Late August

“Listen,” August said.

Etta sighed, put down the shot glass she was drying, and stared at August from across the bar.

August had been working on the song all morning; Etta had heard it a dozen times already.

August played the tune again, the jangling of the saloon piano echoing through the empty room.

“What do you think? Will the men like it?”

“As much as they’ll pay attention to it, August, sure.”

It was not the response August was looking for. 

August had arrived in Independence, Missouri in the spring of 1835, planning on making his way farther west. He had dreams, he had aspirations. Join up with a wagon train and carve out a place for himself in the outer frontier. 

His family had scoffed at the notion. A part of the upper crust in Boston, August was brought up in a more pampered lifestyle. “August, my boy,” his father told him, “you need to drop this nonsense. Those men are cut from a sturdier bolt of cloth than you.” 

His mother was even less encouraging. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d be dead before you left Missouri.”

August was born to older parents, the youngest of nine children. When asked why they named him August, his mother replied, “Because he came around too late to enjoy, like the month of August in summer.”

August was a sickly boy. While other boys were outside swimming and playing, August was inside taking his medicine and playing piano. As boyhood gave way to adolescence, adolescence to manhood, August yearned for more, but was paralyzed by doubt.

When word began to spread of brave men and women heading west, August was captivated by the notion. A chance to reinvent himself. To prove his mettle.

So, at the age of 27, August packed a bag and left his childhood home before sunrise, not wishing to give the naysayers another opportunity to voice their ridicule. He boarded a train headed for the jumping off point to the great adventure waiting out west - Independence, Missouri.

Independence was teeming with life and excitement. Dreams were born here. August got a room at the hotel, and began to look for a wagon train he could join up with. Less than a week later, he had an invitation from a group leaving the next day. 

August didn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned, his family’s voices bouncing around in his head. 

“They are cut from a sturdier bolt of cloth, my boy.”

“You’ll be dead before you leave Missouri.”

August didn’t meet the wagon train the next morning. He hid in his room until they pulled out of town. Once he was certain the coast was clear, August walked across the street to the saloon to drown the voices in his head.

Nursing a beer, August spun on his barstool to survey the room. It was still early, and the saloon was mostly empty; a few men sleeping it off at their tables and a card game in the corner. His eyes fell on the old piano next to the entrance. He wandered over, sat down on the stool, and his hands found their place on the keys. He began to play a song from his childhood.

As he sat at the piano, staring off out the window, the man from behind the bar walked up, drying his hands with a towel. “You’re pretty good on that. I could use some entertainment at night when the crowds come in. Can’t give you much, but I have a room upstairs that can be part of the pay.” 

Knowing he could never go home, August agreed.

Etta arrived three months later, and took a job in the saloon bringing whiskey to tables. She was a pretty girl, wounded by life and running from something. August wanted to believe he could be enough for Etta, and at night as he played for the crowd, he sang to her. 

And it worked, for a while. He won her heart. But August soon learned the hard truth:

A song can woo a woman, but it takes a man to keep her.

From behind the piano, August could be anyone he wanted. Once his hands left the keys, however, he was still the man-child, cut from the wrong bolt of cloth. Their relationship slipped into a comfortable familiarity, if not love.

Around midday, the saloon began to fill with folks, pioneers and adventurers all. Those coming in from the east sharing their dreams of a brighter future. Those returning from the west replaying tales of exploration and conquest. All of them flirting with Etta, who seemed to enjoy the attention of purposeful men. And August was the background music for them all, singing about places he’d never go and love he’d never know.

He played til dawn, and greeted the sunrise from the porch of the saloon. Standing in the early glow of daylight, he watched another wagon train slowly roll out of Independence. A small child sitting on the back of a wagon, dangling his feet, smiled and August and waved as they pulled away. August waved back.

He knew in that moment that his family had been absolutely right. These people venturing out west were different from him. Risking it all for a better life. August certainly wanted a better life, as well. Doesn’t everyone? But risk is for those cut from a bolt of sturdier cloth. He realized that his mother had been correct. 

He’d be dead before he left Missouri.

As the plaintive bellows of oxen pulling wagons faded in the distance, August sighed and walked back into the saloon.

Etta was wiping the last of the tables. Her hair was beginning to fall out of the bun she had fashioned, and her eyes betrayed the weariness she felt. But she was still beautiful. She looked up at him as he walked through the saloon doors. She gave him a wistful half smile.

August stood staring at her. All this time later, he still didn’t know what brought her to Independence, what she had been running from. He guessed it really didn’t matter at this point. He was just glad she was here, too. He sat down at the piano again.

“Hey, Etta. Listen to this.”