Anita Mills (17 page)

“Now there ain’t no need fer ya to sit in that chair,” Seth Brassfield declared, coming into the room. “Molly!” he said sharply. The pig gave him a sullen look, then moved to a corner. Turning to Matthew, the older man announced, “It ain’t Saturday, but Sarie’s a-bilin’ water if’n y’all want ta warsh yerselfs. Said fer the missus to go fust so’s she gits the clean water.”

It took a moment for Verena to understand. Rising, she looked to Matthew and hesitated. “Go ahead,” he told her, “it’s been awhile, but it won’t be the first time I’ve been second in the bathwater. Or even third, for that matter.”

“What?”

“I get your bathwater when you’re done.”

“When I’m done? But surely—”

Seth nodded. “If’n the water’s not too dirty, I reckon Sarie’ll wash yer dress when both a’you is done.”

“Oh, but—”

“ ’Sall right,” he said, “she’s got a flour sack you kin put on while she’s a-mending and a-drying it.”

As Verena put her hand on the door, Matt warned her, “You may have to watch out for leftover feathers in the tub.”

“Naw,” Seth assured her, “Sarie plucked the chicken in the dishpan.”

Her body turned away from Matthew McCready’s, Verena stared at the rising moon framed in the window. Her mother must surely be turning over in her grave right now, she thought, but she hadn’t really had any choice in the matter. As it was, Sarah Brassfield had given her and Matthew the bed the boys usually shared, sending them up into the loft with their blankets. Not that anyone needed blankets on a night like this.

It was too hot for sleep, but McCready didn’t seem to know it. After a huge meal of chicken and dumplings, beans, potatoes, baked yams, and hot biscuits, followed by an enormous cobbler made from dried peaches, he and Seth had played checkers and swapped God only knew what lies over a bottle of elderberry wine. While they were apparently enjoying themselves, she and Sarah had finished mending and ironing the clothes she and the gambler had all but ruined in their jump from the moving train.

For once, she’d fared better than he had. Sarah’s flour-sack gown had been huge, so much so that she’d had to tie it in with a rope, but poor Matthew’d been forced to make do with one of Seth’s old shirts, badly stretched between buttons, and a pair of heavy twill “overalls” that were apparently designed to be worn over other clothing, but which barely went around McCready without anything under them.

As his wife, Verena had the dubious honor of washing his shirt and his drawers and hanging them up to dry beside hers on Sarah’s laundry line. His pants she’d merely had to spot clean with a rag and soap. But the upshot of it all was that she’d had her head bent over her borrowed needle and thread while he’d drank and played. But in the end, there’d been a certain satisfaction in showing him that even while out of her own element, she wasn’t useless. Of course, with nine tenths of Seth Brassfield’s elderberry wine gone, McCready would have been happy no matter what she’d done, she reflected wryly.

As fastidious as he seemed to be, he’d made a point of not holding himself above the Brassfields. In fact, he’d scarce paused in his conversation when Molly had reared her ugly snout above the edge of the dinner table for a closer look at his plate. To prevent a like occurrence, Verena had headed the animal off with a good-sized biscuit dropped quietly on the floor. But Seth Brassfield had put an end to the pig’s begging with a simple, “Get down, girl,” at which Molly ambled over to the other side of the room, grunting her discontent.

She found herself smiling in the darkness, remembering the sound of Seth and Matthew singing a mongrelized version of “Bringing in the Sheaves” when three quarters of the way into the wine bottle. Only Brassfield had belted it out as “Brangin’ in the sheep, brangin’ in the sheep,” while McCready’s rich baritone kept to the right lyrics until he forgot the rest of the lines.

She’d looked across at Sarah then, catching the older woman’s glistening eyes. “Been awhile since we was t’church,” Sarah’d allowed in a husky voice. “That man o’ yours, he sings right purty, don’t he? D’you reckon they’d mind if’n we was t’ join ’em?” And once said, no amount of demurring would dissuade the woman, who’d insisted, “The good Lord above, it’s the spee-rit He’s a takin’ notice of.” In the end, there’d been no help for it—she’d had to stand behind Matthew, her hand on his shoulder, mouthing the words to “Take Me Home, Sweet Chariot,” praying that he couldn’t hear her.

She closed her eyes, remembering the solid feel of that shoulder, the warm glow of the yellow flame coming from the tin kerosene lamp reflecting off his clean, shining black hair, the almost velvet sound of his voice resonating through the room. And the way he’d reached up, covering her hand on his shoulder with his fingers, had only seemed to magnify the moment. For a time, she’d forgotten what he was, what a hoax they were pulling on the Brassfields. She’d even forgotten the danger lurking in the man beneath her hand.

