Annie Oakley's Girl Read Online Free Page A

of Miss Oakley.”
    This time when I come back, I bring her a present. Annie unwraps the boxes and laughs at the paper with the flapper-girl designs. When she first pulls out her newly laundered fancy skirt and jacket, she doesn’t recognize them, then she does. “Well, land o’ goshen, honey, what’d y’ do t’ these thangs?”
    â€œI had them dry-cleaned, Annie.”
    She looks at me and nods with that tentative nod you give when you feel like you should say, “yes,” but you don’t really know quite why.
    â€œAnd weather-proofed,” I add proudly.
    She looks at me and squints.
    â€œFeel that?” I take her hand and rub it over the newly treated leather. “That’ll protect it from the rain and keep it stronger.”
    â€œUh-huh,” she says, her face still puzzled. She brings the jacket to her face, looks at it closely, sniffs it.
    â€œNever needed it before,” she says.
    I nod, “I know, but this is better.”
    Annie takes the skirt and jacket and the three special blouses from the box. She gingerly places them out flat on the table and looks them over again. “Hmmm-mm,” she mutters.
    The ladies at the dry-cleaner had been impressed. They’d ooh-ed and aah-ed at the leather and fine handwork. I’d told them they’d been in the family for many years and asked them to be extra careful. I’d hoped Annie would be pleased they looked like new. I was.
    This night when I wake up it’s not a nightmare; it’s a storm. When my eyes spring open I see Annie sitting by the bed, polishing her boots in the dim light of the oil lamp. When I sit up, she looks at me and I ask, “What are you doing? Why are you awake?” The canvas cover of the wagon heaves with blowing air. Lightning cracks and thunder interrupts her voice.
    â€œI thought y’ might wake up and git afeared, so I thought I’d be here in case y’ did.”
    I look at her and I don’t know what to say.
    She looks away from me then tries to sound buoyant and matter-of-fact, “Besides, I hadda polish these dang thangs.”
    I pretend that I accept all this for what it is and think nothing more. I close rny eyes as if I were asleep and listen to her breathe, and the swish and buff of her hands at work beneath the sound of rain.
    We’re out in the open and it’s almost fall. I try to read in the changing light of the open fire. The only sounds are the crack of flame and the soft wet sound of Kid and Cowgirl chewing, then the sound of Annie’s boots walking back from checking on the horses. Her boots scrape across the rough dry ground.
    â€œNice night,” I say as she returns to the fire and stretches her hands to the warmth.
    She nods and looks into the flame, but I don’t think she’s looking at anything.
    â€œHow’s Kid and Cowgirl?”
    â€œOh, fine . . .” She nods. Her voice is tired. I watch her as she sits down by the light. She stoops, puts her hands on her thighs, then on the ground beside her. She exhales as she finally sits then breathes in loud. She brushes back the hair that’s fallen in her face then rubs her eyes. She pulls her hand down over her whole face, stretching her cheeks, then she rubs the back of her neck and twists her head. Her eyes are closed and I can’t tell if it’s the shadow of flame or if it really is bags under her eyes, and wrinkles at the outer edges. And I tell myself that now I will tell her. I say very softly, “Annie?” But Annie doesn’t hear me.
    There’s a feeling you get when you’re away and you think, “If only I was there . . . if only I was with . . .” and you look forward to it and you save up things for when you are. You think, “If I was there, if I was with . . . then I’d say this and this . . .” But then you are there, truly and at last, and you think, “This is what I wanted. This is when