In Need of a Good Wife - Couverture souple

McNees, Kelly O'Connor

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0425257924 ISBN 13 : 9780425257920

Editeur : Berkley, 2012

Synopsis

Book by McNees Kelly OConnor

A propos du livre

Extrait

Clara

The oak planks in the floor of Rathbone’s basement tavern, Clara knew, were lined with invisible cracks. The men who drank at the tavern brought the filth of Manhattan City in on their boots, manure from the street and muck from the floor of the omnibus, and the men’s careless steps ground the dirt into the floor. If Clara didn’t whisk it out quickly enough with her broom it would lodge in the cracks, and the planks would split down the middle. Mr. Rathbone would have to replace them—an expense that might make him think twice about how badly he needed a barmaid on his payroll.

The thought straightened Clara’s back and she stretched it, the long fingers of her right hand clenched around the handle of her broom, before resuming her chore. It worried Clara, the possibility of losing the job, and, in losing that, losing everything—the money she made only just paid for her room and board upstairs at Mrs. Ferguson’s with scarcely enough left over to keep body and soul together. Of course, if her father were still alive, things would be different. But he wasn’t—he had died in debt back when the tavern was known by his name, as Wilson’s, and Mr. Rathbone had bought it for a song.

Clara supposed she should be glad for it. It wasn’t easy making a go of it in these times. Rathbone had already lost what meager business they could muster to the new place across the street, the Eagle Tavern, which sold ale at half price for the first hour of the evening rush each night. The roughs lined up around the block, the very same roughs who had previously done their drinking at Rathbone’s long walnut bar. Clara had no love for any of them—in fact, she detested drinking in a man, thought it made him weak and womanish—but what did fate hold for Rathbone’s without them? Here it was, the middle of the noon meal and there wasn’t a soul in the place. Each morning, as Clara polished that bar, its burled grain like marks left in the sand by the waves on Long Island Sound, she prayed that come evening, Rathbone’s would be full of men either too happy or too full of dread to go home. She didn’t care which it was, as long as the men kept sliding coins toward the till. Of course, Clara indulged in using a little too much wax from time to time, buoyed by the thought that she could make the surface slick enough to yank the men’s hands out from under their sorry jawbones, send their chins crashing down onto the hard wood.

Clara’s survival depended on the loyalty of fool drunks, and she did not take kindly to this fact. But the drunks didn’t scare her either. She had stood up to plenty of them in her time, once separating a pair of scuffling men by clobbering the bigger one in the back of the head with her rolling pin.

At half past one, two men dressed in black came in and took a small table by the window. One was lanky and tight-lipped and the other was fat, with a wide face like a camel’s. His smile seemed to stretch all the way from one ear to the other. He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them, but it was, Clara had noticed when she descended the stairs from her room at Mrs. Ferguson’s that morning, a perfectly pleasant October day.

“Miss?” said the heavy man, waving Clara over with his hand. She took her time leaning the broom up against the wall and making her way across the room to them. As she walked, she recognized something in her own slow amble and realized it was a memory of her mother, who had walked this way, seven balky children underfoot and a husband with a temper like a festering sore. Mrs. Wilson lived long enough to see three of her children make it to adulthood, Clara and two sisters. Maura had run off with a prospector six years back and hadn’t been heard from since. Frances was hit by a streetcar the following year. Once there had been nine Wilsons, but now there was just Clara.

“If there is any justice in this world our Creator made, Reverend Potter, they will be serving a chicken pie,” the fat man said. “I’ve heard it’s the best in the city.” Well, there you have it, Clara thought. I pray for customers and the Lord sends me a couple of holy rollers. I’ll be lucky if they order coffee. Truth be told, Clara was a bit flattered to hear them talking up her pie. She had been the one to suggest to Mr. Rathbone that the tavern should serve a proper meal at midday. Their competitors served only hard-boiled eggs and pickled herring on crackers—a pauper’s meal.

Reverend Potter, his fine hair precisely combed and oiled, glanced skeptically at the small, grease-clouded window that looked up to William Street. Pigeons shuddered by, and the broad hems of pedestrians’ skirts passed like great gray ships on the sea. “I’m not convinced anything good can come,” he said, “from a kitchen with a rat’s-eye view of the world.”

Clara cleared her throat to ensure that this Reverend Potter knew she had overheard his remark. “Afternoon, gentlemen. What may I bring you?”

“Good afternoon,” the heavy man said. His gaze lingered on her face a moment. “What handsome eyes you have, miss.”

Clara pressed her lips into a line and raised an eyebrow. She knew very well that she had plain eyes, deep-set, with stubby lashes. She was tall, for a woman, and slender, with a neck that could be, on its best days, swanlike, provided she was in a well-shadowed room. Clara prided herself on that neck, her uncomplaining disposition, the pie. These were her good features—not her eyes.

