CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hank didn't know how long he sat by Clarice's bed, but it could have been hours. He remembered the first time he had met her, the first time they slept together, the first time – and the last – that she said she loved him. They had spent so much time over the last few years fighting and now it seemed such a waste. She was barely thirty and her life was over. He had no idea what to do now and simply sat there waiting for someone to tell him.
"Hank?" It was Lissy's voice again.
"What?" he said, not looking at her.
"Jake's here."
"What the hell for? Ain't much he can do now, is there?" Hank said bitterly.
"Janie fetched him. He's an undertaker, Hank, as well as everythin' else."
Hank turned to look at her now and spotted Jake and the coloured man who was the blacksmith standing behind her. For a brief moment it occurred to him that he ought to throw the latter out; he didn't allow coloured folks in the saloon. Then he remembered that Clarice had only had a fever until Jake decided to butcher her and now she was dead. He catapulted off his chair, shoved Lissy roughly out of the way and grabbed Jake by the fronts of his fancy vest, slamming him back against the corridor wall.
"She's dead 'cause of you!" he snarled. "Ya probably bled her to death! Ya said ya knew what you were doin'!"
"I didn't say that," stammered Jake. "I said I only know how to get fevers down. I can't cure the grip; I ain't a doctor."
"Ya killed her!" Hank pulled Jake away from the wall and banged him back against it once more.
"Woah! Cool down, fella!"
Strong arms gripped him from behind and hauled him away from Jake and he looked down to see dark hands clutching him. He rammed an elbow backwards into the blacksmith's ribs, wrenched himself free and turned around.
"Keep yer hands off me, boy!" he snarled.
"Hank, stop it!" Lissy cried. "They just wanna help. They gotta take Clarice and get her ready to be buried."
The sudden rage which had filled Hank evaporated almost as quickly as it had arrived and he was left feeling as if he had been punched in the guts. She was dead, whether it was the fever or the blood loss. He eyed Jake again and then noticed for the first time that there was a wooden stretcher leaning up against the wall nearby. Jake stared back warily, looking as if he would turn tail and flee if Hank made another moved towards him.
"Ya better get on with it," Hank grunted and walked past them into the bar.
By the time Jake and the blacksmith, Robert E, carried Clarice out on the stretcher, her body covered with the sheet from her bed, Hank was already a quarter of the way down a fresh bottle of whiskey. He didn't move from the chair he had thrown himself onto until the bottle was empty and even then he only rose to snatch a replacement from the bar. He managed to drink half of its contents too before he slumped forward onto the table and lost consciousness.
"Hank?"
He raised his head and squinted up through his hair at Janie. It was daylight and his head was thumping fiercely.
"Thought ya might be needin' this." She placed a large mug of coffee on the table in front of him. It was strong and black and when he tasted it, he noticed she had loaded it with sugar too.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"I'm so sorry about everythin'," she said. "If I hadn't gotten sick, that doctor wouldn't've even come here and..." She broke off tearfully.
"Yeah, well, it's done now," sighed Hank, feeling as if he didn't have the strength to attack her too although it had already crossed his mind that Clarice wouldn't have caught the grip if Janie hadn't needed the doctor. Nor would...
"Myra?" he said suddenly.
"She's still sick," Janie said. "Lissy's with her."
Hank gulped the rest of the coffee, grimacing as it burned his mouth, then got up quickly and made his way to Myra's room. She was naked now and Lissy was sponging her all over with cold water. Lissy looked up at him sadly, but said nothing. He noticed that she looked worn out and almost ill herself. He doubted she'd slept in a week. He hadn't himself except when he'd passed out from drinking and he didn't even know what day it was, although he guessed it must be getting on for a week since Clarice first got sick. It felt like a month.
"She any better?" he asked now.
"She ain't no worse," said Lissy. "If only this fever would break."
Myra's head rolled from one side to the other on the pillow and she moaned through dry lips, her eyes remaining closed. Lissy soaked a fresh cloth in water and squeezed drops from it into her mouth.
