by Anneliese Kappey
We disguise ourselves as men, but even so, when the sun was mighty high a band of forty-niners jumped Candy and me—caught us with our mouths open, ‘bout to lunch. It’s a fake-ball hot Friday in August and we stand, arms akimbo, with none but the clothes on our backs as dust settles onto our scalp. At dawn, we’d left what locals call The Salt Lake, saltier than the ocean (I had a taste, but can’t compare), which is now seven hours away not to California. We’re still in Utah, I think.
Candy ain’t no good when she’s hungry, gets mad as horns. I had made her favorite expedition food: beans with smoked dried carrots, my late mama’s recipe, which I promised would die with me—might be soon with no food or water.
Candy’s said none since the men took off on our wagon, laughing and spitting green slime darts. She keeps muttering my name Mandy, Mandy, Mandy—like it’s my fault we got hungry and had to lunch, boiling her temper up, preparing for whatever we gotta do next, and soon. The cluster of mountains and valleys ahead looks more promising than this vastness offering none but dust colonizing my pores. My stomach growls. I think I wanna go home and eat cabbage stew. Gold might be nice, though, if we survive, that is.
Candy taps her spine. I can’t tell if she’s hurt. Saying none still, she swings a double-barreled shotgun forward until the weapon shelters between her breasts. I squeeze my eyebrows like they family from different states and skipped last Christmas. Candy shrugs so small I only see it ‘cause I seen it—flattens her lips from pout to a sugar-free Candy smile. She stomps her right foot, twice and in two-by-four, digs her heel in the dirt, two fingers from each hand tucked into fob pockets. I move my chin from north to south, dramatic like, sweat beads fumbling with my concentration.
“Can’t talk you out of going forward, can I?” I ask, looking over my shoulder the way we came, not ahead, not at her—all part of our unspoken shared theatrics.
“No, ma’am. You welcome to turn back if you wish, but I ain’t letting a li’l hiccup stop me from striking gold.”
Candy’s daddy used to trap otters and foxes for a living, but switched to buffalo hides in the Great Plains. He hunted in winter, and spent summers teaching Candy how to shoot and how to be a man, for he never got a son. Shrinking obstacles is how Candy survives.
My whole life been me protecting Candy and making sure she ain’t hurt so she can be as wild as wind-traveled flower seeds. It’s hard work, because she don’t think none of consequences and tomorrows.
“We don’t know what’s ahead, Candy,” I yell to her back. She struts and tucks her dusty hair under the fat part of her square hat.
“Gold or death is what,” she’s courteous enough to turn her nose down to Texas so I can hear.
“We lost, Candy. Time to go home. It’s over,” I follow her. I’m reminded of every time I walked into trouble without wanting to, including this one. My fists clench, my jaw jumbles wordless thoughts.
“No use tryin’ talk me out of it, Mandy. You go home and bake if you want.” She chuckles, all forced-like, out of spite not amusement.
My face squeezes itself tight like poor men’s feet into new shoes. “What am I gonna tell daddy when I turn up without you?” I ask, then close my eyes and freeze.
Candy turns to face where the sun will rise again. “Daddy? Since when you call my father daddy? He ain’t your daddy.”
I stay froze. Light rushes to California, too. “Never thought it was strange you got no mama and I have no daddy?” I ask, swinging my thoughtless confession into satisfaction as I go. I raise my eyebrows like I know the answer.
“What are you on about, Mandy?”
I offer a smirk, none else. She shoves me, flat hands to my chest in one move, the power of a buffalo in heat is my guess. The ground scratches my elbows, which bleed softly. I taste God’s great dry earth. This is the moment I always knew would come, but still never prepared for.
“Talk,” Candy says with no inflection, grabs the rifle’s body and points its wide eyes to my face.
I contort my lips to hold the truth in. The rifle don’t budge, the center of my forehead hurts, my hairline is wet. Why didn’t I come up with a story beforehand, something to ease this uncertainty?
Candy lowers the rifle until one wide eye kisses my nose, which is kind of funny, but I can’t laugh. “Talk, Amanda,” she repeats without new movement.
I been caught between loyalty to my mama and Candy’s right to know. The gun and my brain are now too close for me to think. Candy wild enough to shoot her own, especially when she don’t know the truth. My heart bucking like an untamed horse I don’t wanna look in the mouth, either. I miss the taste of water.
“We’re sisters. Mama confessed in her deathbed. Made me promise not to tell,” she can shoot me. I’m so exhausted I could die. She spits against the wind, pulls the rifle closer to her eyeball. The world is void except for the two of us, our sick father back in Illinois, and our dead mother buried in his backyard.
“Guess I’ve spilled the beans, ain’t I?” I’m still on my rear and elbows, thumbing back and tossing my eyes to where our wagon once was, next to our knocked-over warm meal’s remnants peppering the ground. I’m being sassy for the sake of levity. It’s done, I said it. The horse inside my chest can run wild now, whatever teeth it got, it don’t matter no more.
