Waiting For Lily Bloom (2 page)

Aunt Charity's clothesline was bare. Was she even able to use it, with the dust blowing so? Times were difficult back home, but especially so here, in this dry land.

Back inside, Aunt Charity went to the sink, washed the eggs, and set them on a plate to dry. She took the biscuits out of the stove and placed them on the table. The golden-brown discs were perfect.

Lily leaned down to sniff them. They smelled heavenly. She nodded repeatedly at her aunt, pointing to herself.

“They smell good?”

Lily shook her head.

Aunt Charity frowned. “They don't?”

She raised her hands, palms out, and erased the air.

Aunt Charity stared into Lily's eyes. “You want one?”

She shook her head again, scratching her forehead.

“Why not?”

Rats. If only she'd remembered her slate. She walked to the sink and lifted the mixing bowl. She took the wooden spoon and stirred a nonexistent batter.

“Oh, you wanna make ‘em next time?”

Finally! She lifted her finger and tapped her nose.

Aunt Charity laughed. “All right. I'll teach you how in the morning.”

How exciting. When she went home next week, she would bake Papa biscuits.

Aunt Charity heated the cast iron griddle. When it was hot, she dropped a tablespoon of lard into the pan. She fried two brown eggs and placed them on a plate. “Do you cook at home?”

Lily nodded and pointed to the eggs.

“You cook eggs? Show me.”

Lily tapped the strings tied around Aunt Charity's neck.

“Oh.” Swift fingers detached the apron and refastened it around Lily's neck. “Now.”

Lily plopped more lard into the blackened pan, cracked two eggs on the stovetop, and emptied the contents into the grease. The whites solidified, cocooning the golden yolks.

“How old are you now, Lily?”

Lily drew numbers in the air.

“All of twenty-eight? And such a pretty thing.”

Lily bowed her head and curtsied.

Aunt Charity laughed. “And a sense of humor, too.”

She smiled and scooped the egg onto a plate.

The front door opened and Uncle Ned hurried in, bringing half the dirt in Oklahoma with him. “There's no stoppin' this dust.” He dropped his boots by the front door, hung his hat on the back of the kitchen chair, and pecked Aunt Charity's cheek.

“It's better than it has been.” She set his plate before him and poured his milk. “Let's eat.”

Lily brought the biscuits and joined the couple, ignoring the dust that coated the table.

“Looks good.”

“Lily cooked the eggs.”

“Is that so? Thank you, Lily.” Uncle Ned winked, his leathery skin crinkling.

Lily smiled and nodded.

“Let's pray.” After Uncle Ned voiced his thanks, he shoveled his eggs onto his biscuit and ate it. “I gotta help Bloom with his field tomorrow. He helped with mine last week.”

“When you go, carry his mendin' back.” Aunt Charity pointed to a folded shirt and a pair of pants resting on a bench.

“I'm not goin' by his house.”

Aunt Charity shook her head. “I should've taken ‘em back yesterday.”

Uncle Ned drained his milk glass and stood. “Just bring ‘em to church. Give ‘em to him after service. You ready?”

Lily gathered their empty plates and set them in the sink.

“Almost. We need to change clothes.”

Lily went to her room and pulled the partition sheet. She sighed and reached for her Sunday dress. It was clear Uncle Ned and Aunt Charity needed church. There was no begrudging the fact, the two were so dear. Maybe if her life were as difficult as theirs, she would need that kind of hope as well, though her method of coping would be more sensible. Filling one's Sunday mornings and evenings with poetry, writing, or painting would suffice. One needn't attend church to please God. Papa never went to church, and he was noble and charitable.

Of course she believed in God. Didn't everyone? It was just all that silliness at church she didn't have time for. With her long-sleeved blouse buttoned, she placed a smile on her face and exited her room. She wouldn't argue about going to church. What difference did a couple of hours make? Besides, she was only here for a week. Why be contrary?

 

****

 

After James milked Rosie, he placed the pail and the milking stool outside of her stall. He put a flake of hay in her trough, rubbed her head, and bowed at the waist. “Thank you, ma'am.”

