"THERE'S SOMEBODY AT THE DOOR!!!"
Jemima pulled in her horns, there was something in Brendan's voice that made the light of hope in the strange girl's small brown eyes fade. She suddenly felt that she would never see Bridget Monahan in this world again.
"I can write nice enough" she informed him, a note of pride in her voice. Actually, her spelling wasn't great, and her childish handwriting looked like a spider had walked through an inkpot as it was staggering across the page, going home drunk from the spider saloon. Still, the message would get through to Doctor Quimby clearly enough.
"I'll go and get a pen and ink and some paper and a envelope from Mama's bureau." she announced, leaving poor Connolly to his thoughts for a few minutes before quietly letting herself back into his room carrying the requisite writing materials. She lay them down on the side table in the room, pulled up the chair and sat on it.
"All right" she motioned her head to indicated to Brendan that he could start to dictate and, apart from frequent protests of "Not so fast, I can't keep up!" she sat quietly and let him say in the letter what he wanted, or at least, felt, he had to say.
Brendan paced up and down the short length of his room while he waited for Jemima to return, his thoughts in turmoil. Never good with words when the words actually meant something, he didn't know how to respond to such unexpected news.
As Jemima seated herself at the side table, he exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "Here goes." It was a painful process: him trying to figure out what he wanted to say with Bridget at the forefront of his mind, then the best way to say it, then waiting for Jemima to write it. By the time they were done, Brendan wanted a drink.
But he came over to stand behind Jemima, peering over her shoulder at the seemingly-meaningless scrawling on the paper that held so much import for both him and Bridget.
Dear Dr. Quimby,
I was real glad to hear your report on Bridget. She was always a ray of sunshine in Kalispell and I think of her often.
You wanted to know my intentions toward Bridget. Well, sir, the truth is that I do still love her. Haven't stopped. I’ve taken a steady job here in Kalispell, and before Bridget left, my intent was to court her. But I realized I couldn’t care for her the way she needs and deserves, and letting her go back east seemed best for her health.
We both want what’s best for Bridget, so I’d ask you to be honest with me. Is Bridget fit to come back to Kalispell? I'd care for her as best I could, but life out here isn't the same as it is back east. If traveling back out or living without some of the comforts she's had in your care would hurt her, I couldn’t ask her to come back here — although nothing would make me happier — knowing Mr. Pearce could care for her better than I ever could.
Respectfully,
Brendan M. Connolly
Brendan blinked and cleared his throat. "Well." It wasn't eloquent by any means, but he hoped his intent and love for Bridget would come through between the lines. It was hard to hold his hopes in an open palm, not knowing if they'd be crushed by Dr. Quimby's next letter, but since he truly loved Bridget, no other course of action was acceptable to him.
"THERE'S SOMEBODY AT THE DOOR!!!"
"Well?"
Well what?
"I wrote what you said." was all Jemima could reply.
The plain looking girl duly posted the letter for Connolly and the reply came surprisingly rapidly considering the distances involved and the methods of the day.
Thirteen days later saw Jemima sitting back on Brendan's bed. Last time had been in the morning, this was in the evening, after supper. The oil lamp filled his room with a dull yellowish flickering light. The letter had been there all day, but this was the first time that she and he had been able to escape the watchful eye of her Mother and get together alone; it was a scene oddly reminiscent of a clandestine lovers' meeting.
"Dear Mister Connelly"
Her voice was a consistently flat and nasal as last time. Connelly would have been shocked to meet the real Doctor Quimby and hear him speak in his own rich deep baritone.
"I acknowledge receipt of your last of the 2nd inst. of this month. I appreciate your concerns regarding Miss Monahan's ability to function in the perhaps less supportive environment of your far western settlement. It was to have been my pleasure to report to you that no such anxiety was necessary upon your part and that Miss Monahan could easily be despatched on the first railroad train to Helena where she might catch the stage to Kalispell.
Not receiving a definite answer, in light of your query upon this matter, I did not communicate your previous sentiments to Miss Monahan, lest an eventual disappointment upset her unduly. It is a decision I shall, I fear, ever regret. For last week, during one of their periodic consultations, Mr Pearse pressed his suit quite violently and Miss Monahan, in lieu of any definite word from yourself, succumbed to his imprecations.
I regret to inform you that they will be wed tomorrow by Judge Gilbert T. Thomason of Rochester County.
Sir, believe me when I say, that this is in no way an unsuitable match for Miss Monahan, or as I should now refer to her, by the time you read this letter, Mrs Pearse, but I can never forgive myself not finding some way to give you more time to address this subject.
I am yours, etc...."
