CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next six months were awkward for everyone at the saloon. Clarice and Hank, both miserable, avoided each other as much as possible in the beginning. Clarice spent most of her time in her room with Zack and Hank occupied himself with whiskey and occasionally one or other of the girls although he refrained from making it a regular occurrence, still racked with guilt over his failed relationship and the baby which he was a father to in only the loosest sense of the word. Clarice wanted nothing from him, other than the money he gave her each week and he felt useless and lonely.
For the customers, nothing seemed any different and most of them hadn't seen Clarice in so long that they'd almost forgotten the pregnant blonde girl who had served a few drinks and then barely been seen. There was some gossip that Charlotte Cooper had delivered her baby and that there might be something wrong with it, but since no one had actually seen the child, the interest rapidly faded.
However, after those six months, Clarice had recovered her figure and stopped breast-feeding in favour of a sweetened cows' milk substitute, which initially made Zack sick but eventually was accepted. Then she appeared in the bar one Saturday night, wearing one of the fine gowns she had bought in Denver, her hair a mass of loose curls, her face made up, looking just as beautiful as the first time Hank had ever seen her.
Now his heart sank as she joined him behind the bar and served a few drinks for an hour or two, chatting and flirting with the men who crowded in front of her. Later, when he was occupied by a couple of the regulars paying for Lissy and Janie, Clarice disappeared. He scanned the room, but there was no sign of her and no sign of the miner she'd last been seen talking to either.
"Myra, where's Clarice?" he asked.
"Umm..." Myra licked her lips nervously. "She went to her room with some fella. She said she was gonna start workin' tonight."
Hank swore viciously under his breath and turned away. Somehow he had thought – hoped - that she wouldn't do it. For a moment he imagined himself charging into her room, dragging the man off her, but he had to remind himself that she didn't belong to him; they weren't together any more and she didn't have a contract either so there was nothing he could do about it. He could either put up with it, or tell her to leave and there was no way he was going to do that, especially with Zack. However, there was one part of it he refused to accept.
When the saloon closed, Clarice went over to him and placed five dollars on the bar in front of him.
"Your share of my earnin's," she said.
"Keep it," Hank said gruffly.
"But..."
"I don't want it," he interrupted. "I'm guessin' I can't stop ya workin' since we ain't together, but ya can keep yer money."
"Ya knew I was goin' to go back to work eventually," Clarice reminded him.
"Don't mean I have to like it." Hank turned away from her, leaving the money on the counter. When he looked back she had disappeared and taken the coins with her.
As time went on, it became clear that Zack wasn't right. As a baby he hardly ever cried, but as a toddler he didn't talk either. He would say 'Ma' to Clarice, but that was all. He never ventured from her room and would sit for hours in silence, scribbling with a pencil on scraps of paper, uninterested in the toys Clarice obtained for him from Loren.
On the few occasions when Hank went in to see the pair of them, Zack would immediately disappear into Clarice's makeshift closet, formed by curtains hanging across the corner of the room, which he had apparently learned to do whenever she had a customer and no amount of coaxing would draw him out.
Hank continued to keep his distance from Clarice as he accepted he had lost her, but after a time she began creeping into his room again every few weeks, claiming she missed being with him. Hank told himself nothing good would come of it and that he would be better off keeping away from her, but he found he couldn't do it. He still loved her and part of him became convinced that in time she would realise she made a mistake in ending things and they would have a future after all.
He went on hoping, in limbo and unable to move on, furious with himself for letting Clarice keep him hanging on the way she did. It wasn't until Zack turned five that he realised she was never going to change and that he was wasting his time waiting. The only problem was that with Clarice continuing to live at the saloon, he wouldn't be able to forget her and he couldn't bring himself to make her and Zack leave.
In the end, he didn't have to make any decision; fate made it for him. Janie caught that disease, much to Hank's annoyance, and he was forced to send for the doctor from Manitou. Jake always stepped in to sew up cuts, lance boils, pull out teeth and remove the occasional bullet, but he couldn't cure what was common to careless whores. The doctor came to the saloon one morning and attended to Janie, then left again quickly, saying he needed to get back to his patients. A couple of them appeared to have caught the grip. He rode off at a gallop with five dollars of Hank's money, leaving Hank vowing to make Janie pay for it when she recovered.
