Morning Glory (7 page)

“Jesus, Lula, I depend on you to tell me if I need to use anything.”

She dabbed Evening in Paris behind her ears, between her thighs. “How dumb do you think I am, Harley?” She capped the bottle and slammed it down. He was always asking the same question, as if she were too ignorant to use a calendar. She’d answered it scores of times, but it always left her feeling empty and angry. So, she wasn’t his wife. So, she couldn’t have his babies. Who’d want ‘em? She’d seen his kids and they were stubby, ugly little brats that looked like bug-eyed monkeys. If she was ever going to have a kid, it sure as hell wouldn’t be his. It’d be somebody’s like that Parker’s, somebody who’d give her handsome, brown-eyed darlings that other women would envy.

The thought of it gripped her with a sense of urgency. She was thirty-six already and no marriage prospects in sight. She’d live the rest of her life in this stinking little dump where she’d probably die, just like her mother had. And when she got so old Harley didn’t want to do it on the kitchen table anymore—or couldn’t, for that matter—he’d retire to his rocking chair on the front veranda with his precious, boring Mae. And all those homely little monkeys of his would turn out
more
homely little monkeys and old Grampa Harley’d be happy as a tick on a fat sheep.

And she—Lula—would be here alone. Aging. Going to fat. Eating beef and mustard sandwiches by herself.

Well, not if she could help it, Lula vowed. Not if she could by God help it.

Eleanor awakened to a pink sunrise creeping over the sill and the sound of an ax. She peeked across her pillow at the alarm clock. Six-thirty. He was chopping wood at six-thirty?

Barefoot, she crept to the kitchen window and stood back, studying him and the woodpile. How long had he been up? Already he’d split a stack waist-high. He had tossed his shirt and hat aside. Dressed only in jeans and cowboy boots, he looked as meaty as a scarecrow. He swung the ax and she watched, fascinated in spite of herself by the hollow belly, the taut arms, the flexing chest. He’d done some splitting in his time and went at it with measured consistency, regulating his energy for maximum endurance—balancing a log on the stump, standing back, cracking it dead center and cleaving it with two whacks. He balanced another piece and—whack! whack!—firewood.

She closed her eyes—lordy, don’t let him leave—and rested a hand on her roundness, recalling her own clumsiness at the task, the amount of effort it had taken, the length of time.

She opened the back door and stepped onto the porch. “You’re sure up with the chickens, Mr. Parker.”

Will let the ax fall and swung around. “Mornin’, Mrs. Dinsmore.”

“Mornin’ yourself. Can’t say the sound of that ax ain’t welcome around here.”

She stood on the stoop in a white, ankle-length nightgown that exaggerated her pregnancy. Her hair hung loose to her shoulders, her feet were bare, and from this distance she looked younger and happier than she had last night. For a moment Will Parker imagined he was Glendon Dinsmore, he really belonged here, she was his woman and the babies inside the house, inside her, were his. The brief fantasy was sparked not by Eleanor Dinsmore but by things Will Parker had managed to miss in his life. Suddenly he realized he’d been staring and became self-conscious. Leaning on the ax, he reached for his shirt and hat.

“Would you mind bringin’ in an armload of that wood so I can get a fire started?” she called.

“No, ma’am, don’t mind at all.”

“Just dump it in the woodbox.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The screen door slammed and she disappeared.

He hated to stop splitting wood even long enough to carry it into the house. In prison he’d worked in the laundry, smelling the stink of other men’s sweat rising from the steaming water as he tended the clothes in a hot, close room where no sunlight reached. To stand in the morning sun while the dew was still thick, sharing the lavender circle of sky with dozens of birds that flitted from countless gourd birdhouses hung about the place—ahh, this was sheer heaven. And gripping an ax handle, feeling its weight slice through the air, the resistance as it struck wood, the thud of a piece falling to the earth—now that was freedom. And the smell—clean, sharp and on his knuckle a touch of pungent sap—he couldn’t get enough of it. Nor of using his muscles again, stretching them to the limit. He had grown soft in prison, soft and white and somehow emasculated by doing women’s work.

If the sound of the ax was welcome to Mrs. Dinsmore, the feel of it was emancipation to Will Parker.

