Livvie's Song (13 page)

He and Alex were both gasping for air, their faces red and damp with sweat.

“Tell me, tell me!” she urged them, expecting to hear about some exciting event from their final week of school. She could barely believe that in the fall, Alex would be starting third grade, Nathan second grade.

Instead, they announced in unison, “Mr. Taylor shaved his beard!”

“For thou art not a God that hath pleasure in wickedness: neither shall evil dwell with thee.”—Psalm 5:4

Will ran a hand down his face, still trying to get accustomed to the smooth feel of his clean-shaven cheeks and chin. Man, if he’d known how much cooler he’d be minus all those whiskers, he would have shaved them off long ago.

He found himself whistling a tune as he scooped a spoonful of flour out of the canister and sprinkled it on the wooden block. He also floured his hands, then took the metal bowl of dough out of the refrigerator and scooped up the stiff, round glob. Whistling still, he laid the dough gingerly on the block, then pulled apart a section of dough and, with a rolling pin he’d rubbed with flour, started pressing it into a smooth, flat circle. Why, he could almost smell the piecrusts baking in the oven now.

The aroma would always remind him of the day when Harry had first demonstrated how to make a fruit pie. He’d sung hymn after hymn as he’d rolled the dough, Will working right alongside him, and they’d baked pies by the dozen in the big oven. Thanks to Harry’s patient instruction, he’d learned a good deal about food preparation—and even more about the Lord. Strange how the two had somehow ended up going hand in hand.

He wiped his brow with his forearm, then glanced at the clock on the far wall. Suppertime started in half an hour. Anytime now, customers would start milling about outside, waiting for Livvie or Cora Mae to unlock the door and flip the sign to “Open.” He stopped whistling and grinned to himself as he wondered how folks would react to his clean-shaven face. Chuckling, he recalled the stunned expressions on Alex and Nathan’s faces when they’d bounded through the back door about an hour ago and found him sweeping the floor.

“Who’re you?” a wide-eyed Nathan had asked, halting his steps to stare at Will.

“Is that any way to greet the fellow who taught you how to skip rocks?” he’d asked, pausing to lean on his broom.

At that, both boys had dropped their chins, narrowed their eyes to mere slits, and slowly advanced, staring good and hard. “Is that you, Mr. Taylor?” Alex had asked, scratching the tip of his freckled nose.

“It looks like his body.”

“It sounds like his voice.”

“It’s me, all right,” he’d said, smiling broadly. “Got rid of that fur on my face. So, what do you think?”

Neither had stopped staring. “Your nose looks littler,” Nathan had observed.

“My—my nose?”

“No it don’t, silly,” Alex had insisted, poking his brother. “It’s the same nose. It’s his mouth. You can see his mouth now—and his cheeks.”

“Yeah,” Nathan had said, his blue eyes flickering with awareness. “Yeah, I never seen his lips before—’cept when he played that little mouth piano. Then I seen a little bit of ’em.”

“Organ, dummy. Mouth organ,” Alex had corrected him.

Almost unconsciously, Will had touched his nose while they’d chattered on, and he wondered if it seemed unusually large to other people. He didn’t care one way or the other, really; he was just curious. More than likely, the absence of his beard simply made everything about his face look different, including the size of his nose. He laughed now at their earnest observations.

Then, he wondered what their mother would say when she saw his new look. Since their first meeting, she’d made no bones about how much she disliked his facial hair. Would she think that he’d shaved it to make her happy? He certainly hoped not. The truth was, he wanted to keep Sheriff Morris off his back, and he’d figured a clean-shaven look would go far to accomplish that end.

On the stove, a kettle of vegetable beef soup and another of chicken noodle simmered, and, on the counter, fresh-baked loaves of bread cooled on metal racks. Tonight’s supper would consist of the usual fare: soup, bread, and fried chicken with mashed potatoes or hamburgers with French fries. Will had not abandoned his hope of spicing up the menu with secret family recipes, especially since he feared that once folks’ curiosity about the new cook had tapered off, so would the number of customers they saw on a nightly basis. Perhaps, he could talk to Livvie tonight, once she’d put her boys to bed. The sooner they made some changes, the sooner they could turn this little business around for the better. He hoped she’d agree.

