Morning Glory (8 page)

Baby Thomas drooled down the front of his pajamas, stared at Will and clacked two spools together. To the best of Will’s recollection he had never spoken to a person so young. He felt foolish waiting for an answer and didn’t know what to do with his hands. So he stacked three spools in a tower. Baby Thomas knocked them over, giggled and clapped. Will
looked up and found Eleanor watching him, stirring something on the stove.

“I laid out Glendon’s razor for you, and his mug and brush. You’re welcome to use them.”

He rose to his feet, glanced at the shaving equipment, then at her. But already she’d turned to her cooking, giving him a measure of privacy. He’d been shaving with a straightedge and no soap, hacking his skin all to hell; the mug and brush would be as welcome as the hot water, but he paused before moving toward them.

He’d just have to get used to it: they were going to share this kitchen every morning. He’d have to wash and shave and she’d have to comb her hair and cook breakfast and tend her babies. There were bound to be times when he’d have to brush close by her. And she hadn’t jumped away so far, had she?

“Excuse me,” he said at her shoulder. She glanced at the mug and shifted over without missing a beat in stirring the grits, letting him reach around her for the teakettle.

“You sleep all right last night?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He filled the cup and the washbasin, whipped up a froth of shaving bubbles and lathered his face, back to back with her.

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Cooked.”

“Cooked?” She spun around and their eyes met in the mirror.

“Yes, ma’am.” He tilted his head and scraped beneath his left jaw.

“You mean you’re in the habit of eating ‘em raw?”

“I been known to.”

“You mean straight out of some farmer’s hen house?”

He shaved away, avoiding her eyes. She burst out laughing, drawing his reflected glance once again. She laughed long, unrestrainedly, resting an arm on her stomach, until his eyes—black as walnuts above the white shaving soap—took on a hint of amusement.

“You think it’s funny?” He rinsed the razor.

She sobered with an effort. “I’m sorry.”

She sounded anything but sorry, but he found her amusement did pleasant things to her face. Outlining a sideburn, he said, “Farmers tend to blame it on the foxes, so nobody comes lookin’.”

She studied him a while, wondering how many miles he’d drifted, how many hen houses he’d raided, how long it would take him to lose that distance he maintained so carefully. For the moment she’d created a crack in it, but inside he was rolled up like a possum.

She found herself enjoying the smell of shaving soap in the house again. His face emerged, one scrape at a time, the face she’d be looking at across her table for years to come, should he decide to stay. She was surprised to find herself fascinated by it, by the shape of his jaw, the clean line of his nose, the thinness of his cheeks, the darkness of his eyes. When he glanced up and found her still studying him, she spun back toward the stove.

“Fried soft, hard or scrambled?”

His hands fell still at the question. In prison they were always scrambled and tasted like damp newspaper. My God—to be given a choice.

“Fried soft.”

“Soft it’ll be.”

While he washed up and combed his hair, he listened to the spatter as the eggs hit the pan, a sound he’d seldom heard, living in bunkhouses and boxcars as he had for much of his free life. Sounds. In his life he’d heard a lot of rumbling wheels and other men snoring. Clanging bars, male voices, washing machines.

Behind him the boys jabbered and giggled, and the wooden spools clattered to the floor. The stovelids clanged. The ashes collapsed. A log thudded. The teakettle hissed. A mother said, “Time for breakfast, boys. Jump up on your chairs now.”

The smells in this kitchen were enough to make a man drown in his own saliva. In prison the two prevailing smells were those of disinfectant and urine, and food there seemed to have as little smell as it did taste.

When they sat down to breakfast, Will openly stared at the
wealth of food on his plate: three eggs—three!—done to a turn. Grits, bacon, hot black coffee and toast with boysen-berry jam.

She saw his hesitation, saw him rest his hands on his thighs as if afraid to reach out again.

“Eat,” she ordered, then began chopping up an egg for Baby Thomas.

As he had last night, Will ate in a state of disbelief at his good fortune. He was half done before realizing she was only picking at a piece of dry toast. His fork-hand paused.

“What’s the matter?” she inquired. “Somethin’ cooked wrong?”

“No. No! It’s... why, it’s the best breakfast I ever had in my life, but where’s yours?”

“Food don’t agree with me this early in the morning.”

