Chapter 19

1

A new country seems to follow a pattern. First come the openers, strong and brave and rather

childlike. They can take care of themselves in a wilderness, but they are naïve and helpless against

men, and perhaps that is why they went out in the first place. When the rough edges are worn off the

new land, businessmen and lawyers come in to help with the development—to solve problems of

ownership, usually by removing the temptations to themselves. And finally comes culture, which is

entertainment, relaxation, transport out of the pain of living. And culture can be on any level, and is.

The church and the whorehouse arrived in the Far West simultaneously. And each would have been

horrified to think it was a different facet of the same thing. But surely they were both intended to

accomplish the same thing: the singing, the devotion, the poetry of the churches took a man out of his

bleakness for a time, and so did the brothels. The sectarian churches came in swinging, cocky and loud

and confident. Ignoring the laws of debt and repayment, they built churches which couldn’t be paid for

in a hundred years. The sects fought evil, true enough, but they also fought each other with a fine

lustiness. They fought at the turn of a doctrine. Each happily believed all the others were bound for

hell in a basket. And each for all its bumptiousness brought with it the same thing: the Scripture on

which our ethics, our art and poetry, and our relationships are built. It took a smart man to know where

the difference lay between the sects, but anyone could see what they had in common. And they

brought music—maybe not the best, but the form and sense of it. And they brought conscience, or,

rather, nudged the dozing conscience. They were not pure, but they had a potential of purity, like a

soiled white shirt. And any man could make something pretty fine of it within himself. True enough,

the Reverend Billing, when they caught up with him, turned out to be a thief, an adulterer, a libertine,

and a zoophilist, but that didn’t change the fact that he had communicated some good things to a great

number of receptive people. Billing went to jail, but no one ever arrested the good things he had

released. And it doesn’t matter much that his motive was impure. He used good material and some of

it stuck. I use Billing only as an outrageous example. The honest preachers had energy and go. They

fought the devil, no holds barred, boots and eye-gouging permitted. You might get the idea that they

howled truth and beauty the way a seal bites out the National Anthem on a row of circus horns. But

some of the truth and beauty remained, and the anthem was recognizable. The sects did more than this,

though. They built the structure of social life in the Salinas Valley. The church supper is the

grandfather of the country club, just as the Thursday poetry reading in the basement under the vestry

sired the little theater.

While the churches, bringing the sweet smell of piety for the soul, came in prancing and farting

like brewery horses in bock-beer time, the sister evangelism, with release and joy for the body, crept

in silently and gravely, with its head bowed and its face covered.

You may have seen the spangled palaces of sin and fancy dancing in the false West of the movies,

and maybe some of them existed—but not in the Salinas Valley. The brothels were quiet, orderly, and

circumspect. Indeed, if after hearing the ecstatic shrieks of climactic conversion against the thumping

beat of the melodeon you had stood under the window of a whorehouse and listened to the low

decorous voices, you would have been likely to confuse the identities of the two ministries. The

brothel was accepted while it was not admitted.

I will tell you about the solemn courts of love in Salinas. They were about the same in other towns,

but the Salinas Row has a pertinence to this telling.

You walked west on Main Street until it bent. That’s where Castroville Street crossed Main.

Castroville Street is now called Market Street, God knows why. Streets used to be named for the place

they aimed at. Thus Castroville Street, if you followed it nine miles, brought you to Castroville, Alisal

Street to Alisal, and so forth.

Anyway, when you came to Castroville Street you turned right. Two blocks down, the Southern

Pacific tracks cut diagonally across the street on their way south, and a street crossed Castroville

Street from east to west. And for the life of me I cannot remember the name of that street. If you

turned left on that street and crossed the tracks you were in Chinatown. If you turned right you were

on the Row.

It was a black ’dobe street, deep shining mud in winter and hard as rutted iron in summer. In the

spring the tall grass grew along its sides—wild oats and mallow weeds and yellow mustard mixed in.

In the early morning the sparrows shrieked over the horse manure in the street.

