Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
Part Twenty-Six: Tilly
6:42 PM, July 29th, 1899
Tilly sighed happily as the pleasant smell floated into her nose. Some evenings were eldritch and foreboding, with the dying sun bleeding red as it plummeted down into the underworld, but this one was lovely, picturesque even. Golden rays illuminated Lakay as though it was noon, birds were partying, chirping and cheering and showed no signs of stopping, and best of all, as God was her witness, Micah Bell had shut his trap.
He just stood there, quietly trimming a deer thigh as she stirred the massive cauldron of stew. None of his famous witticisms (although calling them witticisms was a mercy) or general disgustingness. Just a week ago, he'd been jamming his snake-like mouth down Karen's throat, and now, not even a word.
What Dutch said to him musta really been somethin', Tilly thought as she herded all the diced onions, potatoes, and meat into the large black pot and walked it over to the iron tripod above the campfire, swinging it over the rusty hook. She let the stew cook for thirty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds exactly (well, roughly) and proudly announced dinner was ready.
She turned around to see a drooling Uncle a kiss away from her. "Hmm. Smells great, Til," he offered his bowl with jumpy, eager hands. "Fill 'er up!"
"Figures you'd be first," she mumbled, ladling the stew and plopping it in his bowl, "with how hard you work."
"Agreed," he said through a drowning mouth as he hogged the stew down. "You have your work cut out for next time, hon, this shit stinks!" Afterward, he held his empty bowl out for another round.
Tilly shook her head disapprovingly but reluctantly obliged the pig of a man. If it was up to her, they would have dumped the parasite years ago; the margin he surpassed Micah by was so small you'd need one of those microscope doohickeys to see it. She could never fathom how one man was so soft and not rich.
Bill arrived next, two bowls in hand, bringing Tilly to a crestfallen state—because she knew exactly who that second bowl was for. After the two bowls were flooding with tasty (fuck Uncle, she thought, this shit tastes delicious) orange broth, Bill marched over to where Karen sat by the edge of camp, staring at the sparkling green jewel of Lakay's lake, not appreciating its splendor one iota.
"Here you go, Karen," he said, lowering the stew within her reach. "Ya gotta eat. You're all skin and bones, and I like my women with some meat." He chuckled nervously, clearly more concerned about her health than he wanted her to think.
"Don'… t-talk tah me…" she said, taking another drink, "ya killer." There hadn't been a moment where she was without a beer in her hand since Sean's death. Mary-Beth tried talking to her but had only gotten curses, drunken rants, and the occasional tears—all three of which were followed by only more booze. Then Dutch had tried watering her drinks down with boiled lake water, but that only encouraged her to drink more and work harder to achieve the mind-numbing buzz she was craving. Then, Uncle, rather boldly, tried tossing all the whiskey bottles into the lake, but she just lost it, and, screaming and fighting, ran away from camp. They found her in Van Horn's saloon a few days later, passed out. Everyone knew there was only one way she could have paid…
No one brought it up.
"Y-you want to go debt collectin' again?" Bill asked weakly, knowing the answer. "I'd really like to go debt collectin'."
"You're all killers! I hate you all!" she screamed at Bill, slapping the stew cup out of his hand, drenching him in the chunky juice, and retreating back on the outskirts of Lakay, leaning against a hard pine tree and caressing the bottle until she fell asleep.
Strauss was her next customer, only pouring the bowl to half-mast, eating quickly—if his robotic brethren caught him indulging in human food, he'd be excommunicated for sure.
"Thanks again for the… very specific recipe on the stew," Tilly said. "I would have known if Pearson used cow piss or goat's milk otherwise."
"No trouble, Ms. Jackson," he said without bothering to look her in the eyes, "I watched Mr. Pearson prepare that stew every day, it would have been shameful if I didn't know how to forge his work."
"Yeah… down the forty-fifth second."
"Precision is a principle. If Marco Polo eyeballed it, he would've hit Greenland instead of Shangdu."
"Yeah…" she smiled teasingly, "where would we be then?"
"Indeed." He handed his clean bowl to her. "Well, I must be off. Debts don't collect themselves after all."
"Van Horn?"
"Emerald Ranch." He started walking to the unmistakable white steed Sadie was already sitting astride. Her joy at seeing Sadie prepped to leave was undone by her confusion. Dutch is lending her The Count for a goddamn supply run? she mused. The Count is letting Dutch lend him?
