No. 60

Chas. In 1895 (The Dive)

Stewart King c/o

John C. Davant, Attorney

501 Cleveland St.

Clearwater Florida

December 8, 1939

Dear Stewart,

Still in the tub, but from the open window I heard my boss breaking his temper controller, and he was getting pulled in deeper: some argument with the men on the porch, a loud thud and yelling about the livery, some yelling and demanding that they had better stop what they were doing, pulling what was his and only his out of stables, some prize, I think.

There was a knock at the door. I heard Charles. He was on the other side of my door.

I recognized his accent. Oh, it frightened me, but the owner of the saloon frightened me more!

Charles opened the door. Just a crack. “You get your things,” He said.

With his boot he pushed into the room an empty postal satchel.

Still talking behind the door, he said, “Open the bag. Find pants. Put on the uniform. I will take you to my sister. She will hire you. But you must hurry. This minute!”

Wait, did he say his sister would hire me or hide me?

I held my breath. Drowned my head, saying those only pulsing, orienting constants in my life-three Hail Marys and one Glory Be--that I keep time with so I knew how long a minute would be and what I used to distract me from what my employer was doing to me as he pounded.

But what did he say, “She will hide you” or “hire you?”

How far?

How long?

Now a certain new-and-improved pounding was going on in my chest. That door!

I came up from the water. Eyes fixed to the door. Refusing to let him see me this way. Still open only a crack. Good. His hand on the edge.

He demanded, “Girl. Now!”

“Ya,” I said “Ya.”

He must have heard the water splashing or me jumping.

I found the postal uniform. Pulled it on my wet body. How jerky and scratchy it went as I had no undergarments.

Threw my dress and apron in the postal bag. Turned to find my boots. Slipped on the floor. With that thud, Charles opened the door. He picked me up.

“I’ll get the boots,” He announced.

For a minute I enjoyed watching him unscrambled the laces. This made he very cross.

He tossed me his hat, which hit my face out of this moment of dumb, “Tuck your hair.”

--Miss Minnie

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel