Livvie's Song (3 page)

The same concern prompted her utter dislike of cigarettes. Why, if God wanted folks to fill up their lungs with smoke, he would have fitted them with smokestacks. Thankfully, Frank had shared her sentiments, and they had never permitted smoking in their establishment, even though almost every other restaurant and speakeasy in town did.

Blowing several strands of reddish-blonde hair out of her eyes, she set to pushing chairs into their proper places, sweeping crumbs off the tabletops, replacing the lids of the sugar bowls, picking up stray pieces of litter, and then sanitizing the surfaces and chairs. Next, she walked to the back of the restaurant to fetch her broom and dustpan.

No sooner had she begun sweeping than she heard, “Mom, Nate won’t share his puzzle with me!”

She spun around at the voice of her eight-year-old son, Alex, his head poked through the opening in the door to the back room, his freckled nose scrunched in frustration. Her other son, Nathan, eighteen months younger, slightly rounder in the face but otherwise a spitting image of his brother, wriggled into view, peeking his head out right under Alex’s. “I was, too. Alex is bein’ bossy. ’Sides, it’s my puzzle.”

“So what? You’re still s’posed to share everything. Mom even said.”

“You don’t share your truck very good!”

“Do, too!”

“Boys.” Livvie stood the broom on its bristly end, grasping the handle with both hands, gathered a deep breath, and tamped down a smile. Her sons could be impish, but they were still her pride and joy—the products of unblemished love, and everything she lived for. “You know the rules. Share your toys, play quietly, and wait for Mommy to come and get you so we can go upstairs. I’m just about done here. Then, it’s baths for both of you, off to bed, and one more day of school before the weekend.”

“I don’t want a bath,” Nathan whined. “I already had one this week.”

She bit back another smile at her younger son’s protest. “You played hard at Aunt Margie and Uncle Howie’s farm today,” she replied, looking from him to Alex. “I can tell by those smudged faces. Sometimes, a body’s just got to have more than one bath a week.”

On most days, her boys walked the four or five blocks to and from Miami Grade School. In the afternoon, when they arrived home, they had a snack, answered her questions about their day at school, did their homework, completed a few chores, and played until it was time to go downstairs for the suppertime rush in the restaurant. They knew better than to get underfoot in Joe’s kitchen or to pester Cora Mae or her when they were busy waiting tables, so they entertained themselves in the back room, which she had stocked with games, books, puzzles, crayons, and drawing paper. Every so often, she or Cora Mae would check on them and, if necessary, referee an argument.

On occasion, though, Livvie’s older sister, Margaret, graciously offered to pick up the boys from school and take them to her house for a few hours. Today had been one of those times. Margie, fourteen years her senior and the one most responsible for having raised her, had two grown sons serving in the U.S. Navy—one in Japan, the other in the Philippines—so she jumped at every chance to watch Alex and Nathan. She said it soothed her soul to hear the squeals of children’s laughter in her house again. Of course, she also knew the hardships Livvie had suffered since losing Frank, and, since his death, she’d been more than willing to step in and help whenever possible. She and her husband, Howard, ran a successful dairy farm three miles outside of town, and Howard claimed to love letting the boys tag along to the barn with him at milking time. While he and his hired hands worked, Alex and Nathan played with the barn cats, romped with the dog, checked out the newborn foals and calves, or picked wildflowers for their aunt. Occasionally, their uncle assigned them a small task to keep them busy and make them feel important.

“Can I go first?” Alex asked. “Nate always gets the water dirty ’fore I get in.”

“Yes, it’s your turn to bathe first,” Livvie said, smiling as she took up her broom again. “Why don’t you boys go put your things away? We’ll head upstairs in about ten minutes.”

There were two apartments above the restaurant, the larger of which housed their little family. The smaller one had been vacant for a couple of months, the elderly gentleman who’d lived there having moved when he could no longer navigate the stairs. Livvie had posted a “For Rent” sign in the front window several weeks ago. So far, however, there had been no inquiries.

Her sons disappeared, thankfully without further argument, and closed the door behind them. Seconds later, Joe emerged from the kitchen, sweat rolling down his pudgy face and dampening his white hair, which reached his shirt collar. “Heard you talkin’ to your boys. You may as well go on upstairs with ’em. Cora Mae ’n’ me are almost done here. We’ll shut down the lights ’n’ stuff. Been a long day, hasn’t it? Good for business, though, I’ll say that.”

