Asked For

by Colleen L. Donnelly

  She slowed as she drew nearer. The sound of metal clanging against metal rang from inside, and burnt fumes hung around the entryway like a cloud. She held her breath, her heart beating louder than the bang of the metal. She crept to the edge of the door and peered into the inferno.

  Broken pieces of iron lay strewn just inside the entryway, misshapen and grotesque as if they’d been assaulted. Others were welded together, sharp angles that looked more painful than useful. A curse came from within. She bit her lip and clutched the pail to her stomach.

  She stared at the dark, avoiding the tiny dots of fire Cletus had warned about when he rubbed his eyes at night. A few shadows moved about the fiery glows, others standing off to the sides. She cupped one hand above her eyes and searched for the tallest form, the one that towered above the rest, the boss, the one they all obeyed, even her.

  “Can I help you?” a burly voice called from inside. She looked the direction of the voice. It coughed. “You need something?”

  It wasn’t Cletus. The sounds inside the shop waned. Surely Cletus would recognize her and come out. She heard footsteps, metal clattering to the ground, someone shuffling her way. She smiled and grasped the pail with two hands.

  “You need something, lady?” The burly voice stepped into the sunlight. The man was filthy, sweaty, and smelled like Cletus.

  “I…I was looking for my husband.” She stepped back when the man frowned. “Cletus. Can you tell him I’m here?”

  The man ducked his head and coughed, burying the rasping hack in his elbow. He straightened, rubbed his stubbled face with a hand, and looked around.

  “He ain’t here. Ought to be back later. I’ll tell him you came.” He turned and headed back into the blackness.

  “Where is he?” She raised the pail. “I brought his lunch.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide, and his watery irises, much like Cletus’, looked from the pail to Lana’s face. “Guess he wasn’t expectin’ that.”

  “That’s right.” Another man stepped into the light, just as filthy as the first. “He done took off. For lunch. You’re too late. Guess you should take it back home. I imagine he’ll be sorry he missed you.”

  “We’ll tell him you was here,” the burly man said. He nodded, the other nodded, and they backed into the gaping black hole. “Gotta get back to work.”

  The pail felt obvious, and her face flushed hot. She backed away and hurried on down the street beyond the shop’s gaping front. The sounds of Cletus’ workers resumed as she passed. They must think her foolish, trying to surprise him. She stopped a building away and leaned against the wall. She had been foolish, foolish to come and foolish to go this direction instead of back the way she’d come from. She couldn’t go past the shop door again. She’d go on and turn down the main street and head back home from there.

  Lana’s humiliation stayed with her as she brushed past stores and businesses along the main street. Clutching the pail with Cletus’ lunch, she crossed to the side of the street farthest from those his shop backed against, her face down, her embarrassment carrying her in a blind rush. She moved quickly, past the movie theatre, a barber shop, an empty store, and then a tavern. She hurried faster, swinging wide of the tavern’s doors as they flung open. Two people spilled out, colliding with her, their chatter stopping as she stumbled aside.

  “Pardon me.” Lana didn’t look up. She regained her footing and started forward—until the odor caught her. Sweat mixed with fire, burnt metal on skin, perfume making it sickening—sickening and familiar. She stopped and looked back. The woman, the one she’d smelled that night on her husband, the night Lana had truly become without him, was brushing herself off, Cletus at her side.

  The pail clattered to the boards at Lana’s feet.

  “What are you doing here?” Cletus’ voice was pinched, and he frowned.

  “Who’s that?” The woman beside him made disgruntled noises, tightened her posture, and looked Lana’s way.

  Lana bent, praying this was nothing more than a horrible dream, and retrieved the pail. “I brought you lunch.” The pail dangled from her fingers, the smell of lemon overpowered by burnt metal and cheap perfume.

  “It’s past lunch.”

  “I guess I’ll go.” The woman touched Cletus’s arm while her eyes stayed on Lana. Lana listened to her boots clatter down the boardwalk, the scent of perfume going with her.

  “I gotta get back to work. You shouldn’t have come.”

