Sundance by David Fuller

We were boarders and the owner asked me to take on the day-to-day.”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œMy, uh, my husband and I.”
    â€œThen you know Etta. Ethel.”
    She became suspicious. “What’s your name again?”
    â€œLongbaugh.”
    â€œRight, Longbaugh. Etta’s an unusual name. I think I would have remembered.”
    â€œShe lived here up to two years ago. Maybe you moved in after.”
    â€œNo,” she said obstinately, “been here five years. You’ve got the wrong address.”
    He did not reach for the letter in his pocket. He well remembered the address.
    â€œMaybe you made a mistake coming here, Mr. Longbaugh. Maybe this isn’t the right place for you. I’ll give you back your money, you’ll find another place.”
    The dreamy young woman was gone, and he was sorry. He said nothing.
    â€œSo, just be on your way.”
    He thought he understood. “I’m not a stranger.”
    Abigail paused. “Men say those things when they want something.”
    â€œAlthough I suppose some men are always strangers to their wives.”
    Abigail cocked her head. “No. I don’t believe you. She was married but her husband had a different name.”
    â€œAlonzo.”
    â€œIs that a guess?”
    â€œHarry Alonzo Longbaugh.”
    She was slow to answer. “You could have heard that somewhere.”
    â€œSo she did live here.”
    Abigail ran her hands down her dress trying to devise a proof. “Where were you? Where were you living?”
    â€œOut west.”
    â€œNo, sorry, her husband was in prison.”
    â€œShe would not have told you that.”
    â€œWhen her husband’s letters came, I sent them back.” She looked smug, as if she had outplayed him at his own game. She leaned her low back against the counter and crossed her arms.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause she asked me to.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMaybe she didn’t want to hear from you . . . from her husband . . . again.”
    â€œThat’s possible.” Without thinking, he pulled her last letter out of his jacket and absently tapped it on the table without looking at it.
    Abigail watched the tap-tap-tap, and her arms dropped to her sides.
    â€œThat’s one of her letters,” said Abigail.
    He looked at her, then at the letter.
    â€œI recognize it,” said Abigail. “You have one of her letters.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMeaning you’re her husband.”
    â€œUnless I stole this, too, along with his name.”
    â€œNo. Stop that, don’t tease me. You’re Harry Alonzo.”
    â€œIs everyone in New York so suspicious?”
    â€œI’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” She was flustered and she rushed to make up for her lack of trust. “She left suddenly. Like you said, about two years ago. I thought maybe she got sick of us, but I couldn’t say why, I mean, we were friends, or I thought we were. She actually did say if letters came from you, I had to send them back unopened.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDo you know where she is?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd she didn’t say why to send my letters back?”
    â€œShe left so suddenly, I never got to ask. I returned your letters and her sister’s.”
    â€œHer sister’s letters?”
    She nodded. “Wilhelmina’s. I wish I could tell you why she left. Maybe it had something to do with those people, but they only came after she was gone.”
    â€œMen came here?”
    â€œWell, one was a man.”
    â€œTell me what happened.”
    â€œA woman came the day after she left, one of ‘those’ women, you know who I mean, although maybe that wasn’t so odd, since she tried to help different . . . different sorts of people.” Abigail flushed. “Anyway, you know the kind I mean. That was her, the way she lived, helping people.