Do you remember hearing that, old men? And do you remember how an easterly breeze brought

odors in from Chinatown, roasting pork and punk and black tobacco and yen shi? And do you

remember the deep Waiting stroke of the great gong in the Joss House, and how its tone hung in the

air so long?

Remember, too, the little houses, unpainted, unrepaired? They seemed very small, and they tried to

efface themselves in outside neglect, and the wild overgrown front yards tried to hide them from the

street. Remember how the shades were always drawn with little lines of yellow light around their

edges? You could hear only a murmur from within. Then the front door would open to admit a country

boy, and you’d hear laughter and perhaps the soft sentimental tone of an open-face piano with a piece

of toilet chain across the strings, and then the door would close it off again.

Then you might hear horses’ hoofs on the dirt street, and Pet Bulene would drive his hack up in

front, and maybe four or five portly men would get out—great men, rich or official, bankers maybe, or

the courthouse gang. And Pet would drive around the corner and settle down in his hack to wait for

them. Big cats would ripple across the street to disappear in the tall grass.

And then—remember?—the train whistle and the boring light and a freight from King City would

go stomping across Castroville Street and into Salinas and you could hear it sighing at the station.

Remember?

Every town has its celebrated madams, eternal women to be sentimentalized down the years. There

is something very attractive to men about a madam. She combines the brains of a businessman, the

toughness of a prize fighter, the warmth of a companion, the humor of a tragedian. Myths collect

around her, and, oddly enough, not voluptuous myths. The stories remembered and repeated about a

madam cover every field but the bedroom. Remembering, her old customers picture her as a

philanthropist, medical authority, bouncer, and poetess of the bodily emotions without being involved

with them.

For a number of years Salinas had sheltered two of these treasures: Jenny, sometimes called

Fartin’ Jenny, and the Nigger, who owned and operated the Long Green. Jenny was a good companion,

a keeper of secrets, a giver of secret loans. There is a whole literature of stories about Jenny in

Salinas.

The Nigger was a handsome, austere woman with snow-white hair and a dark and awful dignity.

Her brown eyes, brooding deep in her skull, looked out on an ugly world with philosophic sorrow. She

conducted her house like a cathedral dedicated to a sad but erect Priapus. If you wanted a good laugh

and a poke in the ribs, you went to Jenny’s and got your money’s worth; but if the sweet worldsadness

close to tears crept out of your immutable loneliness, the Long Green was your place. When

you came out of there you felt that something pretty stern and important had happened. It was no jump

in the hay. The dark beautiful eyes of the Nigger stayed with you for days.

When Faye came down from Sacramento and opened her house there was a flurry of animosity

from the two incumbents. They got together to drive Faye out, but they discovered she was not in

competition.

Faye was the motherly type, big-breasted, big-hipped, and warm. She was a bosom to cry on, a

soother and a stroker. The iron sex of the Nigger and the tavern bacchanalianism of Jenny had their

devotees, and they were not lost to Faye. Her house became the refuge of young men puling in

puberty, mourning over lost virtue, and aching to lose some more. Faye was the reassurer of

misbegotten husbands. Her house took up the slack for frigid wives. It was the cinnamon-scented

kitchen of one’s grandmother. If any sexual thing happened to you at Faye’s you felt it was an

accident but forgivable. Her house led the youths of Salinas into the thorny path of sex in the pinkest,

smoothest way. Faye was a nice woman, not very bright, highly moral, and easily shocked. People

trusted her and she trusted everyone. No one could want to hurt Faye once he knew her. She was no

competition to the others. She was a third phase.

Just as in a store or on a ranch the employees are images of the boss, so in a whorehouse the girls

are very like the madam, partly because she hires that kind and partly because a good madam imprints

her personality on the business. You could stay a very long time at Faye’s before you would hear an

ugly or suggestive word spoken. The wanderings to the bedrooms, the payments, were so soft and

casual they seemed incidental. All in all, she ran a hell of a fine house, as the constable and the sheriff

knew. Faye contributed heavily to every charity. Having a revulsion against disease, she paid for

regular inspection of her girls. You had less chance of contracting a difficulty at Faye’s than with your

Sunday School teacher. Faye soon became a solid and desirable citizen of the growing town of Salinas.

