Chapter 3 - Flora

Nineteen-O-Seven

It was warm and pouring-down rain in Salina, Kansas. John Irwin was passing documents to the secretary in the cramped offices of The Kansas Pacific Railway Company. It was then that she came into the view for the first time in John’s life. The lacy frills at the bottom of her dress dusted the unworthy floorboards and concealed her forbidden feet, ankles and feet that must have been too beautiful to be exposed to any man. Angelically, she seemed to float in behind her father who was finalizing a purchase of government grant land from the railway. On the second-floor accounting department of pine-wood veneer cubicles, desks and typewriters, paper and ink, her tiny graceful steps did not even cause the usual creaking of the floor boards caused by other visitors, because she was too gentle, or because she was too light, too precious for wood, or maybe because some wonderful natural magic disguised her sounds? She was seventeen years old, with skin like the middle of white coral. Shy, her eyes barely lifted to see the eyes of any other men in the office, who were all looking at her. She was daintily smiling as if attending a formal tea party. In this setting she was as a happy bluebird in the dreary winter, or as a fresh red apple on a lifeboat at sea. John was introduced to her father and he in turn introduced his daughter, the lovely Flora Jenkins. The moment when Flora first looked into his eyes, it was like a bolt of emotion had been cast at him and had stopped him from thinking, from speaking, and almost from standing. At that moment he was a boy again, helpless, sweating, unable to look solely at the customer. John bowed and delicately kissed her hand that was covered by white silky gloves, stealing the opportunity to be lost in her light brown eyes. For a moment, from beneath her breast level, he smelled her, and the female chemical shot into John’s mid-brain like a jolt of electricity. His compulsion began, his obsession was seeded, her face and her eyes had become to him as a keepsake like a gold locket that must not be lost, must not be forgotten and if needed he would devote nine tenths of his available memory to storing an image of her. How could John Irwin, from this moment on, live without her?

It was two weeks before he would find the courage to ask her out to dinner and the picture show. John had never courted a girl or a young woman. Always an excuse seemed to take priority. There was never time, or he was always either filthy or dog tired when out and about the town or the city. Additionally John could not stand competition among men for the affections of a pretty girl, and he did not like that a pretty girl was so rare, so hard to find. There always seemed to be ten men gawking at once when he did see one. A pretty girl that John had ever noticed in his past was usually the only one around, or accompanied by an older man, or a protective father. John borrowed Mr. Worley’s philosophy; have an image of a job that needed to be done. At this time in John's life, Flora was the sharply in-focus figure, front and center in that image, in which all else peripheral to her was blurry and could be later negotiated.

For days that had seemed to John like months, after her visit to the office he was noticeably distracted, stopping and starting his work every few minutes, having to recheck his own numbers. His nights alone in his room, at the boarding house on Country Club Lane, were agonizing as they were filled with running thoughts of the beautiful Flora. His favorite thoughts were comparing her to foods, chocolate mostly, often cherry cordials, filled with delight, visibly delicious on the outside, formed perfectly around the sweet fruit inside that was her.

Flat on his back, John would stare at the ceiling, at the flicker of the flame in his bedside lamp, dreaming wide awake of Flora. He would sometimes fall asleep fully clothed with a smile on his face.

Flora Jenkins lived happily with her parents and her little brother on their cattle and sheep ranch about twelve miles north of Salina. They recently acquired a Model T Ford from Sears and Roebuck and were one of only a few folks in town to have one. Mr. Jenkins had to ride horseback to St. Louis to pick it up and then drive it slowly home, with the horses tied to it and trotting behind, scared out of their iron shoes of the new black monster. Every Sunday the Jenkins would let the whole town know they had the new motor-car by driving to church in it. It would bang and sputter its way through town, scaring horses, causing birds to fly off in a panic, and splattering mud. During their trip through town folks would come to the windows of their homes and pull aside the curtains to see the motor-car. Kids would stop in their tracks and yell at Mr. Jenkins to honk his squeeze-bulb horn. Since her father got the motor car, church wasn’t so bad for Flora, who normally found it to be tortuous, because now the ride there and back was novel and fun. Flora would physically fight her little brother to sit up front in the Model T, and she did not mind that the sibling battles demeaned her maturity as a young woman, but it was the “T,” and her dad only took it out on Sunday for church, even though it had become the most exciting thing in her life. . If there was one flaw with owning the “T” it was, that within several hundred feet of the church, the Jenkins had to pile out of the car, Mr. Jenkins would shut off the engine, and all four had to push the motor-car into the church lot, so as not to scare the many horses belonging to the other parishioners. The first day Mr. Jenkins drove it to church, he drove right up into the parking lot and all hell broke-loose. Horses ran, carriage brakes were broken, one carriage wrecked against a tree and one horse had to be shot dead. The cost was not so much to Mr. Jenkins’s wallet that day as it was more to his humility and his standing in town.

Flora had a boyfriend, Ernest Bleckley, whose father owned the Carriage House in Salina, and a hotel in Wichita. She found him to be a bore. She thought Ernest to be a spoiled brat, a favored son to his father, who provided with favors and gifts to keep him happy and busy. Additionally, he was shorter than she was, and this difference shattered all fantasy images of her ideal man. He would wear a fancy suit everywhere he went, as if he were the Mayor or some prominent figure. He would bully almost anyone he came in contact with whose stature was even slightly less than he, he would unfairly chastise restaurant waiters, hotel clerks, shop clerks or shoe shine boys. Flora found him offensive but her father was strict about approval of men callers, and he would never approve of the virile and handsome men of gusto and masculinity that she would rather be courted by. She would rather date one of several of her father’s ranch hands, with whom she had spent many days with around the ranch, branding the new stock, riding on drives to bring the cattle to the train station. Flora had become an accomplished cowboy; she could lasso with the best cowboys, or the knife-throw at a fence post from twenty-yards. On any given weekday, Flora, was a champion Tom-Boy.

It took several days of contemplation of courage and fear, but soon enough John began asking around town about Flora, and he began to formulate a plan to win her over. He dreaded that eventually he would have to let her know he was interested. Perhaps fear of rejection made this initial stage seem a mountain to have to climb, for if he could just gain her acceptance, for even one date, that would be a conquest of his own fear. George was a bookkeeper in the office and he lived just one mile away from the Jenkins ranch. George would know something about her, and so with ulterior motive, John invited George to a formal sit-down lunch at the restaurant across the street. At lunch, after a half an hour or so of chit-chat about office politics, the weather, the new Wright flying machine, the city fire brigade’s efficiency and lack of it, and the town and Salina in general, John broke it to him:

“George you know the Jenkins family don’t you?”

“Know them! I practically grew up with them. I used to work on their ranch summers. My dad and Mr. Jenkins and me used to go hunting in the winter together, lots of times. I remember one Christmas when Mrs. Jenkins was sick in a real bad way, we didn’t think she was gonna make it. Me and my family went over there Christmas day and made supper for everybody, the hands included. Mrs. Jenkins pulled through a couple of weeks later. That little girl of theirs was like a Chinese firecracker, always running around, hanging with the boys and the ranch hands, a Tom-boy, you know the type? Hell she used to try to go hunting with us, imagine that!”

Perfect opener to get to the real topic John was interested in, his eye brows raised up and he leaned in toward George and began speaking in a quite voice as if planning an overthrow of the kitchen:

“She is what I was wondering about. Did you see her in the office the other day? She’s the prettiest thing on two legs I’ve ever seen. I can’t get her off my mind and I don’t know how to start with her.”

“Have you not ever courted before John?” George inquired and smiled at John.

“Never. There’s never really been a woman around that I was very interested in.” John replied with a deception to cover his own history of shyness.

“First you’ve to get her to stop seeing Bleckley, Ernest Bleckley that is. I’ve seen him riding her in a fancy carriage past my house almost every Saturday evening for months now. Hell I wouldn’t be surprised if marriage was just around the corner for those two.” Said George.

John expressed a mild frown as he chewed his steak and onions. George paused, ate some salad, raised one eyebrow and then offered a new contribution to the subject:

“One thing you would have going for you is that Bleckley is a brat, a spoiled brat. In school he got used to the cane almost once a week and you know, well you wouldn’t know being relatively new to town. But there was a fire about eight or nine years ago wherein the wood-mill on the south end of town caught fire, and the one whole corner of it was burnt down before the fire department could put it out. Well, word was that he and two other boys were seen watching the fire from up in the trees across the street, it was about ten o’clock at night and they were all smoking cigarettes! Word is, they probably did it, but nobody could prove it and his dad wouldn’t let the sheriff talk to him. But he acts more like a gentleman now, especially since he’s courting Flora. But I think her dad hates his guts but tolerates him because the little brat will inherit his dad’s businesses, both the business here and the hotel down in Wichita. Imagine that!”

John frowned with disdain that this wonderful woman he has barely known and now cared for deeply would end up with a free-loader, someone who’s life story and hardships reflect an almost opposite to his own. For a moment so small it could not be measured with a clock, John thought to himself that maybe this speaks to the character of Flora herself.

“No, it couldn’t, she doesn’t know about him, or hasn’t considered that his character is far less than what she is worth. She’s still young and innocent.”

That evening John came to a decision. His “plan,” would be not to have a plan. He would outwardly present Flora with a new choice in suitors. Having heard a rather slanted portrayal of Ernest Bleckley, he now felt superior, a better man than he. A wiser man than John might have given more weight to the fleeting consideration that Flora may not care to hold measure to the character of the man that she is courting. Or, a wiser man may be open to the premise that Ernest Bleckley is far from the man described, as a silver-spooned and spoiled boy, by his friend the bookkeeper from work. But for John, having a direction to move in quelled his nervous stomach of love ache, and eased his mind to know something of who is who. He would go with it as himself, and if the situation turned-out to be different, he would adapt and he would win Flora over in a more conspicuous, more honest manner than she may be used to.

As he lay in bed John's newly found calm and confidence became shattered with panic. He now began to worry about his wardrobe, his hair style, a new hat, a horse and carriage of his own. Or maybe his own model T! Now he was feeling less superior to Bleckley as he took stock of his possessions and compared them to what Flora had, by now, became used to. John pondered:

“Is the quest for love and a mate a corrupting influence? If I try to present the façade of a man of material worth, I'm being dishonest. But can I win her over honestly, by presenting myself as I am? Or, am I just fooling myself? I’m a man of two suits and three ties and one hat, two dozen kerchiefs, no horse of my own, no carriage, who rents a room in this boarding house. Am I demeaning Flora by assuming she needs to see a comparative list of material goods? I have six hundred and seventeen dollars and thirty cents in the Salina bank. I guess that’s a lot.”