Candy’s chest inflates and melts, faster and higher each time. I watch her eye, lid near shut, can’t see her in it. Clouds mask the sun. She frees up both her hands, and extends one to me. I consider slapping it away, playful like, but sense this ain’t the time. I hold it firm and get up on my feet. We eye-contact so close I can smell her breath. Her eyes are little-girl’s eyes, confused but unwilling. Trying to comfort her will only make her angry, so I stand as neutral as I can, waiting for what she might do next.
We need food, but mostly we need water. We got about two days to find it. Money would, as money does, solve all our problems
* * *
We walk through dusk and dawn and into dusk again, when we find a saloon in a small town. I stomp in ahead of Candy, pulling the top of my trousers and swinging my phony manhood with each step I take. I eye a poker table I might join for fast coins, though Candy never seen how good I play.
I join the game. My adversary is better than I expected, ain’t seen nobody this good since Tooty Tom died. Still, I win. Never mind winning, I won against the town’s (former) unbeatable player. Pocketing our earnings, I chin-nod towards the bar. We toss back a couple cold brews.
Candy’s shock crosses from endearing to carelessly unflattering by the sixth time she chants you were so cool, Mandy, who knew you had it in you—and other such molasses. I care how she feels about the family stuff, but this isn’t the time to ask.
My chest warms with big-sisterly love, unhidden for the first time. I put my cup down and swallow. My right ear explodes, suddenly concave, warm fluid diving down my neck. It’s McKitty Bobby Joe Loo, who’s a sore loser it turns out, sucker punching my head.
Grunts and yawps cut through the chatter and laughter that were here a minute ago. Names and name-calling announce slaps and strikes, even bites. The masses speak out with no real opinions, every person joining what turns into a collective brawl. Punches and chairs fly off the shelves, mostly misplaced anger and frustrated quests’ fatigue is my best guess. No one is taking sides or cares about us. Candy, McKitty and I might as well be fightin’ alone.
From my peripheral, when I can afford to divide my focus, I see men everywhere. They rip one another to shreds, losing blood and gaining scars, tearing up shirts made by wives and sister with abandon—no real gain in sight. No end, either. Looks to me like they do it to do it, not to get nowhere.
Crusty, grimy, hyperventilating and fuming, the tiredness of decades gripping our bones, we eventually all simmer down and pause. I look over at Candy—her hat torn, long locks cascading loose and wild, her shirt flung open, her tits out. I don’t know what to do. We might both die right here, her life shorter than my own. No goodbyes for daddy, the poor old man.
Candy shapes her arms like arrows, stealth as foxes, grabs her rifle from the inside of her pants along her legs, moves it up to her waist and shoots McKitty Bobby Joe Loo in the knee. As he squeals, she shouts—run!—and we do just that, fast as stallions. I hope they feel this free, too.
* * *
We hide in the wilderness, lay on our backs, drenched in moonlight and terrified of rattlesnakes, ears perked up awaiting their hissing through dried leaves—pockets full of coins.
“Poker fame, blood sisters—you might as well share mama’s recipes with me,” Candy says with mirth in her eyes.
“Won’t be doin’ that ever,” I reply and finger-zip my lips shut. I let air out my chest and with it, the weight I been carryin’ since mama died and bequeathed her secret legacy to me. They split us kids when they split up, too much work I suppose, Candy too baby to remember any of it.
Daddy made up a woman who never existed to be Candy’s mama just to break our mother’s heart. That lie broke her so good she pretended like it was her idea—and clung to it ’til her last breath. Grown people can be so silly.
The wild west smells like it might rain, finally, though my fingertips run circles in the dust, the odd pebble prickling my palm. I can still taste that beer we didn’t get to finish, the one that exploded out of the glass that was hit by a bullet. I spot a wildflower in the distance, lone and sturdy.
“You wanna go home, sis? Can I call you that?” Candy looks at me with patient eyes, pleading and open.
“Please, call me sis,” I let my teeth show through my reply, eyes misty and sandy.
I look up at the moon, bright as diamonds. The heck with it, we got a rifle and coins, drank some and ate some. “Nah, let’s go get us some gold.”
Candy’s eyes compete with the moon for spotlight, her shit-eating grin flat as pancakes. I live to see her excited about everything like she is. Maybe that’s what big sisters are for: to keep the little ones safe so they can grow wild and free.
I walk over to the wildflower and pluck it from the ground, asking for forgiveness as I shorten its wild life. I sit next to Candy’s face, sculpt her hair back to the top of her head. I kiss her forehead like I always done since the time I can’t remember. I run the flower’s stem through her dusty locks, above her right ear. The California-sun yellow petals adorn her perfect face. We might like it out there.
I may have mistaken the light of the night for it glimmered and glowed, but I think I saw a tear blossom and run down Candy’s temple.
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