Bittersweet

“Ooooeee!” Charley laughed. “His eyes get big as a calf’s when Jerome spins one.”

“I’m going to have to ask you not to tell him any more.”

“Come on, Karl,” Jerome said, “all kids like ghost stories. It don’t hurt nothing.”

“Don’t tell him any more.” Karl said firmly. “Don’t tell that boy anything that isn’t true. He likes being with you. He looks up to you. You tell him those stories and he believes them. He’s just a boy, there’s no call to lie to him. He’s been having nightmares. Talk of something else.”

“Hell, Karl, you’re going to let that gal raise up a sissy. Teasing’ll make a man out of him,” Jerome protested.

“I’ve never known fear to make a man out of anyone. I’ve seen it make grown men cry like babies. Don’t lie to the boy.” Karl wished them good night and went inside.

Jerome hawked and spat expertly over the rail. “Jesus! We were just having a little fun with the kid.”

“I, for one, am going to do as he asked,” Charley said. “Karl’s a fu

Jerome grunted. “Must’ve had more meat on him then; he’s tall, but there ain’t nothing to him.”

“Wiry,” Charley said sagely.

Karl found Sarah and Matthew waiting for him in the kitchen. Matthew was whitefaced and silent, safe on his mother’s lap.

“What is it, Karl?”

“Jerome has been telling him ghost stories.” He sat down across from them. “Come here, Matthew.” Reluctantly the little boy left his mother and came around the end of the table. Karl lifted him onto his bony lap, straddling his knees.

“You mad at me, Karl?” Matthew asked.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I been scared. Scared of the dark and to be by myself and go in the shed and stuff.”

“No, I’m not mad at you. Everybody gets scared. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I get scared sometimes, and that was one of the scariest stories I’ve heard in a long time. Is that why you wouldn’t tell your mother and me what was wrong? You thought we’d be mad?”

“I was afraid you’d be ashamed of me because I was afraid to go into dark places…like a baby.”

“We’ll never be ashamed of you for being afraid, Matthew. Those stories Jerome and Charley told you aren’t true. Not any of them. Once people are dead, they never come back-maybe because they don’t want to, maybe it’s nicer where they are. I don’t know. But they don’t ever come back. Those two boys buried out by the spring had a proper burial. Your mother read the service from the Bible over their graves. Both of them were good boys-like Coby. Would Coby ever hurt you?”

“No.”

“Neither would these boys. I don’t know what else those two told you, but I’m willing to bet there’s not a grain of truth in it.”

“There’s the ghost of a man drowned in the outhouse that’d pull you down into the hole by your…” He looked at his mother; at six he was well aware of the social restrictions. “…you know.”

“I know,” Karl said. “Beau Van Fleet dug that outhouse two months before your mother leased this place. Nobody has ever died there.”

“People tortured to death by Chief Wi

“Not true. I doubt Chief Wi

“That’s all,” Matthew said.

“That’s enough.” Karl stood him on the floor between his knees. “Are you still scared?”

“Only a little left-over scared.”

“Can you go wash up and go to bed?”

“I think so.”

“Ask your mother for a candle. If anybody ever tells you anything that scares you again, come and tell your mother or me, and we will tell you if it’s true or not. If not, there’s nothing to be afraid of. All right?” The child nodded. “Now kiss your mother good night and get ready for bed. We’ll look in on you in a few minutes.”

Sarah hugged Matthew tight and kissed him. “Good night, honey. Take this candle, it’s already lit. We’ll be in in a minute.” When he’d gone, she turned, smiling, to Karl. He looked back, strong and square-shouldered, his eyes warm with love for Sarah and her son. “Karl, I think you’ve slept in the tackroom long enough. Come in tonight. Every night.”

He reached for her hand. “Are you sure? People will talk. And not about me, but about you. The gossip could do us harm.”

“I don’t care. I want to be with you in the sight of everybody. Let people talk. I’m tired of hiding and sneaking in our own home.”

Karl spent the night in the main house with Sarah. In the morning the two of them stoically faced down the curious looks and half-heard jokes of the freighters. That afternoon, Karl’s things were moved into the master bedroom with Sarah’s.

Matthew asked why. “To keep a closer eye on you,” his mother told him.

All Colby had to say was, “It’s about time. I’ve been wanting to move into the tackroom for a while now.”

Dizable & De

39

IT WAS MID-JULY, AND AT SIX O’CLOCK THE SUN WAS STILL HIGH. ALL the windows were propped wide and the door blocked open to catch the breeze. Despite the heat, Karl had on one of the heavy fla

Liam and Beaner sat slurping coffee with several of the young prospectors; sweat poured down their temples as they swilled the hot liquid. Keeping a low profile, Matthew built a wigwam out of kindling behind one of the tables near the fireplace. Flies buzzed in lazy circles and the company was dull with heat and day’s end.

Beaner swirled the last of his coffee around, polished it off in a gulp, and set the cup carefully back in the wet ring on the tabletop. “Liam,” he said, “I got a new lim’rick.”

The driver looked up from contemplating the toe of his boot, and Beaner winked a round black eye.

Liam nudged the young man across the table, a hard-faced miner of twenty-five, from the silver mines in Virginia City. “Watch this,” he grunted, and jerked his chin toward Karl. Liam’s face creased slightly but the smile didn’t quite break through.

“Hey, Karl,” Beaner called across the room, his dark eyes twinkling. “I got one for you.”

“Never mind, Beaner,” Karl said amiably.

“There was a young whore from Peru…” Beaner began, undaunted.

Karl turned several shades of red and, muttering some half-heard excuse, left the bar for the kitchen. The swamper pounded his thigh and laughed uproariously. “Isn’t that the damnedest thing? You can always get a rise out of Karl. I’ve seen him up to his ears in cowshit, castrating calves, but when somebody’d say something raw he’d color up like an old maid.”

“It ain’t like he don’t know what it is. He’s got it pretty friendly. I hear he’s been bedding Mrs. Ebbit damn near since the schoolteacher died,” one of the freighters put in. “You got promoted to the tackroom, hey Coby?”

“That’s right,” the young man said shortly, and stood to stretch.

The swamper winked at him. “Maybe when Karl moves on, you’ll get promoted-inside.” The others laughed.

“Watch yourself, Beaner,” Coby warned as he left the room.

“He won’t hear her made light of,” Liam explained. “And rightly so. You were getting out of hand there. Mrs. Ebbitt’s a lady, give or take a little, and oughtn’t to be jawed over by the likes of you.” The driver kicked Beaner’s chair and snapped his mouth shut again.

“She’s a widow woman, ain’t she?” a middle-aged, potbellied miner asked. “Why don’t he just marry her? She’s a good little gal-better’n most-cooks a meal that’s purely fit to eat.”