Asked For (11 page)

“Call’s here,” Magdalena’s small voice piped from the other room. Then the beat of her little feet could be heard as she spun her horse around and galloped away, making another circuit through the house. Alex was propped with his back against Lana’s stomach, the two of them slouched in the chair. His eyes were pinned on his sister. He had spunk, just like she did. His legs stiffened and kicked. If he could figure out how to use them, he’d gallop after her, a mini Magdalena, racing from room to room.

Ella stepped from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Supper’s done,” she said.

“You make enough for you and Carl too?” Lana asked. It was their arrangement. If Ella cooked here to help Lana, she took enough food home for herself and Carl. It was a battle every evening, who would give and who would receive. Lana knew it was her weakness that was her strength. She won these tussles because Ella watched her as they bickered, Lana’s skin turning cooler, and no doubt paler, whenever they locked horns.

Ella studied her as she gauged the battle, drying her hands far more than they needed. She nodded then, her jaw set and her lips in a thin line as she retreated to the kitchen. Lana smiled, victorious. She must look especially bad this evening.

Another truck rumbled in the distance, rougher and growing stronger as it approached. Harold stopped crawling and rolled onto his bottom. He sat up and listened to the sound he recognized as Pop’s. Magdalena rode harder. Lana lifted a hand, ran it over her own head to straighten her hair as she listened to her daughter slap her hip, urging the horse to go farther and faster.

Cletus’ truck pulled into the lane. Carl would stay outside, now. Sometimes he came in and played with the kids while Ella finished up. But he wouldn’t when Cletus was here. They would stay out, Carl helping Cletus with the chores. Ella stepped once again from the kitchen and glanced the direction the men would be.

“Guess I got a few more minutes,” she said, looking back at Lana. “What else you want me to do?”

“Sit,” Lana said. “Pull up a chair and sit with me for awhile.”

Ella hesitated, then waddled over, lifted Alex off Lana’s lap, and took the chair next to her. “Cow’s milk isn’t hurting him any, is it?”

Alex looked far healthier than Lana felt. He was rounding out and rambunctious. She envied him, wished she had his strength so she could get back to being wife and mother the way she was supposed to. Nursing Alex what little she could helped him get a good start, but it slowed her down. She straightened in the chair and smoothed her skirt where he’d been sitting. The skin of her hands looked old instead of young, thin and dry instead of well. She flexed them. They would improve with time. She’d eat more, drink more water, get back on her feet so some of her vibrancy returned.

“Cletus helping you plenty in the evenings still?” Ella asked.

Lana nodded, clutching her hands on her lap. He held the boys and corrected the girls, well, corrected Magdalena. Betsy stayed quietly out of the way while Magdalena took advantage of her father being held down by two babies.

Ella jostled Alex as his head swiveled from side to side, keeping an eye on his brother and sisters, especially the sister racing from room to room shouting at her horse to go faster and faster. Ella watched the back of Alex’s head, her mouth working before she finally spoke. “Cletus behaving himself?”

Lana kept her face toward her children. Ella’s question embarrassed her, but it also exasperated her. Such things were no one’s business, just hers and Cletus’. Ella had told Lana the doctor warned Cletus she shouldn’t go through another childbirth. The first time Ella said it, vague memories of a tall shadow leaving her bedside, the sound of a door opening and closing after a man had said, “Do you understand?” ran through Lana’s mind. She’d hoped it was part of a dream, not Cletus leaving her side after his second—maybe his last—son had finally been born.

“He’s fine,” Lana answered, hoping Ella would be satisfied. Behaving himself was too much for Cletus, and Lana knew it. She saw it in the way he watched her when he was home. The doctor’s edict and the fact she’d been slow healing and too torn up inside to be the wife he needed had toppled her king from his throne. The hunger in Cletus’ eyes, the wolfish appetite which lay behind them, made his celibacy, even though temporary, look intolerable. His eyes stalked her, followed her around the house, viewing her as if she was a meal withheld instead of a wife. He was hungry, he was frustrated, he was a pot of simmering fury, waiting to see if it was true she’d never give him another son.
Let him do whatever he wants.

“Good.” Ella gave a sharp nod of approval. “He doesn’t need to bury another wife. I know that sounds harsh, but you’re a treasure, whether he realizes that or not.”