Livvie sighed, ignoring his suggestion that she take her leave. “I’m going to miss you, Joe,” she said, pausing to rest on the broomstick. She gazed across the room at the older man, whose round, Santa Claus belly called for suspenders to hold up his trousers. “What am I going to do without you?”

Joe had been with them since Frank’s death. Before that, he’d been a loyal customer who would step behind the counter with Frank on busy days to lend a hand. It had taken him little time to learn how things operated, and he’d graciously offered to take over after the tragic accident. But it had always been a temporary arrangement, meant to last only until Livvie could find a good replacement or he could sell his house in town, whichever came first. He’d sold his house a few weeks ago, and now, with his job in Chicago imminent, it was just a matter of days before he’d be leaving Wabash. With times being the way they were, Livvie had thought the “Cook Needed” sign on the front door would garner lots of hopefuls, but, to date, no one had expressed interest.

“Don’t look so downcast, girlie. Things’ll work out—you’ll see. Got to trust the Lord, is all.”

“Now you sound like Margie. She’s always preaching at me.”

“I’m not preachin’. I’m tellin’ you the truth. I been sayin’ lots of prayers for you lately. I know the money don’t stretch quite as far as you’d like it to every month, but the Lord has a way of makin’ things come out even—or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’ve noticed, but I’ve also noticed that no one’s come around asking to rent that upstairs apartment or to inquire after the job opening.”

“That’s ’cause everybody knows they can’t fill Joe Stewart’s shoes,” Cora Mae called out, turning away from the stove, dishrag in hand. Her graying hair was falling out of her bun, and age lines were etched deeply into her forehead and around her eyes and mouth. Her otherwise pale skin bore small, brown patches—liver spots, folks called them.

“That’s true enough,” Livvie said, directing her gaze at the smatters of crumbs on the floor beneath the bar stools and chairs. She would have blamed them on untended children, if it weren’t for the fact that she often saw adults drop bits of food and make no effort to retrieve them.

“When do you expect you’ll be leaving for good, Joe?”

“Too soon, if you ask me,” Cora Mae put in. “Our work’s cut out for us if we have to train somebody new plus wait tables.” She began to wipe off the counter that Livvie had just sanitized, her eyebrows set in a stubborn line. Livvie loved the dear lady, but why did she always have to be so blunt about everything?

“My new boss said he’d hold my job for up to two more weeks,” Joe said, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “If you can hire somebody in the next week or so, I can have ’im trained.”

“Or her,” Cora Mae corrected him. “Nothin’ wrong with hirin’ a woman.”

Joe angled her an imposing stare. “Why don’t
you
take the job, then?”

“Me? I’m not slavin’ over a hot grill. ’Sides, I don’t have the knack for flippin’ pancakes in the air.”

Joe chuckled. “I wouldn’t call that a requirement.”

“Well, it’s entertainin’. Who’s going to keep me entertained after you leave?” This she said with a hint of orneriness, making Livvie suspect that Cora Mae felt just as she did about Joe’s departure—sad, anxious, and a trifle betrayed. How could he leave them in the lurch like this, desperate and alone, while he went off and made a name for himself?

While Joe and Cora Mae kept up their banter, Livvie continued working on the floor, sweeping everything toward the front of the restaurant, where she gathered it all into a sizeable mound. Head down, she threw herself into her task, caught up in thought, mainly thinking about getting her boys to bed so that she could steal a few precious moments to unwind.

A rap on the front door put a sudden halt to her musings, and she looked straight into the eyes of a bearded stranger—piercing, absorbing eyes that studied her intently through the smeared windowpane. He was no small man, either, looking almost too tall to fit through the door, should she decide to open it. She would not.

“Come back in the morning, mister. We’re closed.” She didn’t know why she couldn’t rustle up a pleasanter tone, but that was the way of it. When he didn’t move but mouthed the word “Please,” she bristled. “We open at seven. The sign’s right there on the door. Didn’t you read it?”

“Yeah, I read it,” he said, his tone muffled and hoarse. She tried to go back to her sweeping, but then he rapped again. “I sure could use a plate of food. Don’t matter if it’s cold.” She kept her eyes to the floor. “I’ll pay you double for your trouble.”

Normally, she had a softer heart toward folks, Tonight, however, exhaustion prevailed.