Only an hour ‘til church. He covered the pail with a folded sheet and carried it to the house and quickly washed up.

It was still windy, but less dusty than it had been the previous week. Maybe the Lord would send rain today.

As he walked to church, he prayed for his neighbors. So many were struggling. Families were going hungry. Fathers were leaving the state, looking for work. Other families abandoned their farms. Surely with so many praying, the Lord would send rain.

But today was Palm Sunday. His focus should be on the Lord, not the weather.

 

****

 

“Lily, I need you to do somethin'.” Aunt Charity's forehead wrinkled as she came inside. How
did
she move so quickly? Not a step was wasted as she gathered bottles from her pantry and set them on the table. After service, she'd taken some biscuits and eggs to a friend with seven children. Her friend was currently in labor with the eighth. They could use all the help they could get. “Remember when we prayed for Anya at church? The baby's not comin'.”

Oh dear. Lily's chest tightened as she remembered her own mother…

“After I heard about Anya, I forgot all about Bloom's clothes. I need you to take his mendin' back for me.”

Lily gasped. Go all alone, in this wasteland, to a stranger's house?

Aunt Charity touched Lily's cheek and frowned. “Now you just take that look off of your face. You'll be fine. Listen close. Bloom lives right next door. It's only a mile away, and our fields join. You travel straight down the road and his is the first house you come to. We passed it when we brought you from the train depot and I told you to look at the cow, remember?”

She remembered. It wasn't far at all.

“That was Bloom's cow. He won't be there now. He's havin' lunch with the Floyds, like he always does on Sundays.”

Good. She didn't like meeting people. After church, she'd tugged on Aunt Charity's sleeve and they'd walked straight back to the Model A. The only person she'd met was Reverend Cox, and after a brief shake of his hand, she pinned a smile on her face and exited.

“You can go right in and set the mendin' on his table. I do it all the time. Just drop it off and come right back. You'll do fine. I've got to help Anya. Poor woman. I don't know why Henry can't…” Aunt Charity trailed off, mumbling something about selfish men and hungry children as she wrapped the clothes in a burlap sack and handed them to Lily. Then she placed her warm hands on Lily's face. “I'm proud of you. Just you mind that.” Aunt Charity patted Lily's cheeks, and then took the bottles off of the table. “I have no idea how long I'll be, but if I'm not back by dark, just set out the cornbread and pour your uncle some milk, OK? Wash up his cup when he's done.”

Lily nodded.

And then Aunt Charity was gone.

Lily fingered the rough material in her hands. All she had to do was return some clothes. It was a simple task. What could go wrong?

 

****

 

What a barren sight.

Lily held a piece of cloth over her nose and mouth with one hand, and with the other she clutched the sack that held Bloom's clothes. The soil under her feet was more compact than the fields to her right and left. Was this what the desert looked like? Some places were flat and some were raised, but dust was everywhere, blowing and swirling into fascinating little tunnels. Dirt devils, Uncle Ned called them.

Such a strange place. Not sandy soil, but powdery-fine instead, clinging to one's clothes and skin. Broken fence posts and barbed wire littered fields where nothing grew. Uncle Ned toiled in this? Why continue, if this was the result? Was he discouraged?

She would be, if her work produced nothing.

But he seemed calm and had a pleasant enough disposition. Much like Papa's.

Lily saw Bloom's house in the distance. A windmill stood in the front yard, its blades spinning. A corral adjoined the farmhouse. The closer she got, the more it drew her. Heavens, there was a porch. Porches were so welcoming, even dusty ones. The roof was very steep, as if it boasted a loft. Bloom's house had more windows than Uncle Ned's. The paint looked fresh, if somewhat dusty, and all of the porch floorboards were intact.

A rusted automobile languished beside the corral, its windows gone, the driver side door swinging on its hinge. Two large trees sheltered the house, casting it in shadow. A solitary cow watched her approach. It released a mournful bellow that caused Lily to smile.

The unmistakable sound of a tinkling brook reached her ears. She walked past the corral and discovered a small stream. Water flowed as birds chirped, hopping and fluttering their wings.

