Prompted Fiction

# 11 - At the Dry Gulch Offices of McClelland Building and Loan (Week 4 No. 1)

When I first saw her, looking anxiously though the plate glass window into the bank, I didn't recognize her. It wasn't that her clothing was different from the last time I had seen her; I had expected that. After all, the last time I had seen Miss Mary Catherine Teasdale, she had been wearing a battered, broad-brimmed man's hat, denim trousers, and a shirt that her no-account older brother had left behind when he went down with the Maine. She was dressed like a boy, but she smelled of home-made lavender soap. She was also crying onto my shoulder, and listing all the reasons why she wouldn't marry me. She'd have said 'couldn't' marry me, but as what I was offering her was a good deal better than that lonely patch of grass and trees she'd inherited up in the hills, it was definitely a case of 'wouldn't', all those tears notwithstanding.

When she showed up at the Dry Gulch offices of McClelland Building and Loan, on the other hand, Mary Catherine Teasdale looked like one of those girls on the Coca-Cola advertisements. You know the ones; pictures printed on tin that hang all around the soda fountain at the druggist's, all long white dresses and parasols, dark hair piled up, pink cheeks, and a not-quite-demure expression. Anyhow, that's how she was dressed - but Miss Teasdale always dressed up to go into Town, especially a Town as big as Dry Gulch, with its new, paved sidewalks, six dry goods stores, and no less than four trains a day that connected down to the City and the trans-continental line.

In short, Mary Catherine looked exactly the way I'd expected her to look - except for one thing. When I knew her, her name was very definitely 'Miss' Teasdale. Now, Mary Catherine is a pretty girl, and much as it might hurt my ego, I wouldn't have been shocked if she'd married in the five years since she'd cried on my shoulder - but she'd written 'Miss' in the return address on the letter she'd sent me. So the thing that confused me, the thing that was so bizarre that I almost couldn't believe my eyes, was this - Mary Catherine Teasdale, Miss Teasdale, had walked along the dusty street hand-in-hand with a little boy.

The bell hooked onto the outside door rang, and I could hear the teller, Mr. Smith, in quiet conversation with Miss Teasdale.

There was a soft knock at my office door, and Smith poked his head into the room, preceded by his green celluloid teller's visor. "Mr. McClelland, sir? Miss Mary Teasdale has arrived. Your 10:30."

I stood to my full height, tugging my waistcoat straight. Despite the heat, I slipped on my jacket and straightened my cravat. In the summer, when the potbellied stove has been put in storage, we hang a little mirror to cover the hole in the wall for the flue. I glanced at my reflection quickly, then turned to Smith.

"Bring her in, please. And fetch that coffee I had you make"

Smith's head bobbed agreement, the light flashing off the visor. The door opened wider, and Mary Catherine stood before me, the little boy hanging off her arm.

"Good morning, Miss Teasdale. Please, do take a seat," I offered, waving her to one of the two well-sprung armchairs that sit in front of the great oak block I call a desk.

She sat, leaving the little boy standing. He was dressed in one of those Fauntleroy outfits, all velvet with lace collars and cuffs, but his hair was cut short, like a man's. His eyes caught mine, and they were soft brown, the exact shade of Mary Catherine's eyes. My heart sank.

Smith came in with an enameled pot full of coffee, fragrant on a metal tray, as well as a ceramic ewer of fresh cream, a small plate piled high with cubes of sugar, and two wide-mouthed, shallow cups. Smith set the tray down so that it was centred on the desk.

I looked again at the little boy, then back at Mary Catherine.

"Mr. Smith?" I said. "Why not put up the 'back in five minutes' sign and take young -"