A broad-shouldered black man helped the teamster carry the boards inside. It was hard to say whether the teamster was more sullen over the beating or working with a Negro.
Mrs. Parker said, "Well, if that's a failing, it's in a good cause."
Charles acknowledged the remark with a nod and put on his hat, ready to go. The young woman added, "There's water in our green room if you'd like to clean your hands."
Reaching down to pick up his revolver, he saw that they were bloodstained. Something in him shied from accepting even casual kindness from any woman, but in spite of it he said, "All right. Thanks."
They stepped into a gloomy area backstage. From the stage, brilliant under calcium lights, a portly man approached with a queer sidestep gait. He walked bent over, a large pillow roped to his back like a hump. His tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth. His dangling hands swung to and fro, pendulumlike. All at once he straightened up.
"Willa, how can I concentrate on the winter of my discontent when a hundred idlers are rioting on my doorstep?"
"It wasn't a riot Sam, just a small dispute. Mr. Main, my partner, Mr. Samuel Trump." She pointed to the pillow. "We're rehearsing Richard the Third." Charles thought that was Shakespeare but didn't want to show his ignorance by asking.
Trump said, "Have I the honor of addressing a fellow thespian, sir?"
"No, sir, afraid not. I'm a trader." It surprised him a little to say it for the first time.
"Do you trade with the Indians?" the young woman asked. He said yes. "You sound Southern," she continued. "Did you serve in what they call 'the late unpleasantness'?"
"I did. I'm from South Carolina. I rode with General Wade Hampton's cavalry all four years."
"Lucky you came out unscathed," Trump declared. Charles thought it pointless to contradict so foolish a statement.
Mrs. Parker told Trump what had happened outside, in words that flattered Charles and minimized his brutal rage. "I invited Mr. Main to clean up in the green room."
"By all means," Trump said. "If you wish to view a performance of our new production, sir, I recommend booking a seat early. I anticipate capacity business, perhaps even an offer to transfer to New York."
Willa gave him a rueful smile. "Sam, you know that's bad luck."
Trump paid no attention. "Adieu, good friends. My art summons me." Dangling his hands again, he sidled toward the stage, bellowing, "Grim-visaged war has smooth'd his wrinkled front..."
"This way," Willa said to Charles.
She closed the door of the spacious, untidy green room to confine Prosperity for a while. On a love seat with one leg missing, a gentleman snored, his handwritten part covering his face. Prosperity jumped on his stomach and began to wash herself. The actor didn't stir,
Willa showed Charles to a basin of clean water on a table strewn with make-up pots, brushes, jars of powder. She found a clean towel for him.
"Thank you." He was conscious of great awkwardness. After Gus Barclay's death, he'd withdrawn from the company of women. His visit to the tent-town whore had passed with almost no conversation.
Using the damp towel, he cleaned the blood from his hands. Willa folded her arms, taking his measure. "What do you call that garment you're wearing? A cape? A poncho?"
"I call it my gypsy robe. I sewed it together a piece at a time when uniforms started to wear out and Richmond couldn't send any new ones.
"I know little about the war except what I've read. I was only fifteen when the fighting began."
That young. He dropped the towel beside the basin; the water had turned red. "Before you ask, I'll tell you. I wasn't fighting for slavery and I didn't give a hang for secession. I left the U.S. Army to fight for my state and my family's home."
"Yes, Mr. Main, but the war's over. There's no need to be belligerent."
He apologized; he hadn't realized he sounded angry. There was a certain irony there. To how many men had he said the war was over?
"It was a bad time, Mrs. Parker. Hard to forget."
"Perhaps something pleasant would help. You performed a humane deed outside. You deserve a reward. I should like to buy you supper, if I may."
His jaw dropped. She laughed. "I shocked you. I didn't intend it. You must understand the theater, Mr. Main. It's a lonely business. So theater people cling to one another for company. And there's very little conventional formality. If an actress wants an hour's friendly conversation, there's no shame in her asking a fellow actor. I suppose it doesn't look so innocent from outside. No wonder preachers think us loose and dangerous people. I assure you" — she kept it light but it was pointed — "I'm neither."
"No, I wouldn't imagine so, you being married."
"Ah — Mrs. Parker. That's only a convenience. It keeps some of the stage door crowd at bay. I'm not married. I just like to choose my friends." Her smile was warm and winning. "I repeat my offer. Can you join me for supper? Say, tomorrow evening? We're rehearsing tonight."
He almost said no. Yet something prompted him the other way. "That would be very enjoyable."
"And no quibbling over a mere female paying the bill?"
He smiled. "No quibbling."
"Seven o'clock, then? The New Planter's House on Fourth Street?"
"Fine. I'll try to look more respectable."
"You look splendid. The very picture of a gallant cavalryman." She shocked him with that easy frankness, and then again with the forthright way she shook hands. "Until tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, no, please. Let it be Willa and Charles."
He nodded and got out of there.
As he went from store to store, buying what he needed, he tried to figure out why he'd entangled himself with the supper engagement. Was it simple hunger for a woman's company? Or the way she had approached him, with unexpected candor and a reversal of the usual roles? He didn't know. He did know the young actress fascinated him, and that bothered him on two counts. He felt guilty because of Gus Barclay, and he was wary of the potential for pain that existed even in a friendship.
"She did the askin'?" Wooden Foot exclaimed when Charles told him about it.
"Yes. She isn't, well, conventional. She's an actress."
"Oh, I get it now. Well, take advantage, Charlie. They say actresses are always good for a fast romp on the sheets."
"Not this one," he said. It was one of the few things about Willa Parker he could state with any certainty.
10
To say the blue cutaway was old was to say the Atlantic was a pond. The coat had cost Charles four dollars, secondhand. 'This yere's strictly a loan," Wooden Foot had said. "I approve of romance but it ain't my habit to finance it." The haberdasher threw in a used cravat, and with another dollar borrowed from his new partner, Charles bought some Macassar oil. Dressed up and with his long hair slicked down, he felt foolish and foppish. '
That opinion seemed to be shared by two black men in green velvet livery who received guests at the entrance of the elegant New Planter's House, the second hotel in St. Louis to bear that name. Charles handed his saddle horse to a groom and stalked between the doormen. His sharp stare and vaguely sinister appearance forestalled any comment about his looks.
Willa rose from one of the plush seats in the spacious lobby. Her quick smile relieved his nervousness a little. "My," she said, "for an Indian trader you're certainly elegant."
"Special occasion. I don't have many. I'd say you're the elegant one."
"Thank you, sir." She took his arm and guided him toward the dining room. By some feminine magic he didn't begin to understand, she fairly sparkled with youthful prettiness, even though her outfit was nearly all black: her hooped skirt, her trim silk sacque, her small hat with a single black-dyed feather. White lace spilled at her throat and fringed her cuffs — just enough for dramatic contrast.