Asked For (15 page)

The table creaked, and James looked Pop’s direction. His fists were balled and his arms stiff as he leaned over his chair, propping himself against the table’s top. His gaze had shifted from Mama to Magdalena.

Another chair slid backwards before Pop could speak, its movement silent and almost without a sound. James looked, and Betsy sank silently into her seat. She didn’t scoot forward, she just sat, sitting out her support of Mama and James, sitting still enough to not upset the household she was apparently content to stay in all of her days.

All of them knew the gate was James’ responsibility. And, like Pop, they knew Harold and Alex had no idea what had happened but were just coming to James’ defense. James looked at Mama. She’d tried to soothe Pop for James’ sake. She loved him, all of them, in ways he’d never realized. Mr. Morgan was right. Mama had heart. What she was doing was unconventional, and it would surely bring Pop’s wrath down on her as quickly as it did on James.

Alex burst through the back door, and it slammed behind him. He marched to Pop and dropped the top end of a broken post on the table, the end James should have secured with a wire loop over it to hold the gate in place. “There. You happy?” Alex returned to his chair and stood behind it, his eyes glued to his father.

“Looks like the cow rubbed against the gate and broke it,” Magdalena said, slumping down in her chair, one elbow propped on the table. “Probably scratching her side.”

Pop stared at the broken post, too thick for an easy break. James wanted to look at Alex, look at the muscles that loved him enough to snap that chunk of wood with his bare hands and slap it on the table in front of their father. He didn’t look. He didn’t want Pop to yell at Alex. To Pop it was bad enough to make a mistake like James had made, but it was worse to do what they were doing—lie, defy his rules, band together against him.

Pop shifted his gaze from the broken post to Harold. He stared at his oldest son. Harold was softer than Alex. He was like Mama. He was good and thoughtful. Harold didn’t flinch under his father’s glare. He held still without looking away.

Pop switched to Mama, then Gail, then Betsy and Carla. He skipped Magdalena and stopped at James. “Pick this post up and take it outside. You and I will talk about it later.”

James’ legs nearly gave out as he stumbled away from his chair. He started his father’s direction, but stopped when thick fingers wrapped around his arm and held him where he was. He glanced at the hand, then up into his brother’s face. Alex nodded, then released James’ arm and marched to Pop. Alex swiped the wood from the table and walked it to the woodstove and threw it in.

“The cow broke the gate. That’s it,” Alex said above the ring of the iron door slamming. He strode back to his chair.

Carla slid her chair backwards, softly like Betsy. She sat, then gently scooted forward. Gail did the same. Tears welled in James’ eyes, tears he couldn’t stop. His brother Harold tugged his chair out and sat also.

“I say we’re ready to eat.” Mama sounded less steady than she had before. James wanted to look at her, but he couldn’t. If he turned his head, his tears would spill over and run down his cheeks. “Please sit down, James,” Mama added. She was helping Pop, not contradicting him. It was in her tone, it was the special way she loved that she was so good at. James fumbled with the back of his chair. He dragged it out from the table and sat. Its legs thumped in the silent room like gunshots in a cavern as he scooted forward. “You’ll feel better if you eat,” she said. James knew she was talking to Pop now. She left her end of the table and walked to Pop’s. “There’s lemon cake for dessert. We can talk after that.”

Only Alex remained standing, of all James’ brothers and sisters. Stubbornness resonated from him, from the way he stared at Pop, in the way he stood fixed behind his chair, how his hands flexed open and closed on its back. Alex stood in defiance, while Magdalena sat in defiance.

Pop yanked his arm from where Mama touched him. He shrugged her off and glared at James. “I said we’d talk later, and we will, with or without that hunk of wood.”

“You’ll talk to me,” Alex shouted. “I’m the one that made it, and I’m the one responsible for it. If it’s broken, it’s my fault for choosing bad wood, not James’!”

“I’ll talk to that boy, not you.”

That boy.
James jerked to his feet, Magdalena along with him. She was behind him, her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers dug into the skin around his collarbones, gripping, squeezing the pent-up scream that needed pried out.

“I’m not
that boy!
I’m James Paine, and I’m your son! I’m not a nobody, and I’ll take full responsibility for my actions!” It came out in a flood of words, it came out violent and full of anger.

