Maud's Line (26 page)

Later that morning, Billy gave her a lift to the highway. Then he rode east to work and she walked toward Ft. Gibson. A milk truck picked her up. She rode with the milkman as far as the Pierce building. She'd come into town to see Gilda, but at first she window-shopped; she rarely got to do that and she was starved for a taste of life beyond dirt and chickens. Then she thought about going to Taylor's and looking at her wedding dress material. She headed quickly in that direction. But once she got to the store, she was afraid to go in. She might cry if she saw the bolt. Instead, to keep her heart from aching, she lingered at the window and read a newspaper clipping about a loaf of bread that came presliced in a package. The sliced bread settled her some, and she was wondering about the usefulness of it and if sliced bread tasted better than unsliced when she heard her name. She turned to see Gilda crossing the street.

They went to Berd's soda fountain. It being early in the day, they had their pick of booths and they took the one in the corner. Gilda bought herself a chocolate milkshake and bought Maud a vanilla one. They didn't say anything of significance until the shakes and straws were at their table and John Berd had finally worn out his talkative welcome. They'd sipped a quarter of their drinks by then, and Maud was determined to make hers last, but she had Gilda in front of her so she asked straight-out if she knew where Lovely might be.

“He's not at home?”

“No, he left Sunday night after a big family get-together.”

Gilda rubbed her straw with the tips of her thumb and forefinger. Then she put both palms on the table. “Maud, we broke up Saturday night. I really care about Lovely. But he's gotten so strange he gives me the jitters. And Daddy's been throwing a fit.” She slumped against the back of the booth but kept her hands on the wood. “He took it hard. I couldn't stand myself if anything happened.”

Maud felt a surge of friendship for the girl across from her even though she'd dumped her brother. She understood why she would. “Do you mind telling me what he's doing that's so strange? He's strange at home, too. But it seems to me that if there was a pattern to it, it might be easier to cure.”

Gilda bit her lower lip. “It's not so much what he does. He's not mean, or violent, or anything like that. It's more like he's deep. We've got a rosebush next to the front porch. And Saturday night, he cut off a rose with his knife and got to talking about bugs crawling in it and ruining it and everything going to dust and rot. Not what you usually talk about on a date. And he didn't want to go to the dance. He didn't want to see anybody except me. And sometimes he looks at me like he sees straight through me. I don't mean like I have something to hide. More like he's looking through my face to a wall behind me. Does that make any sense?”

It did. In some respects, Lovely had always been like that. But there was no doubt he'd been worse in the past few months, and Maud understood Gilda's jitters. More to buy thinking time than to disagree, she said, “Our mother was killed by a snake hiding under a rosebush. Roses don't bring the best out in Lovely.”

“I'm sorry. I'd forgotten that. Maybe that explains the rose conversation. But really, Maud, he's that way about other things, too.”

Maud told Gilda she understood. She was just thinking it through. And the two spent the rest of their shakes trying to figure out where Lovely could be. Maud didn't think he was in the bottoms. Somebody would've sent him home or sent her word. He could be camping on the sandbar. She hadn't been down there since he'd disappeared. She asked Gilda if Lovely had been on his mule Saturday night. She said he hadn't. And Maud knew Lovely had come back to the bottoms on Early's horse. Drunk, too, which was unusual for him. She started to ask Gilda if he'd been drunk with her, but she decided to let that dog lie. She went back to thinking about the mule. Lovely wouldn't want Gilda to see him riding a mule and had probably left it at Mr. Singer's on Saturday afternoon. The milk truck had picked her up too far away from the mule's usual pasture to have seen if it was there. Still, Mr. Singer might've seen Lovely. And the mule was another reason to talk to him. Maud wished she'd brought his books. She didn't want him to think she wasn't planning to return them. She could explain she'd come to town without them. She was sorting out how to put it all to Mr. Singer and not look like a pest about missing men when Gilda said, “He still has my Bible.”

That brought Maud's mind back to Lovely and made her feel that Gilda could tell she was thinking about books. But that had to be a coincidence. Without being able to recall where the Bible was, Maud replied, “I'll get it to you. Don't worry about that.”

