June 19, 1914

I like Brooklyn. It can be noisy at night, but the sheriff or deputy walk a tour to make sure the bars close at midnight. I can walk the railroad track every day to the hotel.  The sound of the river and seeing beauty of the landscape, with the sun usually striking my back, is an experience I do not find dull or ordinary.

Work at the hotel is routine and unchallenging.  I enjoy my new life and Maggie is a big part of it.  She is also a woman of profound intelligence and hides it.  A customer can go on and on about, “I’ve done this, I’ve done that, and these are my credentials.”  She will listen and then say something like, “You don’t have to impress me; I’m too stupid to appreciate it.”  Her unpredictable personality ranges from mischievous to enchanting. We are a good team.

This evening, the gentle wind rustled the leaves in the trees along the river and the sun haphazardly lit the mountain sides through drifting clouds just turning red and yellow.  It had been an afternoon begging for a stroll or in my case, fishing.  I started at the railroad tracks in Brooklyn and fished downstream quickly using stonefly nymphs I found under the rocks.  I was lost in my thoughts and enjoyed my good luck when I reached the confluence of Butcherknife Creek.  I was surprised to see Maggie across the river, sitting among the rocks by the creek and crying.  I waded through the still swift knee-deep water and walked up to her with dripping wet pants.  Her empty fruit jar tipped sideways in the rocks and she was fall-down drunk.  She looked up and asked, “Julius why are you here?”

“I saw you crying.”

“I hate being a woman.  All our joy, power and life lie in our beauty and it only lasts ten years.  It’s as ephemeral as your darn bugs.”

“Maggie you are a beautiful, young woman.  I see how men look at you.”

“Men grow better looking with age, while women slowly sag and wrinkle.  It’s a slow march to the grave.  If we look up, we only see the mirror.”

“Men grow big bellies and become bald,” I consoled.

She slumped sideways and placed a hand on a creek rock for support.  Her hand slipped off the wet round stone immediately.  Her hair cascaded across and covered her face.  She extended four fingers and a thumb, surrounded the rock for grip and pushed up again.  With her other hand she lifted her red hair from her face, looked at me and said, “Julius, I’m 29 years old, I don’t want a man and Angela is mad at me.”

“She’ll get over it.  You’ve just drunk too…”

“How can you be so thick,” she interrupted.  “Julius, please just shoot me in the head and get it over with.  Oh God, I’m in love with a woman.”

Startled, I had never considered a woman romantically loving another woman. I watched Maggie lift her hands to her face, wipe her tears and briefly flash a bold look that melted quickly back to anguish.

“Love obeys no law.”  I comforted and after a pause, “I’m taking you home.”

I hid my fishing rod by a cottonwood tree and lifted her on my back.  I felt her warmth and a piquant sensation as she wrapped her legs around my waist.  Her arms dangled and bounced on my chest.  I started walking upriver desperately trying to not fall on the slick, wet river rocks.  It was dark.  At any noise, a dog barking, a mule braying, or a voice echoing in the night, I stopped and waited for silence.  Maggie cried softly, rubbed her hands on my chest and went flaccid.  Then she returned to life and cried again.  A willow branch reached out and slapped my face. I put one hand out to find the obstacles and pushed them aside.  My trousers were soaked and my legs cold.  The river flowed by with lack of sympathy.

Adjacent to Mrs. Bennett’s boarding house, I lifted Maggie off my back and gently placed her slender, limp body against a tree.  A light shone from the window.  I walked up and looked in.  Angela sat in the parlor reading a book by an oil lamp.  The white lace on her dark dress covered her neck and above her blond hair wrapped high on her head.  I tapped on the window.  She looked up, walked to the window, saw me, and then opened the door.

With a questioning gaze she said, “Mr. Brandon?”

“Miss McNamara, “I replied, “You need to help Maggie.”

“Why would I want to do that?” She spat out.

“Because she is in love with you.”

She stood shocked in the doorway, glanced back at the parlour, and then asked, “Where is she?”

“Next to the river.”

We both ran to the tree and Angela moaned, “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie” when she saw her.

We furtively carried her across the yard and up the back stairway.  The creaking stairs increased our paranoia with every step.  I could not decide which would be worse; Mrs. Bennett discovering me in the women’s area or her seeing Maggie’s limp, drunk figure.  I laid Maggie on her bed, and Angel stroked her forehead with a damp cloth.  I slipped down the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible.  I ran to the river, grabbed my fishing rod, and disappeared into the darkness.  I may never speak about this night again.

(Lacking an interrogative, I was questioned many times, “Your best friends appear to be lesbians?” My standard answer, “It’s been that way for some women and men for millenniums and part of the fabric of the human experience. The Victorians made it illegal as a social and political tool. Men hid it or suffered in jail. Women got away with it by being spinsters and grew old, happily, living together.” Do not forget every HMS ship’s captain had a cabin boy at his service. CE)