CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Myra and Horace didn't waste any time once she left the saloon. She took a room upstairs in the clinic and they announced their engagement party was to take place at Grace's after church on Sunday. Hank saw her once across the street before then and she barely looked like Myra any more, wearing a dowdy grey dress with a lace collar and her pretty hair scraped into a bun at the back of her neck. He couldn't help wondering if Horace had picked that dress for her in an effort to make her look as different as possible from before. Somehow he wouldn't have thought she'd go for grey; she liked pink and yellow and she was supposed to be free to do what she wanted now, wasn't she? And yet Dotty said Horace wouldn't let her pick her things up. He snorted into his whiskey. Hadn't she said to him that he couldn't make her do anything again? Already another man was giving her orders.
Saturday night he began drinking with Jake and Loren, but when they left the saloon he carried on until he fell asleep slumped over the poker table. When he woke with a pounding head and bleary eyes, a half-empty bottle standing in front of him, he poured another shot. Myra was getting engaged in about an hour and there was nothing he could do about it. He'd driven her away and she probably hated him now. It was all he could think about and he continued drinking in the hopes that the alcohol would blot out his thoughts, even though he knew from past experience that it didn't work. By the time the bottle was empty all that it had served to do was distort what was real and what wasn't in his mind and he became convinced that even at this late stage he could put a stop to Myra becoming Mrs Bing. He snatched up a fresh bottle and lurched out of the swing doors onto the porch, leaning against a post outside for a few moments, his head spinning. The church bells were ringing and he guessed they were all coming out about now and heading for Grace's. He stayed where he was, taking a few more swigs from the bottle and ordering his shaky legs to keep holding him up.
Fifteen minutes later he stumbled over to the cafe, just in time to hear Myra answering someone's question about when the wedding would be.
"We're waitin' for Horace's kin to answer, but if they can make it, we're hopin' the last Sunday of the month."
"I'll be sure to put it on my calendar," Hank slurred. "Assumin' I'm invited."
Several people gasped and everyone turned to look at him.
"As a matter of fact you ain't, Hank," said Horace.
"What kinda gratitude is that, Horace? It's the least ya could do after stealin' what was mine!" exclaimed Hank, glancing down suddenly. He was sure he'd had a bottle in his hand. He must have put it down somewhere, or dropped it. Hell of a waste.
"She never was yours, Hank," averred Horace.
"She was mine plenty of times," grinned Hank.
He wasn't altogether sure what he was saying by then, only that everyone was staring at him with growing horror and Michaela was chastising him for what he said, then Jake told him he was making a fool of himself. He didn't much care what they thought. He only cared what Myra thought and he'd already made himself look a fool in front of her, so what did it matter? Grace ordered him to get out of the cafe now and his temper rose.
"Not till I give the bride her weddin' present," he said, taking a couple of unsteady steps forward. In his mind he was sure it wouldn't take much to make her walk away from Horace, but just in case he pulled his gun out and began firing it into the air. Five bullets, leaving one in the gun. People screamed and gasped and ran to hide under the tables. All except Myra who began to walk towards him.
"Put the gun away, Hank," she begged.
"Get on your knees!" he barked at her. She was still his. He wasn't letting Horace take her away. "Now!" he roared at her.
Obediently she dropped to her knees in front of him, looking like a little mouse in a brown dress and grey hat.
"There's somethin' ya need before you get married, Myra," he said. The words just seemed to pour out of his mouth while his thoughts struggled to get in order behind a fog of whiskey. "Ya need someone to give you away and that ain't never gonna happen. I'll kill you first."
He aimed the gun at her. Maybe it was the only way to stop her marrying Horace. There was one bullet left. He'd made sure of it. One was enough to do the job if you aimed it right. His hand was shaking with the drink he'd consumed and the weight of the gun. He'd never known it to be that heavy. He couldn't seem to keep it in line with Myra's head. Maybe he'd do better to turn it on himself. Then he wouldn't have to see her every day with someone else. He wouldn't have to see her desperate face looking up at him right now. He didn't really want to hurt her.
He didn't see the chunk of wood leave Sully's hand and come hurtling through the air towards him. He just felt it crash into his right temple and then everything went black.
Hank opened his eyes and looked around him. He was in the clinic with several people looking down at him; Michaela, Sully, Jake and Loren.
"What the heck's goin' on?" he muttered. He'd drunk way too much; must have passed out or something. Then Loren reported that Sully had knocked him out to keep him from shooting Myra and it all came flooding back. He rolled off the examination table quickly, his feet landing on the floor, staggering as his legs threatened to give way. His head hurt and he felt as sick as a dog. All he wanted to do was get back to the saloon, go to bed and forget about everything.
Somehow he made it across the street and into the saloon, closing the doors behind him. Dotty and Melinda appeared at once and he sent them away, telling them to spend the day doing whatever they wanted as he didn't intend opening up. Then he sat down at a table in the corner and closed his eyes, thinking he had better sit still a minute before continuing to his room. The room was whirling around him and he didn't think he'd make it.
The day crawled by and Hank barely moved. Gradually darkness fell and he continued to sit there at the table, his head resting on his hand. It felt as if someone was driving a nail into it and he'd been outside several times to throw up the whiskey he'd spent most of the morning drinking. He must have really overdone it to be this bad, he thought. He'd turn out like Jake if he wasn't careful.
Just as he was thinking about going to bed Michaela appeared, saying she wanted to check on him, that he may have a concussion. The last thing he wanted was to be poked at by the doctor when he was feeling so terrible and he snapped at her to leave him alone. When he thought about it, she probably had something to do with Myra leaving anyway, filling her head with ideas above her station and making her think she could go and be a wife and mother. He said as much.