Cletus moved in a jerk, so quickly Mama tumbled aside. He rounded the table, tall and fierce. James clutched his fists and looked up at the giant advancing on him. He was ready. He would lose, but he didn’t care. Alex shot between them, Magdalena with him. Pop tried to round James’ brother and sister, but Alex was quick.

“You’ll deal with me, not James. Pick on someone your own size for a change.”

Pop swung. James wasn’t sure Pop wanted to hit his second eldest son. Maybe he didn’t, but Alex ducked and Pop’s fist missed.

Alex was upright before Pop regained his balance. Alex leaned into him. “
That boy
, as you call him, is James. He’s your new welder, because I quit!”

“Alex!” Mama wailed.

“I’m joining the army.” Alex glanced his mother’s way. Her hands rose and covered the lower half of her face. “They’re always looking for men.”

Then Alex turned again to Pop. “Be good to James.” Alex looked back at James. “Don’t stop playing ball just because you work at the shop. You’re too good.”

No one moved except Alex. He looked at each one before he turned and disappeared through the door to the back room. They listened as the outside door opened and then closed, softer than before, yet it still said he was gone. Mama stifled a sob. She fumbled for her apron, drew it up, and buried her face.

“Get his chair away from the table. We won’t need it anymore.” Pop’s voice was husky.

“Get rid of mine, too.” Magdalena stiffened to her full height. “I’m getting married.” She returned to her seat, took her own chair by the back, and carried it to the far wall. She set it there, then looked back at Pop. “It’s Earl. He asked the other night. He’s a good enough guy, so I’m going to do it.”

“Earl?” Pop tried to say it with a snort, but it came out wrong. He almost choked. “Earl Long? You waited all this time for someone like him?”

Magdalena stared at Pop, then headed for the stairs.

“If it is, you’ll be begging to come home again in a week,” Pop called to her back. “No Long is worth marrying.”

Magdalena turned. “He’s better than this.” Magdalena threw a glance around the room. Then she looked at James, and went on up the stairs.

Mama moved. She stepped back from where she’d stood at Pop’s end of the table. She followed her oldest daughter. So did Betsy, Gail, and then Carla.

“I gotta tell Alex goodbye.” Harold stared at Pop. “Come with me,” he said to James. James’ legs trembled as he stumbled behind his brother. He urged them forward. He didn’t want to say goodbye, but he needed to say thank you.

“Tell him… You can tell him…” Pop didn’t finish. James wanted to turn, but he didn’t. He followed Harold out of the house.

Chapter 17

Lana 1934

Lana stared into the small mirror over the washstand on the back porch. A mature woman gazed back at her—not a girl anymore, but a woman who was tired, tired and afraid.

She yanked the cloth tie from behind her head. Auburn hair fell, loose waves tumbled down and drifted beyond her shoulders. Her hair was thick and heavy. It shone, almost sparkled, even in the meager light.

She shook it out, tilted her head to one side and then the other, studying her face and craning to see her profile. She turned quickly, her tresses yanking like whips with every twist of her head. Photographic glimpses of her image looked almost pretty as she whisked back and forth, but when she paused and stared at herself straight on, the pretty woman vanished and the tired woman returned—the worried eyes, the frightened stare. She pressed her fingers against her skin. It had a good healthy texture in spite of all she’d been through, and her eyes still bore their rich hazel color. What if Grandma was wrong? What if in this one thing she had erred? What if Cletus really would respond to pretty? What if pretty gave her that “something more” that she needed?

She gathered her hair in both hands, twisted it into a rope, and lifted it on top her head. She moved it from one side to the other, holding it back and high.
He won’t care how you look. He’s too old for that.
Grandma may have been wrong…

Lana dropped her hair and stared. Stared at the wife with too many daughters and not enough sons.
I’m trying. I’m doing the best that I can.

Lana reached for her face. She traced the line of her jaw with a finger. If she could make Cletus like her more, if she could do the right thing, say the right thing…

“Mama?”

Lana dropped her hand and glanced in the mirror behind her. Magdalena stood in the background, watching her.

“You okay, hon?” Lana turned.

Magdalena gathered her own hair, held it behind her head the same way Lana had. Lana bent, stooped to her daughter, and swept her off the floor. Magdalena rose easily, she was slim and light, long like her father. Lana pressed her close, her little daughter’s heart beating against Lana’s chest. Lana scooted the wash pan aside and set Magdalena on the dry sink’s top.