"Oh, hey!" Tilly called to the Austrian, almost distracted she forgot. "Can you, uh, well… who are you gonna be singlin' out?"
"Wouldn't know, would I? Haven't gotten there yet."
"Yeah, well… could you—could you, y'know, pick someone who doesn't need it?"
He smiled that greasy, dirty smile of his. "I'll eyeball it." That was not reassuring…
After he mounted up with Dutch and rode off, Tilly rerouted her focus back to the cooking, stirring up the pot a few times, keeping the internal heat consistent throughout, until she noticed the definition of a paradox strolling over with three dishes.
"H-hi, Ms. Grimshaw," Tilly greeted, and, unsure if she should smile or frown, formed some hideous spawn between the two. Tilly was an attractive girl, but that face would've dropped the dick of every man in America. "How you doin'?"
"Can't complain, thanks," the older woman saluted with a bright, earnest smile. She had a large bundle of bandages about her chest where the bullet had been, but beyond that, she looked better than she ever had. "And you?"
Confused. "Good."
"That's good." Tilly stared at her smile like it was a bubo. Maybe it was. Maybe it's ailing her—or maybe her wound's infected, that would explain her behavior. "So… can I please have some stew?"
"Oh," she stumbled to work, "oh, yeah, sure—" On instinct, Tilly quickly scrambled to action, bailing a ladleful of stew and dispensing it into the bowl in Grimshaw's right hand—too quickly, I fear. She spilled two tablespoons over the woman's arm. "Oh shit! Oh, I'm so sorry… I'll get that!"
"Don't worry 'bout it."
"Here," Tilly started staining her pretty yellow dress when she used it as a napkin, wiping the sticky orange substance off Grimshaw before the happy hag slapped her hand away.
"Don't worry 'bout it," she repeated, her grin not waning in the slightest.
"Um, what do you need three bowls for, anyhow?" Tilly asked, hoping conversation might reveal some echoes of the old Grimshaw—the Grimshaw that made sense.
"Me, Dutch, and Jack."
"Jack?"
"Yeah, Dutch is teachin' him how to play chess. On account of…"—she smirked naughtily—"y'know." She gave a subtle point behind Tilly and she saw John leading Abigail into the woods, lewd giggles coming from their large simpers.
"Oh," Tilly said, coyly.
That had been their ritual for the past few nights; leave Jack to play chess for a few hours (it was rarely over two, they didn't want him to be left alone that long) with Dutch, while they snuck off to perform in feral acts of lust I refuse to delve into do—in fact, I'd like to instead reminisce on another feral act of John's: how he smashed a fifteen-year-old boy's head in with a loose brick for riding on his rocking horse as a child. Remember who these men and women are: killers, stone-cold bastards through and through. Idolization, fetishization, and romanticization are not only sins here but are the antitheses of life and love and decency.
I may chronicle their journey, and (sue me) I may even enjoy it. But don't think—don't permit those fancies to control you for even a second!—that when their luck's shot and things have gotten too hot, I'll look back on them fondly.
Returning to our tale, Tilly smiled at the sight of the two lovebirds together (oh, so, so sweet, I'm going to cry…). It's good to see he's doin' right by her, finally, Tilly thought, I weren't so sure 'bout him after he left for a whole damn year, but… I don't know… he seems to love her. He does.
Grimshaw took the three bowls gracefully, balancing one where her bicep met her forearm while carrying the other two in her hands.
"Wait," Tilly said, flabbergasted by the words about to come out of her mouth: "N-need some help?"
"Oh no," Grimshaw said encouragingly, "I was a waitress, I can handle this."
"You were a waitress?" The portrait seemed ill-conceived. Grimshaw? Serving other people? With a smile?
"Yeah, long time ago," she chuckled. "Seems like all my memories were a long time ago, lifetimes ago, even." She started to walk again when Tilly cut her off one final time.
"Grimshaw! I-I—thank you."
"Oh, for what?"
"Well… for… for saving my life, I guess. I ain't thanked you enough for that, yet."
"Let me give you some advice: don't." She lowered her voice to a whisper, leaning close to the newly appointed chef. "That was more for me, anyway. If you were gone, things would get so boring around here." She winked (winked?!) and ambled off towards Dutch and Jack.
"I've got something for you boys!" she announced in a motherly tone.
