Sundance by David Fuller Page A

they saw what ordinary men did not. For a moment, Longbaugh was one of them.
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    T HE ADDRESS of Etta’s boardinghouse proved to be a run-down old mansion, but it still had some pride, as the windows were free of the ubiquitous clotheslines bearing sheets and trousers that downgraded the other buildings in the area. He had expected New York to be younger, and while there was extensive construction up north, down here he had a sense of a place already passed by. A young woman in the midst of chores stepped out the front door. She might have been pretty but a vertical line between her eyebrows was as deep as her look of exhaustion. She held her lips taut, her eyes were strained and wary, and strands of hair clung to her forehead and cheeks.
    â€œLooking for a room if you have one.”
    The furrow between her eyebrows ran deeper. “There’s a room, but it’s one of the bigger ones. Probably won’t want to afford it.”
    â€œLet me decide.”
    â€œSuit yourself.” She looked at his boots and cowboy hat, then at the gear over his shoulder. She walked inside and he was meant to follow.
    She led him through a vestibule that had once been quite the thing. The dark wainscoting was as high as his shoulders. The rug might have been the original, and while clean, it was just about done, faded and in some areas thinned to the floorboards. A few small paintings decorated the walls, but if there had been pieces with style, wit, or talent they had taken flight. The staircase was grand but wanted paint, and the banister waited on a carpenter. He followed her up to the second floor to a heavy door that she opened with a key. The room was simply furnished, clean like the rest of the house, and when she spread the curtains, a good amount of light came in.
    â€œThis will do.”
    She looked surprised. “It’s nothing special. Was nice once, but the owner didn’t believe in upkeep.”
    â€œGood enough.”
    â€œWell.” She was unsure how to continue with her new tenant. “I am . . . you may as well call me Abigail.”
    She told him the rate and he paid her without haggling. He set down his things. He asked where to buy clothes and she mentioned a local men’s clothing store.
    â€œYou might find something there, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s too fancy.”
    â€œYou’re very young to be so disappointed.”
    She pinned him with a malignant eye, as if he had just tapped her on the head with a whale bone from a corset. Then she showed him her profile, chin raised. He thought that he would be wise to keep his thoughts to himself. He waited, and when she had collected herself, she led him down the hall. They came to the door of a privy indoors. He smiled at this place, New York City. A facility on his floor with running water. Luxury.
    â€œWash up here, I suspect you’re tired.” After a moment, she said,“You won’t be disappointed, this here’s the most opulent jakes in all the five boroughs.”
    â€œAs well as every state west of the Mississippi.”
    She almost smiled. He was anything but disappointed. He certainly stank after days of travel and was ready to be clean. She demonstrated the hand pump, and water came through a faucet and into a basin. She put a hand on a towel he could use, then stepped outside and closed the door. On the far side, she did not move away. He waited and a few moments later heard her tiptoe down the hall. He turned to consider the room.
    His eye was drawn to the color of a small olive ribbon about six inches long that appeared to have been forgotten, stuck between a drinking glass and an old tin of Toilet and Baby Powder. He was reminded of Etta, as the ribbon was the color of his bandanna, and then thought that if her room had been on this floor, she would have spent time in this privy. He pictured her standing at the mirror, curling a