Three days later on a Thursday afternoon, under large puffy clouds, with a warm early spring wind in his face and hair, John trotted out to the Jenkins farm on a rented chestnut mayor. Straw hat level on his head, aligned perfectly with his brow, a faintly pinstriped brown suit with a tanned leather vest and a new necktie pulled so tight to his throat that breathing was a purposeful act. The shining hook and chain of the pocket watch his father gave him on his sixteenth birthday glimmered proudly as John held his posture upright like a board reaching for the sky. A bouquet of Daisies and Blue Lupines was carefully tucked in a rifle holster behind him on his left. John hoped these colors would please her. Flora had Daisies on her dress when he had met her in the Railway office, and her dress was a light blue, much like the Lupines. He fought with himself whether or not to bring her chocolates, he had bought a Whitman’s box at Seitz’s drug store, but left them at the boarding house when he realized they might melt before he got them to Flora. John had decided to be more impressive than a chocolates bearer. In his vest pocket was a small gift box, wrapped with a pink bow. Mrs. Jacoby at the Salina Mercantile and Exchange Company had assured him this was a good choice and would swoon any lady.

To avoid the embarrassment of a bad first impression, John took all precautions he could think of. Never in his life had he wanted so desperately to impress, but only had his face, his body, and his voice and words to do so. At the livery that morning, he had insisted on the brown horse over the recommended black, so it would match his suit. Before leaving the stable, to the amusement of the livery owner, John practiced dismounting and mounting his saddle, off and on several times. His mustache perfectly trimmed and waxed just slightly. He shaved his face just one hour prior, so slowly and carefully that he could not possibly have cut himself. Three tightly folded handkerchiefs in his suit pockets for mishaps like manure on the shoes or mud on his clothes or a sneeze. Two peppermint candies at the ready for minty pleasant breath. John’s shaky nerves were concealed by his body’s bobbing up and down on the horse, as he trotted ever closer to his confrontation with his own weakness.

As the Jenkins ranch came into view it was a relief to John to see that the gate was already open and he could ride straight through. He could see that two women were on chairs on the front porch of the rather large Jenkins house. It was more like a mansion, up on a knoll with a carriage path that circled around to the front of the house, two stories with shutters painted clean white and lace curtains in every window. John’s heart was pounding so hard, he feared it might stop of exhaustion. As John reached a distance of about one hundred feet from the porch he saw the two women talking to each other and looking at him. Pressed suit and tie, flowers clearly visible on his horse, John could be identified as a gentleman caller from a mile away. He wondered if Flora was excited to see who it was. John gracefully removed his hat as he rode close enough to the see Flora's and her mother's faces. Suddenly a young boy came running from around the side of the house toward John. The boy almost caused John's horse to buck. Smiling excitedly the boy ran up to the reins, grabbed a hold and nearly yelled upward to John:

“You’re a gentlemen caller, come to court my sister aren’t you Mr.?”

So much for introducing his intentions. John blushed immediately. The speech he had rehearsed in his room, in front of a mirror, for this most delicate of moments was now moot. His hat in hand and smiling slightly, John dismounted, removed the flower bouquet and with full knowledge that Flora and her mother were now standing in front of their chairs looking directly at him, he returned the boy’s innocent and happy greeting preceded by a delighted quick laugh:

“That is correct son. My name is John Irwin. You look like a fine and fit young man who knows what is going on. What do they call you?”

The boy held the reins closer as John's horse wriggled, the boy took a cube of sugar out of his overalls front pocket and quickly fed it to restless animal, then responded to the new and friendly stranger:

“I’m Jeremiah A. Jenkins sir, I’ll take your horse around back and feed and water her for you. You’re the first gentlemen since grumpy ‘ol Bleckley to see my sister! Good luck with her! My Pa says she’s like a Stallion what just ate hot-peppers! She don’t . .”

Mrs. Jenkins then took two quick steps forward on the porch, took off her hat and abruptly raised her voice at young Jeremiah:

“Jeremiah it is properly “are you not!” Now you watch your tongue and mind your own business! Now get busy taking care of this gentlemen’s horse or I will ask you to pick-out a good willow switch!”

Jeremiah smiled up at John once more then proceeded to tend to the horse. Mrs. Jenkins and Flora stood at pleasant attention towards John. To John these moments seemed trapped in time, frozen and detailed in the moment, but in later memory a blur of motion, So nervous and so determined to get this right, this was to John, the greatest interview of his life. The walk to the front porch steps was grueling as the air around his legs became molasses to wade through. He felt a thirst unknown to him in his life and began to worry he would not be able to speak. Stopping a few feet short of the front porch and smiling once at Flora, who returned his gesture with a friendly slight curtsey followed by a smile and a nod, John quickly focused his attention on Mrs. Jenkins who curtseyed ever so slightly. The matriarch waited a few patient moments as if playing her part in an ancient rite, waiting for her turn which would follow his presentation. John presented himself, flowers and hat held close to his lower chest, a shine of fresh sweat on his forehead, he reached out to Mrs. Jenkins to give her the bouquet and conferred upon her solely, without looking back at Flora:

“Dear madam, My name is John Irwin of Salina. I assisted Mr. Jenkins with a Railway land purchase a little more than three weeks ago. As I am the manager of accounting for the Kansas Pacific Rail Company. At the time I was blessed to meet your lovely daughter at my office. I have rode out to your splendid home on this glorious day in the hopes that you, and Mr. Jenkins, would allow me to ask Miss Flora if she would do me the honor of a courtship.”

John did not divert his eyes from the face of Mrs. Jenkins. Still in a memory blur, not sure of what or how he had just spoken to this seemingly proud woman, he felt an absence of confidence and completely unsure of what her answer would be. Mrs. Jenkins immediately smiled with delight as if being entertained at the circus. John smiled, immediately more at ease now, but still he did not remove his attention from Mrs. Jenkins. She replied approvingly:

“Yes my husband did mention you. He stated rather impressively that “ . . the Kansas Pacific has an astute and very efficient accountant by the name of Irwin.” It is a pleasure to meet you sir.”

“Your husband made a very careful and studious purchase in those lots Mrs. Jenkins, his fortitude must be a source of comfort to all of your family.” John replied in a kind gesture.

Mrs. Jenkins showed her sensitivity to the matter at hand, sensing that John was a nervous as a dry bail-of-hay in a barn fire, she expedited the process for his sake:

“As for your inquiry Mr. Irwin, you have the advantage in this initial conversation in that my husband and myself already know of you. We already know that you are a man of hard work with an education that would provide a stable life for our daughter. I will forfeit my decision to my daughter’s free will in this matter of your courting. As for Mr. Jenkins, I will inquire to him about the matter of your courtship of our daughter, when he returns from the auctions in Topeka later this week. But I feel sure in telling you that his answer would agree to my own, we have an understanding about these matters. I will retire to my drawing room at this time and let you and Flora discuss your very well presented proposal.”

An awkward smile frozen to his face, still sweating, now less shaky. Mrs. Jenkins extended her hand for homage and John stepped up two steps onto the porch and gently planted a kiss on her forehand. John watched Mrs. Jenkins head towards the screened front door. Still a dream to John, the conversation that had just occurred he could never recall in detail, but at this moment he knew it was a positive sign. John did not look at Flora, yet, still giving Mrs. Jenkins his full attention even has her back is turned to him. Mrs. Jenkins stopped and looked again at John, as she stepped through the doorway and into the foyer:

“I’ll have Thelma bring you two some fresh mint tea. Again Mr. Irwin, it has been a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“Kind madam, the pleasure has been mine and I hope that we can see each other again very soon.” John replied.

In a brief moment Mrs. Jenkins cast a look of intent at Flora while replying to John:

“Oh I am sure that we will Mr. Irwin, good day sir.”

Flora was gracious at once:

“It is a pleasure to see you again Mr. Irwin, won’t you please have a seat, less your
behind parts are too bruised from riding and you prefer to stand?”

A smirk was on her face as if toying with the new boy. John ignored this humorous punch thrown by the young and rambunctious Flora and sat gently on the other front porch chair, he placed his hat flat down on the porch beside him. John opened conversation:

“Thank you for seeing me Miss Flora. I’m very glad to see you again. I would like to say that your mother is a most sure woman and I can clearly see where you adopted your beauty.”

“I take it then that your behind is in fair shape since you so quickly sat down Mr. Irwin.” Flora stated jokingly as she waved a paper fan at herself.

“I bounce in stride purposefully when I ride Miss Flora, it greatly lessens damage to my, umm, humility.” John had almost said “ass,” as if in the saloon.

“Oh Mr. Irwin you do have a sense of humor! For a moment there I thought you might have taken offense to my quip at your personal being.”

“Not at all Miss Flora, I like to think I have a mild temperament to all types of attacks, be they in jest or even of the rude type. Besides, it was pretty funny.” John replied.

“And may I inquire as to how you have learned this temperament Mr. Irwin?”

“Well I guess it was working at the Cattle Exchange in Chicago when I was a boy. You see the men there were, well, not exactly gentlemen and teasing each other with humor and insults was the normal way to pass the time around there. So I got used to it pretty quick.” John looked to Flora for acceptance.

“My that must have been some interesting times Mr. Irwin! I have never been to Chicago but my father did take us all to St. Louis for the worlds fair last summer and we stayed overnight in Wichita. Why we were gone from this old place for about ten whole days, I’ll never forget it. I saw the most wondrous things there.”

Flora was wearing a yellow bonnet, she reached her arm back and daintily pulled it off, rolled it up and clutched it with both hands. She began squeezing it with both hands, she was nervous too, and John hoped this anxiety was not any of his doing. Her raven silky hair was up and tied with a thin yellow ribbon. John was smiling, trying not show his teeth, they were crooked and embarrassed him. Just then Thelma came stomping down the hallway from the kitchen and seemed to burst through the front screen door as she carried a silver tray with two glasses, two large chunks of ice in each one and a pitcher of tea with mint leaves floating on top. How did they get ice this far out of town from the ice plant? John thought to himself as Thelma poured him his tea first, then Flora’s. Thelma was a young and pretty black woman who was about the same age as Flora, she wore a long blue cotton dress with high sleeves with a kitchen apron tightly around her waist and her hair was tucked underneath a lacy white bonnet.

“Mr. Irwin would you like some lemon in your tea?” Thelma offered.

“Why yes thank you very much, you’re so kind Miss . . Miss.”

Having just been asked who she was, Thelma’s disposition went from servile to delighted at the speed of a steam-liner.

“My name is Thelma Leed sir. I’ve been with the Jenkins for all my life as has my Ma and my Pa and their Ma and Pa before them. We don’t get many guests out here and it sure is a pleasure to have a gentlemen caller, and a handsome one at that!”

