Crown of Dust

‘Now hold on there, Limp. You know the woman doesn’t take credit, and I’m a hell of a lot prettier than you anyway—and richer,’ says Micah, winking his one eye.

‘The hell—’

‘And I can hold my liquor.’

Alex is only vaguely aware of what they’re saying. The rest of their banter is lost beneath the groan of the accordion in the corner—a tune that just might be ‘The Old Oaken Bucket’ or ‘Clementine’, or a wobbly combination of the two—and as if called by this racket, miners begin to trickle into the saloon. No less than thirty, if she had a head to count, and she doubts whether some of those mud-stained canvas pants and holey flannels had ever been, or would ever be washed. It would certainly ease the competing stench of rotting canvas, stale tobacco, whisky. The men lean on the bar and against the walls and against each other. They swear and laugh with their mouths wide open, chew plugs of tobacco, smoke cob pipes, and soon the air is thick and yellow. Their hands stroke leather pouches of gold dust, arrange and rearrange dog-eared playing cards, fiddle with the worn visors of discoloured hats and punctuate speech with herky-jerky movements in the air. To Alex they are a collection of parts, of hands, feet and hats, interchangeable with a few exceptions: John Thomas; the big man, Limpy; the black man, Jed; one-eyed Micah; the moustache man, David, whose broad-angled shoulders give him a stocky compact appearance next to Limpy, even as he tops Micah by inches.

And there, sitting apart from the rest by the kitchen door, is Emaline. In her lap, a pair of trousers, needle, thread. Her fingers are busy, but she glances down only so often at her work.

Her weight is not so much the round softness of other women Alex has known, or the wire sinew of her gran. Emaline is solid, with wide, square shoulders and thick veintracked forearms. A fringe of dark hair feathers her upper lip. Her only softness appears to be her generous bosom that strains the front of her dress like mounds of rising sourdough. Emaline’s hands work the cloth. Deft, confident movements, and Alex finds her fingers moving of their own accord, with life and memory of their own.

She forces her hands to fists, stuffs them in her pockets. Gran, too, could sew by feel alone, her fingers unconscious of themselves and of the bent-wire body to which they were attached. Gran was never so patient with Alex as she was with cloth. ‘After three boys,’ she liked to say, ‘three foolish, foolish boys, God at least could have given me a proper granddaughter.’

Proper, Alex thinks. What would Gran think of her now, after all she’s seen? After what she’s done? She rises unnoticed, climbs the stairs. Thigh muscles catch and pull with every step. She slips across the hallway and closes the door of the dark little room behind her.

Mountain lion, Emaline thinks, and close by. She curses and grabs the shotgun by the bed. It won’t be the first time she’s been roused in the middle of the night to protect those damn chickens. Bothersome old biddies, scratching through the leaves all day, dining on leftovers. Women should be valued so much and paid so well for their monthly cycles. A dozen eggs brought her five dollars on Tuesday, more than that bigmouthed Limpy and his cousin David made together digging in the mud all day.

She hears the scream again—high-pitched, like a woman—and hurries out of her bedroom door. The hall is morning dark, but Emaline has memorized the irregularities in the floorboards like the lines of her mother’s face. She knows the sound of Micah’s high nasal snoring escaping from the second room on her right. She’d thrown him out at midnight and listened while he clumped down the hall in unlaced boots. They never spent the night, her boys. She refuses to do business after midnight. They all know it by now and don’t even grumble when she lights the lantern and hands them their boots. Grumbling costs extra.

She offers a product in limited supply in these parts, which is one of the reasons she moved to this little mud-hole town in the first place. Too much competition in the cities. Younger women, girls really, with exotic slanting eyes, or skin of rich amber—girls with pliant rubber bodies, born with their legs wide open. They monopolize the market. They work cheap, happy to sell themselves on street corners. Or they work for someone else, leasing their bodies for a fancy costume, a place to stay and a tiny fraction of the price paid. Emaline is not cheap. She is experienced. She has the touch and can tell what a man needs by the length of his stride, the angle of his grin, the shape of the erection through his trousers. Her callused, muscled hands transform from tough and insistent to feather-soft, almost tender, and she knows that in the dark she is more beautiful than any of those city ladies.

She’s halfway down the stairs when she hears the scream again, above her this time. Her arm hairs stand straight. The snoring stops, sputters, then begins again, softer. She grips the gun with white knuckles. She eases up the stairs. The hall is empty. She creeps on. Her ears twitch. A soft, high murmur from the first room. She opens the door. It whines.

Young Alex is lying tangled in his quilts. His head is thrashing back and forth, and pellets of sweat roll down his forehead. Emaline eases the gun to the floor, folds her arms in front of her and watches.

In the hallway, a floorboard creaks. Arms encircle Emaline’s waist. A fuzzy head rests on her shoulder.

‘Should we wake him?’ Jed whispers in her ear.

‘No,’ she says. ‘Better to deal with demons in sleep.’

She closes the door and follows Jed back to her room.

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