Asked For

by Colleen L. Donnelly

  Lana tried to laugh with Jeanie. She wanted to steal a glance at Jim, see if she could decipher his excuse for refusing their friend, while Jeanie prattled on, words stringing together in an endless gaiety. Lana wondered if she used to laugh like Jeanie, happy and easy. If she had, she’d forgotten how.

  Jeanie kept her hold on Lana’s arm and grabbed Jim’s with her other, then swung them toward the house. “Invite us in. I want to know everything you’ve been doing as a wife and what it was like to be a bride. Everything.”

  Lana pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t look at Jeanie as they marched forward to the house. She couldn’t look at Jim. Wasn’t it obvious she’d never been a bride and was failing as a wife? With her free hand she gathered her loose hair and laid it over one shoulder. She hated to wish her childhood friends to be gone, but she did. Cletus would be furious that Jim was here, and he’d never be comfortable around someone like Jeanie.

  Magdalena galloped ahead. She turned just inside the door and waited, her eyes on Jim as he came through behind her. The thrum of Magdalena’s rapid little hoof beats hammered in Lana’s mind. She didn’t want her daughter to be that way, a girl who felt she needed to wrangle love and attention from whomever she could since she couldn’t wrangle it from her father. Jim was wonderful; he would make a good prince. But not every man who came along in Magdalena’s life would be that way. I must be a good wife. Give my husband more sons, make him happy, for Magdalena’s sake, for our other children’s sakes.

  ****

  It was Jim who helped Lana make the supper and fill the dishes for the table, while Jeanie stayed in the next room and rattled on and on to Cletus about her and Lana’s childhood. In one hour Jeanie had filled their house with more words than the seven of them had in all the years they’d lived here together. Lana kept one eye on the two of them from the kitchen, watching for that look Cletus got before he exploded. Cletus’ silence had no effect on Jeanie’s gaiety. Either her zest for life was more powerful than his stoniness, or her sensitivity to rebuff was more blind. Whatever it was, Jeanie was comfortable. There was no fear in her eyes, no thought that Cletus, or Jim, would be anywhere but there, listening to her, letting her ramble on as freely and gaily as she pleased.

  “She does go on, doesn’t she?” Jim asked. He leaned against the block table in the center of the kitchen. He grinned and watched Lana mound mashed potatoes into a bowl. “Butter on that?” he asked. He stepped near the washpan and grabbed a bowl of fresh butter, as if he’d been doing this with her for years. Lana glanced again toward the dining room table, where Jeanie pinned Cletus with her unending monologue.

  “Yes on both counts.” Lana smiled. “But I thought you liked that. Jeanie, that is.” She watched him spoon a glob of butter out of the dish. It felt good to work alongside Jim again. She liked to smile. It may have been the first time she’d done it while cooking or serving a meal as Cletus’ wife. She glanced at the kitchen doorway, worrying Cletus had seen. He would be suspicious of her and Jim’s gaiety, but he was focused on Jeanie, not paying attention while Lana and Jim were in the kitchen. It was only at the moments they stepped through the door with something else for the table that his focus switched. He would stare at Jim then, follow him with his eyes while Jeanie plowed on, oblivious to the shift in attention.

  “I don’t know if I can live with that,” Jim said. He lowered his voice, and kept his back to the kitchen door. “That constant talking.”

  Lana frowned as she watched him spoon the butter onto the potatoes. “But I thought…”

  He looked up the same moment she did, the boy that had been her friend way back then, now a man who still fit so naturally beside her. They worked well together, he for pay, she because she had to. Just like always.

  Jeanie droned on in the other room, her words like droplets in a river, meshing into one solid, powerful force that couldn’t be stopped. Lana listened to the background hum of her childhood best friend, then glanced toward the doorway the monologue streamed through. She looked back at Jim, the friend who’d spent so many of his evenings helping her…or not helping her, as Grandma used to insist…just like he was doing now.

  “I’m quiet,” he said. “I like quiet people.” His eyes held such intensity they touched her, and she felt them, like a warm attentive clasp that held onto a friend. It looked familiar. It felt familiar. He’d done this before, when they were growing up.

