He wouldn’t… Surely he wouldn’t go… Two years he’d stayed away from her, saying nothing, never watching her undress. There’d been no more small talk before bed, either. His silence said what his mouth didn’t. It was her fault. He’d been wrong to ask for her. She’d had too many girls. Four girls. Four reasons that kept him away from her, left her without him.
Without him.
Gail cooed and giggled with Carla in the other room, playing as she fed her little sister, barely older herself. Lana moved to the kitchen doorway and watched. Each child was a gift, a unique personality, every single one of them learning to live around their father. The back door opened. She jumped and listened. It slammed closed.
“Mama, he’s not coming. Can we please eat?” Harold dragged himself into the room. His legs were bent at the knees, his arms dangling like a scarecrow, his shoulders stooped. At any other time Lana would have smiled, maybe laughed at the way he let his jaw hang slack to prove he was near death. She wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t. He’s not coming was all she could hear.
“He is too coming.” She sounded harsh, and she bit her lip. Harold straightened and frowned.
“I don’t hear him.” Harold nodded in the direction of the road. “And he’s never this late.”
“I mean eventually. He’ll come eventually.” Lana glanced around the room, all eyes were on her. “Okay, get Alex and Betsy. Call Magdalena in. We’ll go ahead and eat.”
“Yippee!” Harold revived. He raced outside.
“Want help getting the food on the table?” Gail asked, a spoonful of food midair in front of Carla’s open mouth.
“No, you go ahead and feed your sister. I can get it.” If she did it alone, it would take longer. Buy more time for Cletus to come. She listened hard, imagining the sound of a distant engine as she went back and forth, one dish at a time, hoping, praying, listening. Of course he would come. Surely he’d had problems at work. He’d explain when he got here. She’d have his plate filled and ready. And then someday, maybe even tonight, he’d be with her again instead of without her. It would all be fine, surely.
****
The truck finally came. Lana heard it from the dark of their bedroom. The night had been long. Without him. Without her children’s Pop. She’d lain through each hour, counting each minute, waiting and listening. The rumble was his, unmistakable although more subdued than usual, like he and the truck were both tired, not in a hurry for a change. It eased around the house and stopped where it always did. The hum of the engine cut, and then there was silence. Interminable silence that made her wonder if she’d imagined the truck. Maybe it hadn’t been there at all.
The silence became a living thing, thick and palpable. It filled her ears and blocked all sound. She fought it, tried to hear through it, listened for even the tiniest noise. At last there was something. The back door creaked open, then closed, without a slam. Footsteps shuffled through the house, one at a time, slow, soft, and loose.
The door to their bedroom eased open. Slightly at first, then wider. It was him, home to be with her. She smelled the burnt metal that was so much a part of him. As he stripped in the darkness, the odor grew stronger. More burnt metal.
And then something else. Something sweeter. Another odor that told her he’d been somewhere different. Somewhere without her. Somewhere not alone.
Chapter 26
Lana 1939
“Mrs. Paine.” Mr. Morgan bowed, tipping his hat, a black cowboy hat. The sun caught his hair and it shone, a blue sheen off hair as dark as his hat. She’d forgotten that color and the depth of his eyes.
“I think you can call me Lana,” she said. She held the back door close to her side, looking out at him. “For all of your kindness, especially when Carla was born. It…it was a difficult time, but the things you brought by now and then—my children still talk about them.”
“Happy to help. I was the oldest of five, and I know how hard my own mother worked.” His voice was like a gentle song, soothing and calm. She didn’t want to hear it, though. It grated across the deadness of her heart, trying to make it bleed again in the places she’d forced it to stop. The kindness of his demeanor, the warm beckoning in his eyes, drew up hidden tears that if allowed to spill over would be tainted with red. She just wanted to be alone. He set the hat back on his head.
Lana stared at him. His countenance was full of life, while she felt solid where she used to hurt. She looked away, beyond him, into the drive behind her house. His car was parked there, with someone sitting inside. She looked back at him. “I’m sorry, you’ve someone with you.” Whoever was there was either small or hunched in the seat. “You should both come in, I’m sorry…my manners…”
Mr. Morgan tipped his hat back and scratched his head. A lock of black hair fell down over his forehead. He glanced at his car, then at Lana. “So, I take it you don’t know who that is in my car.”
