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  DEAR AMERICA

  The Diary

  of Angeline Reddy

  Behind the Masks

  SUSAN PATRON

  For Richard Jackson,

  with love

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Bodie, California 1880

  Friday, June 4, 1880

  Saturday, June 5, 1880

  Monday, June 7, 1880

  Tuesday, June 8, 1880

  Wednesday, June 9, 1880

  Thursday, June 10, 1880

  Friday, June 11, 1880

  Saturday, June 12, 1880

  Monday, June 14, 1880

  Thursday, June 17, 1880

  Saturday, June 19, 1880

  Monday, June 21, 1880

  Tuesday, June 22, 1880

  Friday, June 25, 1880

  Sunday, June 27, 1880

  Tuesday, June 29, 1880

  Wednesday, June 30, 1880

  Thursday, July 1, 1880

  Sunday, July 4, 1880

  Tuesday, July 6, 1880

  Epilogue

  Life in America in 1880

  Historical Note

  Mask Making circa 1880

  From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Other books in the Dear America series

  Copyright

  Bodie, California

  1880

  Friday, June 4, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  I know I’m going to have to look in Papa’s casket just to prove he’s not in it. When we heard he got murdered, Momma took it pretty hard. I would have, too, if I’d believed it, which I did not. Stabbed in the back, the messenger said, on the stairway between Molinelli’s Saloon and Papa’s law office on the floor above. But Papa’s much too smart to be dead.

  This news was delivered tonight by a young clerk from the Wells Fargo & Co. office who said his name was Antoine Duval. He said “Madame” to Momma and “Miss Angeline” to me and explained that Wells Fargo was deeply saddened by our loss, which was also the town’s. I think what he meant was that the town of Bodie would never have as great a lawyer—Papa had not once lost a case even though he often represented rogues and scoundrels that everyone else considered to be guilty. And he’d recovered a lot of the bank’s loot stolen during stage robberies.

  Mr. Duval regretted that the knife used by the murderer had not been found and there were no other clues. Momma swayed a bit on her feet.

  She had received him wearing a black veil to hide her inflamed cheek, caused by an infection from something lodged under her gum. Yesterday her cheek had swollen so much that it forced her eye to close.

  Since she was in some distress, I took the paper Mr. Duval offered. “Look, Momma,” I said to her, pointing to the signature.

  She frowned at it. “This doctor must have been almighty liquored up or else on a choppy ocean when he declared my husband officially dead,” she said, “since his name goes above and below the line and all the way off the page. Where was the doc when he signed it?”

  “Molinelli’s,” Mr. Duval admitted. Everyone knew that of all the saloons in Bodie, Molinelli’s had the cheapest drink, the crookedest gambling, and the worst brawls. Papa got a lot of clients just by going downstairs and offering his services when things got particularly loud.

  “Well, I guess that’s as good a place as any for the doc to practice medicine,” Momma said as she ripped the paper in two and threw the pieces over her shoulder. “But I believe he made a mistake about this particular death.” When she gets mad, you don’t want to be the person in front of her—she’ll take it out on you for dead sure. I was glad that she had regained her spirits, but regretful that this young man was receiving the brunt of her fury. There are times when she embarrasses me nearly beyond toleration.

  Since I didn’t believe Papa to be in the least bit dead, I felt free to observe our visitor. Mr. Duval had ink stains on his long fingers, a thin white scar from his forehead down through his left eyebrow, and a rare gentlemanly grace about him. Dark hair curled at his neck, side whiskers shadowed his jaw, and a sharp Adam’s apple jutted from his throat. His bearing was gallant and dashing. I imagined him as able to recite poetry while dancing a waltz, handle a dagger as well as a quill pen, strum a banjo or kill a rattler—what I mean is, he had the air of a man of numerous and dangerous talents—so he got my interest.

