street I was importuned a dozen times without seeing any trace of him.
One of these unfortunates approached me with a smile of recognition on her face. “Well, it’s old Sean Cooney from Boston, ain’t it? It’s me, Mary Dolan, from up the street.” Her face was worn by drink and laudanum and hard luck, but there was nonetheless a sweet softness to her aspect that suggested a kindly soul; in easier circumstances and with better dentition she would have been pretty. “I always liked you better than your brother; he’s got a mean streak like your old man did.”
“I’m not him,” I said.
“The hell you ain’t. What say you and me go back there to Boston for that centennial celebration? This Denver business ain’t working so good for me as I’d imagined it would.”
“I’m not him, and the centennial was last year besides.”
“Like hell it was.”
“1776 plus one hundred equals 1876. Two years ago.”
“The hell you say.”
“It’s a fact. Don’t you remember the Fourth of July? All the fireworks and the parade?”
“Go on with you, they have those every year on the Fourth of July!”
“So they do,” I said, and resumed walking.
She followed me. “Say, Seanny. Remember that milliner’s I worked for? Mrs. So-and-So? You think she’d take me back on?”
She wasn’t going to accept the fact that I wasn’t Sean Cooney, and I hesitated to give life-altering counsel to a stranger, but clearly Denver wasn’t doing her any favors. “I’d say if you want to go back to Boston, though, you ought to give it a try.” Satisfied, she nodded and turned away from me, and I made my escape.
I NEXT MADE a detour in the direction of picturesque Hop Alley, thinking I might pick up the day’s laundry and save Mrs. Fenster a trip. I had no idea which of the dozen or more launderers was hers, however, and I walked past without stopping to check any of them. The signage on the street was in both English and Chinese, and I noted three more or less respectable-looking white ladies knock, giggling, at the door of one particular business with no outward identification but a painted number 531 and a vertical quartet of Chinese characters. The man who answered maintained his poker face but let them in, glancing momentarily at me as though daring me to object. I had nothing against what they were up to, though; to my way of thinking it was on par with Priscilla’s laudanum-taking, and I reminded myself to stop at the pharmacist’s to pick up a replacement bottle for my next visit to Golden.
A UGIE DIDN’T SHOW up that afternoon, and neither did two of three scheduled sitters, and I sent the third home for lack of illumination. I used the freed-up time to go over my books and, later, to examine Augie’s samples and catalogues. I was already overstocked on most subjects: the War, Geography, the Sciences, Great Personalities, and Comic Scenes, and browsing through the catalogue I saw at first nothing listed that inspired me to add to the inventory. Then my eye stopped at a new listing:
O GDEN & G LEASON , P HOTOGRAPHERS , C OTTONWOOD , K ANS .
This came as a shock, seeing my own former moniker and hometown in print. I was pleased nonetheless to note that young Gleason had kept the business going. The set of pictures advertised was titled “Scenes of the Former Osage Territory,” described merely as “a series of artistically conceived views of the recently tamed wilderness, incl. a two-headed goat and a white buffalo calf, and the murder cabin belonging to the notorious Benders.”
The day after Maggie and I escaped from Cottonwood I felt the first vague pangs of regret for the vanished opportunity to make a stereographic record of the Bender house and property for publication; I was thus gratified to see that young Gleason had seized it, doubly so that he’d left my name on the business, since taking it off the shingle would doubtless have pleased many in town. I marked down an order for a set.
The sun
One of these unfortunates approached me with a smile of recognition on her face. “Well, it’s old Sean Cooney from Boston, ain’t it? It’s me, Mary Dolan, from up the street.” Her face was worn by drink and laudanum and hard luck, but there was nonetheless a sweet softness to her aspect that suggested a kindly soul; in easier circumstances and with better dentition she would have been pretty. “I always liked you better than your brother; he’s got a mean streak like your old man did.”
“I’m not him,” I said.
“The hell you ain’t. What say you and me go back there to Boston for that centennial celebration? This Denver business ain’t working so good for me as I’d imagined it would.”
“I’m not him, and the centennial was last year besides.”
“Like hell it was.”
“1776 plus one hundred equals 1876. Two years ago.”
“The hell you say.”
“It’s a fact. Don’t you remember the Fourth of July? All the fireworks and the parade?”
“Go on with you, they have those every year on the Fourth of July!”
“So they do,” I said, and resumed walking.
She followed me. “Say, Seanny. Remember that milliner’s I worked for? Mrs. So-and-So? You think she’d take me back on?”
She wasn’t going to accept the fact that I wasn’t Sean Cooney, and I hesitated to give life-altering counsel to a stranger, but clearly Denver wasn’t doing her any favors. “I’d say if you want to go back to Boston, though, you ought to give it a try.” Satisfied, she nodded and turned away from me, and I made my escape.
I NEXT MADE a detour in the direction of picturesque Hop Alley, thinking I might pick up the day’s laundry and save Mrs. Fenster a trip. I had no idea which of the dozen or more launderers was hers, however, and I walked past without stopping to check any of them. The signage on the street was in both English and Chinese, and I noted three more or less respectable-looking white ladies knock, giggling, at the door of one particular business with no outward identification but a painted number 531 and a vertical quartet of Chinese characters. The man who answered maintained his poker face but let them in, glancing momentarily at me as though daring me to object. I had nothing against what they were up to, though; to my way of thinking it was on par with Priscilla’s laudanum-taking, and I reminded myself to stop at the pharmacist’s to pick up a replacement bottle for my next visit to Golden.
A UGIE DIDN’T SHOW up that afternoon, and neither did two of three scheduled sitters, and I sent the third home for lack of illumination. I used the freed-up time to go over my books and, later, to examine Augie’s samples and catalogues. I was already overstocked on most subjects: the War, Geography, the Sciences, Great Personalities, and Comic Scenes, and browsing through the catalogue I saw at first nothing listed that inspired me to add to the inventory. Then my eye stopped at a new listing:
O GDEN & G LEASON , P HOTOGRAPHERS , C OTTONWOOD , K ANS .
This came as a shock, seeing my own former moniker and hometown in print. I was pleased nonetheless to note that young Gleason had kept the business going. The set of pictures advertised was titled “Scenes of the Former Osage Territory,” described merely as “a series of artistically conceived views of the recently tamed wilderness, incl. a two-headed goat and a white buffalo calf, and the murder cabin belonging to the notorious Benders.”
The day after Maggie and I escaped from Cottonwood I felt the first vague pangs of regret for the vanished opportunity to make a stereographic record of the Bender house and property for publication; I was thus gratified to see that young Gleason had seized it, doubly so that he’d left my name on the business, since taking it off the shingle would doubtless have pleased many in town. I marked down an order for a set.
The sun
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