She was just walking out at the door. Her time was precious at the moment: her acting debut had been a bigger success than anyone could have imagined (except, perhaps, herself) and now they were furiously busy at the White Rose Theatre, rehearsing the next show, blocking, getting costumes ready, learning lines, putting up with Mr Darling's tantrums, the whole shooting match! But Mr Jolly still had demands upon her, too, especially with Raymond Matthews... he was, well, not really there: either in mind, body or soul. The lad had also given his notice in: he was going to work for that odd Mr Krieger, it seemed... he of the 'special services'.

And as for cooking for her and Frances... well, every supper was cold pie from the diner at the moment.

So, there were excuses a-plenty to ignore the sight of Mr Smith closing up his store at five as she left Jolly's. It had been over a week since Zenobia had disappeared and Frances had told her that Roland had been in the saloon last night, drinking hard and almost 'mixing' with some idiot who had been shouting his mouth off about his patricide lover.

She was scared. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know if what she had brought in her basket for him was a bad idea or not. Maybe it was too soon. But better that than too late. She felt a shove from behind and she walked forward toward the Gunsmith's. Jesus was always doing that. 

By the time she got there, he had locked up. She went around the back, with predicable memories of last time she had taken that route. Her heart was thumping. Arabella had a big heart and there was very little room for it in those skinny little ribs when it got to palpitatin'.

"Only me!" she yelled as she opened the back door. Not that there was any chance of catching Roland and Zenobia in flagrante delicto again. Not now. "It's me... Arabella!" she confirmed. 

There he was. 

"It's me... I... I... OH ROLAND!!" she cried and, dropping her basket, ran up and threw her arms around him and started to bawl her head off. 

It was not exactly the speech she had rehearsed in her head.

@[Cuban Writer]

The strangest thing about tragedies was the hour after.  Or the day after.  Or the week after.  

The strangest thing about tragedies was that there was any sort of after at all.

When something really bad happened, something that tore your heart out, it felt like it should be the end of the story.  The cover of the book should close.  The teary-eyed reader should sigh and set the novel on the shelf before going to bed.  The characters in the book should enter darkness and just... finish.   No more sunrise.  No sunset, either.  No more story.  No more plot twists.  No more adventures.  

It was over.  

Except... it wasn't.  No matter how much it felt like it should be over, things just kept on going on.  The sun rose in the East.  The moon dared to show its face at night.  The countless stars twinkled on as though nothing had happened.  Somehow, the other people on Earth did business, or laughed, or cried at their own tragedies.  The hours stacked up, and the days stacked up, and eventually you were living a life again.  A life that should have been over... but wasn't.

Maybe that was the hardest thing: To know that no matter how bad a thing was, it wasn't the end.  Not for you.  Not for everyone else.  And eventually, it would just be another thing that had happened over a long life.  One story among many, and perhaps somehow not even the worst of them.

The day had been largely uneventful.  A couple customers had come in... perhaps more curious about Roland Smith than interested in his firearms.  Roland had gone through the motions of showing them the weapons they asked about.  Selling them the cartridges they'd requested.   He'd idled away time cleaning one weapon, polishing another.  He'd eaten something, but could not remember its texture or flavor, never mind what on Earth it had been.   There'd been coffee instead of tea.

But at least there'd been no rum in it, today.

Then, as the day closed without him being certain why it had happened at all, he heard a shout from the back door.

Arabella was suddenly here.  And she was weeping.  And now he was weeping, too.

Someone else knew.  Someone else felt it.  

He wasn't alone.

And that made it somehow okay that the sun kept on rising in the East. 

If even one person cried with him, it gave the world a reason to keep going on.  It gave the page a reason to turn.

"I only barely knew her, but I miss her so much."

He confessed it with a shudder of sadness. 

He had also known little Miss Mudd for only a short time, yet she was his only true confidant in these dark days.

That strange little twisted girl had somehow become the closest friend of a strange, twisted man.