"Is it Emanuel Lasker's book on chess?" Dutch asked, feigning misery. "Because I'm gettin' massacred over here!" Jack giggled—the desired effect.
Tilly held the ladle at her heart, feeling a sense of peace she hadn't felt in years, maybe ever. There was nothing in their future except madness, violence, and death, but today, she could imagine things were different. The sun was falling, but it still shone bright as a star through a telescope; the lake may be alligator-ridden, but it's still warm as a hot spring; the huts were rundown and cramped, but, hey, so were they. (And it still beat Shady Belle by a mile.)
Dutch always spoke of a paradise somewhere waitin' for us. Maybe-maybe this is it? Maybe we can just spend the rest of our lives here?
"You usin' the ladle?" Micah asked, softly (Micah speaking softly and Grimshaw smiling—mad times, weren't they?), holding a small tin bowl, waiting for her.
"Oh, yeah," she said, handing it over, already expecting it. It was either going to be: "You cook even worse than my last slave," or "knew Molly woulda done a better job." (Which was surprisingly the more offensive slander.)
Yet he said neither of those things, instead simply serving himself and walking to the corner of the camp by the shed repurposed as Swanson and Sadie's abode to squat down and engage in his dinner.
It reminded Tilly of Yellowbeard, a castrated dog she'd met from her time with the Foreman Brothers; they'd gelded the poor mutt, and from then on, he followed them around loyally, tail down and head low. That was their main method of inspiring trust in their band—break someone down until they haven't the dignity to mind licking boots. Hadn't worked on Tilly, though. No, she'd seen clean through their moves: they were very same the Tarrenson's fellers had done to her father: beating him randomly, regardless of what he was doing—it kept him scared and made him think they held real power over him; giving him enough small victories—like not raping his wife (her mother) when they were bored—to think his life was worth living as is, that it was just fine as it was; keeping him isolated and uneducated—kept him docile and dumb; getting him so used to the torment inflicted on his people so he believed it was as natural and inevitable as the sun rising and falling; convincing him he was their friend, part of the family… even when they lashed him with the family cat-o'-nine-tails. This is for your own good, they'd said. You'll thank us, they'd said.
Before he died of cholera in '85, he'd drilled it into her head to not make the same mistakes. And she tried. For the first six months, there were few nights devoid of an escape attempt; although, as that description requires, none were successful. And they beat her for it, hurt her for it, and violated her in ways she refused to ever speak on again. Eventually, she stopped fighting and led along, committing to three years of crime, villainy, and debauchery—not out of surrender, but out of a desire to fight back harder. With her father dead and her two brothers having abandoned them (although Tilly would never learn that they too were actually dead, in fact, they'd died about a week after leaving home; a bounty hunter was searching for two bastard sons of a slave and his master's wife and couldn't find them, so just shot the first two black guys he spotted, right in the face so you couldn't identify them—he was paid twenty dollars) Tilly needed to support her aging mother, which meant she needed to grow up faster then she could on her own. With the Foreman's she learned how to shoot a gun, cook for more than two people, drive a wagon and ride a horse, haggle and buffalo your way into a deal, and on top of that, how to earn yourself a mountain of sins—whatever else Tilly did in this life, she was positive a nice hot seat in hell was waiting in restitution for those three years.
She'd left the Forman's when she was fifteen, after Malcolm Foreman tried to rape her while she slept. Bastard had always fancied her, and that night, he was drunk and horny enough to grow tired of waiting (to be fair, he had been patient for three years, I think that's just about as long as any man can wait). It was too bad too, despite the beatings and degrading comments, he was by far the nicest one there, as nice a drunken criminal as you could find in that gang. Hell, he even died nicer than they did. Most Foreman Brother deaths were uniform, with a curse on their tongue, spouting some vulgar slander, but when she shot Malcolm with the .32 Colt pistol she was stashing in her long white socks, he started crying, his eyes pieced hers with a heartbreaking visage of betrayal. "Hye…" was his last word, though Tilly was fairly confident without all the blood in his mouth it would have come out as "why." She would've felt bad for him too, if he wasn't such a monster.
She snuck out the window after that and retrieved her horse from the stables while the others were having a party outside by the fire. She rode down to the train station and caught two leading back to her mother's house in Annesburg. She'd been dead for two years. Postman had been pocketing all the cash she'd sent her mother all this time from her small cut of the Foreman's loot. Even taking Arthur's death in mind, she'd never wept harder in her life.