The fat minister’s spirits were not dampened by her poor reception of his compliment. “And what are you serving for dinner today?”

“You’re late for dinner, but as luck or the Lord allows, we have a few chicken pies left,” Clara lied. Behind the door to the kitchen, a dozen pies sat lukewarm in their tins, still lined up where she had left them when they came out of the oven at eleven. The food would be long lost to the mice by now if it weren’t for the tavern cat, on patrol around the perimeter of the stove. He was an ornery tom, orange and slinking and just about full up of scathe for this plagued world.

“Thank you. We’ll have those.” Clara turned to go. “And an ale for me. Reverend?” He looked at his companion.

“Milk,” Reverend Potter said. “Cold.”

Clara nodded. In the kitchen she asked Bessie, the only person in this world taking orders from Clara, to warm the pies, and the girl slid them into the range on her flat wooden paddle. Behind the bar Clara drew the ale slowly, careful to keep the foam from rising over the rim of the glass. The Right Reverend ought to have his ale drawn properly, even if his friend took his God-fearing a little too seriously. Clara sighed when she heard the words echo in her mind. The Right Reverend. That was just the sort of thing George was fond of saying, in his signature tone of false deference. Without fail, his cheek earned him a laugh from his friends: the feather in his cap. And, as for Clara, well. She feigned exasperation, but to be the girl George had set his sights on—to be on his arm, walking up Broadway past a bevy of laundresses standing in an alley, their cheeks pink from the steam, even in January, their ravaged arms red up to the elbows—was a marvel. Those girls were sucking on so much jealousy and longing Clara liked to think it made their teeth ache.

Clara was George’s girl. She would have settled for being George’s hat. And when he used his poker winnings to buy her a ruby ring, and took her down to the Trinity Church to rattle off those vows, he never once broke into a smile—not even when the minister uttered the word chastity in the presence of her swelling belly. Clara thought of what they had done in the gallery of the Bowery Theater, behind the peach velvet drapery with gold braid fringe that skimmed the floor in time with their exertions; Clara had imagined the drapery was the most exquisite bed curtain in the finest mansion in town. That three nearby couples heaved in their own syncopated rhythm mattered not a whit to Clara. They were flies buzzing against a window pane. She had believed, for once in her miserable life, that with George the profit outweighed the loss.

But if George could float you on the air in the palm of his hand, he could tie you to an anchor and turn his back while you plummeted to the depths. New girls came through Mrs. Ferguson’s parlor in flocks, looking fresh and pink, without a care in the world for such a thing as hanging on to a husband. The word was still new on Clara’s tongue, tart like a berry. It wasn’t long before George took up with this one and that one, parading them around just to hurt Clara, it seemed, for there was no one else to notice. She knew all about the roving and insatiable longings of men and would have been willing to tolerate a great deal, if only George had allowed her to retain at least some dignity.

He had his reasons, of course, to seek solace outside the walls of their room five months ago, when they had been forced to bear the unbearable. For the baby had not survived. In times of sorrow, Clara had come to understand, women turn inside themselves. Men inch away, like worms. If that doesn’t get them far enough, they stand up on their legs and run. And so it was that George was gone, poof, in the night, with a little dark-haired garlic-eater named Lucia. People said he had taken a job at a brickworks in Buffalo.

“Miss Bixby,” Bessie called from the kitchen. “Them pies is up.”

“All right,” Clara called. “Thank you, Bessie.” Miss, everyone had started calling her again, but Bixby was George’s name. Clara supposed it was a well-intentioned attempt to offer her a clean slate. She was no longer George’s wife, but neither could she go back to the young woman she had been before, Miss Clara Wilson. She was something new altogether: Miss Bixby. As if she were merely George’s spinster sister instead of the woman he had once vowed before God to care for all of his days.

Clara carried the pies on a tray from the kitchen to the bar and lifted them onto the plates. At the table, both ministers were reading newspapers. Reverend Potter, nearly blind it seemed, held his about an inch away from his right eye and moved the page back and forth, keeping his head still.

“Reverend Arthur,” he said. “Did you read this story about—let’s see now . . . where is it?—this town of Destination, Nebraska?”

Reverend Arthur folded his paper and laid it on the table. “No. What an odd name for a town.”

“Indeed, it is.” Reverend Potter read.