"Take a break," Hank said.
"Later. I need to..."
"I'll do it," said Hank roughly. "Go on."
Lissy put the cloth down without another word and slowly left the room. Hank sat down on the chair with a sigh and stared at Myra, her body so slim and pale. She had been thin before, but now her ribs were visible under her skin and her face was gaunt and grey. She was still now and apparently sleeping, her small breasts rising and falling with each breath. Hank picked up the cool, damp cloth and wiped her face carefully with it, then touched her cheek. It didn't seem so hot as before, but that was probably down to the constant application of cool water. He put the cloth down again and covered her up with a thin sheet, thinking she would probably open her eyes and be self-conscious about her lack of clothing. If she ever did open her eyes again.
Hours passed and Myra didn't wake, although she continued to breathe. Hank touched her face every so often, dismayed to find she was still burning up. Eventually he got up, stiff from sitting so long on the wooden chair, and paced the room instead, cursing everything and everybody that came to mind and trying not to think about Clarice's body lying in Jake's shop while he did whatever he reckoned he had to do. Still Myra didn't stir and he was sure it was only a matter of time before she took her last breath.
"Damnit, Myra, don't you die on me an' all!" he snarled suddenly, glaring at the few clothes she had which were hanging on hooks on the walls. She hardly had anything. In almost six years she had almost nothing of her own; nearly every penny she made, she saved so that Suzannah could go to a good college in the city when she was old enough. It was her dream to see her sister have a great future.
"Don't shout at me, Hank, my head hurts," Myra said tearfully.
Hank spun around, startled. She was awake and looking up at him. As he watched, a tear spilled over and rolled down her face. Her cheeks were pink, he noticed. He walked to the bed and reached down to touch her forehead. It was cool and dry. Her fever had broken.
"Yer better," he said. "Fever's gone."
"My mouth's dry," she said. Hank picked up a cup of water quickly and held it out to her. Then realising she was too weak to take it, slid his arm under her shoulders and propped her up, holding the cup to her lips. She drank every drop and he put the cup aside and lowered her back onto the pillows before he sat down again.
"Is Clarice alright?" she asked then.
Hank just shook his head and looked away from her.
"Oh, Hank."
She didn't say anything else; she just looked up at him as fresh tears filled her eyes and trickled from the corners of them into her hair. He didn't even realise he had joined her until a tear dripped off his chin onto his hand. Then he got up swiftly, scrubbed a hand over his face and left the room.
Clarice was buried the next day. Lissy accompanied Hank to the funeral, but much as Myra wanted to go, she was still too weak to get out of bed. Janie remained at the saloon to look after both Myra and Zack. The little boy hadn't been seen since Janie had taken him into her room, but she reported that he was still healthy although he hid in her closet most of the time.
Hank remained in a daze as the Reverend recited the burial service and uttered not a word until Loren spoke to him afterwards.
"Sorry about your girl," he said. "Jake said there's another one sick too; how's she doin'?"
"Better," Hank grunted.
"That's good. I s'pose ya'll be lookin' for a home for that kid soon, won't ya, now his mother's gone?" Loren went on. "Saloon ain't no place for a child."
"Stay out of it," growled Hank.
"I'm just sayin'," Loren protested. "Ya gotta think about these things."
"Yeah, I do, but you don't. Mind yer own business!" Hank snapped, reaching out to grab Lissy's wrist and jerking her to his side.
"I was only tryin' to help," said Loren.
"Well, don't!" Hank turned in the direction of the saloon and began to stride off, pulling Lissy along with him and forcing her to run to keep up with him.
"Mr Bray's right, ya know, Hank," Lissy said as they reached the saloon. "Ya gotta think about Zack. It's what Clarice wanted; I heard what she said to ya."
Hank slammed the saloon door closed behind them and turned on her.
"This ain't none of yer business!" he hissed.
"Yes, it is, Hank. Who's gonna look after him when we're all workin'? He's five years old, he shouldn't be around what goes on in here."