Thelma smiled big and looked back at Flora as though she had just planted a fruit tree for her. Apparently Thelma was catering to the approval of John as a suitor by Mrs. Jenkins who must have said something good about him while back in the kitchen. Grinning, Thelma quickly returned into the house before John could return the flattering banter.

A black woman does not flatter the sexuality of a white man in Kansas, nor anywhere else, nor does a white man apply a compliment towards a black woman. The ramifications are too taboo to even begin to have discussion. Thelma would not have been able to get away with calling John a “handsome man,” in any other context but out here on the front porch and directly in front of Flora. It would be as if a man called a female goat “mighty fine looking,” as the goat strolled into a saloon. But if the goat were in a barn stall then that term would pass unnoticed. The front porch was the barn stall, it was acceptable, and it did not strike John as unsuitable one bit.

“Did you know Mr. Irwin that last year at the World’s Fair in St. Louis, over a dozen nations had an exhibit and every U.S. State had an exhibit as well, but just before the Fair began the Missouri house and it’s exhibit burned to the ground. Very puzzling don’t you think Mr. Irwin?”

Flora stated this trivia, perhaps seeking a more intellectual conversation with this newly interested man in her life. John played it safe in case she was inferring a superstitious cause of the fire, John loathed superstition:

“Well I never heard that. That is either one dandy of a coincidence or somebody was not too pleased about the Fair’s being there. Did they ever find out how it happened?”

“Well the papers said that it was workmen’s lamps, they were working feverishly to finish the display and were working by lamp light to get it done in time.”

“A good lesson in patience if I ever heard one Miss Jenkins.” John then sipped from his tea.

“You may address me less formerly Mr. Irwin. We are known to you and you us. After all, you and my father have done business and after today you are known as a guest of this family, “Miss Flora,” would be fine.”

“Why thank you kindly, Miss Flora. I like the sound of that, you may call me John when we are informal such as this. All my friends use my first name to me, except the bookkeepers under me, at the Kansas Pacific.”

“Oh I had almost forgotten Mr. Irwin, errh, John, you are a boss among men, how impressive that is!”

“Oh it’s not such an impressive position. There is no less work for me and I carry the burden of blame should something go wrong.”

“I suppose that would be a rather heavy weight to bear on a daily basis. How did you come to live in Salina, John?”

“I was transferred here from Topeka by the Kansas Pacific Railway to run the accounting and exchange office here in Salina, it was moved from Topeka because the owner wanted to open a restaurant for passengers to rest and eat, right where our old office was, just off the track platform. I was a bookkeeper for them in Topeka, for a few years, before being promoted, then sent out here.”

“Where about is your family John, are you alone here?”

“My father lives still in Chicago, he is an accountant also, he works for the Chicago Cattle Exchange Company, at the Union Stock Yards. I have not had correspondence with him since leaving Chicago.”

Wishing to hide his shame for having run-away from his father, John was hoping that Flora would not want to know more. He watched her eyes to see if she had presumed it was source of shame for him. John is a person with less than stable family origins who has placed himself in a region of the country where stigma sticks to the shamed like gypsum gum and gossip spreads like wild-fire, mostly with unwarranted merit. This is a land of cohesive families that generally do not break-apart without approval of the patriarch, or certainly do not leave each other without word, don’t shame each other with their behaviors. When they do, the shame of those related becomes the secret of the entire clan, the secrets become the thick coat of plaster on the many interior walls of each home, only to be seen from the inside and never to leave and bring shame to others, and to be painted over and over again as the years pass and the memories fade.

“Perhaps your father and yourself will converse in the future John?”

With a gentle nod she reassured him as if she knew his future.

“I see that as a definite possibility for the future Miss Flora. I take it you have always been here at this very large and well kept ranch. Tell me, do you enjoy being a cow-girl?” John smiled, obviously not needing a serious answer.

“Actually I have always loved cattle ranching since I was a tiny girl. Why I’ve even been on three cattle drives with my father and the hands, those are the best. Or course, we don’t drive the cattle anymore, oh we take fifty or a hundred head at a time to Salina, they all board cattle cars on wooden ramps and ride away all moo-ing like a bunch of prisoners making an escape. Sometimes I could swear they were looking at me on my horse as their train pulls away, it’s all rather comical if you consider it. Do you not think so John?” Near laughter Flora sipped from her tea and looked to John for approval.

“You know, I would not be surprised if those cows were trying to say good bye to you Miss Flora. Perhaps they were, there is much to learn in animal science still, they may be smarter than we think!”

“You may be right. But I tell you, the way all we people treat them, I hope they are not of higher brain function. Because if they are, they are planning our demise in a grand scheme!” Flora pointed her finger to the air smiling with a devious face.

John’s eyes followed as her arm raised up as if to proclaim the beginning of the end of humanity at the hooves of all cow-dom. Within himself John heard his own voice:

“I do love this woman. My God she is a delight, a princess, a jewel of rarity, I must have her, there is no turning back now.”

John and Flora burst out in laughter. Barely ten minutes together and they are now at ease. John decided this is perfect moment to reach into his vest pocket and produce a gift box with something just for her.

“Miss Flora I would like you to have this small gift as a measure of my intentions and my honor regarding yourself.”

John then held out towards Flora a small blue velvet covered jewelry box, three inches wide and about eight inches long with small brass hinges on the back. Flora’s eyes raised up in anticipation like a child, she put down her tea glass and her bonnet:

“Why Mr. Jenkins how kind of you indeed! I do not know what you heard of me but there is a vicious rumor that I never deny a gift. Well this rumor is absolutely true. You are scoring early points Mr. Irwin!”

Flora daintily picked the box out of John’s hand and brought it close in her lap. She untied it’s thin ribbon and swung open it’s top lid to reveal an ivory hair comb with a highly ornate carving on it’s handle.

“Oh my goodness, it’s marvelous Mr. Jenkins, it is just beautiful. So precious and unique. I adore it Mr. Jenkins. I shall wear it now.”

Flora pulled the thin ribbon from her hair. John, grinning like a ten year old with his first fish catch, watched as she prepared her hair for his gift. With seemingly erotic and fluidic motion Flora’s hair fell to half way down her back, and she swung her head to and fro to untangle the loose strands that had gathered together under her ribbon and bonnet. In that moment the late afternoon easterly sun shine of yellowish orange caught the transparent edges of her long brunette hair. John was transfixed in the wonder of her. Flora straightened her posture upright and reached back her arms behind her head, with one hand holding the comb. John gazed briefly at the fleshy soft and pale underside of her arms as if he was appreciating a renaissance marble statue of a partially nude goddess. She rolled her hair up her back and ever so gently tucked it into a soft roll, and she slowly affixed her new comb then made a few motions to place her hair properly centered on the back of her head. John’s mind took a picture of a job well done.

“It looks very nice on you Miss Flora. The white of the ivory flatters your dark hair perfectly.” John was nearly at a loss for further flattery.

“I think I shall wear this the very next time I go into to town. If feels so light, as if it is not even there Mr. Jenkins. You must have a had a female assistant to select this beautiful piece for you Mr. Jenkins. Who was it? Flora asked teasingly.

“Well let me just say, I pointed at it, a lady confirmed it was a good choice, and that was all the affirmation that I needed.”

“My mother will be very impressed, she is the only woman I know of with an ivory comb and she won’t let me borrow it. But not anymore Mr. Jenkins! I wonder if I should lend it to her if she may ask?” Gloating, Flora’s face was blushing.

“Miss Flora, I would be greatly honored if you would let me escort you to dinner and a moving picture show this Wednesday evening to come.”

John presented his most humble face as his smile was gone and replaced with uncertain anticipation of Flora’s response.

“Oh Mr. Irwin, I think that would be very pleasant and I accept your invitation.”

Flora reached over and softly covered John’s hand with her own. John was shocked and may have even pulled his arm back slightly, but could not remember. Flora removed her hand after a just a couple of seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw something move behind the window inside the house, he turned his head briefly to see what it was, the corner of the lace curtain behind the window dropped fast. It was either Thelma or Mrs. Jenkins, or both of them being voyeurs of the matchmaking in progress on their front porch. The relief John felt at this moment could not be contained on his face. Flora smiled graciously upon seeing his seriousness change to that of the accomplished male that John now had become. This new ego boost was unusual for John, a first date, the approval of a stern mother, the kindness and welcoming of Thelma, the whole afternoon had gone too well, like a story, that John had hoped it would be.

With the motions of a formal ceremony, John bid farewell to Flora with one leg on the step below the front porch. Jeremiah was bringing the horse around with perfect timing, as if someone advised him a few minutes before. Holding his hat John mounted up, Flora and Thelma stood together on the porch awaiting his departure with reverence. John switched his hat to his right hand and tipped it to Thelma and Flora, then downwards to Jeremiah who was chewing on something and smiling up at John:

“Kind ladies, until the pleasure is mine again. Jeremiah you are a good kid. You tell your dad for me, that I said you could come and see me at my office anytime you are in town, alright?”

“Sure thing Mr. Irwin!” Jeremiah smiled widely.

John trotted off through the Jenkins ranch gate and around a corner, and he looked back to ensure could not be seen. He smiled so largely that his face might have cracked, and he took off his hat and waved it at his face to dry his sweat, he nudged his horse with his heels to pick up the trot. Ten minutes later, after he was sure he at least a mile away, he let out a “Yahoooo!” John felt his right hand, and to his mind it still felt warm where Flora had touched it. At this moment, on this road back to Salina, John Irwin the accountant for a railway, was not a kid in a candy store, he was not a sailor on leave, he wasn’t a miner who struck gold, because all of those metaphors were material, John was experiencing immaterial joy that he would never feel again in his lifetime. He was a miner, happy without gold, a kid happy outside the candy store, a sailor happy without leave. All their joy at once swelled up in him. He could hardly handle his horse, and he did crack his face, for his facial muscles were sore for two days.

With Flora gently on his right arm, John’s greatest fear upon entering Roche’s Dining Room on 9th Avenue, was that he would spill his food or his drink at dinner. Earlier that morning he had the maid at the boarding house starch his clothes beyond foldable amounts and so he looked as stiff as a board. Flora was of course her beautiful self; smiling and holding her head so poised and so proper. John felt truly privileged to be in her presence on this night. He wondered when and if the topic of his competition, Mr. Bleckley, would come up. He did not look forward to it. He hoped it would not even have to come up at all. Dinner was splendid, Flora had the fish, John the steak, Flora drank four glasses of white wine, John two whiskeys and a glass of iced water. After dinner, her arm under his and tipsy with alcohol and their bellies full, they walked a pleasant two blocks to the theatre.