She winced, and not just from the memories; the bruises Anthony had given her when Kieran and Grimshaw came to the rescue were receding, but that wasn't to say they didn't hurt.
Whatever, she shrugged, still luckier than most… Sean…
On this vinegar-tasting note, Tilly scooped some dinner for herself, blowing on it as she walked to the fell tree near the outhouse and shack Kieran and Mary-Beth were sitting on. The turtle doves were so hypnotized by their frantic chat they didn't notice as she sat nearby them. It was a rapport akin to bored housewife gospel—meaningless, soulless jabber that the participants found endearingly engaging. Tilly thought again of Yellowbeard when she sprung him in her own escape, how happy he'd been to see another dog, a grey English Setter, leaping up and down and running in circles, losing his mind over meeting a creature no different than any dog in the world. That was exactly like what she was watching:
"How's your… uh, stew?" Kieran asked, rolling his eyes over raising such a dull question.
"What?" Mary-Beth said quickly, shooting her head up, terrified she'd missed him saying or asking her something actually important.
"Oh, nothing," he whispered, looking down, embarrassed he'd gotten her all riled up for nothing. "Just askin' 'bout your… uh… stew?"
And she'd smile as though he'd done something to her with his hands in a specific way (I refuse to discuss details, but it involves a middle finger and a clitoris) and say "It's real good, thanks. What about you?"
Then he attempted to grab a spoonful of stew and deposit the contents inside his mouth, but couldn't bring himself to look away from the girl's adoring emerald eyes. He missed, spilling the hot liquid onto his lap, whelping from the temperature shift.
Mary-Beth instinctively moved to help him wipe it off with a handkerchief, then, realizing this would bring her hand to his thighs, dangerously close to another region of his lower body (I refuse to discuss details, but it involves a middle finger and a foreskin), skyrocketed back, glancing around as though something caught her eye.
That was when she noticed Tilly had been sitting next to them for the past six minutes.
She smirked, shaking her head. They may be idiots, but at least they're cute together.
"Oh, hey, Tilly!" Mary-Beth called, a bit too loudly, closely followed by Kieran echoing her words exactly, volume included.
"Hey," Tilly answered, unable to resist adding more flame to the roast. "Thanks again, Kieran. For saving me. Was real brave of you,"—she paused, sucking in some warm broth—"fending off dozens of men like that, fighting 'em off like a wild bull! Felt like you was something outta a book."
Mary-Beth grinned in return, knowing the game her friend was playing: trying to fluster and excite her. "It weren't-wasn't dozens."
"Yeah," Kieran said, gulping another bite of stew, this time aiming. "I may have told her the truth."
"Oh, well why'd you go and do that!" she scolded. "I handed you somethin' there!"
"Sorry," he murmured, "I'm no good with lying—"
"I disagree," came a boisterous, booming voice, and then Bill was sitting next to Kieran, his arm dangling over the Irishman's next like they were best friends. "After all, I'd say you lied pretty goshdarn well when you said Colm O'Driscoll was at Six Point Cabin…"
"Bill," Mary-Beth warned, backed by Tilly's glaring eyes, "I swear if this is more of your—"
"I'm jokin'!" he laughed, slapping Kieran so hard on the back that the bowl of stew slipped from his grasp and spilled onto the green grass. "Oh, sorry 'bout that. Anyway, you and me's gonna go debt collectin'!"
"What, right now?" Kieran questioned, still recovering from the sharp blow to his back.
"Yes sir!" Bill pulled him to his feet, wrapping his arm around his neck again, leading him to where they were keeping the horses all tied up, just outside Lakay attached to a trio of thick, sturdy trees.
"Bill!" Tilly called. "It's been like six days since we got here? There's no way a debt coulda been paid off in that time!"
"Not my problem. Talk to Strauss," was his answer as they reached the mock stables. The men mounted up and rode off, Kieran shooting one final what is going on? look their way before reluctantly departing.
Silence followed until Mary-Beth started giggling. "What the hell just happened?"
Tilly joined in the high-pitched chorus, adding "It looks like your man just got whisked away."
"Shut up—"
"Be careful, Mary-Beth, seems Bill's got his sights set on Kieran."
"Kieran… he ain't my man," Mary-Beth said, twirling her hair with her left hand while scratching her mouth with her right to hide the evidence of a lovestruck smile.
