Page 32 of My Darling Clementine

“Yes?” Clem’s eyes couldn’t settle on hers, darting anywhere but her piercing baby blues. She needed to tell the truth and not start their marriage with lies.

“They knew your secret? When you…um…paid for their favors, they knew?”

“Yes. When I was with Poppy and Joy I was a woman. But they never told the madam of the house or the other girls.”

“How’d that happen?” Kizzy’s eyes danced, and Clem couldn’t resist telling her the story, even though it would make them late. “Well you see, I hadn’t been with a woman since I started living as a man. Barney and I worked our claim day and night for over a year. Then one day…”

In late August 1847, Barney discovered a cache caught in a tree. A sudden downpour toppled an ancient oak on the bank of the Mokelumne River. Its wide branches damaged their sod house. While cutting it into firewood, he saw gold glinting. Scores of nuggets as big as his fist sparkled in the sun among the upended, long-buried roots. Heavy, they’d settled between them. As the tree grew, creating a bend in the river, its rushing water buried them under swirling silt, tucked into nooks and crannies that grew around them.

Leery of claim jumpers, they kept loaded rifles at hand, worked hard, and combed through the large tree’s roots in the privacy of their sod hut. They didn’t mention their find when in Sacramento buying supplies, or drinking a friendly beer in the saloon, or while complaining at the barber shop over everything from the weather to bad luck. Trying to appear normal, they felt anything but. When the occasional prospector wandered through their grounds, they were cordial, wishing them well in staking a richer claim than theirs.

It took months to plumb the area where the tree fell, hiding the gold until they brought up all they could find. One fine day in early October, as yellowed oak leaves dropped around them, they set off for the assay office in Sacramento with over a hundred pounds of gold dust, flake, and nuggets. Two days later, after causing quite an uproar, they banked just over twenty-five thousand dollars.

Before leaving town, they collected their mail. In it, Clem found a recent edition of the Boston Daily Journal with an article titled Growing West by Dennis Tines, a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill in payment, and a handwritten note from the editor, Tom Dennison, asking for follow-up articles.

While eating a celebratory lunch, she held up the copy of the Journal in one hand, and the receipt from their bank in the other. “I don’t know which one I’m prouder of.”

“Which was the hardest to achieve?” asked Barney, signaling to the waiter for another couple of beers.

“It took four months of harrowing travel to get to California, and another twelve to find gold. It took twenty-two years to get my father to admit I can write well enough for his paper, and he still doesn’t know I am Dennis Tines, which is the important part.” She shrugged. “He’ll just say it’s a fluke, anyway.”

“Then send him the follow up he asked for.” Barney drank his beer, then slapped his knee and laughed. “Write about staking a claim, working hard, and hitting it rich, ‘cause brother, that’s what we did!”

Her best friend sat back in his chair, crossing his sore leg over the sound. “I’ll pay my parents twice what I took.” Barney sighed with contentment. “The other six thousand is all mine.” He looked at Clem. “What are you going to do with your share?”

“Of the gold? Nothing. It can sit in the bank for now. There’s still a lot more gold to dig up. We’ve got what we need, that’s enough for me right now. But I know how we’re spending this.” Clem waved Ben Franklin in the air. “We’re using the money from my first sale to the Journal at Lady Jane’s Parlor of Tonsorial Delights, my treat.”

“The whorehouse?” Barney sat up in his chair, a squeak in his voice. He blushed, not easy to see under layers of grime and tangled long hair in need of a cut. He scratched around a long, scraggly, thin beard. “They say it’s pretty pricey, costs a whole ounce.”

“Sixteen dollars for a bath and haircut?” Clem raised an eyebrow. “That is high.”

“A bath, haircut, and a woman,” said Barney, turning even redder.

“That works for me,” Clem said with a smile.

Barney shook his head. “A hot bath would be worth it, but to pay that much for a whore who doesn’t know your name and is listening for the knock on the door that says your time’s up? Too much pressure, I couldn’t perform. When I’m with a woman, I want to relax in her arms after, don’t you?”

“I do,” Clem agreed, “except I only relax if I’m holding her. Let’s go to Lady Jane’s and find out what that would take.”

She watched Barney tip his head to the side, considering. After traveling, living, and working together for a couple of years, the topic of sex came up often, not unusual among young men. Keeping to an unspoken code of honor, they’d never discussed their lovers, but would sometimes admit to having done this, or tried that. After all, who hadn’t by their age?

She listened to Barney’s stories at first, but soon discovered his limited experience was no greater than hers; stolen kisses, furtive groping in dark corners, and when they could get a girl to lie with them, it was in a hurry so they wouldn’t get caught. They’d both squeezed some breasts, explored under a few skirts, entered as far as they dared without compromising a girl’s virginity, and learned the art of masturbation fueled by fantasy. When they ran out of actual experiences, they began inventing sexual scenarios for their needs. For months they’d been outdoing each other describing lascivious liaisons, promiscuous positions, and insatiable lovers. Clem called her shy friend’s bluff.

“Looky here, Barney Finkle, neither of us has been with a woman since we got to California, we will never have a better reason to celebrate, and here we are with both the opportunity and money. What are we waiting for?”

But he surprised her, putting her in a pretty spot. “Well said, Clem Dennison, published author. I accept. Let’s go.”

Lady Jane turned out to be quite reasonable. For the young men to have a private bath, followed by a complete tonsorial styling, and an hour with a lady of the house, the current price was an ounce of gold, or sixteen American dollars. But, not having seen paper money for some time, she became generous; for the whole hundred they could have up to four girls until dawn. Clem handed over Ben Franklin, and they went into separate bathing rooms.

Locking the door, she used her usual precautions to ensure privacy by removing the key and hanging her hat over the doorknob to protect her from prying eyes. Clem stripped in a hurry, slipped into the hot bath, scrubbed every inch of herself with soap and a supplied brush, washed her hair twice, then soaked as the water cooled around her.

A knock sounded at the door. “Give me a minute to dress,” she called, scrambling out of the tub.

“Don’t bother, honey, I’ve got a robe,” called a sultry woman’s voice. “You ain’t got nothing I never saw before.”

Clem re-wrapped her breasts, binding them tighter than usual in her hurry. She pulled on her johnson underwear, yanked up her trail-worn work pants, and buttoned up her shirt, tucking the tail in as she unlocked the door.

“I’m already dressed,” she said, deepening her voice a bit.