  Jim was waiting for her to respond, to say something that would help him. It was her turn to do something for him, to be that friend back. When she said nothing, he went on. “I always saw myself with…you know, with…someone like…”

  She lifted the bowl of potatoes and extended it to him, the pool of melted butter sloshing against the rim of the small pond he’d made in the top. He wrapped his fingers around half the bowl, but he didn’t take it. His fingertips touched hers, a contact that said he wanted an answer, needed something so he could go on.

  “I always saw myself with you, Lana. I never said it. I wish I had, but I had no idea you’d be taken away so young, and without you telling me first. Now I’m trying to see myself with someone else, with someone different, and it’s hard. It’s easier to at least imagine them like you, exactly like you, since it can’t be you.”

  Lana’s heart raced. It ran like Magdalena’s pretend pony, but it was galloping away, not alongside Jim like he’d always thought would happen. “I…I had no idea.”

  “Lana, we were kids then, and in some ways you still are.”

  “I’m not. I’m far from a child. Just look at my life, my family, all I do…” It sounded like she was arguing, but she felt like crying. They came from somewhere deep inside, tears that simmered like a molten ache.

  “I’m talking about the inside you, not the outside. The part that never had the chance to learn about being loved…no matter what.”

  The scream bubbled up. She didn’t want it, not now, not ever. She shook her head, shook it hard until she saw what she’d been unable to see before. “You knew,” she said. “You knew about my father…that I really didn’t have…”

  “Your grandma told me. Way back when, when I first started coming around to help you. She didn’t want you to be hurt by some careless remark, or taken advantage of, so she told me. I was careful with you after that, I was slow. Whoever your father was, I grew to despise him. He’s the only man I’ve ever imagined punching in the mouth.” The bowl left her hands then. Jim took it, slipped to the other room, and carried it to the table where Cletus sat. Lana’s hands hung in midair, a half moon of warmth that was slow to radiate away.

  Jeanie’s flow of verbiage changed. It took on an extra trill when Jim entered the room. Magdalena’s little gallop revived, and Cletus hollered for her to settle down. Lana listened to the life in there that she was a part of, a part more detached than she realized. “I didn’t know how…” The interactions in the next room made familiar noises while she breathed, thought who she was, who she was supposed to be.

  She lifted a platter of meat and followed Jim. She was alone, an alone she’d always been but had been unaware of. She walked to the opposite side of the table from where he stood, and set the platter far away from the potatoes.

  “Oh, how good this all looks and smells.” Jeanie made over the meal. Jim stayed where he was, Magdalena near his side. Lana looked at Cletus. His glare left his oldest daughter and transferred to Lana, then to Jim. Jeanie’s enthusiasm became background noise again, with Cletus’ stare much more distinctive and loud, but not as loud as Lana’s heart.

  “Let’s eat.” Lana forced her way into Jeanie’s flow of conversation. She gathered her children, brought the oldest to stand behind their chairs, then showed Jeanie and Jim theirs, putting them side by side before she came to stand behind her own.

  Cletus never rose. His eyes were on Jim, then Lana. He grunted. Lana and the children sat. Jim and Jeanie followed suit.

  “How formal,” Jeanie cooed. “I love it!”

&n
bsp; Cletus stared at Lana’s friend as if he were seeing her for the first time. Lana prayed Cletus would just fill his plate and let Jeanie’s comment pass.

  “You really are the man of the house. I like that!” Jeanie smiled at Cletus. Lana stared from a cloud that wouldn’t go away. She was watching her husband, this man she was wed to but had never smiled at the way her friend did. How did Jeanie do it? How did Jeanie know?

  Jeanie’s glow cast a radiant reflection on Cletus’ face. His usual stoic demeanor was lost in its sheen, his guard softened in its warmth. Jeanie’s flattery became infectious, her warmth thawing his icy hardness. Lana watched Cletus’ eyes stay on Jeanie as he groped for the bowl of corn. His fingers found it, and he dragged it to his plate. He started to ladle a spoonful for himself, but he stopped, spoon midair, and then he laid it back in the dish and extended the bowl to Jeanie.

