gulp a bit. “Easy,” he cautioned. “Take a breath.”
Lucy whispered, “I’m all aquiver. I can’t stop.” Strands of wet hair hung in her face.
“You’re just cold,” Straw lied to her.
Lucy pried the cup from him. “I’m steadier now.”
The door flew open and Dooley lurched in, shaking the rain from himself, stamping his boots, blowing like a grampus. Straw was happy to see him. It was a chore to hold a conversation with Lucy Stoveall aloft by himself.
“Hasn’t let up yet, has it, Aloysius?” he called out.
Dooley didn’t answer. At the best of times females tongue-tied him. He needed a plausible reason to avoid chat, so assuming an air of great purpose, he marched across the floor and set to tearing down the canvas tarp cloaking the mirror over the bar.
“Leave that alone, Aloysius,” said Straw. “Come and take a drink with us.”
The canvas came off the mirror with a ripping sound, bellied out and wafted down to the floor. “Let it be,” said Straw sharply. “I’ll help you fold it later.”
“Hold your horses.” Dooley’s eyes scurried to the oil painting that he’d taken down and hidden behind the bar to keep it away from the disapproving eyes of the Methodist. Snatching it up, he rushed to the vacant nail and slammed the picture on the wall. Stepping back to judge whether it was hanging straight, he realized what he had gone and done.
The painting was of a naked woman lying on a shocking scarlet divan in a pose of languorous abandonment. There she was, all lust and invitation, flaunting her rose and alabaster flesh, her round belly and pert-nippled bosoms.
Dooley, beginning his mortified excuses, couldn’t bring himself to turn and face Lucy. “It come with the saloon when I bought it from old Jew Jake. I don’t hold with nudities, but the boys wouldn’t hear of me taking her down. The fellow who painted this picture called her Clara, and they said he was from Philadelphia. That’s all I know about this picture.”
Behind him, Straw cleared his throat.
Dooley thought of another mitigating circumstance. “There was a prospector named Giles offered to buy her off me for a hundred dollars. He wanted to put her up in his cabin. I’d have sold her to him too, but the rest of the fellows drinking here that night took up a subscription and outbid Giles by forty dollars. They wanted Clara left up on the wall. So I’m under obligation. I taken the money.”
Lucy said, “Mr. Dooley, I want to thank you for letting me have the use of your saloon for the funeral. You are a good man. Come and join us.” Straw heard the whisky in her voice for the first time. Most probably, she was not accustomed to drink. Her words were a tiny bit slurred, a throaty purr.
Dooley’s relief at being forgiven was boundless. It made him forget for a moment his wariness of women. He went to the bar, collected abottle, and bashfully joined them. “I don’t want to trouble your conversation,” he said, sinking into a chair six feet off. When he realized Lucy was looking at him, he smiled to the ceiling, lifted the bottle to his lips, and took a long drink.
Straw asked him, “Everything settled at the cemetery?”
Dooley nodded. “Clumb was still singing some, but the gravediggers didn’t wait on him to finish. They wanted to get out the rain so they started to fill the hole.”
“What that Methodist lacked in sense he tried to make up for with singing,” Lucy said coldly.
Dooley crouched forward like a cat offering its head to be petted. “I won’t have a piano in here,” Dooley declared, “for fear it might encourage singing. The worst for singing is them Frenchies off the St. Louis boats. Only thing worst than singing is singing you can’t understand because it ain’t English.” Dooley pelted on. “In my experience, Southerners are near as bad for tunes as the Frenchies. There was a fellow from Louisiana used to come in here, get drunk, and sing darky songs. Generally, darky
Lucy whispered, “I’m all aquiver. I can’t stop.” Strands of wet hair hung in her face.
“You’re just cold,” Straw lied to her.
Lucy pried the cup from him. “I’m steadier now.”
The door flew open and Dooley lurched in, shaking the rain from himself, stamping his boots, blowing like a grampus. Straw was happy to see him. It was a chore to hold a conversation with Lucy Stoveall aloft by himself.
“Hasn’t let up yet, has it, Aloysius?” he called out.
Dooley didn’t answer. At the best of times females tongue-tied him. He needed a plausible reason to avoid chat, so assuming an air of great purpose, he marched across the floor and set to tearing down the canvas tarp cloaking the mirror over the bar.
“Leave that alone, Aloysius,” said Straw. “Come and take a drink with us.”
The canvas came off the mirror with a ripping sound, bellied out and wafted down to the floor. “Let it be,” said Straw sharply. “I’ll help you fold it later.”
“Hold your horses.” Dooley’s eyes scurried to the oil painting that he’d taken down and hidden behind the bar to keep it away from the disapproving eyes of the Methodist. Snatching it up, he rushed to the vacant nail and slammed the picture on the wall. Stepping back to judge whether it was hanging straight, he realized what he had gone and done.
The painting was of a naked woman lying on a shocking scarlet divan in a pose of languorous abandonment. There she was, all lust and invitation, flaunting her rose and alabaster flesh, her round belly and pert-nippled bosoms.
Dooley, beginning his mortified excuses, couldn’t bring himself to turn and face Lucy. “It come with the saloon when I bought it from old Jew Jake. I don’t hold with nudities, but the boys wouldn’t hear of me taking her down. The fellow who painted this picture called her Clara, and they said he was from Philadelphia. That’s all I know about this picture.”
Behind him, Straw cleared his throat.
Dooley thought of another mitigating circumstance. “There was a prospector named Giles offered to buy her off me for a hundred dollars. He wanted to put her up in his cabin. I’d have sold her to him too, but the rest of the fellows drinking here that night took up a subscription and outbid Giles by forty dollars. They wanted Clara left up on the wall. So I’m under obligation. I taken the money.”
Lucy said, “Mr. Dooley, I want to thank you for letting me have the use of your saloon for the funeral. You are a good man. Come and join us.” Straw heard the whisky in her voice for the first time. Most probably, she was not accustomed to drink. Her words were a tiny bit slurred, a throaty purr.
Dooley’s relief at being forgiven was boundless. It made him forget for a moment his wariness of women. He went to the bar, collected abottle, and bashfully joined them. “I don’t want to trouble your conversation,” he said, sinking into a chair six feet off. When he realized Lucy was looking at him, he smiled to the ceiling, lifted the bottle to his lips, and took a long drink.
Straw asked him, “Everything settled at the cemetery?”
Dooley nodded. “Clumb was still singing some, but the gravediggers didn’t wait on him to finish. They wanted to get out the rain so they started to fill the hole.”
“What that Methodist lacked in sense he tried to make up for with singing,” Lucy said coldly.
Dooley crouched forward like a cat offering its head to be petted. “I won’t have a piano in here,” Dooley declared, “for fear it might encourage singing. The worst for singing is them Frenchies off the St. Louis boats. Only thing worst than singing is singing you can’t understand because it ain’t English.” Dooley pelted on. “In my experience, Southerners are near as bad for tunes as the Frenchies. There was a fellow from Louisiana used to come in here, get drunk, and sing darky songs. Generally, darky
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