He knelt and loaded his arm with wood—good, sharp, biting edges that creased his skin where his sleeve was rolled back; grainy flat pieces that clacked together and echoed
across the clearing. He piled it high until it reached his chin, then higher until he couldn’t see over it, testing himself again. This was man’s work. Honest. Satisfying. He grunted as he stood with the enormous load.

At the screen door he knocked.

She came running, scolding, “What in heaven’s name’re you knockin’ for?”

“Brought your wood, ma’am.”

“I can see that. But there’s no need to knock.” She pushed the screen door open. “And y’ got to learn that around here y’ can’t stand on that rotting old porch floor with a load so heavy. It’s likely t’ take you right through.”

“I made sure I walked near the edge.” He felt with the toe of his boot, stepped up and crossed the kitchen to clatter the wood into the woodbox. Brushing off his arms, Will turned. “That oughta keep you for—” His words fell away.

Eleanor Dinsmore stood behind him, dressed in a clean yellow smock and matching skirt, brushing her hair into a tail. Her chin rested on her chest, and a checkered ribbon was clamped in her teeth. How long had it been since he’d seen a woman putting up her hair in the morning? Her elbows—pointed toward the ceiling—appeared graceful. They lifted the hem of her smock, revealing a crescent of white within the cutout of her skirt. She snatched the ribbon from her teeth and bound the hair high and tight. Lifting her head, she caught him gawking.

“What’re you staring at?”

“Nothing.” Guiltily, he lurched for the door, feeling his face heat.

“Mr. Parker?”

“Ma’am?” He stopped, refusing to turn and let her see him blushing.

“I’ll need a little kindling. Would you mind breaking off a few smaller pieces?”

He nodded and left.

Will had been unprepared for his reaction to Mrs. Dinsmore. It wasn’t
her
—hell, it could have been any woman and his reaction would probably have been the same. Women were soft, curvy things, and he’d been without them for a
long, long time. What man wouldn’t want to watch? As he knelt to tap kindling off a chunk of oak, he recalled the checkered ribbon trailing from her teeth, the white flash of underwear beneath her smock, and his own quick blush.

What the hell’s the matter with you, Parker? The woman’s five months pregnant, and plain as a round rock. Get that kindling back in there, and find somethin’ else to think about.

She’d scolded him once for knocking, but returning with the kindling, he paused again. Even before prison, there had been few doors open to Will Parker, and—fresh out—he was too accustomed to locks and bars to open a woman’s screen and walk right in.

Instead of knocking, he announced, “Got your kindling.”

She glanced up from the bacon she was slicing and called, “Put it right in the stove.”

He not only put it in the stove, he built the fire. Such a simple job, but a pleasure. In all his life, he’d never owned a stove. It had been years since he’d had the right to one, even one owned by somebody else. He took care laying the kindling, striking the match, watching the sticks flare. Savoring. Taking as much time as he pleased, realizing time was no longer controlled by someone else. When the kindling had a hearty start, he added a thick log, and though it was a warm morning, extended his palms toward the heat.

Building a fire in a stove was just another morning chore to Eleanor. Watching him enjoy the job made her wonder about the life he’d lived, the comforts he hadn’t had. She wondered what was going through his mind as he stared at the flames. Whatever it was, she’d probably never know.

He turned from the stove reluctantly, dusting his hands on his thighs. “Anything else?”

“You could fill that water pail for me.”

From behind he scanned her yellow outfit—yellow as a buttercup—and the tail of hair bound by the checkered ribbon. She had donned an apron styled like a pinafore, tied loosely at the back. Studying the bow in the shallows of her spine, he experienced again the wrenching sense of home that had been denied him all his life, and along with it a queer reluctance to approach her. But the water pail was at her elbow,
and deliberately stepping close to a woman—any woman—since doing time for killing one made him constantly expect her to leap aside in fright. He made a wide berth around her and, reaching, muttered, “Scuse me, ma’am.”

She glanced up and smiled. “’Predate your buildin’ the fire, Mr. Parker,” she offered, then returned to her slicing.

Crossing the room with the water pail, he felt better than he had in years. At the door, he stopped. “I was wonderin’, ma’am...”

With the knife in the bacon she looked back over her shoulder.

“You milk that goat out there?” He thumbed toward the yard.

“No. I milk the cow.”

“You have a cow?”

“Herbert. She’s probably down by the barn by now.”