Two men died Saturday after their destructive rampage claimed their lives, as well as the lives of two reliable workhorses—and caused thousands of dollars of damage. Samuel and Terrance Young, brothers and veteran inebriates employed at Drake’s Brewery in Destination, population now down to 105 from 107 including the town and its outskirts, managed to set fire to their own shoes, and, in attempting to outrun the flames, spread them across a dry field and inside a barn that contained two tethered horses and a cow. The building was quickly consumed with the men and horses inside, though the cow made an ambling escape. This is the third such incident in this beset frontier town in as many months. While a handful of the original settlers brought wives and sisters with them, all those women died or returned to eastern cities long ago and the town is now populated almost entirely by bachelors. The only fair faces to be found are those, besmirched with rouge and sin, belonging to the fallen women who live together in a house of mirth at the edge of town. Said Destination’s mayor Randall Cartwright, regarding the debauchery of Destination and the death of its citizens, “I mourn the loss of those men only in as much as I didn’t have the chance to hang them myself from the only tree in town.”

Reverend Arthur shook his head. “My word.”

“It’s true what the reporter says,” Reverend Potter told him. “This town has been in the news before. I recall it distinctly. Do you notice they don’t even mention a church—probably haven’t gotten around to building one yet.”

Clara brought the plates to the table and the ministers put their newspapers under their chairs. “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen,” she said, setting the pies down.

“We thank you, miss.” Reverend Arthur unfolded the white napkin and draped it across his knees. “For two confirmed bachelors such as ourselves, a tavern pie is the closest we come to a home-cooked meal.” He pierced the pie’s crust with the tines of his fork and a cloud of steam rushed out. “Now, Reverend Potter, this is divinity.”

The ministers bowed their heads and Arthur said an impassioned grace. Potter gave Arthur’s Amen a disdainful glance and set about what was for him, a man dubious of all human pleasures, the grim task of eating. Clara returned to her broom, glancing occasionally at the tavern door, attempting to will another customer or two into existence. What would her father say if he could see his tavern and her in this lowly state? Clara felt she had sunk as low as it was possible to go—the only job left was laundress, but she vowed she would die first. One had to preserve a little dignity, no matter what the cost.

At the table, the men continued their conversation. “This is what I try to impress upon my congregation, though they are deaf and dumb to it,” Potter said. “A godless man has no compass. A town of godless men is bound for destruction. This Destination is obviously well on its way.” He was getting excited, his voice beginning to squeak like a hinge.

Clara glanced at the door once more and saw the portly Reverend Arthur nod in response to his companion’s comment. But his eyes were on Clara. She turned sideways to avoid his gaze, but it asserted itself as if it were a physical thing, a lurid hand tracing the outline of her figure. The longer he leered at her, the harder she clenched her jaw. Dr. Calumet had told her to keep a calm disposition, that agitation could bring on the crippling headaches that had plagued her since the baby died. Of course, Dr. Calumet didn’t have to work in Rathbone’s tavern.

Potter creaked on. “Destination, Nebraska, is like so many places in this land. What that town needs is religion. Don’t you agree, Reverend Arthur?”

“What that town needs,” Arthur said, scraping the last of the chicken gravy from his plate and licking it off the fork with considerable relish, “is some women.”

When the men finished their meal, they placed a stack of coins and a pamphlet about redemption on the table.

“May the Lord continue to bless you,” Reverend Arthur called to Clara.

She waved from the far side of the tavern. “If he does, he’ll keep you out of my sight,” she muttered as they climbed the stairs to the street.

Not another soul came in after them, so Clara sent Bessie home and straightened up behind the bar. The newspapers under the chairs caught her eye—she had not seen them when she cleared the men’s dishes. Clara crouched down to sweep them up and, standing, struck her head on the underside of the table so hard the room went white for a moment. So much for protecting her head. She sighed as she rubbed the rising knot with her fingertips and remained there on the floor, resting her brow on her knees, then wi...

Revue de presse

"The three central, compelling women of In Need of a Good Wife are each, in turn, terribly lost and deeply brave. I adored them and rooted for them...I found it deliciously satisfying that the redemption I wished for each of them arrived in completely unexpected ways, taking both me and the characters by surprise."--Katrina Kittle, author of The Blessings of the Animals

"With graceful prose and historical settings that shine with vitality, In Need of a Good Wife is unforgettable."--Kristina Riggle, author of Real Life and Liars

“Painting vivid images of the poverty of post-Civil War Manhattan City and the harrows of Destination, Nebraska, McNees weaves a hopeful, compelling story of love and resilience so engaging it is impossible to put down."--Robin Oliveira, author of My Name is Mary Sutter

“In Need of a Good Wife is a beautifully wrought story, every page bursting with poetry and adventure.  McNees sweeps us west with such hope and excitement that we ache and rejoice, celebrate and cry.”--Susan Gregg Gilmore, author of Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Berkley
• Date d'édition: 2012
• ISBN 10: 0425257924
• ISBN 13: 9780425257920
• Reliure: Broché
• Numéro d'édition: 1
• Nombre de pages: 400