  Antoine Duval bowed politely and tipped his Stetson to Momma. He turned to me and raised his handsome, tragic eyebrow. Then he did a most shocking thing that I confide here and only here in my secret diary. He winked at me, as if we were in a saloon and I were some sort of fancy woman. Yet it seemed more friendly than forward, and I returned his look with wide eyes and pink cheeks. As he backed out of the door, I wondered if the wink was a signal, not of any improper attitude toward me, but about Papa’s supposed death.

  Plenty of people had tried to kill Papa since he became a criminal lawyer. If someone finally succeeded, which is about as likely as church services in Molinelli’s Saloon, I wanted proof of it.

  Saturday, June 5, 1880

  Dear Diary,

  This morning Momma and I went to Dr. Rawbone’s dental office as her infection was worse and she had developed a fever. The doc gave her a tincture of opium first, to lessen the pain. He said he would have to lance the boil on her upper gum—caused, he thought, by a bit of abrasive cuttlefish in that awful store-bought tooth powder advertised in the newspaper. Momma, fierce and calm, sat in the reclining dental chair. Of course she insisted I observe and help—she had made sure I watched medical proceedings ever since I turned seven, and thus I had no fear of blood. I have seen bullets removed, knife wounds treated, toes amputated, bowels purged, and many babies birthed. I know nothing of the civilized parts of the world, but Momma says women out west need to be ready to do most anything, or someone is bound to die. Of course many die anyway.

  I was given the job of holding a small gilded mirror in such a way that it reflected the light upon her face, for Dr. Rawbone’s windows, none too clean, allowed scant daylight into the room. Each time he peered into her mouth, he commanded me to tilt the mirror to one side or the other.

  At last he advanced and applied his sharp little tool. Immediately a great deal of blood, streaked with straw-colored pus, issued from her mouth, and filled the air with a nasty, fetid odor. The blood and pus ran onto a napkin tied around Momma’s neck, and onto Dr. Rawbone’s hands. He wiped his tool on his vest, took a breath, and gripped Momma’s head, for she had lost consciousness. “Once more,” he said, and again, blood and pus gushed out. I clutched the mirror, watching Dr. Rawbone, trying to breathe shallowly, as the stench was horrible. He seemed sure and quick, I’ll give him that.

  He pressed the gum with a whiskey-soaked handkerchief, wiping his tool again on his vest before returning it to the jumble of other picks and probes on a tray. Among the tools was a half-smoked cigar, which he lit. “Foul taste, pus. Swab it with whiskey.” He seemed to be muttering to himself, but I paid attention in case he said something important. “Rinse. Warm salty water.” He peered at me from around a cloud of smoke. “See to it. Three times a day.” He frowned at Momma, then at me. “Get to the apothecary while she recovers. Buy laudanum. Buy a quantity. Be back here in half an hour.”

  I hurried down Main Street to the pharmacy, bought the medicine and a few penny candies, and with plenty of time left, nipped around behind Ward’s Furniture and Undertaking Shop. Mr. Ward had a fine display of coffins, a rocking chair, and a curio cabinet in the front window, but I was interested in what was hidden in the back room.

  No need to tiptoe, either. Carpenters hammered on three different buildings, a team of horses and mules pulled a wagon
loaded with supplies toward the warehouse, and the stamp mill, of course, was pounding ore from the mines all day and all night. The racket from the mill was so loud and the force so great that it shook the ground. You could have screamed bloody murder and no one would have looked up from what they were doing.

  Ward’s back door, facing the alley, was ajar. I slipped inside.

  I figured the big casket was Papa’s because someone, no doubt using the charred stick that lay upon the sawdust by my feet, had crudely written on its lid his initials, “PR” (for Patrick Reddy) followed by “Esq.”

  I lifted the lid. Papa wasn’t inside. Though I hadn’t believed him dead, relief washed through me, for here was proof.

  There were also, judging from the weight when I hefted them, quite a few occupied coffins sized for small children and babies. These were grouped together to one side, and I didn’t fancy staying long among them for fear their ghosts would try to seize me.

