Asked For

by Colleen L. Donnelly

  “Cletus helping you plenty in the evenings still?” Ella asked.

  Lana nodded, clutching her hands on her lap. He held the boys and corrected the girls, well, corrected Magdalena. Betsy stayed quietly out of the way while Magdalena took advantage of her father being held down by two babies.

  Ella jostled Alex as his head swiveled from side to side, keeping an eye on his brother and sisters, especially the sister racing from room to room shouting at her horse to go faster and faster. Ella watched the back of Alex’s head, her mouth working before she finally spoke. “Cletus behaving himself?”

  Lana kept her face toward her children. Ella’s question embarrassed her, but it also exasperated her. Such things were no one’s business, just hers and Cletus’. Ella had told Lana the doctor warned Cletus she shouldn’t go through another childbirth. The first time Ella said it, vague memories of a tall shadow leaving her bedside, the sound of a door opening and closing after a man had said, “Do you understand?” ran through Lana’s mind. She’d hoped it was part of a dream, not Cletus leaving her side after his second—maybe his last—son had finally been born.

  “He’s fine,” Lana answered, hoping Ella would be satisfied. Behaving himself was too much for Cletus, and Lana knew it. She saw it in the way he watched her when he was home. The doctor’s edict and the fact she’d been slow healing and too torn up inside to be the wife he needed had toppled her king from his throne. The hunger in Cletus’ eyes, the wolfish appetite which lay behind them, made his celibacy, even though temporary, look intolerable. His eyes stalked her, followed her around the house, viewing her as if she was a meal withheld instead of a wife. He was hungry, he was frustrated, he was a pot of simmering fury, waiting to see if it was true she’d never give him another son. Let him do whatever he wants.

  “Good.” Ella gave a sharp nod of approval. “He doesn’t need to bury another wife. I know that sounds harsh, but you’re a treasure, whether he realizes that or not.”

  A treasure. Lana felt cold inside. She thought of Cletus’ first wife’s photo on his chest of drawers. Had that woman been a treasure before she died? Or even afterwards? Sons were his true treasure, not her, not his other wife. If she stopped giving him sons, he’d blame her, say it was her fault, and he’d be right. She’d given him two. She glanced from Alex to Harold. Two wouldn’t be enough. If she was no longer able to give him babies, especially sons, Lana may as well not even be here, not even to satisfy his nightly yearnings. She might just as well be a photo on Cletus’ dresser.

  The back door opened and men’s voices flowed into the house. Lana straightened as much as she could. Her skin felt cool and clammy. She brushed her hair back with her hands.

  Magdalena shot into the room and back out again. Harold watched the doorway he knew his father would walk through, a bounce in his excitement. Ella became quiet, the men’s voices and Magdalena’s foot-beats the only sounds.

  Cletus’ voice overpowered Carl’s. It rose, gruff around the edges—he sounded upset. Lana watched the door. Cletus had been more and more upset lately. Tension had grown along with the hungry look in his eyes. Lana clasped her hands and buried them in her lap.

  “Morgan.” Cletus spit the name. Mr. Morgan. He owned a restaurant in town. Lana’d never eaten there, but Cletus had. He used to eat lunch there often, especially since his welding shop was across an alleyway from it, directly behind the business next door to it. Cletus had an ongoing battle with the owners of the businesses downtown, men who preferred a welding shop be relocated farther away. Mr. Morgan was on the city council. As far as Lana knew, Mr. Morgan had stated no preference one way or the other, but he had authority, he had influence, he was like God, and he had power over the thing Cletus loved second most.

  Cletus said Morgan’s name again. Lana had only seen the man once or twice, but Mr. Morgan had the reputation of being good and honest; his gentle smile, his friendly dark eyes, all making what she’d heard of him seem true.

  “My shop… Odors… Fire…” Cletus went on, Mr. Morgan’s name again, and then another, a Mr. Kline.