A treasure. Lana felt cold inside. She thought of Cletus’ first wife’s photo on his chest of drawers. Had that woman been a treasure before she died? Or even afterwards? Sons were his true treasure, not her, not his other wife. If she stopped giving him sons, he’d blame her, say it was her fault, and he’d be right. She’d given him two. She glanced from Alex to Harold. Two wouldn’t be enough. If she was no longer able to give him babies, especially sons, Lana may as well not even be here, not even to satisfy his nightly yearnings. She might just as well be a photo on Cletus’ dresser.

The back door opened and men’s voices flowed into the house. Lana straightened as much as she could. Her skin felt cool and clammy. She brushed her hair back with her hands.

Magdalena shot into the room and back out again. Harold watched the doorway he knew his father would walk through, a bounce in his excitement. Ella became quiet, the men’s voices and Magdalena’s foot-beats the only sounds.

Cletus’ voice overpowered Carl’s. It rose, gruff around the edges—he sounded upset. Lana watched the door. Cletus had been more and more upset lately. Tension had grown along with the hungry look in his eyes. Lana clasped her hands and buried them in her lap.

“Morgan.” Cletus spit the name. Mr. Morgan. He owned a restaurant in town. Lana’d never eaten there, but Cletus had. He used to eat lunch there often, especially since his welding shop was across an alleyway from it, directly behind the business next door to it. Cletus had an ongoing battle with the owners of the businesses downtown, men who preferred a welding shop be relocated farther away. Mr. Morgan was on the city council. As far as Lana knew, Mr. Morgan had stated no preference one way or the other, but he had authority, he had influence, he was like God, and he had power over the thing Cletus loved second most.

Cletus said Morgan’s name again. Lana had only seen the man once or twice, but Mr. Morgan had the reputation of being good and honest; his gentle smile, his friendly dark eyes, all making what she’d heard of him seem true.

“My shop… Odors… Fire…” Cletus went on, Mr. Morgan’s name again, and then another, a Mr. Kline.

Lana knew nothing about Mr. Kline. But Mr. Morgan… She and Mr. Morgan were the same. They shared the responsibility for the suffering her husband felt, or at least Cletus thought they shared it. She was taking away the main thing Cletus loved, his sons, and Mr. Morgan was a threat to the other, his work. She and Mr. Morgan were inadvertently intertwined. They were Cletus’ enemy. In his mind, she and Mr. Morgan were one.

Harold struggled to his feet, then toppled over. He rolled onto all fours and struck out toward the door that led to the back porch. Carl stepped through the doorway, Cletus’ tall form close behind. Carl stopped and scooped Harold off the floor and settled him on his hip. Harold watched his father as Cletus moved past, giving his son a pat on the back as his eyes sought out and found Lana.

He was angry, starved and angry. Roast wasn’t going to satisfy the sort of hunger he had. He needed something more. She needed to satisfy him, answer that look in his eyes, assure him he would have more sons from her, lots of them. She touched her hair, smoothing it back again while she held his gaze.

The red hot flames in his eyes smoldered. Lana grabbed the back of her chair with one hand and forced herself to her feet. Her lower half felt as if it had remained on the seat.

“I’ll help you gather your things and your supper,” Lana said to Ella. The room swam, and her skin felt wet and cold. She gripped the chair until the wooziness passed.

“Here, you take Alex.” Ella was on her feet.

“Cletus will take him,” Lana said. She didn’t look his way. She was waiting for her legs to steady and the ache in her pelvis to subside.

“No, you sit…” Ella held Alex her way.

“Cletus will take him,” Lana said again. She looked at him this time, sent him a reminder this was his family, that was his son, and she was his wife that had given him to Cletus. Her fingers slowly released the back of the chair. She stood all the way and faced him. “Please take our son while I help Ella.”

Cletus stepped forward and took Alex. Magdalena galloped into the room and back out again. Normally he would have yelled for her to settle down, but he didn’t. He didn’t even look Magdalena’s way. He was watching Lana, the smoldering embers licked by tiny flames.

She looked into his fiery countenance. She was and would be his wife. Tonight, and always. And she would give him more sons.