  “And a gentleman, too,” she cooed again, rewarding him. “Thank you.”

  It was like watching a play she was supposed to be in but didn’t know her part. Lana studied her childhood friend handling her husband. Jeanie knew about men because she had brothers, brothers-in-law, and most of all a father. Cletus said nothing. He didn’t smile, he didn’t blush, he didn’t nod, he merely reached for the next nearest dish and served himself a roll, then passed it on. A new look lit his face, not the kind that turned stony, the kind Lana elicited from him. This one was the kind Lana’d always wanted to see. Just not this way. Not when he was looking at someone else.

  “Lana, this meal is wonderful! I didn’t realize what a good cook you were.” Jeanie smiled, a genuine smile, a genuine compliment. Lana knew she should reply, thank Jeanie, but she was frozen, nothing would come out.

  Jeanie turned to Jim, her face all alight, and she placed one hand, long slender fingers, on his arm. “Don’t you admire the way Lana’s husband takes charge of their house? Yet he’s so considerate, too. And isn’t Lana the perfect wife? Doesn’t it just do something to you?”

  Jim nodded. He took a bite of corn.

  “Now, you eat well, dear Jim,” Jeanie continued. “It’s a long drive home tonight. But I know you can do it. You’re strong too.” She squeezed his arm.

  The room shifted away, everyone tumbling Jeanie’s direction. Cletus stopped chewing and stared at Jeanie’s hand. Even Jim. He continued to work the corn in his mouth, but he stared at Jeanie’s fingers where they wrapped around his arm. Magdalena scooted her chair nearer Jim’s, her face contorting into a scowl as she glared at Jeanie’s hand. Lana’s other children were entranced by the strange jauntiness and conversation at their table. They watched her old friend, their food barely touched.

  Lana set her fork beside her plate. A cold surge spread inside as she glanced at Cletus. There was no wolfish hunger on her husband’s face as he stared at Jeanie’s hand, no demand she make sons for him. There was something else there, a different sort of desire, a gentler longing Lana had never imagined him capable of, one she’d never known how to create.

  “You could stay here.” Cletus shocked Lana with his sudden invitation.

  “Oh, could we? Why, thank you,” Jeanie gushed. “You’re ever so kind. But we mustn’t. We will go home. It’s more proper that way…since we’re not married.”

  An unsaid “yet” hung in the air. It dangled like an empty noose. It was meant for Jim, but Lana took it. Her husband. Her husband invited them…invited her friend, Jeanie…to stay. Her husband. Her man, one she’d not understood. Her heart beat wildly in her empty breast. She’d never felt so alone.

  ****

  She touched him during the night. The feeling was light and soft, her fingertips gliding up his arm to his shoulder, upward until they traced the line of his neck and cheek and found his lips. Her fingers tingled at the sensation. Fire burned farther down. Lana’s whole being leapt into flames. She parted his lips, hungry yet gentle. I love you. The words vibrated through her being, anxious to be spoken into life, but her lips stayed still, letting her fingers do her talking.

  This was what it was supposed to be like, this was how she should feel with a man, and how she should make him feel.

  His body turned, came alongside hers, not on top, his warmth pressing against her gown. She wanted him in a way she’d never wanted him before, a way she’d never imagined possible. There was no hurry. For once he was taking his time. It made her hunger unbearable. She was starving. She wanted him. She ached for him.

  The blankets were in the way, and her gown was holding her back. She scratched at them, yanked them aside. “This is how I’m supposed to love you. This is how it’s supposed to feel. I didn’t understand, you see.”

  He moved. Away instead of closer. He rolled to his side, farther from her, to the edge of the bed.

  “What are you doing? Come back,” she whispered.

  He fumbled with the light.

  “No light.” She touched his shoulder. “No light. Just us, in the darkness.”

  He paused. She squeezed against him and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Why not?” he asked. “I want to see you. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Jim?” Her hands turned to ice. She drew back, scurried to her own side of the bed. Why was Jim here? Where was her husband?

  “Jim?” His voice was gruff. He fumbled with the lamp until it lit. He was sitting now, Cletus’ long silhouette staring down at her. “Why’d you call for Jim?”

