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Speaking his own language wasn’t working.
Not Korean – though Billy was beginning to think that he’d have had about as much luck speaking Korean as he had with what he’d been doing. He could have gone on with the first words he’d learned, telling Goodnight that he loved him, that he wanted him, that this little pile of feelings sitting between them didn’t have to be ignored, and though Goodnight spoke not a word of Korean, it couldn’t have failed to make Billy’s point more spectacularly than his other attempts.
Touch, Billy had felt, formed the primary difference among types of relationships. He was never one for the casual slaps on the back and handshakes that the average cowboy would throw around; he didn’t trust strangers enough to want them in his space or to want to be in theirs. When he and Goodnight first met, all business both professional and personal was conducted from a proper distance, and that was how Billy liked it.
As they came to know each other better and developed a friendship, that was when Billy began to reduce the distance between them. He’d stand closer in a conversation, place a hand at Goody’s back to move around him at the campfire, or offer a light for his cigarette. As Billy’s feelings grew deeper, he in turn grew more physical with Goodnight. That was his natural way of expressing affection: letting his hand linger a little longer on Goodnight’s arm, passing him a cigarette from his own lips, leaning back to back with him when they rested by the campfire, holding him when a nightmare shook him awake. Billy wouldn’t do any of that with just anyone; it was only for Goodnight, and he thought that soon enough, Goodnight would have to understand that and act accordingly. Whether that would be to tell him to stop or to offer bits of affection of his own, Billy didn’t know, but he was sure there would be some reaction.
But months had passed, and Goodnight still hadn’t clued in. He’d reciprocate what Billy offered – passing a cigarette back and forth, leaning into him when Billy leaned first – but he never made any move of his own. He hadn’t told Billy to back off, either, though, so Billy was forced to assume that Goody just hadn’t noticed anything was different. It was time to change tactics.
He silently observed his partner for two weeks, watching how Goodnight communicated with people. It didn’t take the whole two weeks for the answer to reveal itself: Goodnight talked. Long stories laden with charm, poetic quotations, old sayings from back home, effusive praise, creative insults…all his feelings came out in words. Words, then, would perhaps be the way to reach him in turn.
The trouble was, words were not Billy’s strong point. That was something Billy had always known about himself. He came from a land with more than a thousand years of literary tradition, a land of poetry and song, but that had never been his gift. He was no more talkative in Korean than he was in English, and he felt that actions spoke more clearly and honestly. He had no idea how to say with words the things that he needed to say.
That was how the hunt for better words began. English didn’t have so long a written tradition as Billy’s people did, but what they lacked in history, they’d made up for in sheer quantity of work. Billy had heard all manner of bits and pieces from Goodnight over the time they’d been riding together. Next time they were in a town big enough to actually have some books for sale, he’d find one that would say the right things. Surely that couldn’t be too hard.
The first book shop presented itself in Austin some three weeks later. Goodnight wanted to go in, of course – he always wanted to go in a book shop, if there was one to be had. Billy was worried for only a moment that he wouldn’t be able to lose Goody long enough to find what he was looking for, but his partner got absorbed in a shelf of plays within minutes. That left Billy free to go to the clerk at the desk and request guidance.
“I need love poems,” he said, as flatly as he would order whiskey in a saloon. “In English.”
The clerk, bless his soul, looked frightened as a rabbit faced with a fox. Billy cut an intimidating figure even in a saloon full of cowhands, miners, and outlaws. In a book shop, he was practically an incarnation of terror itself. His black gloves, silver knives, and steady gaze made him look more like a man in search of danger than romance.
“Wh-wh-what kind of love poems?” the clerk stammered, half afraid that the man in front of him was going to whip one of the knives from his belt and demand that he hand over all the Shakespeare.
“I told you,” Billy said, beginning to feel as if he were dealing with a confused child. “English ones. About love.” He didn’t know what kinds of poetry they had in English. Why would he? It hadn’t exactly been significant, up to this moment.
The clerk seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get much more guidance than that. “Well…ah…there’s, um…there’s Shakespeare? The sonnets? Many of those are about love. They’re over with the rest of the Shakespeare.” The clerk pointed to exactly where Goodnight was standing, perusing a collection of tragedies.
“No!” Billy hadn’t meant to be so vehement, but he couldn’t answer questions from Goodnight about what he was looking at right in the middle of the book shop. He schooled himself back into neutrality and calm, because the stupid clerk was looking more frightened all the time. “Not Shakespeare. Something else.”
“We, um…we have a nice binding of Sonnets from the Portuguese?” The clerk hesitantly offered, cringing as if waiting for an attack.
“I need English,” Billy reminded him. Goodnight could read French, but Billy was fairly certain he’d never mentioned any ability with Portuguese, and he almost certainly would have.
“They’re in English!” the clerk quickly assured him. “By Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Portuguese is just the title, it was a nickname of hers from her husband. They’re lovely poems, very popular, and every one of them about love.”
That was what Billy was looking for. He nodded once in satisfaction. “Show it to me.”
The clerk walked him over to the poetry section and fetched down a slim brown volume bound in leather, with leaves embossed on the front and back. The binding was quite beautiful, Billy had to admit. Goodnight would like that. He opened it carefully, mindful of the delicate pages in a way that seemed to make the nervous little store clerk relax a bit.