Lana shook her head, stared again at the hump in the passenger’s seat.
Mr. Morgan squinted and shielded his eyes as he looked back at the car. Then he dropped his hand and turned back to her. “Guess maybe she doesn’t want you to know who she is.”
Lana was too tired for puzzles, too broken to care. Talking to Mr. Morgan, trying to guess who that was, took more of her than she had. “I really can’t imagine who would be that small, except a child…” She felt the color drain from her face. She looked again at the car, shielding her eyes from the sun. The tiny bump had fuzzy hair. “Well, I’ll be!” Lana gathered her skirts and started toward the car.
Mr. Morgan laid his fingers on her arm, his touch was light, but it held her there. She looked down at his hand, his tan fingers, then up into his face. She drew her arm close to her side while she still looked at him, and stepped back.
“She wasn’t in school. I assume she should have been,” he said, dropping his hand.
Lana knew he was talking about Magdalena. Betsy would never miss school; she would be mortified.
“Where was she?” Lana asked. It felt like his fingers were still on her arm. She ran her hand over the spot, rubbed until she could feel her own heat. “What was she doing?”
Mr. Morgan’s brows pinched together beneath the hat. He looked to the side, then glanced at Lana again. “Just talking. That’s what she told me.”
“Just talking? To who?”
“You know the Olson family?”
Lana shook her head. She knew almost no one. Cletus knew everyone, but he never talked about them, nor did they ever go visiting.
“Well, they don’t do any harm, but they’re not…well, let’s say they’re not ambitious. She was talking to Wayne Olson. He’s the oldest boy. I’d say he’s around sixteen and probably hasn’t been in school since fifth grade.”
“No…” Lana whispered. “No…” What would a nine-year-old girl have to say to a sixteen-year-old boy? Lana was too hurt to hear her own scream inside, but she heard her daughter’s—it rose from each of their hearts and echoed within the other’s. “Thank you,” she whispered. She glanced at Mr. Morgan. “Thank you for helping my daughter. And me.”
Lana looked to the car where Magdalena was hiding. The top half of her face peeked above the dashboard, a rim of curly hair capping it like rays of a rising sun. She understood this daughter so well. She loved Magdalena passionately, fiercely, like a mother bear.
Lana stepped toward the car, one or two steps. Then she quickened her pace until she ran. She ran to Magdalena’s door and yanked it open. Her daughter’s eyes were enormous, highlighted and lined with an artificial blue as she looked up into Lana’s face. Lana nearly fell into the car. She swooped Magdalena into her arms, the thin girl clamped in her grasp. Lana hugged her, drew her out of the seat, and held her tight.
Magdalena’s small arms slid upward and wrapped around Lana’s neck. Lana buried her face in her daughter’s hair. “Magdalena.” She held her, Magdalena’s feet dangling above the ground. Lana carried her to the house, past Mr. Morgan’s dark eyes th
at said he understood. “Thank you,” she mouthed. He closed the back door behind her. Before she and Magdalena reached their front room she heard his car start. She sat on the sofa and nestled her daughter on her lap as his engine purred down the drive and then vanished as he drove away. Her tears trickled into Magdalena’s hair, molten tears of melting stone.
Magdalena clung to Lana as Lana cried. How long had these tears been solidified in her? Since she was nine like her daughter? Maybe longer? Holding Magdalena was like holding herself in her arms, two girls trying to escape the terror of being unwanted. Not just unwanted, but also discarded.
Magdalena slipped her arms from around Lana’s neck and coiled them at her stomach, pinning them there with knees she drew up also. “I have something, Mama.”
Lana leaned her face around her daughter’s head and watched one thin arm come out, nine-year-old fingers opening like a bloom.
“It’s for you.”
Lana looked down at Magdalena’s open fist, a small pot of rouge on her palm.
“Magdalena, where… Why…”
“It’s for you, Mama. You have to.”