Jemima stopped reading and looked up.
"You all right?" she asked and bit her lip. Well, what else could she say?
Brendan's leg jiggled with nervous energy as Jemima opened Dr. Quimby's reply. He'd allowed himself to get his hopes up, despite previously believing that Bridget's mental and physical condition would likely keep her from ever coming back to Kalispell. Unless, of course, the medical progress back east was so far ahead that Bridget could actually be helped.
And that, as it seemed, was the case. But Brendan's brow began to furrow as Jemima read on, and disappointment began to sink rock heavy in the pit of his stomach. He stared across the room at the wall. Bridget Pearse. The name sounded fine. But Bridget Connolly would have sounded better. If only he'd put his thoughts into words better. If only-
"You all right?"
Brendan blinked and realized that he was clenching his hand into a fist so hard that his nails were digging into his palm. He forced himself to relax and cleared his throat. "Fine. I'm fine. She's goin' to be happy. Taken care of." That was all he'd ever wanted for Bridget. That was what anyone would want for the person they loved. His love for Bridget had been purer than anything else in his life, and now Bridget was gone.
He pushed himself off the bed and dug beneath it, coming up with a bottle of whiskey he'd bought sometime back in the winter. Looking up at Jemima from the floor, he raised the bottle in a mock toast. "You can stay or leave, but I'm gettin' drunk."
"THERE'S SOMEBODY AT THE DOOR!!!"
"Fine. I'm fine. She's goin' to be happy. Taken care of."
Jemima gave him a tight little smile. He was being brave.
He pushed himself off the bed and dug beneath it, coming up with a bottle of whiskey he'd bought sometime back in the winter. Looking up at Jemima from the floor, he raised the bottle in a mock toast. "You can stay or leave, but I'm gettin' drunk."
Jemima snatched the bottle off of him. Was she going to give him a lecture on temperance, a la Arabella Mudd?
No. She unscrewed the top and took and long swig from the bottle and, without even deigning to wipe the neck of it, handed it back to Brendan.
“You ain’t the only who’s upset, you know” she told him.
She stared into space for a second.
“I don’t think you should tell anyone about the letter” she said “The first one. People’ll… I don’t know… get it wrong. Blame you. Say you should have acted different. People always get it wrong about you. Why is that?” she asked, as if he knew.
She wondered if it was because he was handsome. Handsome, really, to the point of being beautiful. Maybe they didn’t like the thought of someone being good and beautiful, and they wanted to think the worst of him.
She held out her hand for another swig of the whiskey.
Brendan didn't even have a chance to open the bottle before Jemima snatched it from him. He glanced up at her, askance. Not at the fact that she was drinking -- he'd actually considered asking her for some liquor until he remembered the bottle under his bed -- but at the fact that she didn't even wait until he'd had a drink.
When she handed it back, he snatched it impatiently and took a swig almost as long as hers, coughing a little bit in his haste to reply to her. "I was gonna tell Caroline. You don't think I should tell her?" He could trust Caroline not to blab the details of his personal life to anyone, but was this even worth telling her? If Bridget was coming back, it would be one thing.
"People always get it wrong about you. Why is that?"
He scowled and tipped the bottle back again. "I dunno why." But it was true. He did everything with the best of intentions, and somehow everything ended up in disaster. Maybe it was just his lot in life. And if it was, wasn't it better that Bridget ended up with that Pearse guy instead of Brendan "Disaster" Connolly?
He handed her the bottle and leaned back against the bed, splaying his legs out aimlessly. "Maybe I'm just unlucky." That point could certainly be argued, with plenty of evidence to back it up. But he'd also had some strokes of luck in his life, like surviving the gun battle with Quentin Cantrell and leaving from the Evergreen unscathed and unpursued.
"THERE'S SOMEBODY AT THE DOOR!!!"
"I was gonna tell Caroline. You don't think I should tell her?"
Jemima shook her head seriously. She didn't really approve of Caroline Mundee, but she tried not to let that skew her judgement on the matter. She tried to put herself in the saloon girl's shoes. Why would any girl want to be reminded that her man had another love who he would probably chose over her, if he had the chance? No, best keep it to himself.
"People always get it wrong about you. Why is that?" she asked him.
"I dunno why."
She reached out a hand for a glug.
He handed her the bottle and leaned back against the bed, splaying his legs out aimlessly. "Maybe I'm just unlucky."
She took a massive swig and pushed the rapidly diminishing bottle back at Brendan.
"I'm unlucky, too. I got the same as you. I was in love with this feller and he up and married someone else." she shrugged.