  The ice spread throughout her body, dowsing the flames as it went. “I…I didn’t.” She shrank back into the blanket. “I wanted you, but then you said… Oh…I must have been dreaming... Please, I didn’t know…”

  Cletus stared down at her. She couldn’t see his face with the light behind his back. He yanked the blanket from her clasp, stood, and took it with him. Their bedroom door slammed behind him.

  “I thought it was you,” she said in the lamplight. “And I wanted you the way I’m supposed to, really I did.”

  Chapter 19

  James 1954

  “You look rough, little brother.”

  James straightened and glanced up into the mirror over the washstand. Beyond his image, fuzzy hair, like a wiry silhouette, stood between him and the light coming from the doorway to the rest of the house. He squinted. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light above the washstand when he came in from doing chores. He was too tired, too worn out to bother. He grabbed the old towel and rubbed the water off his face, then his arms and hands. He scoured hard, so hard his skin stung and turned red beneath the cloth.

  “You’ll never get that burnt stench off.” Magdalena moved closer. She smelled of ashes from cigarettes. James wasn’t sure which was worse. Burnt metal scorched into the skin, or smoke, manly cigarette smoke, coming off the skin and clothing of a woman. He felt Magdalena’s smile in the shadows. Burnt metal. That’s what was worse. No matter how manly the cigarette smoke was, it suited his sister, and she wore it well.

  “I won’t smell this way forever.” He tried to sound glib, like it really didn’t matter, but he meant it. He believed it, he just didn’t want to discuss it. He didn’t want anyone to laugh and say he was stuck as a welder the rest of his life, even though Pop never allowed him to weld. Pop was giving him menial jobs around the shop until he could hire a real man to replace Alex. Alex had escaped, he had gone to the army, and Harold had plans of his own. Just because James was younger didn’t mean he wouldn’t escape too. He wouldn’t sort rods or pile up pieces of scrap forever.

  “I told you you’re different from Pop. I’m surprised you agreed to work for him.”

  James stared at Magdalena in the mirror. Funny to hear that again from a sister Pop said always lived at dead ends. She’d said herself she was stuck, and even though James would never say it out loud, he was afraid she was. She was trying, though. Trying hard to get free, and the scars were there, evidence of her internal battle etched onto her face.

  “Have to work for him,” he said. “For now, anyway.” He said that last part a lit
tle louder, an emphasis for both of them. He set the towel down, turned, and leaned back against the washstand. “Gotta earn my keep. Pop said boys do that, that’s all.” He wondered if she understood, if she would snort or argue, but she didn’t. When she said nothing, he watched her, then added, “Until I can play ball somewhere. For money.”

  He’d never said it out loud before. Not even when he was alone, to himself. But there it was, his dream—spoken, exposed to scrutiny, and now, even though he was still so young, something he had to live up to. The words bolted like lightning from the air and through his heart. They lit up his thoughts and feelings. He saw a different future than anyone would ever have predicted for him. A vision coming to life in a blaze of fire.

  Magdalena touched his arm, a call back to home and what still was, but he wasn’t ready to go there, not now that his heart was out. Her expression was hidden in the dull light, and he wondered if she could feel his excitement through her fingers. He latched onto her hand and held it.

  “You’re different. You’re better. Don’t let go of that.” She came closer.

  What she said sounded like a warning instead of a celebration. He looked up toward her face. She towered above him, just like she always had, tall and lanky, a reminder he was shorter and stouter. His vision vanished for a moment, the excitement of his dream dwindled. Baseball’s not in your blood. He straightened. He fumbled for the towel behind him. If only he’d been built like her, taken after Pop more…

  “You’re different. You’re better. Remember that,” she said again, louder.

  She’d read his thoughts. Magdalena knew him too well, and she’d unearthed the doubt that lived in his mind. She’d caused it to flare up so she could wash it away. Magdalena slipped her fingers from between his and lifted her hand to his head and tousled his hair. It didn’t flop like it used to. It was gummy with heat and dirt, thick and wiry. “And you’re handsome,” she added. He could feel her smile.