“You could read it yourself, if you want.”

“I've read parts when Lovely wasn't around. It's good.”

“You could come to church with us anytime you want. I've been praying for Lovely morning and night.”

Maud knew how conversations with Christians went. And she had a strategy for closing them. “I sure appreciate that. I have my own devotional every morning. Would go to church if I had reliable transportation. Can't be troubling others. I'm a Baptist. What are you?”

“We're Methodists. Lovely didn't say anything about you being Baptist.”

Maud knew all the churchgoing Starrs were Methodists. But she felt stupid for not figuring in Lovely's and Gilda's conversations. She took a long suck on her straw that made a slurping noise she apologized for. “Lovely was never baptized. We have to be a certain age before we're dipped. I got dipped, but he was afraid of the water, so my parents held off on him. Then Mama died and things got out of whack.” Maud said that with a straight face and silent thanks for the conversations at school between girls who thought dipping was the only way to heaven and ones who thought baby sprinkling was foolproof.

Maud and Gilda agreed to get each other word when Lovely turned up. And as soon as they parted, Maud headed toward Mr. Singer's. She was picked up by a couple she knew and given a ride as far as the highway. As soon as she got close to the potato barn, she checked the mule's pasture and saw her standing under a tree with a couple of horses. Neither of the horses was Booker's.

When Maud walked through the barn, she saw Mr. Singer sitting at a table on his back porch. She was already brought to tears by the familiar smell, and she'd hoped to have a few moments to pull herself together before talking. But Mr. Singer looked up and smiled. Maud felt touched by the smile, and it brought out more tears. She wiped them away with a knuckle.

She explained she'd gone into town on another errand and didn't bring his books with her. She said Lovely hadn't been feeling well and apologized for his absence from work.

Mr. Singer had a ledger and four yellow pencils laid out on the table. A fifth pencil nestled in the ledger's crease. He reached into his front pocket, drew out his knife, and pinched out a small blade. He picked up a pencil and carefully whittled a sharp point. He said, “I've been worried about Lovely for some time. Even before we thought he had rabies. He's down at the house, is he?” Mr. Singer held the pencil up, eyed it, and laid it down.

Maud had hoped to get information without having to confess Lovely had up and gone. But now that would require an outright lie rather than just a little skirting around. “No, to tell you the truth, he's not. I've been in town talking to the girl he's been sparking. She hasn't seen him, either.”

Mr. Singer picked up another pencil and whittled again. Before he got that one done, he asked, “How long's he been gone?”

“Left out Sunday night after a big family meal.”

“Any of them know where he is?”

“They've all been worried about him, too. If he was at one of their houses, they would've sent word.”

Mr. Singer laid the pencil down next to the other sharpened one. He leaned back in his rocker and called, “Lizzie!”

Lizzie appeared at the screen door of the summer kitchen. She said, “Lemonade, tea, or buttermilk?”

Mr. Singer looked to Maud. She said, “Any's perfect for me,” and he said to Lizzie, “Whatever's easiest. Thank you.”

Mr. Singer talked about varieties of potatoes, the effect of the flood on his crop, and the competition from northern states until Lizzie brought out a pitcher and two glasses on a tray. Maud tried to catch the cook's eye with a smile, but Lizzie had a blank look on her face that Maud read as
no trespassing
.

Halfway into their buttermilk, Mr. Singer was still talking potatoes. The men in Maud's family did the same about cattle, horses, dogs, corn, wheat, and every blame thing in the bottoms. She was tired of male talk and was thinking about how to turn the conversation to Booker when Mr. Singer said, “Have you heard from our friend?”

Maud was startled that Mr. Singer had read her mind. “No, I was hoping you had.”

Mr. Singer twirled an end of his moustache. Then he bit his lower lip. “You know, I have four daughters. Love them ever' one. Never could stand to see one of them hurt. Maybe you should forget Mr. Wakefield. You're a lovely young woman. There are as many men walking the Earth as fish swimming the river. You'll find another easy enough.”

