The Haircut
Or,
A Day in Town
Part 5
by BeckyS
This story is written for pleasure, not profit.
The Cartwrights and the general circumstances belong to Bonanza Ventures.
Otherwise, © as allowable, May 2004
"Adam, Little Joe," he called out enthusiastically. "I got it all ready for you."
"We'll go get the wagon, then, and be right back."
Joe tugged at his brother's arm. "Can I stay here with Mr. Robertson? I'll be good, honest."
"I don't think so, Joe. Mr. Robertson has work to do."
Zeb lumbered over to them and hunkered down in front of the boy. "Come to think of it, Adam, I'm 'bout due for a little rest and ree-laxation. Maybe Joe, here, could keep me company for a bit."
"Well—"
"Oh, please?" Joe turned his most winsome look on his brother.
Adam rolled his eyes. He was probably going to regret this, but he was as susceptible to that look as anyone else. The only difference between himself and the rest of the world was that he knew it. He sighed. Surely with Zeb Robertson right here the boy wouldn't get into any trouble. "All right, but you stay right here, and don't do anything you know you shouldn't."
Joe leaped up onto the boardwalk, his face alive with happiness. "I won't, Adam, I promise."
And, indeed, when Adam returned with the buckboard, the two of them were still sitting quietly on the bench in front of the store. Trying not to be obvious about it, he looked carefully around the building for any sign of disaster, but everything appeared to be in fine shape. No fires, no rampaging mules, no broken windows or hysterical females, and the supplies were still neatly stacked by the wall of the store . . . he was instantly suspicious.
"Is everything all right?" he asked cautiously as he climbed down from the seat.
Zeb rose, a veritable mountain next to the slim boy. He dropped his hand heavily on Joe's shoulder and patted it awkwardly. "All's fine. We been having a good talk, is all."
Adam raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Are you sure this is my brother you're talking about?"
Joe giggled, an infectious sound that had both men grinning. "I was good, Adam, just like I said. Right, Mr. Robertson?"
Zeb ruffled his hair, running his hand through the curls almost tenderly. "You were just about an angel, Little Joe. Yes, indeed, just about. Now, let's get them supplies all loaded up an' get your brother over to the barber for his shave."
"Yes, sir!" Joe jumped off the boardwalk, then, as he'd been taught, walked calmly to the horses' heads to lead them back into the alley. He'd stay at their heads while the supplies were loaded so that nothing would startle them.
Adam shook his head in wonder as they headed for the first of the cornmeal barrels. "You must have some kind of magic touch, Zeb. You kept him sitting quietly for almost twenty minutes."
Zeb ducked his head. "Tweren't nothin'. He's a good boy. Just got a head full of questions, is all. Good questions, too."
"Yeah?" He jumped up into the bed of the wagon, ready to arrange the barrels and bags Zeb started lifting up.
But Zeb just shook his head, and Adam left the subject alone. Whatever had passed between the big man and his brother would stay between them. Adam knew Zeb wasn't one to fill a boy's head with nonsense, so he was content to leave it alone.
Besides, they had a number of places to stop before they could head home, and with each of Joe's escapades today, the thought of that shave had moved steadily from the realm of good tactics to practically a necessity. They finished quickly, and with a quick goodbye wave, were headed out of the alley and down the street.
Adam maneuvered the team expertly around the other wagons, carriages, horses and mules that thronged the streets of Virginia City every day, finally pulling up in front of the barbershop. Here we go, he thought.
He didn't have to feign enthusiasm; he really did enjoy the luxury of warm towels, thick shaving cream, and the general feeling of letting someone else tidy him up once in a while.
"Can't I stay here with the horses?" was Joe's first sally.
There was only one answer that would do any good. Cheerfully, he said simply, "Nope," and wrapped the reins around the brake handle.
"I can watch over them good."
"Nope." He hopped down to the street.
"I could go get the papers from Mr. Stewart," he suggested next.
"Nope."
"Maybe go get them clothes from Mrs. Whittaker?"
"Nope." He leaned casually against the seat as he waited to see what his little brother would come up with next.
"You know, Samson's probably really missing us."
That earned a snort of laughter. "Nope."
"Aw, Adam!"
"C'mon, boy, let's just get this over with." He lifted his brother bodily from the wagon and swung him directly onto the boardwalk in front of the barbershop.
Joe scowled. "I don't wanna."
As masterfully as a prime cutting horse, Adam guided him through the door. Once in, he placed an arm around the boy's shoulder, though their father would have seen in an instant that the gesture was more than just brotherly affection.