Lana looked at the rouge. “Why, Magdalena? Why do I have to?”
“It makes men notice you more.”
Without him. It cut like a knife. The wound was too deep and festered to withstand another blow. And Magdalena, she was only nine… The blue highlighting her eyes. How could she know this or understand?
Lana thought of Jeanie and the colorful accents on her face. She remembered the last time she’d seen Jeanie. The truck, her pride, Cletus’ quiet enthrallment with Jeanie’s accomplishment. Jeanie’d said she would stay with them that night. She’d entertained them throughout the meal, she’d stayed at the table while Lana cleaned up, her melodic voice singing out her stories, even ones they’d heard before, while Magdalena competed with her, telling taller tales, drowning out Jeanie until Cletus told Magdalena to pipe down and go upstairs. Jeanie continued while Lana put the children to bed, her voice carrying up the steps where Magdalena stood listening. Then it stopped. When Lana came downstairs, Cletus was alone in the living room, settled back in his chair. She’s gone, he’d said, and that was all. Jeanie’d married soon after that. Not Jim, but another local boy. That’s all Grandma had said in her letter.
“This isn’t going to help. You know it won’t.”
Magdalena put the rouge in Lana’s hand. “I’ll get more for you. I know where.”
Chapter 27
James 1957
James shivered in the cool dark. Dawn was approaching. The town was quiet, no one stirring except the milkman, his horse and wagon making deliveries of fresh milk before anyone was ready for breakfast. James tucked farther back into the bushes when the old wagon’s creaking drew near. He could hear bottles clink together, and tired bursts of breath from the old horse’s nostrils. Mr. Mullen cooed to keep his mare moving, the same horse he’d had forever, stubbornly refusing to retire the ancient beast and deliver milk from a truck. They stopped. The wagon groaned as Mr. Mullen stepped down to deliver a bottle. James waited, wishing Mr. Mullen would hurry and move on. James strained for the sound of Joe’s car, praying he wouldn’t hear it until Mr. Mullen was gone.
The wagon creaked again, and after a moment Mr. Mullen snapped the reins. “Get along.” The horse snorted as if it had fallen asleep, its hooves making a slow start and then padding in the soft dirt, one hoof after the other. They came nearer, two houses away. Mr. Mullen’s soft, “Whoa,” seemed unnecessary; his horse had already stalled and was probably asleep again.
James wished he and Magdalena had chosen a different spot to meet. He’d picked this neighborhood so Pop wouldn’t discover them, far off the route he drove into town when he opened his shop. Pop would be furious this morning when Harold told him James wasn’t coming with them, that he had promised to help clean the churchyard instead. It was a lie, but Pop would never ask Pastor Gordon about it. Pop never spoke to any of the churchmen unless they were customers, and most of them weren’t.
The horse snorted awake again. Mr. Mullen turned the mare around, and his wagon moved away, stopping farther down the street.
“Morning,” James heard Mr. Mullen say. “You’re up and out kind of early, aren’t you?”
“Business,” someone answered. It sounded like Magdalena. James stretched up from the bushes. “Gotta keep those houses clean.” A fuzzy head of hair on a tall slender body walked his way.
“You’re a hard worker,” Mr. Mullen said as he lugged two jugs of milk to a house. Magdalena slowed, she was coming James’ direction, but she was stalling. James shrank back into the bushes. He snapped a twig off a branch and broke it in two. Why was she on foot?
When Mr. Mullen moved on farther down the street, James could hear Magdalena’s footsteps. She was hurrying now. Her lanky form appeared above him.
“Where’s Joe’s car?”
“We broke up.”
“What? Why? Couldn’t you have broken up tomorrow? What are we going to do now?” James was on his feet. His voice ranged out of control. Magdalena put her hands on his shoulders and forced him back into the bushes.
“Shhhh. You’re asking too many questions and someone will hear you.”
“Does it matter? We can’t go now anyway, without Joe’s car!” He dropped to the ground. He snapped off another twig and cracked it in two.
“I’ll get you there,” Magdalena said above him.
“How? It’s almost too late. Dang! Can you go back and make up with Joe? Just for a day?”
