of his shop stood Philip watching as I approached. My heartbeat quickened to my embarrassment, and I glanced away from his face. Still, I drew closer, attempting to determine what I might say, or if I might not say anything at all. Of course I had to say something. We weren't strangers. It would be uncomfortable not to say anything. It would be awkward. But I might let him begin a conversation, and follow his lead like a real lady should. I could pretend not to notice him, and let him approach me. But I was walking directly toward him, and I was not the oblivious type, and Philip knew this, had always known this, had always known me. It would be foolish, childish to pretend. If I said nothing I may even hurt his feelings, and yet if I was too comfortable he may assume I thought nothing of him at all. In any event, the opportunity for conversation would soon present itself, and that was all I really wanted, a conversation that would begin with 'hello' and end when we convinced one another to get on the train and go to -
"Hello Lucene, Dear. How are you this afternoon?" So that's how you do it.
"Why, Philip, I hardly even noticed you there in the shadows." Stupid. Of course I noticed him. My trajectory was aiming at him. Forget it. Keep talking. "I'm quite well. As a matter of fact, I'm in search of good, well worn-in book. Have you seen one lately?"
"Can you describe it a bit more for me? I'm afraid I've seen a great many books recently."
"Well, now let me think," I played, "It has a very romantic title." He frowned. "that is very misleading," I added. He stopped frowning, "because its actually about a criminal," his eyes widened, "but not just any criminal, a very cunning criminal, who's been falsely convicted?
"Naturally."
"Because the criminal was very wealthy," another frown, "quite destitute, I mean, but he was a great thinker," a smile, "a philosopher really, who began to question his government!" He was nodding now, emphatically and grinning wildly.
"Why, yes! I have seen just such a book. Come with me, I'll take you to it." I took his arm blessing Pa, and Mama and my own good fortune.
"I am quite lucky," I confessed, "to have someone with whom I can share my love of literature, and to have run in to you on this the very day I am in need of a new adventure."
"I feel very fortunate as well," he said, "for you literary companionship, and doubly so for catching you today. There's something I was hoping to discuss with you, beyond books I mean." Hold it together, Lucene. Remember to breathe. "I've known you for as long as I can remember, and I've always had a great respect for you and for your opinion." I fixed my hazel eyes squarely on his light blues. The town was swirling around and away from me. I focused on not fainting.
I was struck on the shoulder, and toppled off balance into Philip's chest. "I'm sorry young lady," said Jacob Monterey as she stumbled on toward the station. He barely stopped long enough to make his apology. It was only then that I realized the town really was swirling around and away from me. A commotion was emanating from in front of the station, and a crowd was gathering.
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