2

The girl Kate puzzled Faye—she was so young and pretty, so lady-like, so well educated. Faye took

her into her own inviolate bedroom and questioned her far more than she would if Kate had been

another kind of girl. There were always women knocking on the door of a whorehouse, and Faye

recognized most of them instantly. She could tick them off—lazy, vengeful, lustful, unsatisfied,

greedy, ambitious. Kate didn’t fall into any of these classes.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking you all these questions,” she said. “It just seems so strange that

you should come here. Why, you could get a husband and a surrey and a corner house in town with no

trouble at all, no trouble at all.” And Faye rolled her wedding band around and around on her fat little

finger.

Kate smiled shyly. “It’s so hard to explain. I hope you won’t insist on knowing. The happiness of

someone very near and dear to me is involved. Please don’t ask me.”

Faye nodded solemnly. “I’ve known things like that. I had one girl who was supporting her baby,

and no one knew for a long, long time. That girl has a fine house and a husband in—there, I nearly told

you where. I’d cut out my tongue before I’d tell. Do you have a baby, dear?”

Kate looked down to try to conceal the shine of tears in her eyes. When she could control her

throat she whispered, “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it.”

“That’s all right. That’s all right. You just take your time.”

Faye was not bright, but she was far from stupid. She went to the sheriff and got herself cleared.

There was no sense in taking chances. She knew something was wrong about Kate, but if it didn’t

harm the house it really wasn’t Faye’s business.

Kate might have been a chiseler, but she wasn’t. She went to work right away. And when

customers come back again and again and ask for a girl by name, you know you’ve got something. A

pretty face won’t do that. It was quite apparent to Faye that Kate was not learning a new trade.

There are two things it is good to know about a new girl: first, will she work? and second, will she

get along with the other girls? There’s nothing will upset a house like an ill-tempered girl.

Faye didn’t have long to wonder about the second question. Kate put herself out to be pleasant. She

helped the other girls keep their rooms clean. She served them when they were sick, listened to their

troubles, answered them in matters of love, and as soon as she had some, loaned them money. You

couldn’t want a better girl. She became best friend to everyone in the house.

There was no trouble Kate would not take, no drudgery she was afraid of, and, in addition, she

brought business. She soon had her own group of regular customers. Kate was thoughtful too. She

remembered birthdays and always had a present and a cake with candles. Faye realized she had a

treasure.

People who don’t know think it is easy to be a madam—just sit in a big chair and drink beer and

take half the money the girls make, they think. But it’s not like that at all. You have to feed the girls—

that’s groceries and a cook. Your laundry problem is quite a bit more complicated than that of a hotel.

You have to keep the girls well and as happy as possible, and some of them can get pretty ornery. You

have to keep suicide at an absolute minimum, and whores, particularly the ones getting along in years,

are flighty with a razor; and that gets your house a bad name.

It isn’t so easy, and if you have waste too you can lose money. When Kate offered to help with the

marketing and planning of meals Faye was pleased, although she didn’t know when the girl found

time. Well, not only did the food improve, but the grocery bills came down one-third the first month

Kate took over. And the laundry—Faye didn’t know what Kate said to the man but that bill suddenly

dropped twenty-five per cent. Faye didn’t see how she ever got along without Kate.

In the late afternoon before business they sat together in Faye’s room and drank tea. It was much

nicer since Kate had painted the woodwork and put up lace curtains. The girls began to realize that

there were two bosses, not one, and they were glad because Kate was very easy to get along with. She

made them turn more tricks but she wasn’t mean about it. They’d as likely as not have a big laugh

over it.

By the time a year had passed Faye and Kate were like mother and daughter. And the girls said,

“You watch—she’ll own this house some day.”

Kate’s hands were always busy, mostly at drawn worn on the sheerest of lawn handkerchiefs. She

could make beautiful initials. Nearly all the girls carried and treasured her handkerchiefs.