Javia

"I only barely knew her, but I miss her so much."

"I know, I know" The tiny girl kept hugging the tall man. She didn't let up, either, not until he was ready to stop. She fished out a clean hanky and handed it to him. "Sorry it's kind of girly." she apologised, but those were her only words for a while.

She didn't try and cheer him, or philosophise about his loss, or tell him there were more fish in the sea; she just stood there with him for a while holding his hand: hers so small in his; as the shadow of the buildings opposite the gun-store spread their shadows across the street and drowned the front store window in blackness. The last time she had held a hand like this, in sad darkness, it had been her little brother's, back in Virginia, just about a year ago. 

Eventually one of them had to speak. 

She didn't shirk it.

"I don't wanna know, but do you know where she is?" she asked starkly. It was odd, surreal perhaps, to hear her voice, that really quite unfeminine, flat Virginia accent, in the semi dark; she was a half illuminated form - like a half developed tintype. He could smell her better than he could see her in this light. Chemicals and nit-shampoo and girl.

@[Cuban Writer]

The shared silence, and shared sadness, was a balm.   

But silence was an elastic that could only be stretched so far.  For a time, it met a need.  But the tension of it could not be sustained.  Sooner or later, it had to end.  Arabella was the braver of the two of them.

Roland found himself dabbing at his eyes with a woman's handkerchief, in a reversal of the scene he might have expected.  Despite feeling somewhat awkward, he held on to the square of cloth like a lifeline.  Perhaps awkwardness was something he and Arabella had moved past.

Finally, he sighed.  "I'm not sure.  She was in bed, and then I went to the privy, and she was gone when I came back.  In the space of five minutes.  I looked all over town, and then took Ember to Oakdale the next day, figuring Zenobia might have made for the train.  I checked the river on the way.  The freight waystation.  When I got there, I asked around.  There were only a few women who took the train, but based on descriptions... not her.  The closest candidate- an injured woman- was described as 'pleasant and quiet, smiling at everyone she met.'"

He shook his head, unable to imagine Zen in that picture.

"It's like she just fell off the Earth.  I console myself that there's no sign of violence.  So she must be out there.  Somewhere."

His eyes were distant, as though he was trying to imagine her in some faraway place.

What was she doing?

How was she surviving?

Was the law pursuing her?

"I'd have left with her, if she'd asked," he said at last.

Javia

Yappy, nonstop-talking Arabella listened quietly and patiently in the dark as Roland told her what little he knew himself and what he had done to try and track Zenobia down. If he was seeking validation, he got it. 

She reached over and rubbed his arm, mothering him. "You did all that? Gosh, you... you really care for her, don't you?" she asked rhetorically. "Yeah, you're right, laughing and smiling, that can't have been her: I mean, she never used to smile much, but just lately, since she met you, she'd started to. But I guess she wouldn't be right now."

"It's like she just fell off the Earth. I console myself that there's no sign of violence. So she must be out there. Somewhere."

Arabella nodded, the movement vaguely visible in the dark. 

"I'd have left with her, if she'd asked," he said at last.

"I know." she said, and changed her motherly rubbing on his arm to a sisterly, understanding pat. 

"That's probably why she hasn't left a message behind; you'd track her down and go with her and leave behind everything you've build and achieved here: with your store and your business and your little choo-choo machine and... well, I guess she loved... loves you too much to do that to you, to ask that of you."

Then she gave a little self-depreciating chuckle.

"You do realise, Roland, that I don't really know what I'm talking about? I'm just talkin' because you feel sad and I like you so much, and it feels like I should be giving you helpful advice, or something. Tell me to shut up if I'm making things worse!"

She stopped patting his arm and gave it a daughterly squeeze, now. Maybe it was unimportant whether she chose the wrong words or not. Maybe it was just a touch from another human being that mattered. 

@[Cuban Writer]

Roland was silent for a moment, and then he broke into an unlikely chuckle.