The Salina Playhouse had been hosting the Edison Vitascope Theater for three weeks and the show was due to leave and go on to Wichita next week, not returning for another year. John had seen a flip-card motion picture machine in Chicago with his father but never a big picture on a wall, and never a moving picture that lasted more than ten or twenty seconds and actually told a story. Flora had seen the moving picture Kit Carson while at the Worlds Fair, in St. Louis the year before, and so she knew what to expect. They stopped on the sidewalk outside the theater to examine the full color poster displayed under glass: The Great Train Robbery! Featuring Bronco Billy as Butch Cassidy! In large bold letters across an image of cowboys with guns, chasing forward in a flurry of trail dust, guns blazing upwards. The dramatic subtitle read “A faithful duplication of the genuine “hold ups” made famous by various outlaw bands in the far west!”

Standing there at the poster, Flora’s eyes still affixed at the wonder of it all, John dropped his little surprise:

“You know, I have not told you but I used to work for the Kansas Pacific Railway at their office in Topeka right about the time that this very train was robbed.”

John pointed to the train shown on the poster.

“No!, are you going to tell me you were on that train? Did you see Butch Cassidy and the evil Hole in the Wall Gang?”

Flora eyes light up wanting a yes answer from John, like “yes I was in grave danger,.” Or maybe she would have liked “yes I was shot nearly dead by Butch Cassidy.” No such luck for John this night:

“Oh no, not that close. I worked as a bookkeeper across the street from the offices of the Union Pacific Railway, they owned the tracks and that very train, and we leased tracks from them. The man who did the payroll, was on the train, and I used to have lunch with him now and again. We saw each other all the time!”

“Well go on, what did he say about Butch Cassidy and the Hole in the Wall Gang, were they mean, were they all gruffly and bearded and smelly and spitting tobacco and shooting people? Flora was as excited now as John had hoped she would be.

“Nahh, I don’t really know, you see my whole office in Topeka was transferred out here to Salina, several years before this happened in, I think it was 1900. But it might have been me, had I gone to work for the Union Pacific!”

“Oh my John. That’s a terrifying thought.” Flora said with menacing glee.

“She called me John, by my first name, she’s really comfortable with me!” John observed with barely contained joy.

The moving picture before The Great Train Robbery was The Life of an American Fireman, which showed a house on fire from the inside of the house. John was amazed, the “ooohs and ahhhs,” from the audience lent an air of further excitement to the fires. Flora had cuffed her face to hide her sight from the danger more than once. Several children in the audience had started crying out for their mothers. An actress was rescued from within the flames by a dashing and tall fireman and the audience cheered and applauded towards the screen images. Instinctively John and Flora also applauded the brave fireman as if the image would appreciate the accolades. After the short film the lamps came on in the front of the stage and partially light the inside of the theatre. The talking and exclaiming rose up from the audience immediately. Flora had tears in her eyes from the emotion of seeing the daring rescuers on screen. John smiled but restrained himself from making fun. Flora dried her tears. A young man wearing a funny red suit with a little round cap came walking down the isle carrying a large tray of goods:

“Get your delicious Molasses or Vanilla popcorn balls, roasted peanuts, one cent, one cent each, popcorn balls!

Just then another young man entered the theater with another tray:

“Lemonade, icy cold and oh so sweet, lemonade, one cent, glass of lemonade, one cent!”

“Miss Flora are you not too exhausted with emotion to enjoy a popcorn ball and some lemonade?” John had leaned slightly toward Flora and asked with some humor.

“Oh of course not Mr. Irwin, that film was surely dramatic, but not so that my desire for delicious candied goods is diminished! Why when I was in St. Louis, I escaped the escort of my father and mother and I found one of those steam carts and sat down and ate five of those popcorn balls. That’s a secret to kept between yourself and me. I’ll have a vanilla ball and a lemonade, thank you Mr. Irwin.”

The management allowed about ten minutes of vending, crunching and sipping in the audience while an automatic player piano to the side of the stage entertained with modern Rag; Chrysanthemum and the Palm Leaf Rag by Scott Joplin, a rather risqué choice of music for a small town like Salina. The feature film began and Bronco Billy was introduced by a frightened train passenger as the principle villain. Immediately John pulled his popcorn ball to his mouth, bit into it and the ball jumped out of his hand, and as if on it’s own locomotion, it rolled onto the floor, and wheeled itself a good ten feet down to the stage where it rested under the ledge of the front of the stage. John looked at Flora to see if she noticed, but it was too late, she was already looking at him and smiling like a Chesire cat at his accident. John and Flora looked forward and down at the popcorn ball, John considered getting up to get it, Flora whispered to him:

“Do not dare, please Mr. Irwin!”

Behind the black curtain of the projector booth a man watched for the gunshots with a drum and stick to add a fearful percussion to each gunshot. Bronco Billy shot the train’s engineer and the audience made their “ohh and awww” sounds and a few men in the audience said “oucchh.” Flora looked at John and they exploded with inappropriate laughter at the silliness of John’s popcorn ball sitting by it’s lonesome self where it remained for the evening. At the very last scene of the film Bronco Billy looked right at the audience and the camera zoomed in for a close-up, Flora’s eyes were peeking through her fingers of both hands and Bronco Billy raised up the end of his revolver and pointed it right out at the audience, he then fired a shot and several people jumped out of their seats, children screamed, women screeched, men had forcefully pushed their backs into the rear of their chairs as if to back up from Billy’s menacing threat on screen. In the audience, what lemonade was left in glasses, was spilled onto clothing and the floor.

The carriage John had rented for the night, from the livery, was a handsome surrey with twin reflecting kerosene lamps and John was very glad he had learned to drive one while living with the Worleys, because he had to back it up onto the avenue from the front of the playhouse. He had worried for the embarrassment he would incur should he tip it or even have to guide the horses out on foot. There was no doubt to John that his first evening out with Flora had gone well, she was all smiles and John felt as confident as a new umbrella in the rain.

On the road, the strong steed seemed to be leading them without guidance out to the Jenkins ranch, it seemed to remember the evening’s task: leave the stable to pick-up the female human, wait in town, return the female human, go back to the stable for oats and water and sleep. Under the gray light of a half moon and the yellow flickering of the carriage lamps, the tall weeds and the sleeping spring flowers were barely visible in the brush on the sides of the road. On this straight road the horse needed no guidance, and so John took advantage to soak-in the beauty beside him. To not appear as the obsessed and swoon young man that he was, he pretended to be driving the coach, watching the road between his hearty drinking of the naturally intoxicating elixir beside him. Her dark and high trimmed eye brows seemed painted on by an Indian warrior for her to better scare her enemies. Her high cheek bones, her laughing muscles piled high with joy, shown a reddish tint even under this gray moonlight, her mouth’s cheeks were gentle indentations what’s shadows pointed towards her mouth, their slope falling with ease to her jawbone which seemed designed to serve to support her lovely full lips and a chin small and smooth that could barely be covered by a quarter dollar coin. Flora recanted the drama of the moving picture show and the romantic western imagery of Butch Cassidy and the train robbery scenes. John pretended to listen as her words became just sound in his ears. He imagined himself, a very tiny man, like Tom Thumb, riding a very small sled, sliding down Flora’s sharply pointed nose with it’s finely straight and narrow bridge, for a perfect ride, jumping over her perfect nostrils, resting on her perfect upper lip, where he would bask in the warmth of her breath and lay his head on her soft red and pillowed lips.

In front of the Jenkins home, John came around to Flora’s side of the carriage and helped her gently out of the seat.

“Mr. Irwin this has been a wonderful evening that I shall not forget possibly ever.”

“My dear Miss Flora, the pleasure of your company has been the highlight of my life thus far, second running to that popcorn ball situation, that is.”

“Mr. Irwin you don’t stop with the witticisms do you? I hope that you would come and pick me up this Saturday evening for dinner, if it’s not an imposition. I get so bored out here and I won’t cost you much, I promise.”

John was shocked but not dare show it, “she is asking me out!”

“Miss Flora I would be delighted to relieve you of any of the tedium you may be suffering out here. I’m rightly sure that my calendar is open for this coming Saturday evening.” John smiled.

“Wonderful John, good night now!”

Flora reached to John’s face and with her silk gloved hand she stroked the side of his face with delicacy, tickling John’s face with enticement while she held his eyes in contact with hers for a moment of precious time that in a solitary granted wish would stand still forever while the world passed them by. With that sweet touch, Flora stretched forward and upwards on her toes and kissed John on the side of his face, then without another word, she ran daintily towards the porch holding up her long skirt, up the stairs, through the front door and was gone.

With joy of accomplishment John sang aloud to the horse and to the dark and empty road on the way back to Salina. He arrived at the livery stables at around ten o’clock, he helped the attending hand un-harness and put away the horse and tipped him a generous twenty-five cents. John was too restless and too excited to go home. In his mind it was morning and not ten-o’clock at night. Going back to his lonely room and possibly waking the relentless Mrs. Frattalone, who runs the boarding house like prison warden, was too depressing. The champion courtship with new found confidence needed a drink. So he went to Quincy’s Saloon. The saloon was mostly empty with a few men playing poker at one table in the corner and two men leaning at the bar. John joined the men at the bar and ordered a whiskey and a beer. He knew everyone and they all waved and said hello and good evening.

“What say you John?” Ron Bartlett the bartender asked, needing no answer.

“John.” Jeremy Lions to his right acknowledged John’s acquaintance.

“Where’s the accounting need to be done tonight John?” Shouted Smokey Smith from the poker table, smiling an alcoholic grin.

John held his whiskey shot and swung around to face barroom and he leaned back against the bar and tipped his glass at each of bar chums:

“Jeremy, Ron, Whitey, Felix, Mr. Rotter. All the accounting is right here tonight boys, you’re all accounted for!”

A uproarious laugh broke out that could only have existed after several hours of beer and whiskey consumption. John downed his glass and asked Ron for another. He laid out a one dollar bill for Ron to change. Leaning forward on the bar John heard boot-steps of someone walking up to him on his left from the doorway, he stood straight upwards and turned his head, and Ernest Bleckley was standing too close for social comfort and looking him right in the face.

“I know you. You’re the accountant fellow for the Kansas Pacific are you not?”

Bleckley’s tone was not cordial, not really interested in John’s workplace. His eyes were watery, his hair was uncombed, his vest was open, his tie was missing, and his shirttail was coming out of his trousers. He swayed back and forth like a cat-tail in a pond on a breezy day, as he awaited an answer from John. John knew this moment would come but was taken aback by the immediacy of Bleckley’s intervention.

“That is correct sir and to whom am I addressing?”

