It was Josie’s job to clean the men’s lavatory in the early afternoon and change the bedding in the men’s bunkhouse once a week. Her schedule required her to do a few beds a day. The linens had to be laundered and hung to dry, if weather allowed. That was her job. But Josie had an avocation as well. Her “other” job came at little price to her vigor or her availability to perform her required responsibilities. Josie required less sleep than most.
Josie, unlike Claire, her working partner, had found a way to earn appreciation, if not high esteem, around the barns and stables. She developed a skill known to most of the men and not talked about by many. Thelma and Billy, the backside cooks knew; the stable hands knew; the groomers and trainers knew, but nary a word was uttered about Josie’s skills in the company of Wil Wembley, the backside manager.
The men around the backside used a code phrase, and everyone knew what it meant. After a stable hand, or any worker for that matter, won a poker pot or a dice game, he’d take a congratulatory swig of whiskey from a flask and announce, “Better go check that horse in stall twenty.” The guys would hoot and holler and tease. Stall twenty, the foaling stall, was the last and largest one in the small horse barn. It was here that Josie set up shop, keeping her office hours from 11:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m.
Josie developed what she thought was a foolproof way to run her business. Once Claire, her roommate, started to snore, Josie quietly made her way to the barn. If stall twenty had been mucked out properly and there was no horse occupying it, she’d set up shop. If a horse was there, she went to the back tack-room closet, her second location. Men knew where she was and if she was available by a green bandana draped over a hook. If she was busy, she hung a red bandana, and the men knew they’d have to wait. It was a simple system. Josie was well known around the backside for being a less-than-meticulous maid, but quite good at granting certain kinds of requests. Josie’s “good work” earned her all kinds of whispered compliments. She was a “working girl,” ready to play whatever game the men wanted.
Wil was checking on a colicky mare in stall eighteen when he discovered the secret goings-on. Wil was not a self-righteous man, but the fact that there was an active trollop working in his barn did not set well. He prided himself on running a “professional” horse center, not a two-bit whorehouse. And that is exactly what Josie charged: two bits.
So in a manner befitting most men, he excused his men for actin’ up—“boys will be boys”—and went after Josie. He told Josie he would not tell the Glidewells if she ceased her amoral behavior immediately. Otherwise he would fire her and send her on her way. After the confrontation, Josie looked at him coldly and walked out the door. She did quit using the horse barn, but the men and Josie found another place to have their “two-bit fun,” right in the men’s bunkhouse linen closet—same hours, same signals, same players. Wil never heard a peep about the new location. He had no reason to check on the bunkhouse.
Despite her backside reputation, Josie took it upon herself to report to the Glidewells that Maizie was a colored girl. She had it in her mind that they ought to know.
One day Josie watched the Glidewell truck leave the lane leading into the Glidewell Ranch. Leon was driving, Maizie sat in the middle, and Philippe was to Maizie’s right. On Tuesdays the three would often make a run into Springfield for supplies. That’s when Josie took her chance.
Josie returned to the bunkhouse, finished her bed making, and took the dirty linens to the washroom. She left everything in a pile and ran up to Mary’s office. The dirty laundry could wait an hour. When she got to the front door of the great house, she was surprised James Glidewell answered the door.
“Yes?” he said.
“May I speak with Mrs. Glidewell?”
“May I help you? Mrs. Glidewell is busy in her office. Forgive me, you are… ?”
“Josie. My name is Josie. I work at the backside. I have some information to tell her. Important information. I know Mrs. Glidewell would want to know.”
“This involves someone at the backside?” asked James.
“Oh no, this is someone here in the ranch house.”
“I’m reluctant to interrupt her, but you say it’s important. Please come in and have a seat here in the foyer. I’ll see if she has time.”
“Thank you.” Josie took a seat in a well-cushioned leather armchair. Josie realized this was the same chair she sat in the day she was interviewed for her job. The painting hanging on the wall was one of a horse and western-style rider, running full clip in a cattle field. The beauty and movement of the painting was lost on her. She had other things on her mind.
“Josie, Mrs. Glidewell will see you. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, I’d love some,” said Josie, feeling like a proper guest.
“Follow me.” Josie stood and straightened her apron and pulled some loose hairs back over her ears.
Mary immediately stood and shook Josie’s hand. “Come in, Josie. Sit down. How do you like working at the backside? I hear from Thelma that you are doing fine down there. No problems, I hope.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Doing mighty fine, but I have some information you will find very shocking.”
“Really? This sounds serious, Josie.”
“’Fraid it is.”
James returned with three cups of steaming tea. He gave each woman a cup and then sat down himself to enjoy the third. Josie hadn’t expected Mr. Glidewell to be involved, but she was here now—better she speak her mind, even though she felt a little outnumbered.
“You see, you’ve a colored