“Herbert?”
A corner of his mouth quirked.

She shrugged while humor lit her face. “Don’t ask me how the name got on her. She’s always been Herbert and that’s what she answers to.”

“I could milk”—his grin spread—“Herbert for you if you tell me where to find another pail.”

She completed the slice and wiped her hands on her apron, fixing a teasing grin on her mouth. “Well, my, my...” she drawled. “Is that a smile I see threatenin’ the man’s face?”

He allowed it to remain as they openly regarded one another, finding that the morning had brought changes they each liked. Seconds passed before they were smitten by self-consciousness. He glanced away. She turned to fetch him a galvanized pail.

“There’s a milk stool standin’ against the south side o’ the barn.”

“I’ll find it.”

The screen door slammed and she crossed to it, calling, “Oh, Mr. Parker?”

He pivoted in the path. “Ma’am?”

She studied him through the screen.

He had a pair of the nicest lips she’d ever seen, and they were downright pretty when they smiled.

“After breakfast I’m gonna cut that hair for you.”

The grin mellowed and reached his eyes. “Yes, ma’am,” he said softly with a touch on his hat brim.

As he turned downyard with the pail swinging at his side, he wondered when he’d been happier, when life had looked more promising.
She was going to keep him!

Herbert turned out to be a friendly cuss with big brown eyes and a brown and white hide. She and the goat seemed to be pals, exchanging a hello of noses. The mule was out behind the barn, too, with its eyes half closed, facing the wall. Will chose to milk the cow outside instead of in the smelly barn. He tied her to a fencepost, stripped off his shirt and hunkered on the stool while the heat of the sun pelted his back. It seemed he couldn’t soak up enough of it to make up for the five years’ dearth. Beside him the goat watched, chewing its cud. The cow chewed too—loud, grinding beats. Comfortable. In time Will’s milking matched the rhythm of Herbert’s jaws. It was soothing—the warm bovine flesh against his forehead, the warmer sun, the homely sound, and the heat building up the length of his arms. In time his muscles burned—satisfying, honest heat generated by his own body toiling as a body ought. He increased his speed to test his mettle.

While he worked, the hens came out of their night roosts, one by one, clucking throatily, walking as if on sharp stones, exploring the grass for snails. He eyed the yard, imagining it clean. He eyed the chickens, imagining them penned. He eyed the woodpile, imagining it chopped, ranked and filed. There was one hell of a lot to do, but the challenge fired him with eagerness.

A mother cat showed up with three taffy-colored kittens, a trio of clowning puffballs with tails straight as pokers. The mother curled against Will’s ankle and he paused to scratch her.

“What’s your name, missus?” She stood on her hind legs, braced her forefeet on his thigh, begging. Her fur was soft and warm as she jutted against his fingers. “You feedin’ those three, huh? Need a little help?” He found a sardine can inside the doorway of the barn and filled it, then watched the four
of them eat, one of the babies with a foot in the can. He chuckled... and the sound of his own laughter was so foreign to his ears it made his heart hammer. He tilted his head back and squinted at the sky, letting freedom and happiness overcome him. He chuckled again, feeling the wondrous thrust of the sound against his throat. How long since he’d heard it? How long?

When he delivered the milk to the house he smelled bacon frying from twenty feet down the yard. His stomach growled and he paused with his hand raised to knock on the screen door.

Inside the kitchen, Eleanor lifted her head and their gazes caught.

He dropped the hand and opened the door, taking the risk and finding it easy, after all.

“Met the animals,” he announced, setting the pail on the cupboard. “Mule’s a little stuck-up, compared to the others.”

“Well, bless my soul,” Eleanor remarked. “A regular speech.”

He backed off, rubbing his hands on his thighs self-consciously. “I’m not much for small talk.”

“I’ve noticed. Still, you might try it out on the boys.”

The pair was up, dressed in wrinkled pajamas. The older one looked up from where he was entertaining the young one on the floor with five wooden spools. He stared at Will.

“Howdy, Donald Wade,” Will ventured, feeling awkward and uncertain.

Donald Wade stuck his finger in his mouth and poked his cheek out.

“Say good morning, Donald Wade,” his mother prompted.

Instead Donald Wade pointed a stubby finger at his brother and blurted out, “That’s Baby Thomas.”