The Storm (8 page)

“Land of Goshen,” she exclaimed. “That's half the size of Dallas. Have the men been well?”

“The boys said the influenza at Camp Funston was pretty bad, but not to worry about them none.”

She smoothed back her hair. It felt oily. She'd better wash it with Borax Saturday. The weather was getting warmer. Maybe she could dry it in the sun.

Just then three big blue jaybirds flew out of the chinaberry tree and landed in a large oak in the unfenced section of the front yard.
Jeeah, jeeah
, they screeched.

She jerked her head up and stared past the white fence and down the long driveway. A T-Model had pulled off the road and sat still with its motor running, wasting gas. Who in tarnation had the gall to come calling without letting her know? Would she ever get to take her Sunday-afternoon walk?

*

Jaq drove up toward the big house through huge oaks. Then, right before she parked, she spotted a green automobile sitting up on blocks under a shed. What a waste. She ran her fingers through her hair and straightened her bangs.

Mr. James ambled over and opened the gate like an old-fashioned gentleman. “What an unexpected pleasure. Welcome,
Madame
, to our humble abode. We don't get many visitors as comely as yourself. And with such a mellifluous name. The feminine version of Jacques, I believe. And isn't Jacques French for James?”

What an old fuddy-duddy, she thought, though he did seem literate. But what pretentious language.

“My pleasure, sir. I hated to stay closed in on this beautiful afternoon, so I'm trying to get better acquainted with my new neighbors.”

Of course Mrs. Russell was frowning. And the preacher leaped down the steps so fast he almost tripped. He stuck out his hand again and she shook it, gloveless this time. It was still sweaty. She wiped her hand on her skirt.

“Reverend, Mrs. Russell, I'm sorry to drop by so unexpectedly.”

She sat in the porch swing and fumbled for something to say. “I see you've put your Overland up on blocks, Mr. James. Does it need to be worked on? Maybe I can help.”

He turned red and spluttered. “No, it's in perfectly fine running order. Drives like a winged chariot. It's merely that—”

“We need new tires and sure can't get 'em in wartime like this.” Mrs. Russell spit a stream of snuff into the side yard. “And the price of gasoline. Pshaw. Twenty-five cents a gallon is enough to harelip the mayor.”

“I agree with you, ma'am. In Europe they're predicting the gasoline shortage will decide the outcome of the War. It takes a ton of fuel to run just one tank.”

“
Tank
. Have you seen one of those mechanical elephants up close?” The machinery of war clearly fascinated Mr. James.

“I volunteered in the mechanical division of the British Women's Auxiliary Army Corps. In France and Belgium I worked on all types of vehicles and drove an ambulance. I know everything about anything you can steer.”

Mr. James and the preacher looked shocked, like she was a freak, and Mrs. Russell scowled even more. “A woman should stay home and write encouraging letters to men like my youngest, Clyde. Or join the Red Cross and make him warm clothes. She doesn't belong near the battlefield. Why, during the War Between the States—”

“Now, Ma, hold your horses,” Mr. James said. “This is a new century, the era of the modern woman. We aim to stop all wars forever.
The War to end all wars
, that's what President Wilson keeps promising. So if it takes a little assistance from a few brave individuals of the female persuasion like Miss Jacqueline here, I say hurrah for her.”

“Humph,” Mrs. Russell responded and shoved a pinch of snuff under her lip. What a nasty habit.

The Holy Joe appeared appalled. He probably believed women shouldn't be anything but objects for him to lust after in secret.

Mr. James seemed like a kid at a Fourth of July parade. And the little boy—Patrick—sat on the edge of the porch, swinging his legs, his expression mirroring his father's.

She pulled her faithful Brownie out of her pocket and held it out to Patrick. “May I take your picture?”

His blush made his freckles stand out as he nodded, then stiffened.

“If you'll lean back against that post and try to forget I'm here, I'll take it when you least expect it.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He was still rigid.

Mr. James jumped in. “Where did a fair young damsel such as yourself learn the mechanical arts, Miss Jacqueline?” He clearly didn't intend to steer far from the subject.