John feigned a friendly interest trying to smile. He knew damn well who was facing him, but also knew they had never before met. Bleckley’s tone was accusatory and belligerent:

“I think you know who I am. I’m the man who had his girl stolen out from under him by a railroad employee, I’m Ernest Bleckley. You strolled my girl through town tonight and I saw you.”

Bleckley was slurring his words with “s,” sounds like a snake’s hiss. John was not certain how to handle this confrontation. Ron Bartlett the bartender stood by his beer taps with his hands hidden below his waist. John surmised quickly that whatever he might say to Bleckley, would not be enough to calm him down. Quiet mannered talking would be interpreted as patronizing and further incense the jealous drunk. If there was one rule of drinking John has learned it is “never argue with a drunken man.” Bleckley was out for trouble and there was little John could do to avoid it.

“Mr. Bleckley I certainly did not intend to do you any malice. I merely offered Miss Jenkins a choice of suitors. She is a fine and intelligent young woman and her parents have allowed her to choose her own suitor between the two of us. Again, I mean you no harm sir.”

John had taken the calming route in the conversation, expecting little good result from Bleckley. John’s words of placation did nothing good as Bleckley became angrier.

“Well we’ll see about that railroad worker! She was mine first, she goes with me, everybody knows it, I treat her good.”

Dramatically attempting to overcome his inability to converse with John, Bleckley pointed straight at John’s face with a threatening and shaky index finger. John then shunned Bleckley by turning his back towards him and looking back to the corner of the barroom. Feeling dismissed by John’s behavior, Bleckley started heading for the doorway, Ron Bartlett remained in place, John was hoping that Ron’s hands were on his shotgun, just in case. Still with his back turned to Bleckley, John picked up his second glass of whiskey and downed it quickly. At the saloon door-way, Bleckley turned around towards John, reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a two shot Derringer and with his hands shaking, aimed quickly at John’s head.

“She won’t be able to choose you railroad man!” He yelled spitting.

The derringer began to aim anywhere in the vicinity of the rear of John’s head. Ron was caught off guard, he had began pouring a refill for someone. Whitey Smith jumped upwards out of his chair at the poker table and jolted forward at Bleckley. Bleckley saw Whitey coming and aimed the Derringer at him. Too late for Bleckley, Whitey lunged forward and pushed Bleckley’s gun-arm downward and away from himself. At that moment John saw Bleckley’s gun and turned into him and started running forward and to the right. With Whitey’s hands wrapped around Bleckley’s arm and unable to aim well at John, Bleckley fired his gun twice before being tackled to the floor of the bar-room. John collapsed and grabbed his leg, as he saw blood saturating his pant leg. Ron Bartlett came around the bar with his shotgun and stood his foot on Bleckley’s neck while pointing his shotgun down at him. Everyone in the bar was now standing, three men came quickly over to John, several men stood around Ron, Whitey and Bleckley. Recognizing a familiar situation, Ron Bartlett yelled out orders to his now immediately sober patrons:

“Jeremy go find the sheriff! Whitey I’ll hold Mr. Courage here, you go behind the bar and get some clean towels and see to John’s wound.”

At seventy and some years old, Ron Bartlett had been a Sergeant in the Union Army and still serves in the Kansas militia. Taking charge in a crisis seemed natural to him. He was a leader among bartenders in Kansas.

John had turned pale and was sweating in panic. Whitey got him the cushion from the piano stool to rest under his head, then he took out a knife and cut open Johns right pant-leg. There was enough blood to make a good sized puddle on the pine board floor. Whitey tried to console and calm John.

“The bastard got you in you’re gimp leg John, you lucked-out. In fact it looks like he hit you right where you had the break from before!”

Whitey smiled down at John who, in shock still was able to smile back and nodded in agreement. Whitey held John’s shoulder with a firm and reassuring hand.

Bleckley, his head pressed into the floor by Ron’s boot was cursing like a cowboy so badly that Ron ordered two men out to the front, to make sure no women came near the profanity. Ron looked over at the bunch huddled around John and gave new directions:

“We need to take him straight over to Doc Toby’s. Here’s what to do, take that towel and twist it tight and wide around the wound. Whitey, take off your pants belt and tighten around his mid thigh to slow the blood. Take a table chair and lay it down on it’s back next to him, lift him up gently and place him laying on the chair while handling that leg with kid gloves. Get a bootlace or something to tie that leg securely, but gently, to the chair’s right leg, then four of you carry him over to Doc Toby. Keep the leg straight below his knee!”

The bullet that hit John had passed through his right calf muscle but not after shattering a large mass of bone from his upper tibia approximately four inches below his right knee. John held a bottle of whiskey on his chest and drank from it six times, as the men from the saloon carried him on the make-shift stretcher to Doc Toby’s office, three blocks away. Just before reaching the door to the doctor’s office the pain began to set in as a searing burn what’s center felt like the site of a sledge hammer impact, and his entire right leg felt as though it was placed in a blacksmith’s cauldron.

Doctor Toby was in his bathrobe and slippers, reading in bed with his wife fast asleep beside him, when the bell hanging next to his front door rang with a sustained clanging of urgency and he heard a familiar call: “Doc, Doc!” Fumbling for his glasses he folded a thick book and got out of his bed to hurry down the stairway, griping the railing hand over hand, to prevent his heavy body from falling forward. He unlatched his door to reveal four panicked men holding John in a wooden chair laid backwards.

“Bring him in boys, to the left, in there, but him on the table, one of you put a hand on that wound, keep steady pressure on it. Don’t let the leg bend.”

“Ernest Bleckley shot him with a derringer in Quincy’s about five minutes ago Doc.” Whitey still in a panic informed Doc Toby.

“This is John Irwin from the railroad is it not?” Doc Toby asked.

Doc Toby looked down at John’s face now in a state of delirium and pale. John’s eyes opened a little wider to see Doc Toby, he lifted his head a bit and replied:

“He hit my gimp leg Doc, he got a lucky shot the bastard . . .” John mumbled something more but it was inaudible.

“John I’m going to give you some ether to make you sleep while I work on this wound.” Doc Toby tried to explain to John who was fast going into shock.

“You men can go on home now. I’ve got this under control, I think he’s going to live just fine but I may have to set his leg. You all did real good getting him here fast and careful. I’m sure he’ll appreciate all you greatly when he has come around.”

Doc began washing the wound and adjusted his overhead reflector. John’s blood, diluted with soapy water, began flowing into a large metal pan under the operating table. Mrs. Toby arrived in her nightgown carrying a lamp and began assisting immediately.

John awoke, in his own bed, two and one half days later. In less than one minute he felt the pain creep into his consciousness and he quickly recalled the nightmarish event prior to his slumber.

“Oh sweet Jesus. Damn!” He spoke out in disgust to his room empty of anyone who might hear him curse.

John looked at his leg tied-up to a metal stand that stood from the floor on each side of his bed and bent itself over his bed like a clothes rack. Two wires with hooks embedded into his plaster cast suspended his leg inanimate at a slight angle upwards above the bed. Beside him on the night table were towels, a pitcher, a wash basin, a book what’s title he could not see and a tall brown bottle of medicine with a fancy label. A chair had been pulled up and facing his bed. Someone had been by his side during his sleep. It looked to be afternoon but John lacked a watch or a clock on his wall. He waited for what seemed to be a half hour and he became keenly aware of waves of pain traveling up his leg. Then someone knocked on his room’s door, and without waiting for an answer, opened the door.

“Why Mr. Irwin you have come around! I’m Sally Muir and your boss hired me to see to you. How are you feeling?” Are you hungry?”

Sally announced herself adding two too many questions for the just conscious John as she strolled into the room holding a tray of food and drink. Immediately John felt embarrassed and grabbed his covers to pull them up to his neck. Sally looked to be a young teenager and she wore a white bonnet, and a tailor-made woolen dress with an apron, and a white skirt that dragged across the floor. Sally approached the bedside closely and looked at John’s face to closely examine his condition. John peered upwards into her smiling face.

“How do you Sally. Good to meet you.” John replied less than enthusiastically.

“I had not really thought about food, but I guess I am hungry, I know that I have a great deal of pain and my leg itches like the dickens.” John said.

“Well your breakfast is right here and I’ll help you with everything. Doc Toby will be here later today to look in on you. This bottle of medicine, Doc Toby says, will allow you to deal with the pain.”

Sally picked up the tall brown bottle and read the label to John:

“Dr. Jacobs Guaranteed Laudanum. For instant relief of aches and pains and general discontent. Also good for dyspepsia, consumption and irritability of the mind. Imported by Sears and Roebuck Co. Inc.. Then down at the bottom it says to take one or two tablespoons, depending on the size of the patient, two to three times per day, for best results.”

John rolled his eyes in disbelief. To John's sense of memory, less than an hour ago he was feeling like he was the king of Kansas. He was tipping back a whiskey and congratulating himself on a seemingly perfect first date with Flora Jenkins. But now he is immobilized in his room, in intense pain and receiving a snake oil advertisement from a thirteen-year-old nurse.

“Well, give me two tablespoons I guess, I’ve got to do something about this pain and it is too early in the day to get drunk.”

Sally poured him his medicine and spooned it into his mouth as if John had no arms or eyes to do it himself. John did not correct her, he was too disparaged to complain or correct the good intentioned young Sally. Sally pulled from her apron a notepad and a pencil and set it on the nightstand. She then took John’s temperature with a heavy glass tube under his tongue, red lettering on the end of the tube indicated it was an ‘Accurate Thermo-Meter,’ John read as he waited for Sally to remove it. Sally wrote down the number on the notepad.

“Now lets eat shall we?” Chipper Sally announced as if there was going to be a choice to eat or not.

“After breakfast Sally I am going to need to, umm bathe if you gather my meaning.” John stated and looked to Sally’s face for understanding.

John intently hoped that she did understand and would not need elaboration, but Sally paused as if puzzled.

“Mr. Irwin we cleaned you up right well two days ago when we brought you in, you should be fine for at least two or three more days, after all it is not as if you will be perspiring yourself. Oh! I’m sorry Mr. Irwin. Yes. I will bring that low table over there, to the left side of the bed and leave it there beside you, with fresh hot water and a chamber pot before I leave with the breakfast dishes. Pardon my misunderstanding Mr. Irwin.”

“There, she had done it,” John thought. She had caused John to be discussing his bathroom functions with a stranger, worse a young girl who is somebody’s daughter whom he has never even met. John recalled another John from one of his favorite literary stories; Little John was a fat fryer from Nottingham who ate whole chickens and was good in a fight with a quarter-staff. But now in reality, Humble John was a helpless man in a boarding house, incapacitated with his cast in a leg who has to defecate in a porcelain pot to be carried off by a thirteen year old girl with an annoying overly chipper attitude.