  Lana knew nothing about Mr. Kline. But Mr. Morgan… She and Mr. Morgan were the same. They shared the responsibility for the suffering her husband felt, or at least Cletus thought they shared it. She was taking away the main thing Cletus loved, his sons, and Mr. Morgan was a threat to the other, his work. She and Mr. Morgan were inadvertently intertwined. They were Cletus’ enemy. In his mind, she and Mr. Morgan were one.

  Harold struggled to his feet, then toppled over. He rolled onto all fours and struck out toward the door that led to the back porch. Carl stepped through the doorway, Cletus’ tall form close behind. Carl stopped and scooped Harold off the floor and settled him on his hip. Harold watched his father as Cletus moved past, giving his son a pat on the back as his eyes sought out and found Lana.

  He was angry, starved and angry. Roast wasn’t going to satisfy the sort of hunger he had. He needed something more. She needed to satisfy him, answer that look in his eyes, assure him he would have more sons from her, lots of them. She touched her hair, smoothing it back again while she held his gaze.

  The red hot flames in his eyes smoldered. Lana grabbed the back of her chair with one hand and forced herself to her feet. Her lower half felt as if it had remained on the seat.

  “I’ll help you gather your things and your supper,” Lana said to Ella. The room swam, and her skin felt wet and cold. She gripped the chair until the wooziness passed.

  “Here, you take Alex.” Ella was on her feet.

  “Cletus will take him,” Lana said. She didn’t look his way. She was waiting for her legs to steady and the ache in her pelvis to subside.

  “No, you sit…” Ella held Alex her way.

  “Cletus will take him,” Lana said again. She looked at him this time, sent him a reminder this was his family, that was his son, and she was his wife that had given him to Cletus. Her fingers slowly released the back of the chair. She stood all the way and faced him. “Please take our son while I help Ella.”

  Cletus stepped forward and took Alex. Magdalena galloped into the room and back out again. Normally he would have yelled for her to settle down, but he didn’t. He didn’t even look Magdalena’s way. He was watching Lana, the smoldering embers licked by tiny flames.

  She looked into his fiery countenance. She was and would be his wife. Tonight, and always. And she would give him more sons.

  Chapter 12

  James 1952

  James heard it again. He’d heard it most of his life, but he’d never really listened until now, now that he was older. That boy. That boy. That boy.

  If Pop talked about Harold, he said Harold. If he talked about Alex, he said Alex. But late at night when Pop talked about James, it was that boy. James lay stretched on his bed and stared at the dark ceiling. That’s what Pop called him behind his and Mama’s bedroom door, his voice carrying through the walls and up the stairs where James could hear.

  “Hey, you asleep?” The door to the room James shared with Harold and Alex cracked open. His brothers were both out, double dating, they called it, two fun times for the price of one, even though Harold wasn’t looking for fun. He was unofficially engaged to Sandra. A silhouette of mussed hair came into view. Magdalena was slender enough to fit through without opening the door very wide. Her outline and form were black, but James knew, even in the dark, she would be bright, her face highlighted with vivid color, her clothing the same, her whole style vibrant and alive.

  “I’m awake.” He sat, drawing his knees up to rest his arms on. He propped his chin on his folded arms and watched her slide into the room. Pop’s voice grew louder while the door was open. She shut it quickly, “that boy” and a faint glow of downstairs light still able to slip through.

  The bed sagged as she sat near the center. She smelled of smoke, cigarette smoke, and something else. Harold and Alex said she drank, but James didn’t believe it. She never acted like drinkers acted. She was always alert and in co
ntrol.

  “How was the game?” she asked.

  “We won.” Mama had been there. So had Harold. Alex stayed at work at Pop’s shop, but Harold had slipped out to watch James play. Pop was mad at Harold for leaving early, but he’d blamed James. Pop’s voice rose again from downstairs, his irritation filtering through the ceiling and floor.