Lana gazed into Magdalena’s pale blue eyes, eyes so much like her father’s, not only in color but in determination. But behind the blue Lana saw her own eyes, the ones that had gazed back at her in the mirror. “You’re beautiful. You know that, don’t you?”

Magdalena frowned, tilted her head, then touched her hair again.

“Hop up on your knees and turn around so you can see yourself in the mirror.” Lana helped her daughter rise and turn. Magdalena knelt in front of the mirror and studied her reflection, her fair coloring surrounded by hair that was nearly as wan. Magdalena twisted her head from one side to the other just as Lana had, studying her profile, watching her hair. Lana slipped her hands under her daughter’s fine hair, gathered the mass of curls and bundled them on top of Magdalena’s head. Her daughter’s eyes brightened in her reflection. “See, I told you you’re beautiful.” Lana held onto the knot of hair as Magdalena turned again from one side to the other, studying her new look.

Someone has asked for you.
“Someday a boy will say, ‘Look at Magdalena. Why, she’s the prettiest girl in town.’”
He’s too old to care about pretty, he just wants you to make babies.
“Lots of boys will think so, but you will choose the one you want, the one you think the most handsome and the nicest, because you’re beautiful, and beautiful girls can do that.”
Those tales of Jeanie’s are just that, tales that make little girls’ hearts flutter with nonsense.

Magdalena stopped turning and stared at herself. Lana stared with her, willing, infusing her own heart, the one that was determined to survive, into her daughter. They were mother and daughter but looked nothing alike. Yet she and Magdalena were identical, the vacancy in their eyes where something necessary was missing.

“Someday a young man will ask your father and me if he can marry you. He’ll come to our house, and you’ll be excited because you love him. You’ll want to be his bride.” Magdalena’s reflection in the mirror shifted. “You’ll see.” Lana squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. “It will be that way for you. I promise to make it so.”

Chapter 18

Lana 1935

Lana ran the rag across the top of Cletus’ chest of drawers, dust and tiny splinters of wood catching in the fabric. His first wife smiled, she never stopped, as Lana lifted her photo and dusted beneath it. Her hair was dark. Darker than Lana’s, and straight. Lana had never asked her name. Her hair was swooped back, swinging low at the sides and disappearing behind her head. Lana set the picture down, touched her own hair, and followed the gentle wave from the top of her head to the ends beyond her shoulders. The waves made her think of a sleigh ride—up, then down, up, then down, easy, smooth, a gentle rise and fall. She lifted his mother’s photo and dusted beneath it. His first wife’s hair didn’t flow like Lana’s. She set his mother’s picture back in place and grabbed the end of one of her own heavy strands and tugged, pulled it straight to see if she could look the same, look like the woman he’d chosen first, the one who gave only a son and no daughters, who did what was right…except she stopped too soon.

Lana had seen Jeanie straighten her hair once, when they were just girls, by pressing it beneath a hot brick. If Lana fired up the stove earlier than usual, before she cooked the evening meal…more heat and early enough…she could warm a brick and possibly straighten her hair. Something had to help. She was losing him, she was failing…

“Mama?”

Lana jumped. She let go of her hair, and it coiled back, rolled into its natural wave around her shoulders. Magdalena leaned into the room, her head poking through the bedroom doorway.

“He’s here, Mama! He’s here again.”

“Who?” She laid the dust rag on the chest of drawers.

“Outside! Come and see.” Magdalena turned and ran through the house. She didn’t even gallop but ran like a child. Lana told her daughter every day how ladylike she would grow up to be, how someday a handsome prince would ride up on a horse and she’d go with him instead of riding alone. Maybe Magdalena had put her horse up for now, believing a prince would come, and then she’d ride again, ride away together with him.

Lana smoothed her dress and followed her daughter. The back door stood open, and Lana could hear her oldest children’s voices outside, excited, telling everything they knew, to him—whoever he was. She stepped through the door, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Lana!” It wasn’t a man, it was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar. Before she could see who it was, Lana was swallowed in an embrace, a swirl of arms and hair and fabric that smothered her, and blinded her to who it was. “Oh, I can’t believe it’s been so long!” A happy lilt sang in her ear.