Later, when they were back in their chairs, finishing the last stitches while the boys heated the iron outside, Sarah had leaned over to whisper, “You got yerself a fine figger of a man, Rena—a fine figger of a man. If’n ’twarn’t fer that black eye o’ his, he’d be enough ta make this old heart thump, I kin tell ya. But it’ll be gone in a coupla days, so’s I wouldn’t be a-worryin’ none.” Her eyes misting over, she added, “Makes me remember what it was like when Seth and me was younguns like y’all.” Touching her grizzled hair with a work-roughened hand, she’d recalled wistfully, “I was real purty once—oh, not anythin’ near as purty as you, but—”

“And you still are,” Verena’d hastened to assure her, hoping to avert the subject from herself.

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t guess it matters none, ’ceptin’ Seth thinks so, huh?”

“No.”

“ ‘Sarie,’ he used t’ say to me, ‘you got eyes like them stars up thar, bright as them demons thuh fancy ladies is a-wearing,’ “ she recalled.

“Demons?” Verena repeated. “Uh—”

“You know—like they’s a-wearin’ on thar fingers.”

“Oh—diamonds.”

“Uh-huh. Me, I never was one t’ want one of ’em, you unnerstan’,” the woman confided. “How ’bout you?”

“Me?” Verena glanced down at her hand, seeing the gold band she’d bought herself. “No.”

“He’s a fine figger of a man, all right—and he’s got hisself a good woman,” Sarah pronounced solemnly. “That’s the way it’s spozed t’ be, you know. ’S long as you got each other, you got all you need.”

“Yes, of course.” Squirming uncomfortably in her seat, Verena tried valiantly to find something else to talk about. “Is it always this hot down here?” she asked quickly.

“Oh, thar’s hotter times a-coming, honey. This ain’t nothin’ fer Texas, I kin tell you.”

That was a daunting thought. Shifting slightly in the bed, Verena stealthily pulled the damp nightgown up enough to let the night air touch her legs. She was exhausted beyond bearing, and yet the heat made it impossible to sleep. No, McCready’s soft, even breathing behind her gave the lie to that thought. Maybe if she’d had half a bottle of wine, she wouldn’t be noticing the heat either, but she hadn’t. If she didn’t doze off soon, the circles under her eyes would be as black as Matthew’s shiner.

If she’d been alone, she’d have slept in her chemise, but she wasn’t. Besides, it was all ironed and folded on the chest, ready for tomorrow. No, she’d have to endure the big, voluminous gown swamping her legs like a collapsed tent.

She’d had no sleep to speak of for more than two days, and her mind wouldn’t even hold a complete thought now. Opening her eyes again, she looked at the window, wondering if it opened. Easing her feet down to the floor, she sat up, then crept on tiptoe to look at it. It ought to come up—it was rope hung. She pushed upward on it, and it moved, rasping wood against wood. But as she started to take her hand off, she could feel the weight coming back down. It’d have to be propped open. Turning around, she almost tripped over one of McCready’s boots. Lifting the window again, she shoved the boot sideways into the gap, affording about four inches of fresh air.

Barely back in bed again, she heard the ominous buzz, then felt the prick of a mosquito bite. Smashing it in the act, she started to turn over, then heard another one. And another. It was as if they’d swarmed outside the window just waiting for the feast.

There was the smack of hand against skin, a muttered, “Damn,” and she knew Matthew McCready’s blissful sleep had ended. She lay still, not moving a muscle, as he sat up.

“What the hell—?” Another loud smack. “Damn,” he grumbled sleepily, “some damned fool’s opened the window.” Heaving his body up, he padded over and tried to close it. A string of expletives cut through the night air when he found his boot. Retrieving it, he slammed the window shut, then walked around to her side of the bed. “Did you do this?” he demanded.

She played dead while another mosquito found dinner on her neck. She even managed to keep her eyes closed when he found a match and struck it to light the kerosene lamp on the table. She could hear him come back, but she was totally unprepared for the whack on her backside. She sat up, snapping furiously, “What was that for?”

“I was killing a damned mosquito you let in,” he muttered. “Get up,” he ordered. “They’re everywhere.” Carrying the lamp, he examined the room, looking for something, anything he could use as a swatter. When he turned around, she’d burrowed under the sheet. He grasped the bottom of it, snatching it off the bed. “You let ’em in, you kill ’em,” he told her curtly. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend another night like the last one, Rena. You get up and start swatting.”

In the yellow light, his blackened eye looked greenish and disfigured, giving him an evil aspect. And when she didn’t move, he lunged for her, ready to pull her out of the bed. Before he could catch her, she dived out the other side, then backed away.

“Lord a mercy! What—?” Before Sarah Brassfield got out the question, she could hear the answer. “Skeeters! Pa! Eddie! Fetch the swatter—
muy pronto!
They’s a-takin’ over!”

Seth Brassfield lurched through the door, obviously bewildered by the sudden commotion. One of the insects buzzed him, and he began jumping and waving. “Sarie, what fool’s left the dad-blamed winder open?”