"Myra left you because she loved Horace," Michaela said.
"What d'ya know about love, Michaela, ya never been with a man!" he snarled.
She went into one of her speeches, except much to his surprise it was more of a shouting, telling him what she thought of him before she stormed out. He let his head sink back into his hand, relieved that it was silent again. If only his head would stop hurting. Slowly he got up and went to bed, but the pain was too bad to let him sleep. He lay awake, clutching his head, occasionally thinking another drink would help only he felt so sick he doubted he'd keep it down. Every time he moved he felt dizzy and he couldn't see properly. As daylight came and he looked around the room, everything seemed fuzzy. He sat up and the room spun, the blinding headache continuing to plague him.
Much as Hank hated to admit it, he needed help. This wasn't just a hangover. He'd never felt like this in his life. Michaela had said something about a concussion and he remembered her son Brian hitting his head not too long ago and falling into a coma. She'd had to cut into his brain to save him. He felt a prickle of fear now and slowly got up, making his way down the corridor and through the bar. When he looked outside, Michaela's horse was already outside the clinic and he stepped out onto the porch, leaning on the wall to keep himself on his feet. He had to get across there and ask her to help him.
He could barely see where he was going and he made his way along the saloon wall. He wasn't going to make it across the street without help and he decided to sit down for a moment and see if anyone came along who would lead him over there. He slithered down the wall and a second later his head hit the ground. He remembered nothing more.
It was like being in some strange dream. He felt as if he didn't belong to his body any more and everything he saw and heard, which was only scraps of things, seemed to come from a great distance. He kept seeing Myra in his mind and once or twice heard her voice. Most of it was only the sound of her and not actual words, but he picked out one or two things.
"I remember the first time he smiled and told me I was beautiful. It was the first time I ever felt I was."
"I have to make my own decisions and this is one of them."
That last statement was in response to another voice - Horace's. "You're makin' me look like a fool. I am ordering you not to go."
Gradually other voices came and went and he tried to place them.
Jake: "It wasn't the same without you."
Loren: "I plan to replace all the whiskey we drank and maybe a few extra bottles."
"I hope ya come back to us." Who was that? Grace? Grace hated him, especially since he'd accused her of poisoning him once and almost ruined her business.
Then Horace again. "I'm gonna marry Myra...come to your senses...I hope ya find somethin' that can make ya happy."
Finally Michaela, pouring out her heart, how she was full of love and passion, but scared to let it out lest 'he' didn't respond the way she hoped. She went on and on and Hank heard most of this, feeling as if he were slowly waking from a deep sleep. Odd that she would choose him to confide in when the last thing he remembered her saying before was that she wouldn't care if she never saw his face again.
"Michaela?" he croaked. It seemed like his voice hadn't been used for a long time and his mouth was so dry he could barely move his lips. He opened his eyes slowly and discovered that everything was normal; nothing was blurred or swaying.
"Hank!" She hurried to the side of the bed and leaned over him, grasping his hand. She had tears in her eyes. She touched his head and then brought him some water, carefully pouring a drop at a time into his mouth. Then he closed his eyes again. He felt so tired. Must be that dream; dreams always made you feel like you hadn't slept well.
When Hank woke again the next morning, Michaela was already in the room. He closed his eyes again and listened to her moving around while he tried to remember exactly what had happened. It all seemed as clear now as if he were watching it happen through someone else's eyes. He'd gotten drunk, more drunk than he'd ever been in his life. He ruined Myra's engagement party, threatened to shoot her and got himself knocked out by that sorry Indian lover, Sully, who actually probably did him a favour. He didn't know how long he'd been in bed at the clinic and he wasn't sure whether the visitors had been real or dreamed up. He opened his eyes and found Michaela looking at him.
"Hank, how are you feeling?"
"Like a wagon hit me. Is Myra here? Was she here?"
Michaela frowned a little now. "She's staying in one of the other rooms."
"But was she in here?" Hank repeated. At that moment he saw Myra appear in the doorway. She was wearing blue and her hair was all falling loose from its pins. She looked like she hadn't slept for a week.
"Hey," she said softly, coming into the room.
Michaela glanced from one to the other and then moved away from the bed. "I'll leave you for a minute," she said and walked out of the door.
"How are ya?" Myra asked, coming to the side of the bed.
"I'll live," Hank said with a sigh. He licked his lips. "You were here."
"Ya knew that?" She looked surprised.
"Yeah. I heard ya." At least that hadn't been a dream. He just couldn't fathom why she'd want to come and see him after what he'd done to her. He wouldn't have blamed her if she never wanted to see him again. No wonder Horace had been giving her orders; that couldn't have pleased him one bit.
"I wanted to make sure ya were gonna be alright," she said now.
"Even after...?" He grimaced, unable to finish the sentence. If he'd looked a fool in front of her before, it was nothing compared to how he'd behaved at her engagement party.
"It doesn't matter, Hank," she said softly.
"I never woulda pulled the trigger," he told her.
"I know that."
"It'd have been better if I turned it on myself," he added, remembering thinking that right before Sully hit him.
"Don't say that." Myra had tears in her eyes as she reached down and grasped his hand.
"Well, I didn't, so..." He shrugged one shoulder and squeezed her hand hard. "Good luck, Myra."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Hank pulled his hand free and turned his head away, closing his eyes and waiting for her to leave. It was over. Now he just had to find a way to carry on without her.