He couldn’t imagine anyone not eating if food was plentiful. Had she given him her share, too?

“But—”

“Women get that way when they’re expectin’,” she explained.

“Oh.” His eyes dropped to her belly, then quickly aside.

Why, I swear,
she thought.
That man’s blushin’!
For whatever reason, the thought pleased her.

After breakfast she sat him on a chair in the middle of the kitchen and tied a dishtowel around him, backward. Her first touch sent shivers down his calves. He listened to the scissors snip, felt the comb scrape his skull and closed his eyes to savor each movement of her knuckles against his head. He shuddered and let his hands go limp on his thighs, covered by the dishtowel.

She saw his eyes drop closed.

“Feel good?” she asked.

They flew open again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“No need to stiffen up.” She nudged his shoulder gently. “Just relax.”

After that, she worked in silence, letting him absorb the pleasure undisturbed.

His eyelids slid closed again and he drifted beneath the
first gentle woman’s touch he’d experienced in over six years. She brushed the tip of his ear, the back of his neck, and he was lulled into his private, soft place. Lord, lord... it was good...

When the haircut was done she had to wake him.

“Hm?” He lifted his head, then jerked awake, dismayed at finding he’d dozed. “Oh... I must’ve—”

“All done.” She whisked the dishtowel off and he rose to peer into the tiny round mirror next to the sink. The hair was slightly longer above his right ear than above his left, but overall the haircut was a great improvement over the close shearing he’d received in prison.

“Looks good, ma’am,” he offered, touching a sideburn with his knuckles. He looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you. And for breakfast, too.”

Whenever he thanked her she brushed it off as if she’d done nothing. Sweeping the floor, she didn’t look up. “You got a healthy head of hair there, Mr. Parker. Glendon’s was thin and fine. Always cut his, too.” She waddled to the side of the room for a dustpan. “Enjoyed doin’ it again. Enjoyed the smell of the shavin’ soap around the house again, too.”

She had? He thought he’d been the only one to enjoy those things. Or perhaps she was being kind to put him at ease. He found himself wanting to return the favor.

“I can do that,” he offered as she bent to collect his streaky brown hair from the floor.

“It’s as good as done. Wouldn’t mind, however, if you took over the chore of feeding the pigs.”

She straightened and their eyes met. In hers he saw uncertainty. It was the first thing she’d asked him to do, and not too pleasant. But what was unpleasant to one man was freedom to Will Parker. She’d fed him, lent him her husband’s razor, shared her fire and her table and had put him to sleep with a comb and scissors. His lips opened and a voice inside urged,
Say it, Parker. You afraid she’ll think you ain’t much of a man if you do?

“That haircut was the best thing I’ve felt for a long time.”

She understood perfectly. She, too, had spent so much of
her life in a loveless, touchless world. Odd, how a statement so simple formed a sympathetic bond.

“Well, I’m glad.”

“In prison—”

Her eyes swept back to his. “In prison, what?”

He shouldn’t have started, but she had a way about her that loosened his jaws, made him want to trust her with the secrets that hurt most. “In prison they use these buzzy little clippers and they cut off most of your hair so you feel—” He glanced away, reluctant to complete the thought, after all.

“You feel what?” she encouraged.

He studied his own hair lying on the dustpan, remembering. “Naked.”

Neither of them moved. Sensing how hard it had been for him to admit such a thing, she wanted to reach out and touch his arm. But before she could, he took the dustpan and dumped it in the stove.

“I’ll see after the pigs,” he said, ending the moment of closeness.

Donald Wade agreed to show Will where the pigs were, and Eleanor sent them out with a half-pail of milk and orders to feed it to them.

“To the pigs!” Will exclaimed, aghast. He’d gone hungry most of his life and she fed fresh milk to the pigs?

“Herbert gives more than we can use, and the milk truck can’t get in here, what with the driveway all washed out. Anyway, I don’t want no town people nosing around the place. Feed it to the pigs.”

It broke Will’s heart to carry the milk out of the house.