Hank's hand shot out before he even engaged his brain, hitting Lissy hard across the side of the face with the back of it and knocking her to the ground. Gasping, she looked up at him, but didn't attempt to get to her feet. Hank shoved his hands into his pockets guiltily and took a step backwards.
"I'm gonna let that slide," Lissy said, still kneeling. "Yer upset over Clarice and I guess ya don't need no one tellin' ya what to do with yer own kid. But raise yer hand to me again and I'm outta here, contract or not."
Hank pulled his hands out of his pockets again and dragged them through his hair, sighing heavily. Then he nodded slowly and reached down to help Lissy to her feet. She brushed down her skirts carefully and then went off to check on Myra. Hank snatched a bottle from the bar and retreated to his own room, thinking that he was going to have to get himself together the next day and re-open the saloon to pay for all the stock he was pouring down his own neck.
The following morning, Janie fetched breakfast from Charlotte Cooper. No one had eaten properly in days; Hank and Myra not at all. Hank's first inclination was to refuse the plate of bacon and beans and the thick slice of fresh bread Janie put in front of him, but then he realised he was actually hungry and ate the lot. He couldn't remember the last time he had swallowed anything other than whiskey and coffee and the well-cooked crispy bacon and still warm crusty bread made him feel marginally better.
Later the saloon opened for the first time in over a week and was immediately flooded with customers. Most offered their condolences about Clarice and several squabbled over Lissy who was the only girl working, her face made up more carefully than usual to cover the bruise across her cheekbone left by Hank's hand. Myra stayed behind the bar serving drinks, still weak and having to sit down and rest every so often and Janie remained with Zack, still having over two weeks to go before she could entertain again.
Hank spent most of the evening drinking once again and by the time the saloon closed he was morose and well on the way to being drunk. He left Lissy to lock up and disappeared into his room while the last few customers were still draining their glasses. Half an hour later a light tap came on his door.
"Hank? Y'alright?" It was Myra's voice. He didn't answer. The last thing he wanted to do was talk. He just wanted to finish the bottle which stood beside the bed and then go to sleep.
"Hank?" The door opened a crack and her face appeared. "Can I get ya anythin'?"
"Leave me alone," he grunted.
"Sorry." She withdrew at once.
"Wait!" He called her back. Myra always seemed to understand him and he guessed she'd understand he didn't want to spill his guts, but simply wanted some company. "Come in," he added.
She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. Hank put the cork back into the bottle and sat down on the bed, patting the mattress beside him. Myra went over and sat down.
"I've been meanin' to say thanks for lookin' after me," she said. "I know it wasn't just Lissy."
"Sshhh." Hank raised his hand and pressed his fingers to her lips. She fell silent at once. "Just stay with me," he said.
Myra didn't say another word; not when he began undressing her, not when he drew her into the bed with him and not even when he took her, using her roughly in his anguish, although he knew he must have hurt her. Even then she stayed silent. She was still fragile from sickness, but her only concern was to help him feel better, selfless as she was. He fell asleep with his arms around her, his face in her hair, breathing in the delicate smell of her fancy soap and feeling momentary peace for the first time since Clarice got sick.
Hank woke the next morning to find Myra still with him, her back turned to him as she lay in his arms. She stirred a moment later and glanced over her shoulder at him.
"'Mornin'," she said. "How are ya?"
"I'll live," he said and grimaced at the unfortunate expression. "What about you?"
"I'm alright. I won't need no more time off."
"I don't want ya workin' for a while," Hank said at once.
"But I'm fine," she protested, turning onto her back and flinching as his arm landed across her breasts. He moved it quickly, wincing at the sight of bruises on them; evidence that he had been more brutal than he realised.
"No, you ain't and that's more my fault than the grip. 'Sides, I want ya with me," he added. "I need ya right now. Yer mine, Myra."
"Alright, Hank, I won't work. Whatever ya say," she told him. She apparently didn't realise entirely what he meant by his last statement and neither at that moment, did he.