  The pail dangled from Lana’s fingers, the lemon scent stronger now, wafting upward.

  “Cletus…”

  “A man has needs.” Cletus took the pail from her fingers, held it up between them, then stepped onto the street, heading for his shop.

  “Cletus!” It came out a scream. Lana couldn’t stop herself; she screamed at the back she could no longer decipher through her tears. She stumbled off the boarded walkway and caught him by the arm. Pain erupted inside her, flames exploded from deep within. She yanked the pail from him with one hand while her other rounded through the air, blindly, tears making her target vague as it shot upward until it collided with his face. The slap resounded throughout the street as his head rocked to the side.

  He righted himself, a hand over his cheek. He stared in disbelief. For the first time his eyes spoke to her. So did his face. He hated her. He turned and stalked away.

  Her palm stung with the feel of her husband’s flesh. Her hand trembled as she watched his back. She faltered backward, up onto the walkway, and fumbled the direction she’d been heading. Lana moved fast, past one building, then another, one hand groping along the buildings’ rough surfaces. She hit the edge of the third and clung to its wall as she stumbled around its corner, doubled forward, and spilled vomit onto the ground.

  That smell in her memory overpowered the putrid smell at her feet, the perfume mingled with fire that had invaded her bed. Lana bent farther over and retched again. Breakfast, hope, the strength to keep doing what she was supposed to do—it all lay at her feet. She rubbed her face and cleared away the rouge, the makeup. Pretty didn’t matter. He hadn’t even noticed.

  Chapter 31

  James 1957

  “Go okay at your tryout?” Magdalena was propped against the fender of a car, the biggest car James had ever seen.

  “Yeah. I suppose. Whose car is this?”

  Magdalena patted the car’s hood fondly. She smiled. “Wish I’d had this one the other day. We could have gone to the tryouts in style.”

  James shrugged. Magdalena probably had a good reason for leaving Joe Deeter, but it was still bad timing. Having Joe’s car or not didn’t matter anyway, in the end. James had botched up the tryout himself. He glanced down at the monstrous car and tried to look at it the way Harold had looked at Joe’s. He slumped against it and nodded, as if it met his approval.

  “I am sorry about that,” Magdalena continued. “I know you were counting on me, but Joe’s a…well, never mind.”

  James crossed one ankle over the other. “Don’t worry about it. How’d you do working at Mr. Morgan’s restaurant? I didn’t know you knew anything about being in a place like that.”

  “Like I said, I know things. Picked up a little here and a little there.”

  Alex used to say things about Magdalena’s varied skills, but the way he described them made James blush. Magdalena looked proud.

  “Ida okay? You being there instead of Mr. Morgan, I mean?”

  Magdalena shrugged and leaned one hip against the fender, crossing her arms. She stared down at the hood, pursing and unpursing her lips. Like a fish.

  “I don’t think she likes me,” James said. He’d decided that the day Mr. Morgan served him a sundae, but she’d looked further irritated when Mr. Morgan took a day to drive him to the tryout. If Magdalena smoked and swore at the customers, even in jest, Ida was probably livid. She might even say something to their parents. So far, Pop still thought he’d cleaned the churchyard, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  Magdalena
glanced up. There was a feel about the look on her face that reminded him of how she acted the night she’d come to James’ bedroom and listened to Pop shout that boy downstairs. Magdalena chewed the inside of her cheek while she stared at him. He could see her tug at it from within. She was thinking hard, something she rarely did before she spoke.

  “Don’t concern yourself whether Ida likes you or not. You’re none of her business.” Then Magdalena grinned, one of those satisfied, sneering grins she was good at. “She maybe wasn’t too keen on having me there at first, but I did such a good job there wasn’t much she could say by the time Mr. Morgan got back.” Magdalena straightened, went to the driver’s window, and reached into the car. She came back to the fender and leaned against it again, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in her hand.

  “Where’d you get a lighter like that?” James stared at the shiny metal. Magdalena always had plain ones. He leaned closer.