"Arabella..."  He put a hand on her shoulder, "there is nothing more awkward than trying to console someone.  That's what makes funerals such terrible assemblies.  You don't need to be insecure about the effectiveness of your consolation.  Merely showing up and making an attempt at the impossible is enough to prove your friendship."

He dabbed at his eyes once more with her handkerchief and then tucked it into a pocket.

"I told myself the other day that I should be done feeling sorry for myself, but I haven't quite managed it yet."

He walked over to a shelf, where a lacquered box rested.  It was one of three boxes on the shelf, having the look of being recently completed.   Now that Arabella looked in that direction, she might notice a tall plank of wood leaning against the wall, bearing the partially-carved likeness of a mermaid.

He took down the smallest of the lacquered boxes and brought them to her.  It was carefully painted in a manner which one might not expect from a man like Roland Smith.  If he was sure of one thing about himself, it was that he did not give off the vibe of being an artist. 

"I finished this days ago, but I somehow missed the opportunity to give it to you before everything went... mad."

He held out the box for her to take.

"I suppose if I was a cobbler, this would be a new set of shoes.  Which you might prefer.  But I think this will be more vital in the long run.

People like you and I, Arabella... we eventually find ourselves some trouble.  Or it finds us.  I'm not sure it matters, really."

Javia

"Arabella..." He put a hand on her shoulder, "there is nothing more awkward than trying to console someone. That's what makes funerals such terrible assemblies. You don't need to be insecure about the effectiveness of your consolation. Merely showing up and making an attempt at the impossible is enough to prove your friendship."

She reached up with her opposite hand and patted his hand on her shoulder. "Well, that's a nice thought, but you've never been to a Jolly funeral: ours aren't just terrible 'semblies, they're downright miserable! See, we don't cater to the folks at the funeral, we cater to the person who's died, looking down: can you imagine how nice it'd be to peep down through the clouds and see how sad and weeping and crying everybody is that you're gone? I want everybody to be in floods of tears at mine!" she assured him.  

He dabbed at his eyes once more with her handkerchief and then tucked it into a pocket.

"I told myself the other day that I should be done feeling sorry for myself, but I haven't quite managed it yet."

"Well there's no hurry..." the young girl replied, soothingly, whilst reaching into said pocket and retrieving said handkerchief "... but I'll be requirin' this back, thanks: I got a kinda a sniffle at the moment and I've been blowing my nose on it all day, might need it again tonight." she explained. 

It was dark now and Rolland went to look for something. Arabella helpfully lit a lamp and looking over, saw a beautiful female form shimmering in the flickering lamplight. She put down the lamp and hurried over. 

"Oh Rolland, who is she?!" she cooed "Can I touch her?" she asked, before running her slim white fingers all over the wonderfully carved selkie. "Say, she ain't got any doo-dads on her bumpies!" Arabella frowned, circling her finger on the more exposed of the mermaid's breasts as if that might make a small nipple suddenly jut out. Well, it always worked on Miriam!

Perhaps discombobulated by this, Rolland drew Arabella's butterfly attention to nicely decorated box he had lifted from a shelf. She gave the mermaid a kiss goodbye and came over. 

"I finished this days ago, but I somehow missed the opportunity to give it to you before everything went... mad."

"Oh Rolland! That's soooo beautiful, thank you!! You didn't have to do that!" she gushed, grabbing it eagerly. 

"I suppose if I was a cobbler, this would be a new set of shoes. Which you might prefer. But I think this will be more vital in the long run."

"I DO like my shoes!!" agreed Arabella huskily, examining the box "... probably cause I didn't have none 'til I was fourteen. Mama fixed me up a pair of her old ones so I could go sparkin'. Pa was worried I was seeing a boy and I might get myself in trouble, you know, get my tin roof rusted, but it was just Melissa Cartlidge from the other side of the mountain." She looked thoughtful "I suppose we were kinda sparkin'..."