Magdalena didn’t answer. She stood above him, looking one way and then the other. He snapped the half twigs into quarters. Who knew when another scout for the Lakeland baseball league would be this close again? Even though James was too old to cry, he still felt like it. He might be a little too young to make a major team, but he’d practiced so hard, hoped for so long, and he planned to lie about his age if he had to. He was ready, at least he thought he was. Andy had told him about the baseball scout two towns over, looking for fresh ball players. Ever since James found out, it was all he could think about. All he wanted.
“Hold on. Don’t get so excited. I’ve been thinking about this all the way over.”
“Would Joe let you use the car anyway? Just for the day?”
Magdalena snorted. “Forget Joe. I can come up with another idea.”
“I can’t imagine what it would be. No one’s up this early, except maybe Pop. And he’s the last person that would give me a ride to try out.”
“Get up!” Magdalena snapped. Her hand grabbed the shoulder of his jacket and yanked him to his feet. “Why didn’t I think of that? Come on.”
“Think of what? Pop? Have you lost your mind?” James jerked out of her clutch and straightened his jacket. “I’ll just walk over to Pop’s shop and tell him I’m working today after all. I’ll make up something about Pastor Gordon catching a cold or something.”
“I haven’t lost my mind, and no, not Pop, but close. And I don’t want you lying any more, little brother. It’s not good for you.” Magdalena grabbed his upper arm and hauled him in the direction of downtown, of Pop’s shop.
James stumbled along with her. “What do you mean, ‘close’?”
“Close to Pop. We’ll ask Mr. Morgan to take you. I mean, us.”
James stopped. “Mr. Morgan?”
“He’s up. I saw lights in his restaurant. Probably got his milk before anyone else. He’ll do this for you. I know he will.”
“He can’t.” James refused to budge. Magdalena looked back at him. “He’s too busy.” And Ida probably wouldn’t stand for it. James recalled the way she’d looked at him the day Mr. Morgan served him the sundae.
“Nonsense.” Magdalena grabbed his arm again. “Come on.” She jerked James her way, and he stumbled after her, his glove tucked under his arm.
When they reached the main section of downtown, James saw that Magdalena was right. The only glow on the street came from Mr. Morgan’s
restaurant. Not from lights in the front, where people would sit and have coffee and breakfast, but from the back where the work was being done. James cupped his face in his hands and peered through the front window. No one was in sight. Might be better that way. It would be easier and safer to just go on to Pop’s and work the day. Magdalena could go clean a house or get on the good side of Joe so she could have use of his car again.
Magdalena marched to the door and rapped on it with her knuckles.
“You can’t do that!” James grabbed her wrist.
“How else am I going to get his attention?” Magdalena yanked her arm free and rapped again. A shadow filled the back doorway to the kitchen. When it moved, James recognized the squareish silhouette as Mr. Morgan’s. Magdalena waved and called. He laid down a towel and walked to the door and unlocked it.
James felt himself redden. He thanked God it was still dark. He’d never understand how Magdalena could be so bold. Mr. Morgan eyed James’ sister as the door came open.
“Morning, Glen. I mean Mr. Morgan. Mind if we come in?”
Mr. Morgan glanced behind Magdalena, then to the side. His gaze lit on James. Even in the dim light James could see Mr. Morgan’s bafflement soften. Then he frowned. “You two all right?” He looked back at Magdalena.
“Sort of,” she said. “My brother could use a little help.”
Mr. Morgan stepped aside. He swung his arm into the restaurant, and Magdalena followed him. She motioned to James. He followed too, lagging behind.
Mr. Morgan closed and locked the door behind them. “What can I help you with?” He glanced from Magdalena to James.
“There’s a scout for the Lakewood baseball team over in Marshall today. James was planning to go…”
Magdalena kept talking, explaining James’ plans, his and Harold’s plot to fool Pop, her inability to get a car to take him, but Mr. Morgan wasn’t listening. His eyes were on the glove tucked under James’ arm. Magdalena finished. She’d skipped the part about breaking up with Joe, her husband of barely more than a year.
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