Chapter 12

James 1952

James heard it again. He’d heard it most of his life, but he’d never really listened until now, now that he was older.
That boy. That boy. That boy.

If Pop talked about Harold, he said Harold. If he talked about Alex, he said Alex. But late at night when Pop talked about James, it was
that boy.
James lay stretched on his bed and stared at the dark ceiling. That’s what Pop called him behind his and Mama’s bedroom door, his voice carrying through the walls and up the stairs where James could hear.

“Hey, you asleep?” The door to the room James shared with Harold and Alex cracked open. His brothers were both out, double dating, they called it, two fun times for the price of one, even though Harold wasn’t looking for fun. He was unofficially engaged to Sandra. A silhouette of mussed hair came into view. Magdalena was slender enough to fit through without opening the door very wide. Her outline and form were black, but James knew, even in the dark, she would be bright, her face highlighted with vivid color, her clothing the same, her whole style vibrant and alive.

“I’m awake.” He sat, drawing his knees up to rest his arms on. He propped his chin on his folded arms and watched her slide into the room. Pop’s voice grew louder while the door was open. She shut it quickly, “
that boy”
and a faint glow of downstairs light still able to slip through.

The bed sagged as she sat near the center. She smelled of smoke, cigarette smoke, and something else. Harold and Alex said she drank, but James didn’t believe it. She never acted like drinkers acted. She was always alert and in control.

“How was the game?” she asked.

“We won.” Mama had been there. So had Harold. Alex stayed at work at Pop’s shop, but Harold had slipped out to watch James play. Pop was mad at Harold for leaving early, but he’d blamed James. Pop’s voice rose again from downstairs, his irritation filtering through the ceiling and floor.

“Sorry I missed it. Had to work, or I would have been there.” Magdalena cleaned houses for people too old to take care of their own. She worked irregular hours, claiming the pay was good and the old folks didn’t mind if she wore makeup and smoked. She seemed content with these jobs, happy to have a schedule Pop couldn’t control or predict. She dug a dollar out of the front pocket of her blouse and handed it to him. “Here, this is for winning. Did you pitch?”

James shook his head at the money. “Yeah. The full game.”

She slapped the dollar on his arm near his chin. “Buy yourself a couple of sodas or whatever you want. You deserve it.” Her hand went to his head and tousled his hair. Magdalena did that a lot. She always said she liked the color.

“Magdalena?” Her hand dropped, but she was still looking at him.

“Why do they fight like that?”

Her silhouette turned to the side, as if she was listening to Mama and Pop. Mama never hollered like Pop did, but she always responded. She just never won.

Magdalena rotated his way again, the fuzzy curls making a loose halo around her head in the faint backlight.

“Mama doesn’t fight,” she said. “Just Pop.”

“Why does he yell? What did I do?”

“Nothing.” Magdalena stood. Her voice had an edge. Her anger was never far beneath the surface, and now it was palpable, even though the dark hid it on her face. “Nobody did nothing except Pop. His problems are his own fault. It’s what he did and what he didn’t do. He’s no one to blame but himself.” She strode back and forth in the dark, fury exploding with every step. James was afraid she’d make too wide of a turn and trip over his ball shoes he’d left at the foot of the bed.

He lifted the dollar bill and rubbed it between two fingers. He couldn’t imagine what Pop had or hadn’t done that was so wrong. He went to work, he worked hard, he came home, and he slept. He was sour most evenings, but he did everything he was supposed to.

“You’re different from him.” Magdalena stopped pacing and came back to his bed. She sat on the edge, nearer this time. “There’s something about you that’s better than him. He knows it and he hates it.”

Magdalena sounded a little vindictive, but more than that, James knew she was sincere. She was wrong, though, no matter how certain she sounded. She was only trying to make him feel better, the way Mama did. Actually, the way they all did, except for Pop. He always made James feel worse, just like now, when he wasn’t even really trying to.

“What about you? If I’m different and better, so are you.”

“I’m the same as Pop is. And I hate it, but believe me, I’m trying to get out.”

James scratched his head. Magdalena didn’t make sense. They were all different from Pop. No one was the same as him, because none of them were good enough. Pop made that more than clear.

The door opened a crack, and they both turned. It was Carla, the gentle way she carried herself giving her away.