  “Sorry I missed it. Had to work, or I would have been there.” Magdalena cleaned houses for people too old to take care of their own. She worked irregular hours, claiming the pay was good and the old folks didn’t mind if she wore makeup and smoked. She seemed content with these jobs, happy to have a schedule Pop couldn’t control or predict. She dug a dollar out of the front pocket of her blouse and handed it to him. “Here, this is for winning. Did you pitch?”

  James shook his head at the money. “Yeah. The full game.”

  She slapped the dollar on his arm near his chin. “Buy yourself a couple of sodas or whatever you want. You deserve it.” Her hand went to his head and tousled his hair. Magdalena did that a lot. She always said she liked the color.

  “Magdalena?” Her hand dropped, but she was still looking at him.

  “Why do they fight like that?”

  Her silhouette turned to the side, as if she was listening to Mama and Pop. Mama never hollered like Pop did, but she always responded. She just never won.

  Magdalena rotated his way again, the fuzzy curls making a loose halo around her head in the faint backlight.

  “Mama doesn’t fight,” she said. “Just Pop.”

  “Why does he yell? What did I do?”

  “Nothing.” Magdalena stood. Her voice had an edge. Her anger was never far beneath the surface, and now it was palpable, even though the dark hid it on her face. “Nobody did nothing except Pop. His problems are his own fault. It’s what he did and what he didn’t do. He’s no one to blame but himself.” She strode back and forth in the dark, fury exploding with every step. James was afraid she’d make too wide of a turn and trip over his ball shoes he’d left at the foot of the bed.

  He lifted the dollar bill and rubbed it between two fingers. He couldn’t imagine what Pop had or hadn’t done that was so wrong. He went to work, he worked hard, he came home, and he slept. He was sour most evenings, but he did everything he was supposed to.

  “You’re different from him.” Magdalena stopped pacing and came back to his bed. She sat on the edge, nearer this time. “There’s something about you that’s better than him. He knows it and he hates it.”

  Magdalena sounded a little vindictive, but more than that, James knew she was sincere. She was wrong, though, no matter how certain she sounded. She was only trying to make him feel better, the way Mama did. Actually, the way they all did, except for Pop. He always made James feel worse, just like now, when he wasn’t even really trying to.

  “What about you? If I’m different and better, so are you.”

  “I’m the same as Pop is. And I hate it, but believe me, I’m trying to get out.”

  James scratched his head. Magdalena didn’t make sense. They were all different from Pop. No one was the same as him, because none of them were good enough. Pop made that more than clear.

  The door opened a crack, and they both turned. It was Carla, the gentle way she carried herself giving her away.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as she slipped into the room. The downstairs was quiet now. Pop was done for the night, but it would take awhile before James would be tired enough to sleep. “That boy” had to quiet down in his head just like it did in the downstairs.

  Carla eased to the side of his bed. She resembled Mama. Even her silhouette spoke of Mama’s lithe grace.

  Magdalena put a hand on James’ leg in the dark and squeezed. “Talking about family stuff,” she said.

  “About Mama and Pop?” Carla asked, glancing back toward the door.

  “Kind of, but more about James.”

  They were quiet. The uneasiness that was always there was even worse when they talked about it. No matter how apparent the bad things were, they stayed invisible if no one said them out loud. James wanted to change the subject, talk about anything except what they’d all heard Pop shouting, but he couldn’t think of anything to say beyond the two words that were stuck in his head.

  “I saw part of your game today,” Carla whispered.

  James groaned. Baseball was not the way to keep the bad things invisible. That boy made them obvious enough, but baseball made them inimitable.

  “You’re a good player.”

  The bad he’d hoped to avoid exploded in his gut. He’d improved enough to be kind of good. He’d worked hard, but still, kind of good hadn’t been good enough. Not good enough for Pop to come to a game, or help him practice, or ever say James played fairly well. For years he’d waited for Pop to come to a game, give him some advice. But he never did. James stole a glance at Magdalena. He envied that hard place in her, the one that didn’t care. The bad stuff hurt because he’d always cared. He wasn’t full of stone like Magdalena was.