“Number 43 is the most famous, but Number 13 is my favorite,” the clerk said.
Billy turned to the page where Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet Number 13 was found, illustrated all around with birds and flowers. He began reading as the clerk watched him and discovered precisely what he was looking for.
And wilt thou have me fasten into speech
The love I bear thee, finding words enough,
And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,
Between our faces, to cast light on each?—
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach
My hand to hold my spirit so far off
From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof
In words, of love hid in me out of reach.
“What does it mean?” Billy asked. He thought he was getting some of it, but not all of it, and the second half appeared to be very pointedly female, so it was hard to tell if it was the right thing or not. He could follow a conversation in English just fine, but poetry was harder. Normally when Goodnight went on quoting something, he’d follow with some discussion of what in the hell the poet was talking about. He needed a little help here.
“It’s about…” The clerk hesitated as he sought the right words for explanation. He wasn’t about to treat this man who was covered in knives like an idiot for not understanding, and he also genuinely wanted to help. The clerk didn’t know why this travel-worn, gunfighter-looking fellow wanted a book of love poems, but he seemed like he truly needed them. “So, her husband asks her to put her love for him into words, and she says she can’t, that her love for him is too much a part of herself, and she can’t just send it away from her like that. She says that he should understand that she loves him by her silence, and by the fact that no one else can lay claim to her. She thinks that should be enough.”
“This will do.” Billy hadn’t looked at any of the other poems, but that summed up so perfectly the way he’d been feeling that it had to be the one. This would make Goodnight understand. “How much?”
“Five cents,” the clerk said, having finally gotten over his fear of Billy enough to answer without a stumble.
Billy gave him a nickel without another word and tucked the book into his vest. The easy part was done. Now he could begin on the hard part: dragging Goody out of a book shop with less than three books for him to try to cram into his saddlebags. When that was done, then Billy could get on with attempting once more to express himself, which would probably fall somewhere between the two tasks in difficulty.
* * * * *
Afternoon found them work, one of their easiest ways to pull money: a quickdraw contest. Billy did the shooting, Goodnight made bets, and before they knew it they had a hat full of cash to take them through at least to the next town plus some to put into the Wells Fargo account they kept in case of emergencies and for the nebulous future. Evening found them in a saloon, as it often did, where they had a few drinks and Goody shouted requests to the piano player. Night, in turn, found them in a hotel room with two beds, and Billy hoping his plan went off well enough that they’d only need one of them.
“I have a gift for you,” Billy said as he shut the door behind them. He wanted to get this out before either of them started stripping down for sleep, just in case this worked but didn’t get the reaction he hoped for. No need to make it all more painfully awkward than it absolutely had to be.
“For me?” Goodnight looked surprised, first, and then a look of warm pleasure came over his face. “What’s the occasion? My birthday isn’t until October, you know.”
“I know,” Billy said, and he did. He had developed a habit of remembering the things Goody told him. He took the book from his saddlebags, where it had been surreptitiously stored for most of the day. “It made me think of you. I thought you should have it.”
Goodnight ran his hand reverently over the cover – he found it beautiful, just as Billy had expected he would. He turned it to see the title on the spine, and his shock was so evident that for a moment, Billy wondered if he’d just made an awful mistake. The shock, thankfully, was quickly replaced with a tiny, hopeful smile as Goodnight looked up at Billy once more. “Have you read it?” he asked.
“Only some,” Billy admitted. He’d looked through a few more of the poems over the course of the day, so he knew more than he’d started with. What he needed Goody to know more than anything, though, was that he knew exactly what he was handing to him. There was no ignorant mistaking of the subject matter here. “Not all. But what I read…it seemed to be the right words for you.”
Goodnight opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it again. Usually he always had a clever turn of phrase or a handy quote, but now it appeared that he couldn’t reconcile what he knew he was hearing with the determinedly realistic worldview he’d imposed upon himself.
“What? Overly formal, fancy, and long-winded?” Goodnight asked, as though he thought this might be a joke. He sounded shaky, though, like when he was getting his feet back under him after one of his waking nightmares.
“No,” Billy said. He was standing just as close as when he’d handed Goody the book, waiting for his partner to reach the right conclusion.
“Then you—”
Billy cut him off very quietly, with words from the other poem the shop clerk had pointed out to him. The famous one, which he was sure Goody would know. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
Billy couldn’t remember any more than that, but he didn’t need to. Goody had lifted a hand to his cheek, the kind of gentle touch that he’d never yet been the first to offer. Finally, it seemed he was getting it. Their eyes met, and it was almost too much, too intense - this, Billy thought, must be why the habit of closing one’s eyes to kiss began, because no one could possibly take all that at once.
Sure enough, Goody’s eyes fluttered shut as he closed that last bit of distance between them, lips meeting for the first time in something soft and sweet. It grew deeper slowly, like the sun sinking behind the horizon, Goody’s fingers threading into Billy’s hair just as Billy had been wishing they would for months. Billy could understand now that Goody had felt just as he did for just as long - there were months of love and longing in that kiss, and it made Billy smile as he gently nudged Goody back toward the bed.
Now they were speaking his language.