As I stretched out in a tub full of hot water, I marveled at its French craftmanship. Each of the four tubs was long enough even for someone my size to lie down in. The ends sloped gracefully upward to provide a headrest and the sides curved outwards, thick enough to serve as armrests. The bronze tub had relief work all along its edges. Dragons and knights in battle were depicted on two tubs, while Cupids, angels, and clouds highlighted the other two.
The soap was more pumice than lather, but Mario and Pablo kept a fire going out back and hot water was available at all times. Drinks were provided for a price, although it was usually three times that of the cantina across the way. Every customer who ever took a bath at Fitzhugh’s felt like he’d died and gone to heaven, although few cowpunchers ever entered more than once. It seems most were either unwilling to meet the high price Fitzhugh charged, or preferred to spend their pay on wild women, drinks, or cards, in that order.
Over the years, most of my baths had consisted of river crossings, flash floods, or sudden rainstorms. When I was younger, though, my ma was especially particular about family cleanliness. Neither my sister nor I liked to sit still for church service, but Ma insisted we attend every Sunday. Naturally we had to clean up before, lest folks think she was raising a pack of little savages. I can still remember her bending me over a rain barrel with a washcloth in hand, exclaiming— “I knowed it! You’re trying to grow apples back here!”—as she scrubbed my ears clean.
I had to fight to keep from falling asleep right there in the tub, but although I could easily have asked Mario for another tub full of hot water, I remembered that Fitzhugh charged by the hour, by the tub, and by the towel. Finally I decided enough was enough. Besides, a man shouldn’t get used to too much luxury—doesn’t build character, or so my cash poor friends are always quick to point out.
Standing up, I stepped out of the tub, toweled off, and dressed. As I faced the small mirror tied to the opposite wall trying to bring some sense of order to my hair, I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had forgotten something. There were serious questions that still bothered me, but try as I might, the answers eluded me.
I shrugged the feeling off at least for the moment. The next time I met Rosa I wanted to be as presentable as possible, and another glance in the mirror convinced me that a shave wouldn’t hurt. I tossed a tip to the boys, hoping they’d get to keep it this time, and left in search of a barber.
The building next door to the bathhouse was a single, freestanding, converted wood frame house with a large picture window. The sign out front was written in both Spanish and English. The English part read:
Dentist, Alchemist, and Phrenologist
Barber extraordinaire…No credit!
Uncle Zeke always claimed that dentists made the best barbers. “Nobody gives as close a shave as a good dentist,” he used to say. “Must be the way they’re taught to sharpen instruments. Always keep a good edge on their razors.” I rubbed the palm of my hand across the stubble that had formed on my face and pushed open the door.
A middle-aged man with spectacles, wearing a long white apron, was washing his hands in a sink that stood in front of a swivel-type barber chair. The room was covered with charts depicting teeth, skull configurations, and other assorted body parts.
“¿Con permiso, está abierto?” I asked.
He turned around and looked me over as he finished drying his hands. Dropping the towel over the back of the chair, he finally answered. “Yep, open for business. Name’s Grumet, Doctor Robert Grumet. What’ll it be, gent…haircut, shave, or extraction?”
“Just a shave will be fine. It’s that obvious I’m a gringo, huh?” I joked, referring to the fact that, although I’d addressed him in Spanish, he hadn’t even hesitated to answer me in English.
“Over six foot tall, and with that accent? Are you kidding me?” He laughed. Dusting off the chair with the same towel, he gestured to me. “Here you go. Have a seat.”
I tossed my hat on the rack near the door and settled into the chair.
With a grandiose sweep he pulled a large white sheet from the counter and spun it around my neck. Clipping it together from behind, he asked: “Want the sideburns wide, long, short, or nonexistent?”
“Clean and short will do, I guess,” I answered, watching him glide his razor back and forth across the leather strop, in a timeless and traditional barbershop ceremony. Uncle Zeke was probably right, I thought.
“So what’s a man of your obvious talents doing this far south?” I asked.
He started lathering up a small soap brush and looked down at me. “Well, I’ll tell you. Ever hear of a man up Texas way named Loving? Oliver Loving?”
“Who hasn’t? Drives cattle throughout the whole area. Owns most of it, too. What of it?”
“I used to practice up north. One day a drive comes through town and this cowboy drops in complaining of a sore tooth. At least I thought he was a cowpoke. With all that dust and dirt it was hard to tell the steers from the ramrods. This fellow had a badly infected back molar…you know the kind, a real challenge.”
I grimaced and nodded. He was still lathering the brush so I leaned back and tried to relax.
“Anyway, I was anxious to try out this new elixir I’d bought from this traveling supplier, name of Moser, Conrad Moser. Ever heard of him?”
“Nope,” I replied.
“Well, sir, this elixir was supposed to kill pain better than a jug of straight Tennessee moonshine. It didn’t come with no instructions, so I told the cowpoke to drink about half the bottle. Figured that ought to do the trick. Sure enough, he passed right out and I started chiseling away. That tooth was real impacted so it took a little longer than I thought it would. Guess I didn’t notice how long the patient sat there without moving. When I finished pulling the tooth and straightened up, I noticed he was sort of blue. I slapped his face a little, but he just sat there with his mouth open, staring off into space.” Dr. Grumet shook his head in thought, and then started to soap up my beard with the brush. “Yep, that fellow just sat there…all paralyzed, eyes open, and staring off into space. Couldn’t get his mouth to close, neither. I pricked him a couple of times to test him, but he weren’t moving. I swear I thought he was dead. Just then the door opened and another cowboy stuck his head in and asked if Mister Loving was finished yet. Not quite, I says. I had him covered over with my drape so’s the other couldn’t see, but, as he turns to leave, he says he hopes things work out all right ’cause they’d hung the last dentist what hurt the boss. Well, I’ll tell you, I packed up my bags, locked the door, and hightailed it right out of there. Didn’t stop till I crossed the border, either.”
“You kill him or not?” I asked.
“No, sir. It turns out Mister Loving survived, after all. But he must have woke up awfully mad. Guess that was all the screaming I heard when I lit a shuck out of town. Luckily things worked out for me in the end. I got a nice little practice here and don’t plan on going back.”
As he took the straight razor in hand, I sat upright in the chair silently praying that he was more proficient at shaving. Fortunately it turned out to be a needless worry as he skillfully ran the razor back and forth, without even a nick.
“Let me ask you a question,” I said, noticeably relieved. “You deal a lot with the public around here. Ever see a tall, heavy-set cowboy, about my size, similar color hair, with thick eyebrows and a thin moustache? Had a healed-up broke nose and a cleft chin. Wore his pistols cross-draw, butts forward. Maybe a couple of months back?”