Donald Wade led the way, though Will could have found the pigpen with his nose alone. Crossing the yard, he took a better look at the driveway. It was sorry, all right. But Mrs. Dinsmore had a mule, and if there was a mule there must be implements to hitch to it. And if there were no implements, he’d shovel by hand. He needed the driveway passable to get the junk hauled out of here. Already he was assessing that junk not as waste but as scrap metal. Scrap metal would soon bring top dollar with America turning out war supplies for
England. The woman was sitting on top of a gold mine and didn’t even know it.

Not only was the driveway sad; the yard in broad daylight was pitiful. Dilapidated buildings that looked as if a swift kick would send them over. Those with a few good years left were sorely in need of paint. The corncrib was filled with junk instead of corn—barrels, crates, rolls of rusty barbed wire, stacks of warped lumber. Will couldn’t tell what kept the door of the chicken coop from falling off. The smell, as they passed, was horrendous. No wonder the chickens roosted in the junkpiles. He passed stacks of machinery parts, empty paint cans—though he couldn’t figure out where the paint might have been used. The goat’s nest seemed to be in an abandoned truck with the cushion stuffing chewed away. Lord, thought Will, there was enough work here to keep a man going twenty-four hours a day for a solid year.

Bobbing along beside him, Donald Wade interrupted his thoughts.

“There.” The boy pointed at the structure that looked like a tobacco-drying shed.

“There what?”

“That’s where the pig mash is.” He led the way into a building crammed with everything from soup to nuts, only this time, usable stuff. Obviously Dinsmore had done more than collect junk. Barterer? Horse trader? The paint cans in here were full. The rolls of barbed wire, new. Furniture, tools, saddles, a newspaper press, egg crates, pulley belts, canepoles, the fender of a Model-A, a dress form, a barrel full of pistons, Easter baskets, a boiler, cowbells, moonshine jugs, bedsprings... and who knew what else was buried in the close-packed building.

Donald Wade pointed to a gunnysack sitting on the dirt floor with a rusty coffee can beside it. “Two.” He held up three fingers and had to fold one down manually.

“Two?”

“Mama, she mixes two with the milk.”

Will hunkered beside Donald Wade, opened the sack and smiled as the boy continued to hold down the finger. “You wanna scoop ‘em for me?”

Donald Wade nodded so hard his hair flopped. He filled the can but couldn’t manage to pull it from the deep sack. Will reached in to help. The mash fell into the milk with a sharp, grainy smell. When the second scoop was dumped, Donald Wade found a piece of lath in a corner.

“You stir with this.”

Will began stirring. Donald Wade stood with his hands inside the bib of his overalls, watching. At length he volunteered, “I can stir good.”

Will grinned secretly. “You can?”

Donald Wade made his hair flop again.

“Well, good thing, ‘cause I was needin’ a rest.”

Even with both hands knotted hard around the lath, Donald Wade needed help from Will. The man’s smile broke free as the boy clamped his teeth over his bottom lip and maneuvered the stick with flimsy arms. Will’s arms fit nice around the small shoulders as he knelt behind the boy and the two of them together mixed the mash.

“You help your mama do this every day?”

“Prett-near. She gets tired. Mostly I pick eggs.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“Around the yard. I know where the chickens like it best. I c’n show you.”

“They give many eggs?”

Donald Wade shrugged.

“She sell ‘em?”

“Yup.”

“In town?”

“Down on the road. She just leaves ‘em there and people leave the money in a can. She don’t like goin’ to town.”

“How come?”

Donald Wade shrugged again.

“She got any friends?”

“Just my pa. But he died.”

“Yeah, I know. And I’m sure sorry about that, Donald Wade.”

“Know what Baby Thomas did once?”

“What?”

“He ate a worm.”

Until that moment Will hadn’t realized that to a four-year-old the eating of a worm was more important than the death of a father. He chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair. It felt as soft as it looked.

I could get to like this one a lot,
he thought.

With the hogs fed, they stopped to rinse the bucket at the pump. Beneath it was a wide mudhole with not even a board thrown across it to keep the mud from splattering.

Naturally, Donald Wade got his boots coated. When they returned to the house his mother scolded, “You git, child, and scrape them soles before you come in here!”

Will put in, “It’s my fault, ma’am. I took him down by the pump.”

“You did? Oh, well...” Immediately she hid her pique, then glanced across the property. When she spoke, her voice held a quiet despondency. “Things are a real fright around here, I know. But I guess you can see that for yourself.”