  I looked around Mr. Ward’s back room in the gloomy half-light. Five plaster death masks were lined up on a table, faces of men remarkably precise in every detail of wrinkle and hair, lip and lash. None looked familiar to me, even the one whose gray plaster skin was still wet when I touched it. The velvet curtain separating the front from the back room twitched a little, a sickly sweet smell rose up, and I figured it wasn’t wise to linger amid the dead and their ghosts. It seemed a good idea to get away from there, as Mr. Ward would not take well to my sneaking into his establishment.

  I grabbed the stick with its burned end and turned to go, wondering: If Papa was not dead, then where was he?

  As I made my escape to the alley, I glanced back and saw the velvet curtain twitch once again. I think the undertaker may have seen me, for I got a glimpse of his sour face, but can’t be sure.

  I was peering through the road dust left by a passing wagon in the alley, about to retrace my steps to the dentist’s, when a horrifying sight appeared from around the corner. A giant man with long rusty-colored hair and drooping mustache, as huge a human being as I’ve ever seen, lunged toward me, cradling a woman whose hands and dress were covered with blood. A small Chinese girl jogged behind him. As they came closer, I recognized the wounded woman and I screamed, for it was my mother.

  I would have lashed that giant with my bit of blackened stick, except that my arms were suddenly caught from behind. I kicked backward like a startled horse, but my captor held me in a strong lock. There was a strange rushing noise in my ears, which eventually subsided enough for me to hear his voice saying, over and over, “She is all right, she is all right, she fainted but she’ll be all right, we’re taking her home.”

  At this, I went limp and he released me. I whirled around and before thinking I delivered a savage kick to his shin with my boot. He looked exceedingly pained and surprised but my satisfaction was short, for I finally noticed the scar running through his eyebrow: It was the handsome Wells Fargo clerk, Mr. Antoine Duval.

  Furiously, for all of this was too much to take in at once, I turned back to the giant man, who had lurched on ahead carrying my mother in his arms as if she were a doll. “Wait!” I called. “What has happened?”

  Mr. Duval was hopping on one foot, clutching his shin in both hands. “The dentist needed his chair for the next patient, so at his request we were TRYING to take your mother to her home,” he said through clenched teeth. “He said she will recover PROVIDED she receives the proper care, which is exceedingly DOUBTFUL if YOU are to be in charge of administering it.”

  “Oh!” I said, and felt my face redden. “And may I ask what does any of this have to do with you?” At which he straightened up and looked at me levelly.

  “I was having a private conversation with my acquaintance”—he nodded toward the giant—“in front of the dentist’s office when Dr. Rawbone himself emerged and asked if I happened to know the patient and where she lived. I did, of course, as well as the dreadful situation of your father having been … having lost his … of your father’s demise. So I offered to assist. We were ATTEMPTING to—”

  “As my mother told you last night,” I said, rudely cutting him off, “my father is not dead.” Papa says I am as shy as a rabbit and he would have been shocked to hear my retort to Mr. Duval. I was almighty perturbed because I knew I’d be in trouble later for not returning to the dentist’s office on time, with the result that Momma was now being carried through the streets by a stranger. That giant man strode back to us, easily supporting her as if she were a child, his massive forehead crumpled in worry.

  “She wakes up for a minute, Antoine, and then she faints again,” he said to the young man whose shin would have a large purple bruise on it tonight. “And her mouth bleeds still.”

  “Miss Angeline, you had better loosen her”—Antoine glanced at Momma’s tiny waist and paused, for it would have been rude to say the word corset—“her … garment. I believe it is why she keeps fainting.”

  I knew he was right and I blushed. Momma had asked me to cinch the cords of her stays extra tight this morning. “Kindly turn your back,” I barked at him.

  He gave a deep theatrical bow and, turning, he murmured, “ ‘Boldness is a mask for fear, however great,’ as old Lucanus said.” The words stuck in my frantic mind, for he was right—my boldness did mask my fear.

  “You, sir,” I said to the giant, “put her feet on the ground and be good enough to hold her upright.” It’s true that I could never be as forward as Momma—some would call it unladylike—by commanding people to do my bidding, and it was scandalous for me to behave this way to grown men. The fear of losing her spurred me to unexpected impudence. To the Chinese girl I jerked my chin. “Do come over here and help me,” I told her.