  “Is he like Pop?” Magdalena asked.

  James gaped at the question. He didn’t want Carla to answer. Everyone knew he didn’t play as good as Pop. It wasn’t like Magdalena to be so careless. Maybe she did drink. Maybe Harold and Alex were right. He rolled and wadded her dollar in his fist until it felt hard and tiny, like a miniature baseball.

  His sisters stared at one another in the dark. He could see their faces pointed, each at the other, saying something without speaking. Carla’s head began to shake slowly from side to side. Then she turned his way.

  “You are different from Pop, James.” Carla’s voice was quiet.

  James wanted to fire the wadded dollar bill into the dark across the room. “Of course I’m different, but it’s not a good kind of different.” He shouldn’t yell, but he couldn’t help it. “I’m smaller, I don’t play ball like he did, and I never do anything right!”

  Carla’s hand touched his shoulder. It was like Mama, the way she touched him. It quieted him, at least his voice. He was still yelling on the inside, screaming that things would never be right, not the way he wanted them to be.

  “You are a good player,” she said. “Even if Pop never says so.” She brought two coins up and held them where he could see them. Then she set them on his blanket and pressed them down with one finger before she let go. “There.”

  “What are those?”

  “Two tokens for ice cream at Mr. Morgan’s restaurant. He handed them to me downtown this evening. He said he gave the boys on your team one apiece, but you deserved two because you pitched a winning game.” Carla smoothed the blanket around the tokens. She straightened, studied them a moment, then looked at James.

  James had seen Mr. Morgan watching the game. He came to lots of them, but James avoided him now. Pop hated him. He had for years, a squabble about his shop, or something the two of them could never resolve. James stared at the tokens, rolling the dollar in his hand.

  “It’s not baseball,” Carla said. James glanced up and saw her watching Magdalena as she spoke. “It’s not even how you look. It’s deeper.”

  Magdalena stood. “You’re different from Pop. You’re better than him. That’s all.”

  James opened his mouth but closed it again. Better? Never. He’d be happy just to be like Pop in baseball, but it wasn’t working.

  “Gotta go.” Magdalena laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Where? It’s late.”

  “More work.”

  “Now? Really?” He could feel her grin in the dark. She liked her world and her schedule. It gave her power.

  “Old people keep odd hours. I make myself available to suit them. See you tomorrow.” Magdalena left the room. Carla and James watched her go. They looked at each other after they could no longer hear her creaking down the stairs.

  “I wish Magdalena’d be more careful,” Carla said.

  “It’s just old people.”

  Carla stared at him, the worry linge
ring on her face. “Yeah,” she said, “just old people.”

  He didn’t understand his sisters, not about this, not about him being different, and certainly not about him being better than Pop. “I don’t understand,” he finally said.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Carla bolstered herself. “She’ll be okay. Magdalena has a way of getting by.”

  “I mean I don’t understand about me and Pop.”

  Carla looked at the door. She twisted her hands the way she did when she was thinking. “That’s how it looks, James, in ways I know you can’t see.” She turned his direction, her face only half lit by the glow from the doorway. “You’re different. You can be better than Pop if you want.”

  He stared at his sister, waiting for her to see how ludicrous that sounded. “You’re crazy. You and Magdalena both.”

  “Magdalena told me once Pop picks on the things that defy him or scare him. He picks on her for the first reason. He’s not afraid of her like he is of you.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “See you tomorrow.” Carla slipped away from the bed and through the door, closing it softly behind her.

  James stared at the tokens, then swiped them off the blanket into his hand. He stuffed them and the dollar beneath his pillow and slid between the sheets. He stared at the door. The glow around its edges began to waver, distort, and move like a luminous snake in the blackness. Wet trickled down the side of his face, leaving a streak of cool in its path. He squeezed his eyes. The snake disappeared, and his lashes felt cool with moisture. He rolled to his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He would stay this way, forever if he had to, until everything disappeared.

  Chapter 13

  James 1952