"But ain't gonna let bad love..." she was getting a little tipsy, drinking the hard stuff so fast, she corrected herself "... bad luck get me down and out. I'm gonna fight it, I'm gonna take... take life and bend it into the shape I want!" she said determinedly, and turned to face him.
"Brendan, God didn't make me lucky or clever, and God knows He didn't make me pretty, but He made me strong - He gave me that to use, and... one day I'm going to be a strong woman in a circus. I don't care if I'm called a freak. People will pay to see me, and I'll be the greatest strong woman in the whole of America. Then Mister Stupid Redmond will wish he'd married me instead of that awful Dietrich woman."
She held her hand out for a swig.
"And He didn't make you lucky or clever, neither, but Lord He made you handsome, Brendan, He made you beautiful, an'..." she blinked, trying to focus on him as the booze took hold. "... good with horses and lovable an' ... an' all sorts... an' you gotta be like me and have a dream and just make it come true. You gotta BEND life to your will..."
She made a motion with her hands like bending an iron bar.
"Whatdyathink o' that?!" she slurred a little, frowning at him earnestly. By crikey, that whiskey was making her feel powerful wise and philosophical all of a sudden!
Brendan took a few slower drinks while Jemima waxed philosophical. He wouldn't have imagined she was such a lightweight...or such a philosopher. He tried to hide a smile at the thought of Aurelian Redmond marrying Jemima. That was silly. But what wasn't silly was Jemima's idea of becoming a strong woman.
He bristled slightly as Jemima continued. Just because he was unlucky didn't mean he wasn't clever...well, his cleverness or lack thereof could play into why things always turned out the way they did for him. But yes, God had made him beautiful, and he knew it. Life was a walk in the park for beautiful people, even if they were only good at a few things like he was. He'd only ever needed to be good with animals. He'd never dreamed of being anything more than a cowhand until he'd met Bridget.
A stab of sadness came again, and he took a longer drink. "I've only had one dream, Jemima. And now I gotta find a new one." What would he find to dream about now that Bridget was gone?
"I think you'd make a real good strong woman," he said after a minute. "Why ain't you joined the circus yet, then? Seems it wouldn't have been that hard to get a stage somewhere that's got a circus."
"THERE'S SOMEBODY AT THE DOOR!!!"
A stab of sadness came again, and he took a longer drink. "I've only had one dream, Jemima. And now I gotta find a new one." What would he find to dream about now that Bridget was gone?
Jemima nodded sadly. Bridget was a hard act to follow.
"I think you'd make a real good strong woman," he said after a minute. "Why ain't you joined the circus yet, then? Seems it wouldn't have been that hard to get a stage somewhere that's got a circus."
She gave a frown at his obvious lack of circus knowledge.
"They aren't anywhere. I mean: they move around. That's the point. Oh, but if one came to Kalispell, or hereabouts, you can believe me, that'd be the end. Even if they didn't want me, I'd just follow them around 'til they had to give me a chance."
"Look at Arabella - them snooty theatre folks didn't want anything to do with her, but she just pestered them and pestered them until she got some piddlin' little job, shining the actors boots or something, and then when the girl actress ran off with some cowboy, she was in the right place to seize her dream." the slightly tipsy girl recalled.
Her thoughts turned back to Brendan's predicament.
"So..." she almost didn't like to bring it up, but it was very pertinent "... folks keep seeing you about with... Caroline Mundee..." she tried to disguise the distaste she felt at the name. Bridget had been, despite her poverty and disabilities, a pure sweet angel, Miss Mundee was a good deal less respectable.
"Isn't she your dream, now?" the frowsy young woman asked.
Brendan was less tipsy than Jemima, but the alcohol was helping him relax a little. He nodded along as Jemima detailed her plan to get in with whatever circus she happened to find. "Yeah, you gotta keep tryin'. Like you were sayin' earlier, kinda make things go your way. Like when I was tryin' to get a job. No one wanted me. But I kept tryin', and now I got a job at Kaufman's, a room here..."
He trailed off as he took another drink, willing to sit in silence. But Jemima was full of thoughts tonight, and her next sentence was about Caroline. He cut his eyes sideways at Jemima, knowing that she could be a little prudish sometimes, but let her finish. "I mean...I like her. She's here, I'm here, but we ain't ever gonna settle down like I pictured me an' Bridget doin'."
What he and Caroline had was different than what he and Bridget had had. It wasn't love, not at least the same type of love he'd felt for Bridget, but he and the saloon singer just clicked.
"She don't want marriage, see," he said, warming to the subject a little. "And I reckon I never did, except I would have had to for Bridget. But that was Bridget, you know? I wouldn't have minded."