Doc - Mary Doria Russell [120]
“I imagine they did well for themselves.” Shuffling again, he cut left-handed. Nine of hearts. “Anyway, Eli Grier was stationed in Atlanta during the occupation. My mother—You have to understand: Sherman’s men stole whatever wasn’t nailed down or red-hot, and they wrecked the rest. Took a Yankee dollar to buy a few damn radishes in those days, and nobody had hard currency anyway. We were all hungry, but Mamma was just wastin’ to nothin’.”
“A hundred and sixty federal dollars would have been a fortune.”
“Indeed, but my father wasn’t willin’ to swallow his pride and ask for the money back,” Doc said, voice soft with unattenuated bitterness. “Probably had his second wife all picked out by then … So Uncle John went to Captain Grier to ask if our family’s payment might be refunded. Grier promised he would arrange for the money to be returned.”
“And it wasn’t.”
“Not a penny.” There was a long silence before Doc said, “He forgot all about it, most likely. A man with a bad conscience would have remembered my uncle’s name.”
Your mother would have died anyway, Kate thought, but she wasn’t going to say so. She watched the cards dance in his hands. When he cut the deck again, she cried, “Wait! Nine of spades?”
He showed her the card. She laughed, low and cynical.
“And I thought you didn’t cheat!”
“I don’t!” There was a sly, crooked smile. “But I could.”
“Anybody but me sees you do that, you’ll get yourself shot again,” she warned. “Bring me a drink, will you?”
He set the deck aside, poured, and stood carefully. “Nectar for Calypso,” he said, handing her the glass. “We are a little short on ambrosia just now.”
She sat up in bed, and slugged the bourbon down, closing her eyes to feel the liquor’s warmth and forget about the night. Doc slid in behind her and began to rub her neck. She leaned forward, bracing against the mattress, surrendering to the sensation as he worked his way down her back.
“Sternocleidomastoideus … splenius … rhomboidei, major and minor,” he said, thumbs pressing. “Has anyone ever told you what a lovely trapezius you have?”
She snorted. “We’re lucky Texans take off their spurs.”
“Barbarians, to a man … These latissimi dorsi are unquestionably the most beautiful I have ever laid eyes on.”
She smiled, eyes closed. “You’re mad.”
“That’s the rumor … Sweet Jesus! Just look at you!” he murmured. “Round and soft as a ripe peach … Lie back.”
“Mon dieu,” she whispered after a time. “C’est merveilleux!”
“My hand skills have always been considered exemplary.”
She giggled.
“I can stop if you’re too tired,” he offered.
“Stop, and I’ll shoot you myself.”
“I wonder what the odds are,” he mused. The numbers seemed to come to him from nowhere. “Eight to five,” he decided. “Against.”
“Against what?”
“Me dyin’ of consumption ’fore another bullet finds me.”
She twisted around and looked at him, eyes serious. “Don’t talk like that, Doc.”
“No hope, no fear,” he said with a grin, kissing her with each word. “And I am not … dead … yet.”
Chinaman’s Chance
Every Wednesday, Jau Dong-Sing went to the post office in Wright’s General Outfitting to mail a letter and a few dollars to his father in Kwantung. Since arriving in San Francisco back in 1859, Dong-Sing had written each week. He nearly always sent money, too.
In the beginning, he hoped to elicit a reply. My health is good but I am lonely, he wrote. I yearn for news of home. Though he would not have said as much, Dong-Sing desired to be acknowledged for his contributions to his family’s well-being. He also wished to be reassured that the money he sent had not been stolen during its long journey from America to his family’s village in China.
Letters from home were rare. Paper and ink and postage were too expensive for his family to buy often. When Dong-Sing did receive news, it was never happy or encouraging. Your uncle died. The crop is poor. My joints are stiff and I suffer at night. Everyone is hungry. Yes, we received the dollars. Send more next time.
And Dong-Sing did.
He had prospered in America. It didn’t take