Fiction

The Weary Wings of a Dove

She took him by the hand, intending to lead him off to one of the side rooms. With a muddled shake of his head, he waved her efforts away. It was clear the stubborn oaf was unwilling to move. The man’s efforts to shake a little clarity back into that head of his was proving to be a distance too great to bridge. With the wall at his back and the bench beneath, he was what some might, while in generous humor, mind you, say that he was sett’n’ upright.

His dark eyes stared off vacant for want of purpose. Once again, her fingers wrapped around the large paw that was his hand while, in the other, cradled the neck of a half-empty bottle. In a moment of random lucidity, his gaze dropped to his knees, taking note of the small hand resting upon his. Slowly, with effort, his unfocused eyes ambled upward to take in her face. Whatever happy thought he was inhabiting caused him to blink once, then twice, his lips splitting to reveal a good-natured smile. Perhaps he was a little younger than what she had originally reckoned.

A wry smile of her own tugged at her lips as she speculated on the likelihood of him grasping the circumstances he now found himself in. His eyes had taken on a shade of adoration she was unaccustomed to. Those eyes, all puppy-dog’d and full of misplaced trust, stirred an irritation in her. At the best of times, trust was a virtue one could ill afford, and here he was, practically begging to be robbed and murdered.

Her irritation was quickly giving way to anger. It niggled and scratched at her until something akin to derision bubbled under the surface. And why shouldn’t she feel derision for this careless man? He could come and go as he pleased, and yet here he was, sow-st and sloppy.

With three days’ worth of stubble on his face, she might otherwise have taken him for one of those white-ribbon folk. He could be leading a right dignified temperance parade straight through the middle of Elks Tare. So, why was he here, and why should she care?

In truth, it wasn’t her business. Whatever his reasons, his problems weren’t something she should concern herself with. Her pressing concern should be the problem he was creating for her. She’d been working the floor all evening and had spent a lot of time on him in particular since he looked a bit cleaner than most. But as much as she coaxed and cajoled, he remained obstinately rooted to that bench. She should have cut her losses and moved on. If she couldn’t make this profitable soon, Miss Lou would take notice. Everyone agreed that Miss Lou was good to her lady doves, and that was true unless you were unprofitable or in her debt: the latter, a circumstance which seemed to occur with some regularity.

Resentment welled up for this man had he not ruined himself with a night of drink. He could have gathered himself together and walked out of this place. While, for her, she wouldn’t make it much further than the doors before Miss Lou’s man was sent to fetch her back—likely with bruises for the effort. Though, on reflection, Miss Lou’s man understood the difference between a soiled dove and a bruised one, choosing instead to tunk the girls about the head when they got out of line—certainly no less painful but discreet.

In hindsight, she would have admitted it was the stupid, dopey look in her—as yet unprofitable—man, that spurred her to action and decided her course. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she steeled herself. She couldn’t save a man who was determined to find answers in drink. But for tonight, he could be a Good Samaritan—her—Good Samaritan.

With that, she eyed the considerable expanse that separated them and the room she sought. If they could manage it, he could sleep it off in the room. Of course, he would be paying for that privilege. It didn’t matter what went on in the rooms as long as Miss Lou got her cut. In his current state, she doubted he’d remember much; besides, what money he carried wasn’t likely to be on his person come the ‘morrow. Huh, a more likely outcome: he’d end up in a ditch outside of town with a sizeable hole in the back of his head. Still, this man wasn’t going to thank her for her kindness. No matter, she couldn’t pay Miss Lou in thank-yous either.

She leaned over and whispered into his ear promises of going home. He rousted somewhat, then lurched to his feet, still confused but more compliant. She wedged her shoulder up under his and continued a steady stream of whispered encouragements about going home. This time, he followed her guidance. They managed the hallway, swaying in whatever direction he threatened to fall.

By the time they’d gained the room and the bed, it was all she could do to let him tumble from her grasp. Face down into the mattress, he mumbled something, but whatever he had meant to say was lost in bedding and amber-laced fumes.

She slumped on the edge of the bed. Business first, she urged herself as she tugged and pulled at his clothing until a coin pouch emerged. Her deft ministrations soon left the pouch a shadow of its former self. She let it bounce once, then twice more on her palm, listening to the clink of coin. Judging her work sufficient, she tucked the rest back into his pocket. Leaving a little behind was good business; it might allow him to believe he paid for this himself, and if, by chance, he was foolish enough to argue with Miss Lou, well, he could learn that Miss Lou’s house rules were absolute.

She cast her gaze over one shoulder, taking in his prone form sprawled on the bed; dissatisfaction grew as she realized her mistake. She should have left him to the floor and taken the bed for herself. It wasn’t that sleep cured her exhaustion anymore, but an hour to close her eyes would’ve helped. Maybe, just maybe, she could lie down beside him. But the unease of it drove her from the mattress to the small stool in the corner where she perched, knees pulled to her chest, unmoving.

Music and voices continued to find their way into the small dark room, but fixed on the stool as she was, it was enough to let the smile slide from her face and leave the night’s revelry to those beyond the door. Unaware, the man’s slow and even breaths became the night lark song by which she fell into the ebb and flow of her own contemplations. Tomorrow’s troubles could be left for the ‘morrow. She: an unlikely sentinel keeping vigil over a man whose troubles weren’t her concern.