Foolish Games | Tombstone

Chapter Seven

The light emanating from within the Birdcage Theatre glowed eerily ominous that evening. For the rest of her days, Clara would never forget the sight of it. Almost as if her mind refused to remember the pain and tragedy that would ensue, intently focusing on something from that night–anything from that night–she could use to dissociate. It had looked so queer, brightly lit against the backdrop of a cold, blackened desert. She would recall no stars, but the moon was in its last quarter, having a look about it as if someone had sliced it in half. It was a Monday evening.

Doc had been a vision. Wearing his usual attire, he still appeared a beacon of southern gentleness that placed him above others in pedigree and disposition. He was well that evening. Not a soul would have assumed how close to death he seemed earlier in the day.

John Henry's mood was cheery as he carefully escorted Clara through the boisterous throng of Cowboys to the balcony above. His guns glinted against the candle's light of the theatre.

It was there they encountered the Earp brothers and their wives. Virgil had nodded to them both, exchanging how-dos and the like. Morgan wasted no time greeting Clara with a hug, as siblings might, kissing her gently on her cheek. Only a few places down were Wyatt and Mattie, looking as though they had just arrived themselves. Wyatt was removing Mattie's coat, gazing far away from where he was. Clara had thought it odd but pushed it aside as others began filing in. A few well-mannered patrons approached Doc.

He had puffed away on his cigarettes, his arm extended for Clara to hold on to, introducing her to the influential members of Tombstone, namely those who had a stake in her father's reelection.

Knowing it was her duty as the sheriff's daughter to win the graces of the politicians and shrewd business tycoons, Clara did her best to appear cordial. Behind her fair facade, however, a rage boiled in her breast. She couldn't stop thinking about Mama. By some cruel play of events, the figure of her father approached her. He wasn't alone, and it wasn't Mama on his arm.

At first, Clara could not register what she was seeing. Daddy was standing there, smiling at all of them. He grinned, greeting everyone with thanks for their support.

Douglas Grady spoke highly of his integrity, unwavering love of the town he served, and high hopes for his family in Tombstone. Clara hardly heard his words. She focused on the gloved hand of the woman who stood beside her father.

She was young, young enough perhaps to be Clara's sister. Dark hair piled high on top of her head, matched by striking eyes and necklaced with beautiful rubies. The woman's gaze was a deep sort, cunning but not unkind. She was beautiful in a way other women were not, unmistakably the polar opposite of Clara's mother.

Mr. Grady noticed his daughter's inspection.

"I hadn't known you'd be here, baby girl."

The calmness of her father's voice tore her from her darkened thoughts. Clara noticed the eyes of those around them on her. She breathed deeply, realizing the sensation of an ever-gentle squeeze from Doc's arm against hers.

"Where else should I be, sir? If not in public support of your reelection?"

It was the only thing Clara could muster aloud. Inside herself, she wanted to scold her father. Clara wanted to tear into him for his gross behavior, daring him to tell her the whereabouts of her mother while he paraded around his harlot.

"Well, thank you, Clara-belle. I mightly appreciate your backing."

Once upon a time, that pet name would have made her smile. It would have lightened her heart. Now, her father's words dripped with poison. It had become a falsehood of Christian love. God be good to her Mama and forgive Clara; she found herself spiteful and unable to contain her rage.