“He looks like a bum. I never have trusted a man with a matted beard,” Cora Mae said from behind the counter, voicing Livvie’s very thoughts. “Not only that, he’s as big as a grizzly. Whatever you do, don’t open that door.”

She turned and cast a glance at Joe. “He did say he’d pay us double.”

He shrugged. “I got plenty of leftovers in the icebox.”

“Don’t do it,” Cora Mae warned. “I’ll have no part in it. I’m tired, and I’m goin’ home. Ralph’s waitin’ on his supper.” Ralph was Cora Mae’s dog and her only family, really; she’d never married, had no siblings, and had lost her parents some years back. She lived in a little house on West Hill Street, just a few blocks away, and walked everywhere she went, no matter the weather.

“You go on, then,” Joe said. “And, Livvie, you take your boys upstairs. I’ll feed this drifter and send ’im on his way.”

But something kept her feet fastened to the floor. Curiosity, maybe, or a sense of obligation to stick by Joe. Besides, she had a mound of dirt to pick up with the dustpan. “What if he has a gun and plans to rob us?”

“I’m leavin’,” Cora Mae announced, scooting around the corner and heading to the back door. “I hope to see you both in the mornin’. Don’t let your boys come out of that room.”

“’Night, Cora,” Joe said, his voice almost coarse. Then, to Livvie, he said, “I’ll take that chance. I’m a pretty good judge of folks. He looks harmless enough.” He advanced on the door and opened it a crack. The man didn’t force his way inside. “You don’t have a gun, do you?” Joe asked him. “This is a peaceable town.”

The drifter raised both hands as if Joe were arresting him, and Livvie saw that he held some sort of bag—a pillowcase, maybe—in one hand. “Check me over, if you like. The knapsack holds everything I own, except for a harmonica, which is in my pocket. You’ll find the rest of me clean.”

“Clean? Hardly,” Livvie murmured, mostly to herself, except the man must have heard her.

“Sorry for my shabby looks. I’ve been riding at the tail end of a freight train all day. If you’ll just give me something to eat, I’ll be out of your hair in five minutes.”

“You can put your hands down,” Joe said. “Come on in.” He stepped aside to make way.

Livvie found herself craning her neck to take in the fellow’s full height. So, he’d been too poor to pay his fare. The word
grizzly
didn’t do justice to his physique. She’d always viewed Joe as large, but this man towered over him.

“Where’d you come from, that you been on a freight train all day, and where you headed?” Joe asked him.

The fellow’s gaze traveled from Joe to Livvie, and he seemed hesitant to answer, as if he mistrusted them as much as they did him. “I’ve been out East. As for where I’m headed, I’m not sure yet.”

“You visitin’ somebody here in Wabash?” Joe persisted.

Sighing, the man raised an eyebrow at him. “Now, if I were, I’d be eatin’ there, wouldn’t I?”

Joe chuckled in his usual way, low and relaxed. “You got me on that one, mister.”

The guy tugged at his thick, brown beard with hands that looked surprisingly clean. Even his fingernails looked dirt free. “Like I said, I’ll pay you double for a plate of food. I know you’re closed and all, so I won’t take up more than a few minutes of your time.” He looked at Livvie again. “Ma’am, you just finish up what you were doing there.”

Clearly, he didn’t plan to divulge any personal details. This put her slightly on edge, but not so much that she feared he planned to do anything besides fill his stomach.

“No need to pay extra,” Joe said, turning and walking toward the kitchen. “You just take a seat”—he pointed a finger over his shoulder—“while I rustle you up somethin’ in a jiffy. I got roast beef ’n’ gravy and some mashed potatoes left over from supper. That suit you?”

The huge man removed his hat, revealing a thick head of wavy, chestnut-brown hair. Another surprise surfaced when Livvie noticed how it shone, and not from the latest goop men put in their hair to make it lie flat and look wet. It was a bit too long for her liking, the way it covered his collar, and was rather unruly, but at least it looked clean, as if he’d showered that morning before setting off on his long train ride from who knows where. “That sounds mighty fine, sir, and I thank you.”

Well, at least he’s polite
, Livvie thought, taking up her broom yet again. As she swept the floor, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, glad that he’d seated himself at a table under which she’d already swept. She had the uncanny sense that he kept a wary eye on her, as well, perhaps worried she might pick up where Joe had left off with the questions.