"People like you and I, Arabella... we eventually find ourselves some trouble. Or it finds us. I'm not sure it matters, really."

She nodded, not really listening, she was too curious about the box. "Say is this one of them Chinese puzzle boxes, or am I just being a idiot?" she asked, struggling to get it open "It's just that it's kinda heavy, I think maybe you left something in it. I wanna empty it out so I can put ma knick-nacks and ma doo-dads in there."

She remembered her earlier conversation about the mermaid's nipple-less boobies "... oh, I don't mean those kind of doo-dads! That'd be painful!!" 

@[Cuban Writer]

Roland grimaced somewhat when she described the prior use of the handkerchief.  He'd intended to launder it before returning it to her, but that didn't seem as much of a concern all of a sudden. 

When Arabella mentioned the finer details of his carving, Roland chuckled.

"I was undecided as to whether she should be nude, or wearing some sort of seaweed concealment.  The 'doo dads' as you put them, provided a bit too tempting a bullseye for the last fellow who had a light trigger in the saloon.  I hired a Mr. Craddock to advertise my wares in what has got to be the worst comedy of errors since Shakespeare.  He perforated a Mermaid decoration they had in the saloon, and so this is my offering of a replacement to the owner.

There's still time to decide.  I have to finish the hand there..."

Soon enough discussion fell to the box he'd given her.  Tapping the box with his finger, he said, "The box is just the container for what lies within, Arabella, which is also your gift.  A doo-dad of a different sort."

He reached over and unlatched it, then opened it for her, lifting the lid to reveal the weapon inside.  It was nestled on red velvet, with a special space beside it for a box of ammunition and a blued metal rod with a large gnarled brass bead at one end.

"This is what's known as a Pepperbox.  Made on the Adams-patent mechanism.  Five shots of .32 rimfire.  It can be fired single or double-action.  A polished and decoratively engraved brass frame with silver plating here and on the reverse side,  lacquered hardwood grips, and rhinestone inserts which sit in this channel to decorate the piece.  Whomever you point this at should understand that you are a lady." 

He smirked.

"The front of the trigger-guard here can be depressed, which unlocks the cylinder for removal.  It can then be pulled forward and removed for reloading.  There is a rod in the case to poke out the old cartridges before loading the new ones.  I contemplated a loading gate, but determined a pistol like this was unlikely to be reloaded in the heat of battle.  If you cock it to the first click, a pin extends in front of the hammer.  It retracts again on the second click.  At first click, the gun will be in a safe condition even if dropped.  I tested it with a wooden mallet.  The weapon is accurate at three paces.  I wouldn't employ it past that."

He was proud of his work.  It was the sort of thing that might sell for twenty-five pounds in London- an extraordinary price for a lady's pepperbox.  But he was confident of the artistry and mechanical soundness of the piece.  It was the first thing he'd made in Kalispell that honestly required every bit of his talent.  The mare's leg had been interesting from a functional standpoint.  But this?  This was a bit of art.

He was glad to be giving it to a friend.  

Javia

"I was undecided as to whether she should be nude, or wearing some sort of seaweed concealment."

"SeeeeeWeeeeed Conceeeealment" Arabella said out loud, imitating Roland's accent. "Sorry, I ain't funnin' you Roland, Mister Darling says I got to improve my 'diction and electrocution', That's what words you use and how you say 'em. You speak the nicest I know, so I aim to learn to talk just like you." she explained, before repeating "SeeeeeWeeeeed Conceeeealment" and then "I do beg your puddin, my good man, do go on!"

"The 'doo dads' as you put them, provided a bit too tempting a bullseye for the last fellow who had a light trigger in the saloon.  I hired a Mr. Craddock to advertise my wares in what has got to be the worst comedy of errors since Shakespeare.  He perforated a Mermaid decoration they had in the saloon, and so this is my offering of a replacement to the owner."