Later, John was distracting himself from the pain by reading one of his many books while his back and neck were propped up by possibly ten pillows. He was finding his state of mind to be pleasantly altered by the Laudanum elixir, what’s only drawback was that he was unable to stay awake for more than an hour at a time. Doc Toby had stopped by in the late afternoon and informed him that the leg had to be reset during surgery. He had brought good news; the calf muscle will repair itself given he stay off the leg for at least two months and the bone was reset on the old break from when he was sixteen years old, so it was very likely he could walk or even run like a normal man again. John was delighted, even through the pain in his leg, that his gait might return to normal, that he would no longer be referred to as the man with the gimp leg. He hated the term ‘gimp.’ He used it himself and still hated it.

On Saturday night, at around eight o’clock, in the pitch dark night, after four days in bed, Flora tip-toed up the second floor hallway and then knocked on John’s door and entered slowly as if not knowing what to expect to see.

“Oh Mr. Irwin it is so good to see you are up and reading.”

“Miss Jenkins!” John closed his book and pushed himself upward in bed.

Flora was dressed rather formally, carrying a beautiful white flowered hat at her side, white kid gloves, draped around her shoulder was a black leather cloak she held closed around her neck and wrapped tight and held high near a vested and bustled array from her blouse. Her black boots were barely visible as they stepped forward out of the bottom of her skirt and tapped a sultry wood on wood sound with seemingly perfect rhythm, as she came into the room as if choreographed.

“Oh, Mr. Irwin this my fault. I am riddled with guilt for my neglectful and selfish ways that resulted in this calamity which nearly took your life.” Her apology was overly sincere as she shook her head left and right.

Flora did not let John interrupt her confession. She unwrapped her cloak, hung it on the hat rack by the door, she pulled off her gloves while walking to John’s bedside, and she pulled out the chair and sat herself gently down. John was surprised that she was there at all, wordless and in awe at her appearance and of the beauty that has so rapidly changed the dull and dry, sad and dark, room of recovery and persistent pain, into a brightly lit ballroom on a Saturday night.

“I have not stopped thinking of you since the morning after it happened and our hand, Jeff, reported to us the whole event. Ernest Bleckley and I had been going out for almost a year and I should have told you all about him. I under estimated his civility. I thought he would be a gentlemen about it. I was going to tell you about him on the Saturday after. This is my fault. The blame lies solely in my selfishness, my wanting, and my lust for you John.” Flora’s eyes were tearing and looking to John for acceptance.

“Lust for me! Holy cow!” John’s mind, and body, was suddenly alert.

“Flora I knew about Bleckley and I took the chance, I made the decision to have to deal with him. I knew that you were making a choice of suitors and that your parents granted you that privilege. So you see, it’s not really you that is at fault, it could not be, its mine. I guess a real gentleman would have spoken to Ernest Bleckley first.”

“Mr. Irwin your modesty and humble words warm my heart and I thank you for your graciousness in this state of being you are suffering through. You are a very sweet man.”

Flora reached over John’s chest and grabbed his hand wrapping her fingers over and around his. Opposing his natural inclination to be shy and timid, John covered her hand with his, he looked into Flora’s sincere and sorrowful eyes, and the two exchanged several moments of silent understanding. Flora’s guilt became a sense of responsibility in repose, and her compassion for the wounded John became empathy for the wounded person that existed behind John's eyes. John saw a young woman entitled to the same number of mistakes that anyone would be who is learning love, learning the often awkward dance of society and courtship.

“Oh John.”

“Thank you for coming to see me Flora. I have not stopped thinking of you.”

Suddenly there was a hard knocking on the door to John’s room and a demanding woman’s voice from the hallway outside.

“Mr. Irwin. Mr. Irwin do you have a woman in there? I thought a heard a woman come into the house. You know there is no fornication allowed here Mr. Irwin!”

It was Mrs. Frattalone the warden, the great plains oppressor of men. John didn’t answer at first. Flora applied pressure to John’s hand in fear of being caught. Flora covered her mouth as if to prevent words from coming out.

“I run a clean house here Mr. Irwin. The cat-house is two blocks over and three blocks up Mr. Irwin.!”

“Flora get in that closet back there and hide behind my raincoat, quietly, walk very slowly!” John whispered very softly with urgency.

John and Flora were now reduced by rules to the level of children sneaking around to not be caught. As soon as Flora softly closed the closet door behind her, John answered Mrs. Frattalone:

“Oh, umm, is that you Mrs. Frattalone, come in the door is open.” John said doing a poor job of acting innocent.

Mrs. Frattalone opened the door and put one foot inside, she looked left and right and just behind the door.

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry Mr. Irwin. It may have been one of the other men. Of course you wouldn’t have a woman up here, not in your condition. Can I get you anything Mr. Irwin?” She said apologetically, as she backed out of the room to the hallway.

“No apology is needed Mrs. Frattalone, you keep a well house here and I do expect you to uphold the rules. You are very kind but I am doing just fine at the moment. I’ll be falling to sleep soon.”

Mrs. Frattalone went down the hallway to the next room and repeated her diatribe to the next boarder, same knocks, same words, same directions to the Salina brothel, continuing to seek out the owner of the soft boot-steps that entered the house ten minutes prior. Flora slowly came out of John’s closet, shaky, excited, draped by pillow cases, and whispering:

“Oh my John, I had not even considered I would not be allowed in here, silly me, of course women are not allowed in here!”

“I thought, when I saw you, that she had made an exception because I had been shot and all, that you could come up and visit.” John said.

“Oh no, I just walked in the front door. But now there is a far greater problem John. How on God’s green Earth am I going to get out of here?”

John took a hefty swallow of Laudanum straight from the bottle and contemplated that question. Flora went to her handbag at the floor and reached in.

“I almost forgot. I brought you a gift. It’s called science fiction. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea. Jules Verne. I think you will like it, my father brought two copies back from Topeka, this one, he wants you to have.”

“This is wonderful thank you, and be sure to thank him for me, my old books I have read over and over. This is wonderful. I think I know how to get you out of here unnoticed. Outside my left window is an iron fire ladder, all you have to do is stand in the window, climb onto it and ride it down, it stops about six feet off the ground so you will have to hang off the end and let yourself drop the rest of the way.” John said in a very low voice.

“My horse is out front, what if she sees me mounting and riding off? She’ll know it was me in here.” Flora whispered back.

“Well, she mostly sits in the back of the house near the kitchen, so it is not likely she will be watching the front, besides it is a dark night enough that she would not easily identify you, even if she does see you.” John assured her.

Flora leaned over John and placed her hand on his chest. Her perfume enveloped John like a mystical vapor meant to cast a spell. He looked into her brown eyes by the lamplight as she smiled a content look of a wife, or of a mother, she then pressed her face against his whiskered cheek, then turned in towards him and softly kissed his face. Quickly she stood up, as if for fear, of any further contact of intimate nature. Flora softly retrieved her cloak, her hat and her handbag then went to the room’s side window.

“Easy at first, it might be stuck, push on the wood gently.” John warned.

The three foot wide window frame creaked upwards with resistance, but Flora lifted slowly until it was fully opened. She leaned her head out and looked down to the alley below, she looked left and saw the fire ladder, she then dropped her hat, her handbag, and her cloak to the bricked alleyway below. She stood up straight and reached behind her neck and unfastened the press buttons that were restraining her neck in a giraffe-like pose. She rolled both of her bustled long blouse sleeves upwards until they were tight around her upper arms. She reached out to grab the edge of the ladder and stepped into the window. In a smooth and seemingly experienced motion she swung her right leg out and onto the ladder, then she pulled her left leg through the window and onto the ladder. Flora was now gone from John’s view and the window was wide open. Flora whispered loudly from outside his room, hanging to the iron ladder:

“John, it is not going down! What do I do now?”

“You have to jump on it a bit to start it down, be sure to close my window or I’ll have a shattered leg and pneumonia!”

“Right.”

Flora jumped a small jump to jostle the fire ladder loose. With that the ladder abruptly dropped about five feet and stopped six feet short of the alley. A tearing sound was heard as the ladder fell into place, a long tear of cloth, then a long silent pause. Flora waited at the bottom of the ladder still a daunting distance from the brick alley floor below. John lay suspended in anxiety waiting to hear from her, his ears intensely listening for a sign of Mrs. Frattalone being disturbed by the noise of the ladder, or better the sound of Flora returning up the ladder to close the window before she leaves. Flora was not to be seen nor heard. She was in a state of embarrassment and social shock, clinging to the ladder and looking upwards at a yard and a half of cloth, that was hooked to an iron wheel that was protruding from the brick wall next to the fire ladder, cloth that used to be the whole of her skirt. At first she could not fathom the reality she had placed herself in, hanging off the side of a building, in her knickers and showing her buttocks and legs to anyone who might be walking on Country Club Avenue. It was beyond doubt the most embarrassing moment Flora might ever experience in her lifetime. Her thoughts raced in panic.

“Oh no, what to do, what to do, I can’t yell to John for help, what if it gets worse when I climb back up, what if my knickers are also tearing off! Oh lord in heaven why did I do this?”

John is now beginning to panic, “did she fall, is she hurt, what if she is unconscious?” John thought of the worst scenarios as he waited a short eternity for any sound or word of Flora’s condition from outside his wide open window.

“It was a stupid idea, a woman climbing down a fire escape at night, climbing out a window, a lady of her caliber, I am a fool to have suggested this! Maybe if she gets on with it soon, I can start reading this book. Dammit I have to piss again! Where is she?”

She had no choice, Flora had to close John’s window because it was a cool night and he would surely catch cold in his weakened condition. She began her ascent slowly, being careful to place her boot bottoms on the rungs and not to catch her heels. She reached the window’s bottom height and with one hand she rigorously tore the snagged end of her skirt off of the iron wheel that guided the side of the ladder, her skirt now fell below her like an advertisement banner for John’s room that may have read “ . . come all - see the tantalizing half naked woman on the side of a building at John Irwins!” She leaned in to see John who’s face was affixed towards the window waiting to see her.

“My God Flora what happened, are you well?” John whispered with great relief.

“Yes but I’m half naked out here, my skirt ripped nearly all the way off! Is there anything, like a bed sheet maybe, that I could wrap around myself for the ride home?” Flora said in desperation.

“Mrs. Frattalone takes everything when she changes the linens, I’ve got nothing.”

Suddenly a knock at John’s door, it was Mrs. Frattalone again, back to inquire about the noise:

“Mr. Irwin, Mr. Irwin there was a strange noise up here!”

