Page 11 of My Darling Clementine

Kizzy’s only reaction was a slow blink as she threw her last ten dollars in the pot. “All in. I call.” Without looking at her father, she flipped her cards over on the table, then spread her hands wide. “Read ‘em and weep, gents. Full house. Ladies over twos.” She glanced at the dealer and around the group. To a man they tossed in their cards, and she scooped her winnings toward her. Plucking the ticket up, she waved it in triumph. “Independence sounds like the right place for me to start a new life.”

“It does, at that,” agreed the man, lowering his boot to the floor and sitting up. The other three nodded with grins.

That didn’t sit well with the short, round reverend at all, and denied his satisfaction in church earlier, he stood quivering with outrage. Stretching as tall as possible before his unexpected audience, he turned to his daughter and railed, “Somewhere out there you’ll meet your match, you disgusting freak, someone who’ll beat you until you break, and put you in your place, like I should have done years ago. Go out west where you’re as good as dead; we’ll never see you again. Leave, so you won’t embarrass me or your mother anymore with your God damned deviance.”

The saloon’s double doors slammed open with such violence they bounced off the walls, making everyone look past him. Reverend Walker, shoved hard between the shoulder blades from behind, staggered forward. Everyone turned, eyes squinting against the bright midday sun, silhouetting Penelope Walker as she barreled into the bar, glaring at her husband.

Mama walked right up to him, pointing her finger in his face as if placing a curse upon him. Kizzy stared at them both, having never seen her calm, quiet-spoken mother this angry before.

As surprised as everyone in the saloon was by that brazen behavior, her next words stunned them.

“You’re the only one I’m embarrassed to claim, Michael Ulysses Walker. You have no right to speak to our daughter that way.”

“Go home, Penelope,” the reverend ordered, low voice rumbling. “I’m shocked at you. How dare you interfere with a man of God, doing His business?”

“I’m a woman of God, doing the same.” Red-faced, her voice thundered with righteous fury, out sermonizing him. “Man makes mistakes, Kizzy, God doesn’t. Remember that.”

“Shut up, you idiotic, stupid woman! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Absorbed by the drama unfolding around them, all the men in the saloon were silent, so her words rang through the room, bouncing off the walls. “You speak for yourself, Michael Walker. I don’t doubt God’s handiwork. Kizzy is perfect, just as He made her.” All of four foot six, she stood beside her daughter’s chair, placing a hand on her shoulder, an invisible shawl of sanctity draping her.

Every man around the table rose out of respect for the tiny spitfire; so did her astonished daughter, taking both her hands. “Mama, what are you doing here?” Kizzy said with a dazzling smile, unable to say more for the lump lodged in her throat.

“Mrs. Walker, go home,” the reverend ordered. “This is no business of yours.” His threatening voice rumbled as her embarrassed father planted his feet in a familiar stance, glaring between them, hands balled into fists of rage. He turned on his wife. “It’s your fault it’s come to this, with your permissive ways. You did this.”

Mama raised her voice to prevent more sermonizing. “You banished her, you bought the railroad ticket, you ordered her out of our home.” She glared at him, eyes just like Kizzy’s flashing. “You did this.” She shook her finger in his face. “No one else, Michael. You are the one ripping my daughter from my arms.”

Kizzy’s heart twisted.

“Shut up, woman!” The minister’s arm flew back.

Mama flinched before the expected blow, but for the first time in her life Kizzy fought back as he struck. She grabbed his wrist, yanked his hand up behind his back, and spun him around. Before she could grow afraid, she aimed a swift kick at the shiny seat of his Sunday pants, which propelled him toward the double doors, sending him flying through them.

She stood with a hand on each swinging door, and with nothing left to lose, the words she’d been afraid to say before flew out of her mouth. “Stop hitting Mama! You’re nothing but a blowhard bully, you son of a bitch!” Kizzy’s heart sank into her quivering belly, but her backbone straightened. “I’ll see you in hell, Father.”

He glared up at her as those watching the show, both inside the saloon, and outside on the street, laughed. For once shocked into silence, he rose, brushed the dust from his suit, and turned his back on them. Michael Walker limped away with as much dignity as he could muster, supported by a small cluster of church women orbiting around him, pelting him with questions.

Through a rousing roar of approval, Kizzy returned to the card table, pulled out a chair for her mother, and sat beside her as the other players grinned from ear to ear.

Mama turned to Kizzy, her bright eyes dancing. “I’ve wanted to kick that stubborn old mule many times,” she crowed, “but I’m not that woman. You, my daughter, are. Then she readjusted her attitude, voice firm. “Say your prayers tonight, young lady, and repent raising a hand to your father.” She gave her daughter a rueful smile. “I’ll be doing my own repenting. It’s sinful, but what a thrill I felt watching you boot his butt out the door.”

The bartender brought them two glasses of sarsaparilla soda. He looked from mother to daughter. “I wouldn’t have thought either one of you had it in you. Shows what I know.” A gap-toothed grin split his face. “On the house.”

Mama sipped the treat and nodded her head in thanks. “It’s tasty,” she said to him with a smile. “Thank you.”

Turning to Kizzy, she shook her head. “You’re smart, child, no one can take that from you. And you can read and write, which gives you an advantage over almost every woman you’ll meet, and half the men.” She sighed. “You don’t see it now, but in some ways you’re very like your father, just as proud and stubborn when you think you’re right. Learn from his mistakes, be humble. Control your temper and don’t rush to judgement. And please, assume everyone’s best intentions until they prove otherwise.” She hugged her daughter close.

“That’s the worst goddamn advice I ever heard,” muttered the grizzly-haired saloon keeper while mopping up the minister’s spit, “beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to Penelope and then nodded at Kizzy. “But don’t send your daughter away believin’ that nonsense. You listen to me girl, don’t trust no one, no how.” Then he hit the spittoon near his feet, making it ring.

“And play your cards close to your chest,” advised a poker player, although the man sitting next to him kicked him under the table. “What?” He blushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know what you meant,” Kizzy assured with a smile. “I hear all of you, and I’ll be as careful as I can, but it’s time to live my life, and Independence is as good a place to start as any.” She saw her mother’s admiring look, drinking it in with her heart.

They left the bar together, walking toward the church. Her mother took her hand, holding it like she used to when walking the streets of Rocheport. “I know you don’t believe it, but I was once as rash as you.”

“You, Mama? Rash?” Kizzy shook her head. “You think everything over twice or three times before you make a decision.”

“I do now,” her mother conceded. “The years have made me cautious, but in my youth I was headstrong, doing what I wished and apologizing afterward.” She caressed Kizzy’s cheek with her soft hand. “It was the best time of my life and I regret nothing, but I did make some lollapalooza mistakes before I married your father.”