She was tired of repeating the same old story, especially to men. Most of them were fascinated, but threatened too. Hah. As if she could compete with them in any professional arena.

“My brothers love automobiles—always used to have one torn apart in their workshop,” she explained. “They put up with me underfoot, and I learned everything I could.”

Mr. James pointed toward the shed and said, “My trustworthy vehicle. What can you tell me about it?”

She smiled to herself. This should be easy. “It's a 1914 Overland touring car, with a four-cylinder engine, poppet valves, and a one hundred fourteen-inch wheelbase. I like its sliding-gear transmission but prefer the more expensive models with sleeve valves.”

Mr. James looked like he might fall off the porch. “Uh, very impressive, Miss Jacqueline.”

She made the swing glide again because she always felt more comfortable in anything that moved—the faster the better. “I prefer the Model T. Mr. Henry Ford's new mass production has left the competition in the dust. It's the wave of the future.”

Mr. James rubbed the back of one of his large ears. “I hate to disagree with such a pretty little lady, but Mr. Ford's mass-production scheme will never pan out. The type of careful workmanship you see exemplified in yonder fine automobile sitting up on blocks will rule the future. You can mark my words.”

She kept her mouth shut about Mr. James's prophecy but wanted to say, “If we survive this war and have a future. And if we have enough gasoline to fuel it.”

Instead, she stopped swinging and focused on Patrick, who seemed wrapped up in her disagreement with Mr. James. As she finally snapped pictures of him, Mr. James, and them together, she hoped they'd turn out well.

Cooo, cooo, cooo
, a mourning dove called from a pine tree near the frog pond. Molly stood in the kitchen—her hands warm in the soapy water—and automatically washed the goblets they'd drunk their monthly treat of iced tea from.

The dove made her think of her mama, who never let her wash dishes or even work in the flower beds with gloves on. “Here, let me do that. You might hurt your hands,” she would murmur in her gossamer voice. “Why don't you run practice the piano?” Mama's blue eyes always gleamed like dew on a sunlit web as she smoothed her black hair back into soft waves that framed her cheeks.

Dear Mama, usually so tired from taking care of all of us,
she thought.
Yet she knew how much my music means to me and never let me help much around the house unless she was sick. She's a saint, nothing like Mother Russell—Oh, my goodness. Patrick's still out on the porch.

She dreaded venturing out there. It reminded her of a war zone, with Mother Russell in command. Her teachers had always stressed that ladies shouldn't discuss such crude, worldly subjects as politics and war.

Patrick was as curious about the War as Mr. James, who'd fought his biggest battle to date with a balky mule in the cotton field. That and his ongoing war with his mother, though Molly was sure Mr. James didn't consider it a war. An unwinnable situation, to which he succumbed long ago.

Most of the year, the front porch served as their entertainment center, but she stayed in the parlor with her piano. As a girl, however, she'd loved to sit out with her parents and listen to her elders reminisce about the old days. The stories about her spirited maternal grandmother, who died ten years before she was born, especially fascinated her. She'd heard them a hundred times.

Grandmother had wanted a home in the country for her and her children and traveled by wagon from Austin to somewhere near Abilene to look for acreage. One Sunday afternoon as she and her husband walked up a hill east of their camp, she stopped and said, “I want to live on this piece of land for the rest of my life.”

The next week she developed pneumonia. While a friend rode from their camp to the nearest town to find a doctor, Grandmother died. Ironically, they buried her where she'd earlier chosen to live.

Molly often mused on this story. Her grandmother left six children behind, including Molly's mama, only twelve years old. Still a child herself, she'd had to rear four younger siblings ranging from eighteen months to ten years. Then she'd married and borne five children of her own, only to lose her oldest daughter to diphtheria.

Molly picked up a dirty plate and sighed. Would she ever finish washing this stack of dishes? Would she ever be able to leave the farm?

If only she hadn't accepted Mr. James's proposal. She'd always preferred music to marriage. And her mama had even encouraged her to try a different way of life, to get her education. Education would give her choices, her mama had said. Molly heard her mother's voice as if she'd just spoken: “Choices are sweet. Not all women are meant to be mothers.”