The door knob began to turn, Flora quickly disappeared from the window and leaned herself away from the window’s view, hugging the ladder closely to reduce her visible profile. Mrs. Frattalone strolled in abruptly without asking permission, glancing left and right looking for a woman without even looking at John, who by this time was noticeably sweating from the tension of the escapade.

“Land sakes Mr. Irwin I could just swear that I heard a scraping noise and a woman’s voice on this floor!”

She pronounced as if to excuse the invasion of John’s privacy. Immediately she spotted the wide open window and without hesitation swiftly closed it and locked it.

“You’ll catch your death of the consumption Mr. Irwin. Was this window open before? I had not even noticed it!” She turned to John for an answer in seriousness.

“Oh uhh, young Sally had opened it before she left tonight, I umm, I must have forgotten to ask her to shut it. Thank you very much Mrs. Frattalone, you are so kind.” John replied in a tremor voice and forced himself to smile.

“Well I must be getting too old, because apparently I am hearing things that do not exist. I’ll take that chamber pot for you and bring you another. Do you want an extra blanket while I am going down the stairway?”

“I’m very comfortable Mrs. Frattalone, thank you kindly, but I am warm.”

Suddenly Mrs. Frattalone was cordial as if nothing was wrong. John thought this puzzling since she had seemed so determined to find the mystery woman only a minute prior. She came close to John at his bedside and leaned over to his face, she then whispered:

“If she is still out there hanging on in ten minutes or so, I’ll send for the fire department, they’ll get her down safely. Good night Mr. Irwin.”

Mrs. Frattalone was nobody’s fool. John could think of no response. She gave John a corner of her mouth smile as if to say, “you mischievous youngsters!” She closed the door behind her and turned down the hallway lamps and went downstairs.

Flora climbed down several rungs of the ladder watching as the remains of her skirt inched closer to the street level. Then she heard the sound of footsteps, a couple was walking towards the building on the sidewalk. Flora became paralyzed with fear of embarrassment. She held herself very still on the ladder and stared straight at the bricks on the wall in front of her hiding her face from view of the street. The couple walking towards her was engaged in conversation and this was a relief to Flora, for they may be too distracted to look upwards and down the alley way. They passed without incident and Flora paused to catch her breath before letting her self drop to the alley below. Her skirt could not be salvaged for use of any kind, it was ripped and shredded in three directions, she peeled if off from her blouse and tossed it aside. Her horse was tied directly in front of the boarding house a mere twenty feet away, which might as well have been a mile. A street lamp was illuminating her horse well enough for it to be seen from a block away or more. It was now nearly nine o’clock and the lamps should be getting turned down soon. But the town’s lamp lighter was no where to be seen. Flora stood in the alley in her knickers and boots, her hat on her head, her handbag in hand, cloak around her shoulders, clutching the corner of the building and spying her horse, with a face full of worry as if staring at her own future death. Two minutes passed, five minutes passed and she ran for the hitching post holding down her hat as she ran right out to the street to avoid the wooden planked porch of the boarding house and made a rightward turn for her horse and she mounted swiftly, throwing her half-naked leg upward and over like a cowboy, she reached for the reins, but they were not there. She had forgotten to untie her horse from the hitching post. Quickly dismounting and in three swift steps she reached the post and unwrapped the reins. Throwing the reins over the horse’s head and onto the saddle she mounted again, her leg flesh flashing up into the night for any bystander to see, she grabbed the reins and the evening breeze swept down the street and blew her hat clear off and she watched it hop with the wind, thirty feet way, up into the air above the sidewalk and one hundred feet away to rest on the top of an azalea bush. If Salina were a larger city she could leave the hat right there in the bushes and some lucky lady would have a free hat. But Salina is small enough that the hat would be recognized and reunited with it’s owner with little effort. The Salina Courier had a Lost and Found area on page three. The Lutheran Church where she attended has one hundred and twenty parishioners, and for certainty, all of the women there would know whose hat it was, one of them probably lives on Country Club Avenue, and may even find the hat. Flora will have to retrieve the hat, under the lamplight, half naked, on horseback. Flora pulled a rein strong and kicked her horse’s rear sides swiftly and galloped towards the hat in the azalea bushes, she rode up onto the sidewalk, past one house with lights on inside, past a second house, she bent over low to hide her head, she readied to grab the hat, she reached out her arm and snatched the brim so fast she could hear the sound of wind inside the hat. She rode into the night, embarrassed, heart throbbing, feeling no relief until she would reach her own bed and pillow. Four miles from the ranch and the horse ride of Flora’s life was coming to an end, she was begining to feel safe, she could see the turn off to Topeka Road that she would pass by, marking the third and final leg of the trip back from Salina. Then lamps came off of Topeka Road, it was a Model T flatbed, heading south and coming towards her. She had no choice, the area she was in was wooded, and there was a drainage ravine on both sides, making an escape on horseback in the night dangerous for her and the horse. She had to pass right by him. The road was not wide enough for two wagons, one always has to pull over should two meet in opposition, and it was Flora’s hope that the driver of the Ford would see her soon enough to hug the side of the road and let her by safely. Flora let out a “Yahh!” She galloped quickly towards the Ford and indeed the driver saw her and pulled over enough to let her gallop past.

The following Monday edition of the Salina Courier had an interesting one inch by two inch column story on page two, down low on the left: “Lady Godiva Seen Riding North Saturday Eve.” Flora had been immortalized in print. When John read the news, he laughed with glee so hard that he shook his wounded leg in it’s cast, sending pain straight to his mind, but it was worth it. On that following Monday morning, Mrs. Frattalone sat in her kitchen and upon reading the story, spit out her tea all over her kitchen table and had a hearty laugh. She cut out the clipping and hung it on her ice box.

Three weeks after the shooting, John chose to abstain from the Laudanum elixir, but with great difficulty. Doc Toby had hired a Chinaman to come by and he had provided John with a strange and putrid tea which he drank approximately ten times a day while going through the extreme discomfort of the absence of Laudanum in his body. Like millions of drunks who swear by God, while vomiting out their insides, that they will never drink again, during his withdraw from the drug John promised himself he would never use it again, no matter how much pain he was in.

Four weeks after the shooting John was no longer bed bound with his cast in suspension. He was getting up, hopping around and using a crutch, clumsily. His cast was so heavy and awkward it was still too dangerous for him to finesse the stairway of the boarding house, or stairway at the railroad office. John’s boss, Mr. Auburn, the owner of the Kansas Pacific Railway Company, was determined to keep John’s job ready for him. He would stop by John’s room every couple of days and bring him receipts and invoices and the bookkeeper’s entries from the previous business day, to balance the books while in his room..

Over the course of ten weeks Flora had returned to John’s bedside many times. Mr. Jenkins and Mrs. Jenkins were under the impression she was attending choral practice two nights a week at the Church. Flora would leave her home dressed proper and in the stable, each night before riding into town, she would change into riding chaps and a vest and suit coat, and she would put up her hair and put on a mans straw hat. Flora’s years of kindness to her little brother had proven valuable. Jeremiah would help, watching out for her parents and see that the view from the front gate was clear then he would signal Flora to safe passage. Flora’s nighttime visits were the saving grace to John’s sanity while he was trapped in his room.

It was Flora’s eighth clandestine visit to his room that John would always remember fondly and privately, with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. John wound up the new phonograph machine purchased for him two weeks prior by Ernest Bleckley’s father Theodore Bleckley, in an obvious attempt to alleviate his guilt. John gracefully accepted it because he had wanted one. John selected one of five cylinders he had received with the phonograph, a piano rag song labeled: “Solace, A Mexican Serenade, by Scot Joplin.” John dragged his cast leg back to his bed and reclined with pillows under his back. He checked his pocket watch to see how much closer to eight o’clock he was than he was three minutes before. Eight o’clock was the time that Flora had been consistently arriving to his four wall and two windowed, restricted world. It was still light out as summer had arrived in Kansas. Flora would trot east on Country Club Avenue with her head down to hide her feminine facial features. She appeared to be just another salesperson or trader or supplier leaving town or heading to Topeka. She learned to tie her horse to a tree two houses down in front of a small park and that perhaps people would think it belonged visitors at the house. She arrived under the fire ladder at one minute after eight, and pulled a five foot horse whip out of the belt of her pants. She flung the leather upward with expertise and swiftly caught the last rung with the end of her whip and it wrapped around tight, she pulled down the ladder with a consistent smooth, single motion. John put down his watch after checking for the third time in a couple of minutes, he heard the ladder in the background of the piano music from the phonograph, “she is here!” He cupped his hand over his mouth and exhaled to smell his breath. He brushed back the part of his hair with his fingers and pulled the sides of his thin mustache, twisting the ends with his thumbs and forefingers to shape and matte the upwards curl on both sides. The ladder began to shake as Flora climbed up. The window had been open all day in preparation for the night. Keeping his cast leg on the bed, John leaned over the side of his bed and stretched to reach the bottom shelf of the nightstand, he pushed aside a three inch thick book of The Collected Works of William Shakespeare to reveal a green wine bottle and two glasses. Mrs. Frattalone was a known Temperance advocate, rule number two at the boarding house and so John did all in his power to conceal the “Devil’s Fluids.” On the nightstand he set up the miniature bistro he and Flora had become accustomed to. She entered with her right leg first, swinging her body through with grace.

“My God woman you are late. I thought the Church Chorus finally caught you!”

“Then I would have to sing, what a horrible thought!” Flora said while smiling and flush with fresh air.

She pulled off the straw hat and pulled out her hair comb and her gorgeous raven hair fell down and bounced to a soft landing below her shoulders. Flora let her suit coat and vest drop on the floor beside John’s bed and she gently climbed onto his bed, her leg covering his and her breasts pressed against his side, she caressed his chest in circles, and teased at his mustache. John reached over and pulled the cork on the wine and poured two half glasses and handed one to Flora. Flora sipped the wine slowly, without even a small noise, without a splash or a bubble, the red wine barely reached the supple shores of her upper lip when the nectar kissed her red pillowed flesh, then receded back into the glass, as if waltzing together.

“Mmmm. There is a bit difference from the wine the other night. Better I think.”

“This is called Rosae, it’s a Spanish wine, the Mexicans drink it a lot.” John delightedly looked into her eyes.

“I brought you another book.” Flora grinned and watched John’s reaction.

Flora produced a small book as if by magic from underneath her, in her concealed right hand. Flora likes timing and surprises and perfect moments with right words. John plays the game well, it comes from being well read, the drama and action is always conducted with perfect timing in a good book, no awkward breaks in book-world, no stuttering, no inappropriate noises or smells. Flora wants life to emulate that, John knows and tries his best. Flora held up Mark Twain’s The Tale of a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, and she smiled.

“You wanted this one. Am I right?”