  Though covered with road dust herself, the girl drew a spotless white linen from a cloth bag; she folded it into a small square and carefully lifted Momma’s upper lip. Pressing the cloth to the bloody gum, she nodded at me. I frowned up at the giant man; he looked back at me like a soldier awaiting his command. I said, “Turn her so she’s facing you and grip her by her arms—let her forehead rest against you—don’t let her head flop back! And pray close your eyes.” He obeyed me. In this way I was able to unbutton Momma’s outer skirts and reach beneath to untie the corset laces and loosen them.

  “All right, mister,” I snapped to the huge man, “now you can open your eyes and pick her up again.”

  At that moment, Mrs. Bessie Babcockry opened the back door of the wigmaker’s shop, where she worked. Her hair, thick and golden, was arranged in artful disarray high on her head (in a way I have never been able to achieve, though I have tried mightily) like an advertisement for the small wiglets, curls, and false buns she fashioned. She flung a bucket of some foul liquid straight out in our path. When she saw us, she narrowed her eyes, dropped her bucket, and crossed her arms.

  “Angeline Reddy, what the devil are you doing with them men? Taking a back alley like you got something to hide. The sight of your mother, passed out in broad daylight, would be shock enough for decent folks, and it’s clear she consorted with them scoundrels—her underskirts are showing at this very moment—drinking spirits, frequenting opium dens”—here she glanced at the Chinese girl, who gazed back with a thin smile on her face—“and then she fell and bloodied herself. And dragging her only daughter along. A disgrace and a shame! Pray word of it does not spread, for it would stain the Reddy reputation, yet I’m certain others will want to know about this spectacle….”

  “Mrs. Babcockry,” I began, so filled with fury I could barely speak. “Kindly do not—”

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Antoine Duval interrupted. “You must be exhausted, what with the huge pile of nuggets and bullion that Mr. Babcockry won at the faro table last night. I saw those winnings and I said to myself, That man may have been a four-dollar-a-day miner this morning, which is a fine wage to be sure, but tonight he’s the richest in town.” Mrs. Babcockry and I both stared at him, at his earnest dark eyes and grave smile. Slowly, not taking
her eyes off him, she turned her bucket upside down so that it formed a little seat. She sat on it.

  “Excuse me,” he said after a moment. “I am Antoine Duval, employee of Wells Fargo and Company. This is Mr. Monahan.” The little Chinese girl seemed to have vanished.

  Finally Mrs. Babcockry said, “What time?”

  “Er, what time … what?”

  “What time did my husband have all them winnings?”

  “Ah! Yes. It would have been right around eight o’clock. That’s when I said to myself, If Mr. Babcockry gets up from the faro table right now, he’ll walk out of here a rich man. But I believe he may have ordered a round of whiskey for everyone, on the house, and I thought, Well, he’s a good sport to leave the boys with a glass in their hands.”

  Mrs. Babcockry got a hankie out of her pocket and used it to dab her eyes. Tears poured down her cheeks. “I didn’t even know,” she said, “that for a few minutes I was a rich woman and my sons had a wealthy father. By the time he got home, two hours later, he had not even two bits on him.” Her rich, burnished hair framed a soggy, sad face and she looked as tired as if she hadn’t slept in days.

  “Let me give you a hand, Mrs. Babcockry,” Antoine Duval said, and when she took his arm and staggered to her feet, he continued, “and if you’ll give me yours, I’ll put a small token of my esteem in it.”

  I watched as Mrs. Babcockry tentatively held out her open hand. With a flourish, he closed her fingers around a printed ticket.

  “A special showing of the Horribles’ latest play,” Mr. Duval said. “It was given to me and I cannot be there, alas.”

  “Is it proper, though? I heard the Horribles is always in outlandish costumes, and telling tales out of school.”

  “The finest ladies attend,” Mr. Duval assured her, “and the actors are paid richly by their laughter. The Horribles know everything about everyone in Bodie.”