cracked that shell and let the devil seep out. Maybe it just proves she was an idiot to fall in love with him nine years ago.
Her brain’s still moving at half-pace. It must be tiredness. And shock. If Arthur wanted me dead last night, he wants me dead today . She’d better run for her life. But not in these clothes, Blanche decides, staring down at herself.
Like some automaton, she follows Mary Jane out of the Eight Mile House. On the threshold between the saloon and the rickety porch, her feet lock, refusing to carry her into the hard brightness. She straightens her aching shoulders and makes herself step forward, steeling herself against imagined gunfire. (As if muscles could repel buckshot!) The air’s heating up already, dusty; better than the stink of blood and whiskey, at least. Blanche puts up one hand to shield her face. Where’s her straw hat? Even under these circumstances, she finds—even today—she’s not willing to get a freckle. Her translucent pallor is one of the things Blanche is known for, the promise in her name. Otherwise she’d just be plain Adèle Beunon again.
Blanche scans the ragged settlement of San Miguel Station for any sign of danger. There’s Jordan’s poor excuse for a country store, just across the baked yard to her left; his low frame building and McNamara’s squat by the County Road like a pair of robbers planning to waylay travelers. Right now the road’s a powdering line with not a vehicle, not a person on it as far as the eye can see. A stone’s throw to the northeast stands the flat brown railroad depot, ruled by Mrs. Holt. In the distance to the southwest, the log cabin where that pair of Canadians scratch out a living—Louis, the man goes by, Blanche remembers, but whether first name or surname, she doesn’t know. Farther out, a scattering of shacks; what laborers or squatters subsist there? Then nothing but sandlots, ruled by rats and fleas.
“This way,” calls Mary Jane impatiently, beckoning her round the back of the Eight Mile House.
Blanche holds her breath as she follows the girl past the tiny, fetid box with a crescent cut into the door: the toilet where the twelve-year-old took fright at the sound of the shots. “How’s your brother?”
“Wee Jeremiah? Sick with nightmares half the night.”
“No, John Jr. His arm.”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Mary Jane tosses her head. “That fella’s always mooching off on his own.”
Who’d be an eldest girl if she had a choice, really? Blanche wonders. All the mopping and potato-peeling and minding the little ones …
An old sheet held up with sticks passes for a screen, a pail of pond water behind it. With clumsy hands Blanche picks at her encrusted buttons. How muddy blood turns as it hardens. Now she’s got the shakes, like some drunk shuddering outside a barrelhouse before dawn. “Mary Jane?” she calls hoarsely.
No answer.
She clears her throat and tries again. “Mary Jane? If you could—”
But when Blanche puts her head around the sheet, there’s no one there. Only her own large carpetbag, incongruously festive with its orange arabesques. A stain on the top that’s been wiped off, not carefully enough.
Well. These people met her only Tuesday. To the McNamaras, Blanche is just some stranger left behind like storm debris on their doorstep. They may even have guessed by now that it’s she who brought this horror to San Miguel Station.
They’re trash themselves, she reminds herself. Down on your knees, you should be, Miss Blanche , Ellen McNamara had the gall to tell her last night. The grandiose slattern clearly thinks herself a cut above Blanche. But didn’t they all leave that kind of humbug back in the Old World? You Frog whore , that’s what Ellen would like to call Blanche, no doubt, except that the woman probably can’t bring herself to say such a word because the Irish are the prudes of Europe. (Always have more children than they can feed, then go round crossing themselves as
Her brain’s still moving at half-pace. It must be tiredness. And shock. If Arthur wanted me dead last night, he wants me dead today . She’d better run for her life. But not in these clothes, Blanche decides, staring down at herself.
Like some automaton, she follows Mary Jane out of the Eight Mile House. On the threshold between the saloon and the rickety porch, her feet lock, refusing to carry her into the hard brightness. She straightens her aching shoulders and makes herself step forward, steeling herself against imagined gunfire. (As if muscles could repel buckshot!) The air’s heating up already, dusty; better than the stink of blood and whiskey, at least. Blanche puts up one hand to shield her face. Where’s her straw hat? Even under these circumstances, she finds—even today—she’s not willing to get a freckle. Her translucent pallor is one of the things Blanche is known for, the promise in her name. Otherwise she’d just be plain Adèle Beunon again.
Blanche scans the ragged settlement of San Miguel Station for any sign of danger. There’s Jordan’s poor excuse for a country store, just across the baked yard to her left; his low frame building and McNamara’s squat by the County Road like a pair of robbers planning to waylay travelers. Right now the road’s a powdering line with not a vehicle, not a person on it as far as the eye can see. A stone’s throw to the northeast stands the flat brown railroad depot, ruled by Mrs. Holt. In the distance to the southwest, the log cabin where that pair of Canadians scratch out a living—Louis, the man goes by, Blanche remembers, but whether first name or surname, she doesn’t know. Farther out, a scattering of shacks; what laborers or squatters subsist there? Then nothing but sandlots, ruled by rats and fleas.
“This way,” calls Mary Jane impatiently, beckoning her round the back of the Eight Mile House.
Blanche holds her breath as she follows the girl past the tiny, fetid box with a crescent cut into the door: the toilet where the twelve-year-old took fright at the sound of the shots. “How’s your brother?”
“Wee Jeremiah? Sick with nightmares half the night.”
“No, John Jr. His arm.”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Mary Jane tosses her head. “That fella’s always mooching off on his own.”
Who’d be an eldest girl if she had a choice, really? Blanche wonders. All the mopping and potato-peeling and minding the little ones …
An old sheet held up with sticks passes for a screen, a pail of pond water behind it. With clumsy hands Blanche picks at her encrusted buttons. How muddy blood turns as it hardens. Now she’s got the shakes, like some drunk shuddering outside a barrelhouse before dawn. “Mary Jane?” she calls hoarsely.
No answer.
She clears her throat and tries again. “Mary Jane? If you could—”
But when Blanche puts her head around the sheet, there’s no one there. Only her own large carpetbag, incongruously festive with its orange arabesques. A stain on the top that’s been wiped off, not carefully enough.
Well. These people met her only Tuesday. To the McNamaras, Blanche is just some stranger left behind like storm debris on their doorstep. They may even have guessed by now that it’s she who brought this horror to San Miguel Station.
They’re trash themselves, she reminds herself. Down on your knees, you should be, Miss Blanche , Ellen McNamara had the gall to tell her last night. The grandiose slattern clearly thinks herself a cut above Blanche. But didn’t they all leave that kind of humbug back in the Old World? You Frog whore , that’s what Ellen would like to call Blanche, no doubt, except that the woman probably can’t bring herself to say such a word because the Irish are the prudes of Europe. (Always have more children than they can feed, then go round crossing themselves as
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