Why hadn't she listened to Mama?

As she washed the remnants of cream gravy out of the black skillet, she dreamed of how she would compose light, happy pieces as well as play them. But stuck on a farm, she had to milk the cow and do a hundred other chores before she could take time for her piano. She dried the heavy skillet carefully and rubbed some bacon grease into it so it would retain its hard crust of burned-on grease and not rust.
She
certainly was rusting on this farm.

Eric's new wife Jacqueline seemed as bright and shiny as a new copper kettle, exciting and irresistible. Jacqueline magnetized her, galvanized her, and—oh, she didn't know what else. Made her tingle in places she'd forgotten she had.

Then it came to her. Jacqueline reminded her of Tish, a character in the short stories she loved to read in
The Saturday Evening Post
. Tish and her two unmarried women friends had such exciting adventures and so much fun. They could always find something to laugh about, even when Tish involved them in the most outlandish situations. Completely independent, she did what she wanted. Of course her wealth helped.

Molly finished washing the last pan and stacked it on top of the plates and silverware, then covered them with a clean dishtowel to keep the flies off. Wiping her hands on her green gingham apron, she hurried to the front door to retrieve Patrick.

A low, slightly familiar voice stopped her. Could it be…what was Jacqueline doing here? She had just been thinking about her.

“Patrick, it's time for your schoolwork. No more excuses,” she said, as she entered Mother Russell's sacred space, less hesitantly now.

As she greeted Jacqueline and took Patrick firmly by the shoulder, their stunning visitor rose. “I'll help him if you like,” she said and smiled.

Well, she
could
smile, and it was most becoming. Molly continued inside with Patrick, and Jacqueline followed like an old friend. Land's sakes, inviting herself in like that. Mother Russell was most likely fit to be tied.

As they escorted Patrick to his room, he kept saying, “Mama, Miss Jacqueline took my picture with her camera. And Pa's too.”

Jacqueline helped him with his arithmetic and watched him practice his handwriting, and then Molly assured him that the preacher would leave soon and that she and Miss Jacqueline would go sit in the parlor and talk. She kissed him on the cheek and ran her fingers through his curly red hair before they left. Leading Jacqueline to the parlor, she felt like butterflies were dancing on her head.

She tried to view the familiar room through a stranger's eyes. Of course, her piano passed muster, since it and the one at the church were the only two in the community.

The tufted red velvet loveseat that Jacqueline slumped onto was in fairly good condition, even with its missing button. A lace-covered throw pillow hid that flaw, so perhaps she wouldn't notice. The matching chair, where Molly now sat on its edge, was tolerable. Add the large couch that completed the red velvet set and a hanging framed print of two horses, one black and one white, in a storm, and the parlor might serve.

What could they talk about? She struggled to find a suitable topic of conversation. “If I may be so bold, how did you like the preacher's sermon this morning? He's a fine Christian man.”

The woman toyed with the pillow and glanced out the front window. Finally she threw up one hand and guffawed like a field hand.

Molly recoiled. If Mother Russell heard that laugh, she'd wonder what caused it and Molly wouldn't be able to explain.

Jacqueline finally stopped laughing and scrutinized her. “He's nothing but a lecher who should have preached to himself about lusting in one's heart.”

Why had she invited Jacqueline into the parlor? She was most unsettling. Again, Molly didn't know what to say.

Jacqueline rescued her. “I apologize. I usually speak my mind, especially now. In Europe last year I saw death almost every day, so I don't worry what people think. The truth is more liberating than little white lies. And when I met you, I sensed you could accept it.” Jacqueline's black eyes cavorted like demons.

Molly gasped and drew herself up like she was sitting on the piano bench at church. “You are fortunate that I have an open mind. Your opinion of the preacher would offend most people around here, even if they secretly agreed.” She allowed a small smile to surface but reined it in immediately. “Please do not repeat this conversation to anyone.”

Jacqueline seemed contrite, though a tiny grin edged her full lips. “Agreed. Let's see. Where did you grow up?”