"What? Scrappy shot Marina's booby-mams off?!" He had forgotten that Arabella used to work in the saloon: that badly executed topless queen of the sea had been an especial friend to her, looking down benignly while she scrubbed the floors.

"There's still time to decide.  I have to finish the hand there..."

The girl looked over to Marina II and nodded "You should give her some proper doo-dads, Rolly, just in case some mer-feller gets under her seaweed concealments and rusts her tin roof and she's gotta feed a whole bunch o' little mer-kids."

Soon enough discussion fell to the box he'd given her.  Tapping the box with his finger, he said, "The box is just the container for what lies within, Arabella, which is also your gift.  A doo-dad of a different sort."

Arabella's eyes widened. "Oh Rolan, it's beautiful, It's like a little gun with no barrel stuck on!" she cooed. 

"This is what's known as a Pepperbox.  Made on the Adams-patent mechanism.  Five shots of .32 rimfire.  It can be fired single or double-action.  A polished and decoratively engraved brass frame with silver plating here and on the reverse side,  lacquered hardwood grips, and rhinestone inserts which sit in this channel to decorate the piece.  Whomever you point this at should understand that you are a lady." 

She listened with her head tipped and a frown of concentration and when he'd finished just muttered. "Somethin' about me bein' a pepperpot...?" then more loudly "So, er, how's it work? I never even touched a shootin' iron before!"

Mr Smith explained. 

"The front of the trigger-guard here can be depressed, which unlocks the cylinder for removal.  It can then be pulled forward and removed for reloading.  There is a rod in the case to poke out the old cartridges before loading the new ones.  I contemplated a loading gate, but determined a pistol like this was unlikely to be reloaded in the heat of battle.  If you cock it to the first click, a pin extends in front of the hammer.  It retracts again on the second click.  At first click, the gun will be in a safe condition even if dropped.  I tested it with a wooden mallet.  The weapon is accurate at three paces.  I wouldn't employ it past that."

"So, like I say, how's it work?" repeated Arabella. "Can... can I touch it...?" she asked and held out her hand, then drew it back with a giggle "oh no! I'm scared! Say , if I come back tomorrow in the daytime, can you take me out back and show me how it really works? Like, hand-hold me a little biddy bit?"

She looked up at him now with a shining in her eyes.

"This really is the most beautiful thing I've ever been given, Roland, and much, much too much for me; I... I brought you something, too, but it can't hold a candle to a precious gift like my little pepper-pot; Fact is, I'm kinda ashamed of it now..." she said, eyes downcast. 

@[Cuban Writer]

Roland laughed his odd 'har har' laugh.  It was some of the first laughter he'd enjoyed since the incident with Zenobia and her father.

"Of course you can touch it.  It's yours."  

He nodded and added, "I would be happy to take you out for a picnic on your day off.  You can pick up a meat pie from the Lick Skillet, for which I'll reimburse you.  I'll get a basket, and blanket, and some targets.  I'll have you an expert on the gun by the time the day is done.  Or else I'll schedule additional picnics as necessary, until you are proficient or we are both fat."

He didn't want to teach her to shoot right here in town.  Gunshots tended to alarm the townsfolk, especially after recent events.  No, they could find a green hill nearby and make a day of it.  He could use a day like that.

"As for it being too much, it is not.  You are the much-est girl I know, and you deserve the much-iest pocket gun I can make.  Never ever lose your muchness, Arabella.  And never fear becoming much-ier.  This world needs some muchness in it, lest it become too dull and sad.  And if anyone objects too strenuously to your muchness... you'll now have an answer for them." 

He borrowed a bit from Lewis Carroll.  Might as well steal from the best.  Though, he wondered if Arabella might simply think he'd lost his facility with words.

"Now, what's this about a gift for me?  Anything from a friend is a boon.  No candles or shame.  The gesture is what matters."

Hopefully it wasn't another well-used handkerchief. 

Though... the last time she'd brought him a gift, it had been uniquely entertaining.

Javia