The room contained two large comfortable barber chairs, one in use by an anonymous toweled customer, and the other empty.
"Will?" he called.
"Be right there," a voice came from the back room. "That you, Adam?"
"Sure is," he called back.
The barber came out of the back room, his cheerful round face drooping comically at the sight of Adam's companion. He forced the smile back and asked hopefully, "Need a trim and a shave, Adam?"
The corner of Adam's mouth lifted in an amused grin. The man's thoughts were plastered all across his face. "Actually, I do, but we need to do something about this riverboat gambler, too."
Will O'Connell sighed. "I only have the one chair right now," he said hopefully.
Adam turned to Joe. "If you promise to sit in the chair quietly when your time comes, and if you promise to let Will trim — and please notice I said trim — those wild curls of yours, then you can go out to the wagon and get the surprise I bought for you."
He almost laughed out loud at the struggle between pleasure and suspicion that was so evident on the boy's face.
Joe finally scowled up at him. "Is it a good surprise?"
Then he did chuckle. "I think you'll like it. And you can have a few of those candies while you wait for me to get my shave."
Joe put off returning to the barbershop as long as he dared. The new soldier that matched his set at home was a perfect excuse, finding the buckboard a field of battle worthy of the finest general. The small metal man hid behind the barrel of molasses, leaped out at the imaginary enemy scout that dared to cross the vast expanse of the crate of nails, and nearly fell to his death after traversing the narrow ridge of the buckboard wall. He survived it all, and Joe finally faced the fact that he, like his brave soldier, had to face the inevitable. In his case, the barber's chair.
He sighed heavily and trudged back to his brother. Instead of the pleased "welcome back, little buddy" he expected, though, he was greeted by a soft snore. The room was empty, aside of his brother, who was stretched out in one of the chairs, a towel wrapped around his face like a turban of one of those Arabian knights he liked to read about — except this turban had slipped smack down over his nose. Joe suppressed a giggle and tiptoed the few steps to his brother's side.
Yep, Adam was asleep. Joe knew that rhythm of soft breaths intimately; he'd missed it desperately the first year Adam was gone, and it had faded in his memory until the first night of his brother's return. He'd woken in the night, suddenly unsure that his big brother was really back, and scrambled from his bed to run with little bare-feet slaps on the wooden floor to Adam's room. He'd pushed the door open slowly, afraid he'd dreamed their hesitant reunion, but no, Adam was asleep in his bed. A bigger Adam, with a bigger voice, and a scratchy face and longer hair than he'd ever remembered his father allowing. He stood by the bed for a long moment, knowing this . . . man . . . was his brother, but afraid somehow that he wasn't.
Then he heard the soft sigh of Adam's breath, in and out, regular like the sun rising and falling, like it would always be there, always had been there, and he knew this was his Adam, his big brother, returned to him at last. And with a happy sigh of his own, he climbed up into the bed, snuggled under the covers, and with his brother's sleepy arms and steady breathing surrounding him, he fell into warm slumber.
Joe looked at the soldier in his hand. He knew Adam had bought the little man as a gesture of apology for the haircut and for that he treasured it, but he also knew that it was only a mark of the love his tall, strong brother had for him.
He cocked his head to the side. Adam was strong, even if he wasn't as big as Mr. Robertson. He'd come home from college that way, his black hair curling over his collar and even, once or twice, falling into his eyes. Joe had caught the rueful smile that passed between Adam and their father, the silent request and equally silent acknowledgment. Soon as I get a chance, Adam's eyes had answered. And he had. Several times since he'd been home. And yet he still caught the barrels and crates Mr. Robertson had tossed up to him as he stood in the bed of the buckboard, as if his young strength could match the big man all day.
Am I wrong? he asked the little soldier silently. Reverend Morris told us . . . But Mr. Robertson seemed to think he didn't have to worry. He'd said Joe might not grow to be as big as he was, but he'd find his own strength. It just took time.
He studied his brother carefully. The barber hadn't started on Adam's hair yet, and a few errant locks lay in disorder against the headrest. Maybe if he could keep a curl of it in his pocket, it wouldn't matter how short his own hair was; he'd carry his brother's strength with him until his own hair grew back.
He glanced quickly around the shop and spied a pair of scissors. Adam would never know, and Mr. O'Connell, even if he said something, would probably just even it out rather than showing it to his brother. Joe picked up the scissors and snipped them once or twice experimentally, took a carefully silent, deep breath, and stepped to his brother's side.