Maud's first thought was that Mr. Singer had heard about Billy. She flushed. But then a worse notion crept over her; Mr. Singer was saying Booker wasn't coming back. Her tears reappeared. They dropped onto her cheeks, and, when she ducked her head, onto her lap. Mr. Singer pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She cried, her shoulders shaking; and he twirled his moustache. He said, “Now, now,” and put his hand back to the knife and started cleaning under his fingernails.

Maud pulled herself together enough to say, “I don't mean to be silly.”

“No, no.”

“We were talking about getting married.”

“He said something about the front porch.” Mr. Singer tilted his head in that direction.

Maud was surprised. Booker had asked for that favor without telling her. The tears came out again. “We didn't mean to impose.”

“No imposition. I was happy to agree to it.”

“When did he ask you?” She gulped some air.

“I can't rightly say. It was before he left, of course.”

“Right before?”

Mr. Singer clicked his teeth together. “I was just trying to recall. I don't think it was the same day.”

She looked at the handkerchief. Mr. Singer was going to run out of handkerchiefs if she didn't stop crying. “If it happens to come to you, it would help me know his intentions.”

“How so?”

She wasn't sure. “Maybe if it was right when he was leaving, it would mean he was planning on coming back?”

Mr. Singer winced. She read from that wince that Booker had asked him for the use of his porch at an earlier time. She was sucking air for another sob when he said, “Well, I reckon if he's coming, it'll be in time for the wedding. When was that planned for? I can't recall.”

“The eighteenth. Two weeks tomorrow.”

Maud left Mr. Singer's company wanting to talk to Lizzie again. But the cook was in the summer kitchen and it was directly across from the porch. Her only excuse to go in there was to return the buttermilk glasses. She'd offered to do that, but Mr. Singer had told her not to bother. So she headed back toward the bottoms by the river way again, both to avoid the men on the machines and to take a long look down the planks of the bridge that headed toward Muskogee. She wondered if Booker was just over there. It was too far to walk to and get back from in a day. But it was easy on a horse; and she began plotting how to get a ride over there. She wasn't very far into that plot when she realized that Billy would be back that evening. She wasn't ready to see him with Booker spinning in her head. She detoured to her grandpa's and took supper there.

She was washing dishes and Viola was drying when Lucy stood up from the table and said, “I think this baby's coming early.”

Maud handed Viola a plate and smiled. Being with family had raised her spirits and she'd convinced herself there was a good chance Booker was just over in Muskogee. She said, “What makes you think that?” and turned and looked at her pregnant aunt. There was a puddle at Lucy's feet. Maud's eyebrows went almost into her hair. “You mean right now?”

Lucy nodded.

Maud's instinct was to flee out the back door, go to Nan's and get her, go home, milk the cow and put the chickens up, then go to Gourd's house and hide under his bed. “I'll get Aunt Nan,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Viola said, “We need to get them men outta here.” She left the room, speaking loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen: “Baby's on its way. Y'all get on over to Nan's. Blue, Maud's cow and chickens need tending. Bert, send Nan this way. Cole, you go, too, and take Lee. Early, scat.” Viola came back to the kitchen and said, “Maud, pump a lot of water and set it to boiling. Lucy, come with me.”

Maud opened her mouth to protest. But by the time a sentence had formed on her tongue, Viola was leading Lucy by the hand through the door. Maud was left standing by the sink, dishwater dripping off her rag. Early came in and grabbed what was left of a pie. He said, “I hear tell it's worse than calving.” He escaped out the back door.

Maud had cleaned up the puddle on the floor but was still in the kitchen when Nan arrived. She was scrubbing the counters like they hadn't been cleaned in years when Viola barked from the next room, “Got the water hot?”

Maud's mental time had been spent plotting and discarding escapes. She'd forgotten about the water. She knocked the dipper to the floor in her hurry out the door to the pump. But by the time Viola came back in, she had three pots of water roiling and was soaked with the heat of the fire.

Viola said, “This is gonna be quick. You come help Nan hold Lucy in position.”