Ironically, it wasn't Janie who caught the grip that the doctor had already been carrying, but Clarice who had let him in and hung around to make sure Janie would be alright. No one realised what it was at first when Clarice began to sweat and shiver and eventually fainted that Sunday afternoon. Hank carried her to her bed and sent Lissy on one of his horses to fetch the doctor again. She returned hours later, to report that the doctor was on his deathbed with the grip along with a large number of his patients and that he wouldn't be going anywhere except to his grave.
"D'ya think that's what Clarice has?" she asked anxiously.
"Hell!" groaned Hank. "Get Zack out of here. Keep him away from her."
Lissy took the boy away and left him for Janie to care for, since the other girl would be unable to work for some time. Meanwhile, Lissy returned to care for Clarice, advising that if it was the grip, she would be alright since she'd already had it as a young girl.
Hank closed the saloon and paced around the bar, drinking and smoking and cursing the doctor who had brought the sickness with him. He didn't notice when Myra took over from Lissy the next morning so that Lissy could get some rest and it was the evening before he spotted Myra coming out of Clarice's room.
"Where's Lissy?" he demanded.
"She needed to rest; I said I'd take over," Myra told him.
"Have ya had it?"
"No."
"Then you stay outta there!" exclaimed Hank. "Ya wanna get it too?"
"I'm sure I'll be fine, I ain't gettin' too close," said Myra.
"Do as yer told!" snapped Hank. "Lissy! Get out here and take care of Clarice!"
Lissy appeared at once and returned to Clarice's side.
"She's worse," she reported shortly after. "Her fever ain't comin' down."
"I'm goin' to get Jake," Hank decided.
"What's he gonna do? He ain't no doctor," said Lissy.
"He's all there is." Hank left the saloon and strode across to the barber's shop. It was closed and Jake was sitting in a chair in the corner, drinking alone since the saloon hadn't opened. Hank hammered on the door.
"Jake! Open up!"
Jake put his glass down, scowling, and went to the door.
"Whaddya want, Hank?" he grumbled. "Can't a fella drink in peace?"
"Ya can drink all ya want when the saloon opens again. Come with me; Clarice is sick."
"With what?" Jake asked, his eyes narrowing.
"That damned doctor from Manitou brought the grip with him," said Hank. "Hurry up."
"Forget it. I ain't comin' and catchin' it an' all." Jake took a step backwards.
"Yer the only chance she's got," growled Hank.
"Why can't ya get the doctor?"
"He's dead!" cried Hank, pulling his pistol out of its holster suddenly and pointing it at Jake. "So will you be if ya don't get over there and do somethin'!"
"Alright!" Jake, his face pale, stepped sideways around Hank towards the door, his eyes fixed on the gun. "Put that away, will ya? I'm comin'!"
Hank reholstered the gun, spun away and charged out of the door, Jake following.
"Ya know, I don't know nothin' about the grip," Jake said as they reached the saloon. "'Cept how to bring the fever down."
"Well, do that then," Hank said, ushering him towards Clarice's room.
Jake stepped into the room and tentatively approached the bed. Clarice lay on the bed, uncovered except for her chemise and pantaloons, which were soaked with her sweat. Her face was pale and sickly looking, her hair sticking to her neck and shoulders. Lissy was carefully sponging her face with a cool damp cloth, which appeared to be having no effect.
"I'm gonna have to bleed her," Jake said.
"What?" exclaimed Lissy. Hank frowned at him from the doorway where he had halted, reluctant to get any closer.
"Let some blood outta her. It'll cool her down," said Jake. "A lot of doctors do it. It's the only thing I know that might help."
"So get on with it," Hank told him.
"I'll need a bowl."
Lissy got up to fetch one and then she and Hank watched in horror as Jake made a tourniquet from a ribbon which lay on the chest beside Clarice's bed, tying it tightly around her arm above the elbow, and then proceeded to cut her just below the tie, allowing blood to trickle from her arm into the bowl. Clarice moaned and tossed her head on the pillow, mercifully too sick to open her eyes and see what was happening to her. Hank turned away, finding himself unable to watch any longer and only hoping Jake knew what he was doing.
"Hank?" Janie appeared in front of him then.
"What? Is the kid alright?" he asked.
"He's fine. It's Myra. I think she caught it."
"Where is she?"
"In her room."
"Oh, God," muttered Hank, clenching his fists. He turned away and punched the wall. "Keep away from her," he told Janie. "I don't want you gettin' it an' all; ya gotta take care of Zack."
"Alright, Hank." Janie went back to her room and Hank continued to hover in the corridor for a moment, before he went to look in Myra's room.