"Isn't," Tilly teased. "Jesus, Mary-Beth, have some goddamn etiquette."
She chuckled again, looking down with a fat chunk of deer meat in her hand. She expected to find Cain sniffing for leftovers, but there was nothing.
Hmm, strange… Tilly thought, wonder where he ran off to.
"Bill must really miss his old debt collectin' buddy," Mary-Beth said, not out of an attempt to change the subject, but genuine thought and empathy.
"Yeah," Tilly said, disappointed at where the conversation was leading. She was tired of tragedy in their lives.
"Think she'll ever recover?" was the question Tilly expected and received.
"I wish I knew." And she wanted to. Wanted to tell Mary-Beth that Karen would be fine and there was nothing else to worry about. But now…? Karen had been balancing that narrow line of alcoholism and generous moderation for some time now, but Sean's death had unequivocally given her the shove to send her plummeting forever, only reaching the bottom when she'd reached the bottom of every beer glass in America.
"I miss Arthur," Mary-Beth said next, low and sullenly.
"Yeah," Tilly repeated, hating her repetitiveness, feeling moisture swelling in her eyes. She took that fat chunk of deer meat, plopped it back in her bowl, and started to mince and mangle it with her thumb and index finger.
"And we still aren't any closer to that big score."
Tilly let go of the meat then, more relaxed by this last statement—probably because the answer put an image of Dutch in her head. Ever since she was a kid, he always made her feel better, feel safer. "Dutch'll figure it out."
"Right…" Mary-Beth croaked weakly.
"I know things ain't been going right for us, but believe me, it'll get better. Dutch ain't perfect, but he's persistent, and he's always good for it. If he says we'll get out, we'll—"
"Tilly… have you… have you noticed anything… different 'bout the way Dutch looks at you, now? Looks at me?"
Tilly laughed hysterically until she opened her eyes and saw a grim, hard expression in Mary-Beth, like she was frightened of some looming danger. "Y-you're serious?"
No, no, that's fuckin' crazy, she thought, not having the strength to say it, to make it real, he would never. Not to brag, but I was a pretty little thing when I came to the gang, but Dutch didn't never try anything on me, not never!
"No, Mary-Beth, I ain't noticed nothin'."
"Oh." She glanced down shamefully, rubbing her fingers on her dress.
"I know everything's gone a little mad," Tilly said, "and I know Dutch says a lot a' things and don't mean most of it, but I promise: nothing's changed." She smiled obliviously, fighting to ignore the fact that Abigail hadn't been much older than seventeen when he'd…
"Yeah, yeah, you're right," Mary-Beth decided, "Yeah, sorry. Being with Kieran must make me full of myself!" She giggled, but it was a hollow one, one hiding a trace of lurking anxiety.
"Being in love, you mean?" Tilly mocked.
"Shut up!" Her smile wavered once more and she asked Tilly again: "You sure Dutch knows what he's doin'?"
"Positive."
The friends stayed together for a few more minutes, shooting the breeze over a variety of pointless topics, until Tilly noticed fat old Uncle trying to siphon a third helping of stew and raced over to intercept him.
"Get out from there, ya fuckin' whale! I swear, if you lost your fat gut while you was walking, all you'd need to do is turn around—ya couldn't possibly miss it!" She slapped the ladle out of his hands, and back into the pot.
He protested her vehemently, waving his hands around like a pouty child. "I am a sick man, Tilly Jackson! I need all the strength I can get!"
"Then how 'bout you lift some weights or run a few miles. If ya don't know what any of those words mean, I would be more than happy to explain."
"Oh, glad to see the hole Grimshaw's left has been filled! Didn't take ya too long, now did it?"
"You best fill your piehole or I'll fill it for ya!" She threatened, raising her fist.
"Ooooh, I'm so scared!"—he said the next part in a sardonic declaration of fear for all to hear—"Help everyone! This little girl wants to run with the bulls!"—he stared her down with a cocky grin—"I been in more fistfights than you been in baths, girl! Don't catch a tartar if you can h—h… help… it?" His glare veered from her to something in the distance, and she cautiously turned around, expecting him to pay her a cheap shot with her back turned.
Instead, she saw what had taken him so far aback:
Three figures coming into view, crossing the threshold between the forest and Lakay.
It was Lenny, Charles, and Javier.
Hope you enjoyed. Wanted to take a chapter to pause and reflect. Next time, we'll be back with the action.
Comment below!