***

“Flo, bring us some more o’ that moonshine!” Clem Dodd hollered to his wife in the kitchen. Across the room, Rudy and Hank lounged in run-down chairs, while the cigarettes that dangled from their mouths spewed rings of smoke that swirled over their heads. Truth be told, both fellows disgusted him, but a cord of crime kept them bound tight together. Since their first robbery—a jewelry store—they’d committed plenty of infractions and petty thefts, from late-night muggings in subway stations to midnight break-ins at various stores, taking whatever they could carry and exchanging it for cash at a pawn shop. Sure, they had daytime jobs, but not the kind that provided enough funds to feed their favorite habits: smoking, drinking, and gambling. Besides, they found enjoyment in the thrill of doing the crime but not the time. They were darned good at what they did, and getting better with age and experience. Even without experience, they’d gotten lucky in that jewelry store heist, except for the fact that Will Taylor had kept the loot. It was high time they caught up with him and found out where he’d stashed the goods.

Florence entered the living room, carrying a tray of drinks. Her hair fell forward over her cheeks, probably in an attempt to hide the bruise he’d put on her left one after she’d mouthed off to him the night before. Fool woman didn’t know when to shut her trap. They’d had another knock-down-drag-out after she’d put her kid to bed. He wasn’t about to admit to the boys that he had a good-sized bump on his own head, which he’d had to nurse with a bag of ice. They’d never let him live it down.

He was getting plain sick of Flo, especially since she’d gotten bold and started dishing back his blows. Their fights almost always had to do with money—she’d complain that he gambled away all his earnings; he’d tell her to go out and get a job. They generally wound up reducing each other’s characters to squat, too, using the worst kinds of names and getting some kind of sick pleasure from it.

Flo set the bottle of home-brewed liquor on the coffee table without speaking to Clem or meeting his eyes. Good. At least she’d heard him on that count. “Keep your fat mouth shut when the fellas come over,” he’d told her this morning. “You poke your nose in where it don’t belong, and I’ll cut it off, you hear?”

Apparently, she had, for she’d holed up in the kitchen and worked on the evening meal, having sent Eddie to her mother’s house for the night.

Clem watched her leave the room. When she was out of earshot, he said, “I came up with a plan.”

“Yeah?” Hank flicked his cigarette and lifted an eyebrow. “I bet it’s just brilliant.”

He ignored the jab. “I’ll head to Wabash on my own and see if I can figure out what Taylor’s up to.”

“I thought you wanted all three of us to go,” Rudy said.

“You both whined about havin’ to leave your pathetic jobs, remember? I been giving it some thought, and it prob’ly wouldn’t make sense for all three of us to traipse off to Indiana till we know what’s what. I’ll go on ahead, figure out where Taylor’s hangin’ ’is hat, and see if he’s carousin’ with anybody in particular. If I see anythin’ suspicious, I’ll call you and tell you to get your behinds to Wabash. I won’t confront ’im on my own.”

Hank lifted a corner of his lip and snorted, his eyes gone dark. “And what if you don’t learn a blessed thing? What if our old friend is mindin’ ’is manners? Could be prison taught ’im a thing or two.”

Clem reached over to the coffee table and refilled his glass. Then, he brought it to his lips and took a long swig of the liquid, which sizzled like fire all the way down. He nearly choked, but he breathed deeply and gathered his wits as he waited for the burn to subside. “Then, I s’pose I’ll come on back here.”

“Yeah, right.” Hank emitted a nervous cluck. “You’re just lookin’ for a way to escape that biddy out in the kitchen, and Wabash is soundin’ pretty good about now. Don’t matter that you know nothin’ ’bout the place. You just wanna disappear.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Clem spat. But, even as he hissed the words, he knew Hank’s statement rang true.

***

Livvie couldn’t help stealing hurried glances at Will Taylor throughout the supper hour. Since shaving that shaggy rug off his face, he was just about the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on—with the exception of her Frank, of course. Gracious! What business did she have noticing another man’s good looks? She had sworn to love Frank and no other till she took her dying breath, and not even Will Taylor’s square-set face, wavy brown hair, striking blue eyes, and generous mouth would stop her from keeping that promise.

Meanwhile, Cora Mae hadn’t excused herself for swooning over his absent beard. She’d made an utter fool of herself, going so far as to make Will blush. “I had no idea there was a fine-looking face under all that bushiness, Mr. Taylor,” she’d crooned. “Why, if I were twenty years younger—”

“Cora Mae Livingston, behave yourself!” Livvie had scolded her. The woman’s lack of delicacy was embarrassing.

Will had thrown Livvie a fleeting smile, and she’d noticed a twinkle in his eyes. She’d figured he was waiting to see what she’d have to say about his beardless face.