She returned to the farmhouse and stepped onto the porch. The wood beneath her feet protested as she crept to the front door. She placed her hand on the door knob and paused. Aunt Charity said he was gone, but what if he wasn't? She breathed deeply, instantly regretting it. A sneeze accompanied her timid knock on the door.

No one answered.

She knocked harder and waited. Still, no reply. She opened the door and looked inside.

A gust of wind blew her forward as a cloud of dust rolled into the farmer's home. Merciful stars. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, lamenting the lingering, smoky haze.

Blast her timidity! Why couldn't she move like Aunt Charity? Now what? Should she sweep it out? Wouldn't that just bring in more dust?

Good grief. Bloom was an old farmer. He probably brought that much dust in himself.

If that were the case, why was his home so well-kept?

Silly Lily.
She chastised herself, using Papa's pet name. What was done was done. Besides, she'd been doing a good deed, returning his mending and all. Still, she hated to see the dust coating his kitchen table. Dust on the floor she could abide, but there was something unnatural about dust on a kitchen table.

She set the sack of clothes in a chair and looked around. Where would he keep a cloth?

A porcelain sink abutted the kitchen wall. There, a rag draped the pump handle. She walked to the sink, worked the pump, and rinsed the rag. With broad strokes, she wiped the table, and then wiped the windowsill and the mantel. When she came to a photograph, she stopped.

Placing the rag on the table, she lifted the frame and inspected the photo. A serious face stared back at her. The old woman's hair was braided and pinned atop her head. She wore a black dress, buttoned high on her neck.

Lily rubbed her thumb against the glass, as if to smooth away the woman's wrinkles. Bloom's wife? She placed the frame back on the mantel and scowled.
For shame, Lily Driggers.
A snoop was akin to the drunkard.

She took Bloom's cloth back to the sink, rinsed it, and draped it back on the pump handle. She trailed her wet hands down the length of her dress, and powdery dust coated her palms. She frowned and rinsed her hands again. She'd lingered long enough.

It would soon be suppertime. With purposeful stride, she walked to the door and placed her hand on the knob. She turned it, but the door didn't open. She tried again, and it still didn't budge. Frustrated, she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot on the floor.

The door flung open.

Broad shoulders blocked much of the sun's light. A man placed his hands on his trim waist.

 

 

 

 

2

 

A gust of wind blew into the house. The man stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. So much for wiping off the table. Dust particles encased him, outlining his tall, lean frame.

Why?
Why hadn't she put the clothes on the table and left? She grabbed her collar, drawing the material tight.

“Who are you?”

She flinched, his booming voice making her insides tighten.

The sunlight filtered through the window, emphasizing his profile. The harsh planes of his forehead and cheekbones might soften if he smiled.

“I asked you a question.” He stepped closer, the wrinkle between his brows deepening. Dark eyes flashed, the color of brown sugar boiling at the Bay Street Confectionary.

Her cheeks warmed. What could she do? She lowered her hand to her chest. Maybe he would understand—

“All right.” He crossed his arms. “No answer? Perhaps you'd like to talk to the sheriff?”

This was the man who'd sat on the third pew at Trinity Baptist church. He wasn't some old farmer. However, at the moment, he bore no resemblance to the serene gentleman she'd spied from the back row. Of course, he hadn't seen her sitting with Uncle Ned and Aunt Charity. No matter. She would show him the clothes, and then he'd understand. She sidestepped him to retrieve them, but he blocked her path.

“No ma'am. You're not going anywhere.”

Oh, brother. She stepped to the left this time, but he followed.

“I'm losing patience.”

This was silly. She stepped right again, and this time he grabbed her wrist. Of all the nerve. The cretin! She tugged, but his grip on her hand tightened.

“You're going to hurt yourself. Stop pulling, and tell me why you're here.”

I would if I could, you beast! Unhand me!
She broke free of his grasp and ran toward the clothes. Her mouth fell open as she was lifted from behind, spun around, and hoisted onto his shoulder like a sack of wheat.
Woosh
. A faint, earthy scent permeated her nostrils as she bounced once, twice, and was finally plopped onto a chair.