Gradually a perfectly natural thing happened. Faye, the essence of motherness, began to think of

Kate as her daughter. She felt this in her breast and in her emotions, and her natural morality took

hold. She did not want her daughter to be a whore. It was a perfectly reasonable sequence.

Faye thought hard how she was going to bring up the subject. It was a problem. It was Faye’s

nature to approach any subject sideways. She could not say, “I want you to give up whoring.”

She said, “If it is a secret, don’t answer, but I’ve always meant to ask you. What did the sheriff say

to you—good Lord, is it a year ago? How the time goes! Quicker as you get older, I think. He was

nearly an hour with you. He didn’t—but of course not. He’s a family man. He goes to Jenny’s. But I

don’t want to pry into your affairs.”

“There’s no secret at all about that,” said Kate. “I would have told you. He told me I should go

home. He was very nice about it. When I explained that I couldn’t, he was very nice and

understanding.”

“Did you tell him why?” Faye asked jealously.

“Of course not. Do you think I would tell him when I won’t tell you? Don’t be silly, darling.

You’re such a funny little girl.”

Faye smiled and snuggled contentedly down in her chair.

Kate’s face was in repose, but she was remembering every word of that interview. As a matter of

fact, she rather liked the sheriff. He was direct.

3

He had closed the door of her room, glanced around with the quick recording eye of a good policeman

—no photographs, none of the personal articles which identify, nothing but clothes and shoes.

He sat down on her little cane rocking chair and his buttocks hung over on each side. His fingers

got together in conference, talking to one another like ants. He spoke in an unemotional tone, almost

as though he weren’t much interested in what he was saying. Maybe that was what impressed her.

At first she put on her slightly stupid demure look, but after a few of his words she gave that up

and bored into him with her eyes, trying to read his thoughts. He neither looked in her eyes nor

avoided them. But she was aware that he was inspecting her as she inspected him. She felt his glance

go over the scar on her forehead almost as though he had touched it.

“I don’t want to make a record,” he said quietly. “I’ve held office a long time. About one more

term will be enough. You know, young woman, if this were fifteen years back I’d do some checking,

and I guess I’d find something pretty nasty.” He waited for some reaction from her but she did not

protest. He nodded his head slowly. “I don’t want to know,” he said. “I want peace in this county, and I

mean all kinds of peace, and that means people getting to sleep at night. Now I haven’t met your

husband,” he said, and she knew he noticed the slight movement of her tightening muscles. “I hear

he’s a very nice man. I hear also that he’s pretty hard hit.” He looked into her eyes for a moment.

“Don’t you want to know how bad you shot him?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, he’s going to get well—smashed his shoulder, but he’s going to get well. That Chink is

taking pretty good care of him. Course I don’t think he’ll lift anything with his left arm for quite a

spell. A forty-four tears hell out of a man. If the Chink hadn’t come back he’d of bled to death, and

you’d be staying with me in the jail.”

Kate was holding her breath, listening for any hint of what was coming and not hearing any hints.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

The sheriff’s eyes became alert. “Now that’s the first time you’ve made a mistake,” he said.

“You’re not sorry. I knew somebody like you once—hung him twelve years ago in front of the county

jail. We used to do that here.”

The little room with its dark mahogany bed, its marble-top wash stand with bowl and pitcher and a

door for the pot, its wallpaper endlessly repeating little roses—little roses—the little room was silent,

the sound sucked out of it.

The sheriff was staring at a picture of three cherubim—just heads, curly-haired, limpid-eyed, with

wings about the size of pigeons’ wings growing out of where their necks would be. He frowned.

“That’s a funny picture for a whorehouse,” he said.

“It was here,” said Kate. Apparently the preliminaries were over now.

The sheriff straightened up, undid his fingers, and held the arms of his chair. Even his buttocks

pulled in a little. “You left a couple of babies,” he said. “Little boys. Now you calm down. I’m not

going to try to get you to go back. I guess I’d do quite a bit to keep you from going back. I think I

know you. I could just run you over the county line and have the next sheriff run you, and that could

keep up till you landed splash in the Atlantic Ocean. But I don’t want to do that. I don’t care how you

live as long as you don’t give me any trouble. A whore is a whore.”