Of course, she’d said nothing, not wanting him to think it mattered one whit. He must have known that it did, though, considering how adamantly she’d encouraged him to shave. She should have thanked him for obliging her, but her pride wouldn’t allow it.

At six o’clock, Charley Arnold and Roy Scott strolled in, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Ire and dread immediately rose in her chest. She hadn’t seen them in a good week and had secretly hoped they’d chosen another café, where they could puff away till the cows came home.

“Hello, boys,” she greeted them, struggling to put on a friendly façade. “I have an open table right here by the door. I’d appreciate it if you’d put out those smokes before you settle in, though. You know good and well I have a no-smoking policy. This is a family restaurant.”

Scowling, Charley tilted his middle-aged face at her. “It ain’t right, Liv, you bein’ th’ only restaurant in town that don’t allow it. I can’t hardly enjoy a cup o’ coffee without my smokes. You know that.”

“Then, you may go elsewhere.”

“But you got good eats here.” His gaze filtered past the room of customers to the kitchen. At that moment, Will Taylor glanced up. “Well, I’ll be hanged. He shaved off that beard. He sure looks diff’rent.”

“Yes, he does,” Livvie confirmed. “Now, would you please extinguish those disgusting things before they create a cloud in my restaurant?”

Neither man made a move to heed her request; they just ambled over to the table she’d pointed out and pulled out two chairs. She gave a loud sigh. “Don’t sit down until you’ve stomped out those smokes on the sidewalk, please.”

Cora Mae approached the table, pencil tucked behind her ear, pad of paper in hand. “Oh, leave ’em be, Liv. They’re not botherin’ anybody.”

“They’re bothering me,” she maintained, “and they both know it.” She appreciated Cora Mae’s efforts to keep the peace, but this was one area where she refused to compromise. “Why do you two have to be so blamed stubborn?”

Roy chuckled and reached out to touch her bare arm.

She immediately wrenched it away and glared at him.

“Sorry, Livvie. We don’t mean no harm. We just can’t see the trouble in lightin’ up.”

“The trouble is, you’re ill-mannered boors who can’t abide one simple rule.” Roy wasn’t a bad-looking man, but his conduct was certainly lacking.

“What d’you fellas want for supper, anyway?” Cora Mae asked, snatching her pencil and preparing to write.

“Cora Mae, we’re not serving them.”

The men sat down in their chairs, which galled Livvie to her core, considering that she’d just told them not to sit. Was there anyone with a brain smaller than these two jellyheads’?

They narrowed their eyes to peruse the menu. “How’s that new cook at fryin’ burgers?” Charley asked.

“I’m doggone good,” bellowed a voice that made the place fall silent. Clanging forks and knives quieted, and even the Pryors’ four-month-old baby hushed her burbling. Livvie turned around and met Will’s sterling eyes. He stepped between her and Cora Mae and extended a hand. “Will Taylor,” he stated.

Roy pushed back his chair and rose, taking his hand. “Roy Scott’s the name.”

Charley remained in his seat but shook Will’s hand when he thrust it under his nose. “Charley Arnold,” he muttered coolly.

Neither man measured up to Will’s stature. Surely, they’d noticed. Roy lowered himself into his seat again. “We been in here a time or two to sample your cookin’. It ain’t bad,” he said with a shrug.

“Yeah, I saw you last week,” Will replied. “So, you want a hamburger, do you?” He stepped closer and rested his fists on the table.

Charley grinned. “Sure.”

“With lettuce, tomato, and onion?”

“You bet. And a slab o’ cheese, if you don’t mind.”

Will shook his head. “Don’t mind at all. You want some thick fries to go with that? I make ’em extra greasy.”

Charley relaxed and licked his lips. “Yeah, sure. That’d be great. And a tall, ice-cold Coke.”

Will turned to Roy. “The same for you?”

Grinning with satisfaction, Roy nodded.

“There’s only one problem, I’m afraid,” Will said, stepping back and folding his arms across his chest.

“Yeah?” Roy said. “What’s that?”

Will smiled, but not warmly. “These.” As quick as a hawk swooping down on its prey, he seized the cigarettes from Charley and Roy’s mouths, dropped them on the floor, and squished one under each of his boots. In the next move, he had both men by the fronts of their collars, so that their roundish guts were pressed against the edges of the table. The whole sequence happened in a flash, and, from the flurry of gasps and whispered remarks she heard from around the room, Livvie almost believed that she’d hired a magician instead of a cook.