“Yes, yes, most definitely. I have always wanted to read this, thank you dear!”

They kissed softly, John holding the back of Flora’s head with a Mark Twain novel while holding his glass of wine in his other. Their faces pulled away from each other and they relished the texture of lifting away from the surfaces of each other’s moist lips, then to press them together again and enjoy the comfort of softness and the warmth of each other’s breath as if presented as gifts to each other’s cheeks. Flora pulled back to look into John’s eyes and she grasped his breast muscles to push up and away from John, over him her face turned from lustful to serious. John sensed she had news or that something was bothering her.

“John I can longer stand it. I don’t think I can wait another month, or another week or another hour.” Flora confessed without taking her eyes from John’s.

“Darling, what do you mean?” John inquired.

John knew what she was feeling but he was afraid of this moment. He had never been in love, he never been physical with a woman, before Flora. He had never even kissed a girl or a woman before. His sexual education had been limericks and dirty jokes he had overheard from the men at the Cattle Exchange when he was a teenager. Sex had been a vague idea, a mystery to be disclosed inevitably in his future, an enigma with images for clues, with innuendo to imply what steps are to be taken and when.

“Oh John you know how I feel. I am burning John. I feel a fire that can not be satisfied. John, just the smell of you, of your clothes, your soap even, make me mad with desire. It feels right John, it feels natural, so I’m not afraid John. My nether region burns for you john. It is as if I have waves of water within me, down low, and they flow towards you, each wave presses against my private area from deep inside ,for you. I can not ride my horse home, after seeing you, without succumbing to some sort of delirious tremors, several times before arriving home. We have been together too closely to avoid what must be John.”

John’s heart began racing faster than the four hooves of a horse in gallop. He sensed the inevitable. Flora began to move her left hand up and down his torso, squeezing his right breast with each upward stroke.

“Would I go to hell for having sexual intercourse before marriage, was there a hell, was there a god? Oh shut up John with the Jesus shit! If not, why not go ahead and indulge the body? What about her parents? Would Mr. Jenkins hunt me down and kill me? What if I get wounded again and not killed. Ouch! What if Bleckley escapes from the sheriff and hunts me down and shoots me again! Would I have to learn to be a gunslinger? Hmm, that wouldn’t be so bad. What if Flora chooses someone else? After all she has already changed her mind once for me!”

Flora’s hands quickly distracted John’s mind from the wondering doom saying that was leading him down a path marked by a sign that read “No Pleasure Just Ahead.” All things were just right, like Flora liked it, timing, atmosphere, like a novelette. John had no excuses except the ones that only sound irrational when spoken aloud and not through the mind. Maybe it was the ragtime music playing over and over again on the Edison cylinder, or the breeze of the summer night coming through the room, the safety afforded by Mrs. Frattalone being cleverly fooled by their antics, or was she? The wine warmed their thoughts, and the air warmed their bed and Flora Jenkins needed no further assistance in getting warm.

John never remembered the shaky nervous undressing and the self conscious repositioning of the hands and body, the excessive sweating, or the accidental outburst of moaning that scared them both into thinking they had been caught. He would always forget that he fell out of the bed that night, with a thud on the floor from his cast that caused them to wait in silence and anticipation for the dreaded Mrs. Frattalone, for ten minutes, before continuing their interplay in relative safety. John would never remember that Flora spilled the wine all over the floor and it took a week to get the smell out of the room. He forgot that he was shocked and amazed when he ejaculated into Flora, not knowing what in the hell had just happened to him, if it was normal or not. John would eventually forget that Mrs. Frattalone had confronted him three days later in the hallway, in front of two other men, about that “peculiar stain that wouldn’t come out,” of his bed sheet.

John would never forget that Joplin song again, because by the thirty-second time it played that night, he desperately wanted it off, but did not want to leave Flora’s embrace for a technicality. John would never in his lifetime forget the site of Flora naked and above him, her back arched upwards, her breasts separated and free, her hair wild and wispy, her shadow in the lamplight casting an erotic dance on the ceiling above her. He would never forget the feel of her soft womanly flesh, rounded, warm and smooth under his fingers that seemed a perfect fit for his hands. Her nipples delicate, dark and alive, pulsing and playful as she swayed gently backwards, forwards and backwards as her knees were planted in the bed on each side of John’s hips. John would never forget the way that Flora wrapped her arms under his and grabbed his shoulders from behind and with her wet pubic region nearly on John’s stomach, pushed herself downward on his hips, over and over again onto John’s penis as if attempting to break it. Never will John forget the way she soon quivered through her entire body, squeezing his groin as if to smash a walnut, and shaking like a leaf on a tree ready to fall in a gentle wind. She breathed hard and a sound of moaning came from deep in her chest and then she calmed for a short time after. Far be it that John would ever forget being enveloped by Flora, encased in her love, and embraced by her feminine muscles, on that night, at the center of Flora where her warm fluid seeped down onto John’s body and seemingly closed the space between the lovers making them one, warm and fluidic on that unforgettable night.

The next day after supper John made a special request to young Sally Muir.

“Can you keep a secret Sally, a really big secret for me?”

“Well it depends Mr. Irwin, I won’t go against God or my family for any secret or for anyone. But I do keep a lot of secrets for my friends at school and Church.”

“Well Sally, my secret is nothing that would offend your principles, it really is rather simple. I am going to ask Miss Flora Jenkins for her hand in marriage.”

“Oh my Mr. Irwin how exciting! Flora is a wonderful girl. She used to tutor me in writing when I was in the primary school, she is a fine catch, as my pop would say, Mr. Irwin!”

Sally’s eyes were wide with wonder, as she visualized in a child-like haze, of the romance that she hoped, would one day be hers.

“Here is what I need from you Sally. I need you to go over to Iron Street, to Seitz’s Drug Store, and find Mr. Seitz or Mrs. Seitz. Explain to them my situation, although they probably know my situation, tell them I need to shop for an engagement ring befitting a Kansas princess, don’t mention who she is. Although they probably know that too. See if one of them can come over here and show me several rings to choose from. You can also tell them that I can not spend more than three hundred dollars and that I have no gold and can write them a bank note.”

“Why that’s an easy task Mr. Irwin, I am sure the Seitz’s will be able to accommodate your wishes!” She smiled eagerly.

“Thank you Sally. There is also incentive if you can keep this secret until I have Flora’s hand, I’ll order anything you want from the Sears and Roebuck, and it can cost as much as five dollars.”

“Oh Mr. Irwin, you are too kind! Why I could get a dozen Edison cylinders for that much money!” Sally actually jumped up off the floor, shaking the lamps and the windows.

“Easy now Sally, remember the secret has to be kept, you have to let the Seitz’s know too, and don’t let anyone in the drug store overhear you. Besides the five dollars you’ll earn for your silence, you have also earned this gift for your meticulous care of me while this confounded leg heals. You have been an angel in this room.”

People that John would meet or greet after the shooting and while his leg was recovering would all make the same statements to the affect of: “Thank goodness you are alive and well!” Or, “what a lucky man you are!” John would always acknowledge he agreed, but it felt uncomfortable, conflicted, because he felt just as glad that Bleckley was going to prison, and he felt especially relieved that the competition for Flora had been eliminated from his world. Taking comfort in the bad decisions of another was a new, yet dark, feeling for John. John did not believe in fate or destiny, but he often considered in the context of this entire mishap that if such a concept as fate did exist, it had definitely favored him, for Flora was to be his.

Ernest Bleckley was tried in Superior Court in Topeka two months and one week after shooting John. Due to the distance, the witnesses from Quincy’s that night, were able to submit affidavits certified by a Justice a month earlier. Bleckley was sentenced to ten years for assault with a deadly weapon. His claim that the gun had went off, twice, accidentally was made believable thanks to a high priced defense lawyer from St. Louis. If not for his fancy defense he may have been sentenced to life in Kansas State Prison. Mr. Bleckley Sr. had attempted to bribe the judge and had to spend thirty days in the Topeka sheriff’s jail house, sharing a cell with his son Ernest. Word has it, they fought like mad dogs in the cell on more than one occasion, requiring doctor’s visits both times to patch them up.

With John’s cast off he was more free, out of his room, back at the office, being vital again. He used one crutch and was putting slightly more pressure on his leg every day. When news of his engagement to Flora reached the Jenkins, John was warmly welcomed into the family without hesitation. Many afternoons and weekend days he would travel out to the ranch to spend time with the family. Enjoying meals that could only be so delicious when prepared with the care of a family, care provided by Thelma and Mrs. Jenkins. He would often play with young Jeremiah, jumping from the loft in the barn into huge piles of hay, fishing for catfish and hunting rabbit and fox, playing catch and baseball in the yard behind the house. Mr. Jenkins taught John to operate the Model T, how to start it, how to change the oil, change a tire, add water, drive through mud. Flora taught John to throw a rope and lasso a cow, how to throw a knife and hit a thin a tree, and how to be helplessly in love with a prairie goddess.

On the last Saturday of September, Nineteen o-eight, the wedding of Flora Jenkins to John Irwin on the town common, next to the pond, on the bandstand, was the event of the season for all of Salina. Mr. Jenkins had provided food enough for half the town to gorge on. The brass band played old favorites, and Quincy’s bar had wheeled their piano down the street and hired a ragtime player for after the wedding. Twenty tables on the green held nearly every one known by both the Jenkins and John. A sea of parasols, ladies flowered hats, black silk covered top hats and straw hats bobbed up and down and mingled on the green all day and into the night.

About an hour before the wedding, John and Ron Bartlett took the stage of the bandstand and held an award ceremony for Whitey Smith. “For Courage in the Face of Drunken Danger,” read the plaque underneath the bowling trophy. “Special thanks always from John Irwin.” Read the inscription. All had a great laugh but the seriousness of John’s gratitude came through just fine. Everyone shook Whitey’s hand and thanked him for acting so quickly and for saving a fine citizen.

Beside John at the alter Flora was as a graceful living statuette, as if a tribute to all Earthly beauty loved by mankind. In times compared with all others for John, looking through Flora’s veil at her smiling face, would be the one time John would choose to live in. Her lacy and bustled wedding dress matched her to the standard of a queen, and through the sunshine of the afternoon, her veil disclosed a smile that she could not restrain while listening to the preacher and looking at John. After the ceremony began, there must have been twenty or more women sobbing in the audience, with Mrs. Jenkins front and center isle conducting the crying orchestra by kerchief as if waving a baton, as if on cue in a burlesque chorus line, the men would pull out their handkerchiefs and hand them over to the women. John remembers that God had been inserted throughout the vows and the ceremonial lecture from the preacher, but he ignored diatribe and did not care and said his “I do” with all seriousness.