Kate asked evenly, “What is it you do want?”

“That’s more like it,” the sheriff said. “Here’s what I want. I notice you changed your name. I want

you to keep your new name. I guess you made up someplace you came from—well, that’s where you

came from. And your reason—that’s when you’re maybe drunk—you keep your reason about two

thousand miles away from King City.”

She was smiling a little, and not a forced smile. She was beginning to trust this man and to like

him.“

One thing I thought of,” he said. “Did you know many people around King City?”

“No.”

“I heard about the knitting needle,” he said casually. “Well, it could happen that somebody you

knew might come in here. That your real hair color?”

“Yes.”

“Dye it black for a while. Lots of people look like somebody else.”

“How about this?” She touched her scar with a slender finger.

“Well, that’s just a—what is that word? What is that goddam word? I had it this morning.”

“Coincidence?”

“That’s it—coincidence.” He seemed to be finished. He got out tobacco and papers and rolled a

clumsy, lumpy cigarette. He broke out a sulphur match and struck it on the block and held it away

until its acrid blue flame turned yellow. His cigarette burned crookedly up the side.

Kate said, “Isn’t there a threat? I mean, what you’ll do if I—”

“No, there isn’t. I guess I could think up something pretty ornery, though, if it came to that. No, I

don’t want you—what you are, what you do, or what you say—to hurt Mr. Trask or his boys. You

figure you died and now you’re somebody else and we’ll get along fine.”

He stood up and went to the door, then turned. “I’ve got a boy—he’ll be twenty this year; big,

nice-looking fellow with a broken nose. Everybody likes him. I don’t want him in here. I’ll tell Faye

too. Let him go to Jenny’s. If he comes in, you tell him to go to Jenny’s.” He closed the door behind

him. Kate smiled down at her fingers.

4

Faye twisted around in her chair to reach a piece of brown panocha studded with walnuts. When she

spoke it was around a mouth full of candy. Kate wondered uneasily whether she could read minds, for

Faye said, “I still don’t like it as well. I said it then and I say it again. I liked your hair blond better. I

don’t know what got into you to change it. You’ve got a fair complexion.”

Kate caught a single thread of hair with fingernails of thumb and forefinger and gently drew it out.

She was very clever. She told the best lie of all—the truth. “I didn’t want to tell you,” she said. “I was

afraid I might be recognized and that would hurt someone.”

Faye got up out of her chair and went to Kate and kissed her. “What a good child it is,” she said.

“What a thoughtful dear.”

Kate said, “Let’s have some tea. I’ll bring it in.” She went out of the room, and in the hall on the

way to the kitchen she rubbed the kiss from her cheek with her fingertips.

Back in her chair, Faye picked out a piece of panocha with a whole walnut showing through. She

put it in her mouth and bit into a piece of walnut shell. The sharp, pointed fragment hit a hollow tooth

and whanged into the nerve. Blue lights of pain flashed through her. Her forehead became wet. When

Kate came back with teapot and cups on a tray Faye was clawing at her mouth with a crooked finger

and whimpering in agony.

“What is it?” Kate cried.

“Tooth—nutshell.”

“Here, let me see. Open and point.” Kate looked into the open mouth, then went to the nut bowl on

the fringed table for a nut pick. In a fraction of a second she had dug out the shell and held it in the

palm of her hand. “There it is.”

The nerve stopped shrieking and the pain dropped to an ache. “Only that big? It felt like a house.

Look, dear,” said Faye, “open that second drawer where my medicine is. Bring the paregoric and a

piece of cotton. Will you help me pack this tooth?”

Kate brought the bottle and pushed a little ball of saturated cotton into the tooth with the point of

the nut pick. “You ought to have it out.”

“I know. I will.”

“I have three teeth missing on this side.”

“Well, you’d never know it. That made me feel all shaky. Bring me the Pinkham, will you?” She

poured herself a slug of the vegetable compound and sighed with relief. “That’s a wonderful

medicine,” she said. “The woman who invented it was a saint.”