Myra lay on top of her bed covers, her face and hair wet, weakly pulling at the buttons on her dress in an attempt to unfasten them. Hank gingerly reached out to touch her face and discovered that she was burning up. He hesitated for a minute, dreading catching the fever himself, but then bent over her with a sigh and began to unfasten her dress. He took it off altogether and dropped it on the floor, then grabbed the nearest fabric he could find - one of Myra's chemises - and thrust it into the water bowl on the chest, squeezed it out and placed it on her forehead. Then he backed towards the door, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself.
"Jake!" he called. "Ya finished in there?"
"Yeah." Jake appeared in the corridor. "Done what I can."
"Myra's sick too," Hank said, gesturing into her room. Jake walked past him with a sigh and went to Myra's side.
"Yer gonna owe me plenty for this," he said as he began to attend to Myra. "If I live long enough to hold ya to it."
"Anythin'," muttered Hank. He left Jake with Myra and returned to Clarice's room, observing from the door. Her arm was bandaged now and she appeared to be unconscious, her face so devoid of colour that she appeared dead. It was only the slight movement of her chest rising and falling as she breathed that proved otherwise.
Jake finally left the saloon an hour later, a bottle of whiskey in his hand which Hank had given him.
"Don't think one bottle is gonna do it," was his parting shot as he exited rapidly and returned to the barber's shop.
Lissy spent the night and most of the next morning running from Clarice's room to Myra's and back again, bathing their faces and arms and trying to make them swallow some water while Hank hovered, feeling useless, a bottle in his hand constantly, convinced that the two girls weren't going to make it. It was around noon when Lissy emerged from Clarice's room, exhausted and pale. Hank's heart almost stopped for a moment, sure she was going to tell him that Clarice was gone.
"She wants to see ya," Lissy said.
"What?"
"Clarice, she's askin' for ya."
"She's better?"
Lissy shook her head. "She's bad, but she's talkin'. I don't know if it's a good sign or a bad one."
Hank didn't stop to ask what she meant by that, but hurried to Clarice's room. She was lying flat, her skin appearing translucent, her beautiful honey-coloured eyes dull and surrounded by dark shadows.
"Hank," she said and then stopped to lick her lips.
Hank sat down beside the bed, forgetting about his fear of catching the fever.
"Ya want some water or somethin'?" he asked.
"No."
He reached out and took hold of her hand instead. It was hot and sticky, but he barely noticed.
"Lissy said ya wanted to see me," he prompted her.
"I wanted to tell ya somethin'. It's important."
"Well, don't worry about it now, wait till yer better," he said.
"Hank, listen to me." She squeezed his hand weakly. "I want ya to know I'm sorry. For the way I treated ya. I've always loved ya, Hank, I just ain't good at relationships. I wish I coulda been. For you and for Zack."
"Stop it!" Hank choked, beginning to realise she was saying goodbye. "It don't matter about any of that. Yer gonna get better..."
"Hank!" she interrupted. "Please. Let me finish." She licked her lips again, breathing hard with the effort of talking so much. "Ya gotta find Zack a proper home. This ain't no place for a kid. I wanted him with me, but I didn't wanna leave either. I ain't done right by him, but you can. Find somebody to look after him."
"Clarice, stop sayin' things like that," Hank begged, his voice shaking.
"Promise me."
"I promise," he said. He would have said anything she wanted at that point, but what he really wanted to do was pick her up and shake her; to tell her to stop being so stupid; to tell her she was going to be alright.
She smiled now and closed her eyes.
"I'm so tired," she whispered. "Will ya stay till I fall asleep?"
"Sure I will. I love ya." He reached out with his free hand to brush a strand of hair off her face, then sat still, watching her. Her chest continued to rise and fall slowly and he watched her take each breath. Her hand began to feel cooler and it seemed as if the fever were leaving her. Hank leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He would sleep for a little while with her.
"Hank?" He frowned before he opened his eyes. Couldn't Lissy leave them alone for even five minutes?
"Hank!" She shook his shoulder and he looked up.
"What?" He glanced at the clock and realised several hours had passed.
"She's gone, Hank, I'm so sorry," Lissy said.
He turned his attention back to Clarice in disbelief. Her face looked no different than it had before he fell asleep, but her hand in his was stiff and cold and her body was still; she was no longer breathing. He let go of her and dropped his head into his hands. His heart felt as if it were being squeezed inside his chest by a huge fist that tried to make it stop beating and he remembered how he felt when Lillian died. It was like that all over again, only a hundred times worse.