“It don’t matter—they’s everwhar! Eddie! Polio!”

The two boys came skinnying down the ladder from the loft, falling over each other. The bigger boy, naked except for some sort of breechclout, charged into the room waving a yellowed newspaper, flailing at the circling mosquitos.

“Not that one!” Sarah wailed. “I was a-gonna order me some o’ that linnyment in thar!”

“If you don’t kill them critters, you’ll need tonic fer your blood instaid,” Seth declared, taking the paper from the boy. “Get the alminnik,” he ordered, swatting at a wall. “And shut the danged door a’fore they’s all over the house!”

McCready had pulled off his borrowed shirt and was snapping it like a towel, trying to bring an errant mosquito down. Instead, he caught Verena’s arm.

Incensed, she turned around and slapped his shoulder hard.

“Missed it,” she announced sweetly.

His hand flattened her nose. “I got him for you.” Before she could retaliate, he showed her the dead insect on the heel of his palm. “One down, ninety-nine to go.”

Behind her, Seth was muttering something about Texas mosquitoes being big enough to carry a man off, while Sarah was trying to hush him up, whispering, “Now, Pa, they ain’t from down here, you know. How was they t’ know you gotta have nettin’ if’n you want t’ open the winder?”

It took about ten or fifteen minutes to kill most of the insects. By then, the Brassfields were wide awake. Surveying the bedclothes on the floor, Seth stood with both hands on the waist of his red flannel drawers, allowing as how he had “nuther bottle o’ elderburry wine, if any of you wants ta share it. Reckon ahm gonna need a mite if’n ahm gonna get any sleep—my nerves ain’t what they used to be.”

Adjourning to the other room, the older man filled a large tin cupful for each person, including the two boys, and they all sat around the table sipping his wine. After he sent the boys back to bed, he refilled the rest of the cups. By the time she’d emptied the second one, Verena was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Exhausted beyond bearing, she sat with her head propped in her hands, trying to follow Seth’s conversation, but it wasn’t any use. Her head dropped to rest on the table.

Sarah leaned over to murmur, “He’s tellin’ you ta use the pot—he kilt a rattler ’tween here and the outhouse after y’all went to bed.”

The next thing Verena knew, McCready had his arm under her shoulder, lifting her up. “Come on—night’s half over,” he told her as she sagged against him. She felt her feet leave the floor and her body fold over his shoulder, but she was beyond caring. Tomorrow she might raise a ruckus, but not now.

“Close the door after yourselves!” Seth called out. “I’m all et up already!”

McCready kicked the door shut, then dropped Verena on the bed, where she just lay there, looking up at him.

“Never had any wine before, have you?”

“So tired,” she mumbled. “Tired and hot.”

“You know, if you were a dance hall girl, you’d just be getting started.”

“Huh?”

Verena’s chestnut hair spread over a pillow like a tangled mass of shimmering silk. And Sarah Brassfield’s calico nightgown was so big that it slipped off a bare shoulder, revealing the soft curve of an almost alabaster breast. For a moment, Matthew felt his mouth go dry with desire. Then he looked away.

“Get on your side,” he said, his voice thick.

“Too tired … to move.”

“You know, you’re too damned hard on a man.”

“No.” Instead of rolling over, she fumbled with the buttons at her neck. “It’s hot … so hot … I can’t breathe.”

“What else have you got to wear?”

She tried to sit up, but her head spun. “I could sleep standing,” she whispered. “So tired.”

“Yeah.”

“Thirsty.”

“You’ve had enough.”

“Water.”

He touched her forehead. It was moist, her hair damp at the temples. He couldn’t blame her for thinking she was hot. He felt like he was in a damned oven. He stood there, thinking he’d got himself into a real pickle, and it wasn’t over yet. Now the only thing he needed to completely ruin what was left of the night would be for her to get sick from drinking too much wine. She already had that clammy skin.

“All right.” He walked across the room to pour a little tepid water into a cup. “If you’re going to throw up, hang over the bed,” he said over his shoulder.

“I’m not,” she managed, closing her eyes. “I’m too sleepy.” She swallowed. “It’s hot … so hot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Carrying the water back to her, he sat down beside her. “You’ll have to sit up.”

“Can’t. Dizzy.”

“You can’t get sick on me, Rena. I’m as tired as you are. Here”—balancing the cup with one hand, he pulled her up with the other—“don’t drink too much.”

She took a sip, then pushed back her hair. “Sorry … about the window,” she managed. “I just couldn’t breathe.”

“If you’d ever spent a summer in New Orleans, you’d have known better, but you haven’t,” he murmured to console her. “There—and here apparently, you don’t open a window without hanging mosquito netting around the bed first. But it’s done, and it’s over. Now we’ve just got to get a little sleep.”