Heartstrings Read Free

heat wave shimmer through her. John the Baptist had repeated what he heard Lillian say every afternoon at precisely three o’clock. While Theodosia realized her bird didn’t understand what he was saying, his suggestion was unbearable at this moment.
    “One sugar today, Theodosia, or two?” the parrot continued with his tea talk.
    Theodosia frowned. “That’s quite enough out of you, John the Bap—”
    “Impatience is an emotion that is rarely advantageous,” the bird stated. “Would you like cream in your tea as well, Theodosia, dear?”
    Ignoring the loquacious parrot as best she could, Theodosia patted her moist brow with her lacy handkerchief and studied her surroundings.
    Wagons crowded the dusty street that separated the depot platform and the train station. A drunken man wove among the vehicles. With each faulty step, he spilled whiskey from the bottle he clutched in his hand. As he neared Theodosia, he stopped and scratched his crotch.
    “Sir,” she said, pinning him with a sharp look, “it must be close to one hundred degrees out here. Did you know that drinking alcohol raises the body temperature? You are out in this hot sun and drinking whiskey as well. Is it your intention to kill yourself?”
    The man blinked several times, then raised his bottle. “Y’on’t some?”
    She drew away. “No.”
    Shrugging, he staggered back through the wagons, still digging at his crotch.
    Dismissing the vulgar man from her mind, Theodosia scanned the area once more. A dog with a scarred ear barked at her. Nearby horses stomped their hooves, then sneezed as dust floated into their nostrils. Bags and trunks slammed onto the platform as a station employee flung them from the train. A street hawker selling flasks of an elixir for fatigue called out his prices to her. Someone shouted, “Go to hell, you damned son of a bitch!”
    Theodosia shook her head. “Ah, these must be the sweet sounds of Texas.” Lips pursed in distaste, she stepped off the platform and made her way across the street. Mr. Roman Montana could look for her all week; she’d had enough of waiting outside in the torrid heat.
    The interior of the train station wasn’t much cooler, but at least its roof kept the sun from beating down on her. Trash, cockroaches, and sleeping cowboys littered the hardwood floor, and the walls were covered with flies, train schedules, outdated Wanted posters, and lopsided paintings. One painting was of a seminude woman; someone had sketched a beard on her face and a bolt of lightning across her bare breast. In the far corner two old men played checkers. One was smoking a cigar and dropping ashes all over the playing board; his opponent kept blowing them off.
    Theodosia’s distinguished life in Boston suddenly seemed a million miles away.
    After a moment she spotted a refreshment bar and hurried toward it. “I’d like a cold lemonade, please,” she said, setting the bird cage on the counter.
    The barkeep stared at her thoughtfully, his long black moustache twitching as he chewed his wad of tobacco. “Well now, little lady, I reckon you would like a cold lemonade, but I ain’t got nary a lemon left.” He paused a moment to dig at some dried food encrusted within the pair of initials someone had carved into the wooden bar. “’Spect I won’t be gittin’ no more fer at least another week. They come from Mexico, y’know. Lemon trees don’t grow good here.”
    Theodosia winced at his atrocious grammar. “They don’t grow well here.”
    “Yeah, I know. Wonder why?”
    “It’s not a suitable climate, but that’s not what I was trying to… You see, sir, you said lemons don’t grow good here. You should have said they don’t grow well. And while ain’t was once an acceptable word, it isn’t any longer. Oh, and you’ve a fondness for using double negatives.”
    “That so?” He moved his chaw of tobacco to the hollow of his other cheek. “You from England?”
    “England, sir?”
    “You talk like them