  “Comes with the car,” she said. A flame shot up from the lighter, blue and gold. The end of her cigarette caught and glowed as she inhaled. She snapped the lid shut and laid the lighter and pack on the hood of the car. She took a long draw on the cigarette, red fire burning at the end. James watched, mesmerized. She withdrew the cigarette from her lips and exhaled a long tornado of smoke. “Don’t worry about Ida,” Magdalena said again. She coughed a little and tapped ashes from the burning end. “Her opinions don’t matter.”

  “Mr. Morgan took me to the church when we got back. I thought he’d hurry back to the restaurant to keep Ida happy, but he didn’t want Pop to catch me in a lie. We worked on the churchyard together until it was done. The pastor sure was surprised when he saw us. Mr. Morgan buffaloed him. Said I’d promised him I’d do it and he was holding me to it. The pastor looked confused, but he thanked us when we were done.”

  Magdalena grinned. She grinned up into the air as she exhaled another lungful of smoke. “Good story. Glad you told me, but you should probably keep it to yourself.”

  “I will. I sure don’t want Pop finding out I lied and went to a baseball tryout. He’d be even madder to find out Mr. Morgan pulled a fast one on him.”

  Magdalena coughed. Smoke spewed into the air as she bent forward, hacking and pounding her chest. James couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, but she made a racket. He slapped her back until the coughing slowed. She straightened and leaned against the fender, holding onto her chest. Tears ran down her cheeks. She looked at him and laughed. “No, little brother,” she said, then coughed some more. “We surely don’t want Pop ever thinking that.”

  “What’s going on here? You all right?”

  James jumped and looked toward the front of the car. A man stood there, a man he’d never seen before. He was thin, too thin, and old. He looked worried as he stepped to Magdalena and put a hand on her back. “You okay?”

  Magdalena nodded. She wiped the tears from her face and smiled. “Just having a good laugh,” she said.

  The man looked at James and then back at James’ sister.

  “That’s my little brother, James. He’s a baseball player.” Magdalena looked proud. James’ mouth fell open at the introduction. “And this is Max,” Magdalena continued. She nodded toward the man.

  Max extended a hand, long, bony fingers, and veins that looked enormous beneath his thin skin. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Magdalena clean house for you?” James asked, releasing his hand from Max’s grip.

  Max frowned. “What? No. Why do you ask that?”

  Magdalena snorted and chuckled. “I’m dating him, James. This is his car. And his lighter.”

  James opened his mouth, a thousand buts running through his mind. He looked from Max to Magdalena. She could be his daughter. What would Pop say?

  Max put a hand on Magdalena’s arm. “You ready to go?”

  She nodded and swiped her cigarettes and the lighter off the hood. “I’ll drive.”

  Max patted her arm and looked at James. “Nice to meet you. I’ll probably see a lot more of you.”

  James closed his mouth and watched them climb into the car.

  “Bye, little brother.” She winked as the car roared to life. He was supposed to keep this a secret, he could tell by her wink. He nodded. Magdalena smiled and drove away.

  Chapter 32

  James 1957

  James glanced up at the wide open front of Pop’s shop. Even with every door pulled up or standing open, the temperature inside felt the same as the white flame at the end of the torches. Customers moved in and out. James wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. Only the hardiest stood inside while Pop and his workers fixed their axles, their wagon frames, whatever they brought in to salvage because they couldn’t afford to replace them with new. He wished he could go outside and cool off, but Pop wouldn’t stand for it. James shoved a few rods aside with his toe. He sorted rods. It was simple inside work, sissy work Pop called it, but with no reason or excuse to step outside.

  Pop liked organization. At home it was the way they stood and sat and ate. At Pop’s shop it was type of metal, length of metal, age of metal. No mixing. Everything aligned.

  Sweat dripped off the tip of James’ nose. It splashed onto one of the rods, turning the thin layer of rust darker for a moment, a moment that didn’t last long in the intense, dry heat.

  “It’s too short?” Harold held a long metal bar in his hands. A man stood near him, pointing a weathered finger where the weld had been formed. Harold dipped his head to the side and swiped at his forehead with his upper arm. “You got its mate? We can compare and see what needs fixed.”

  The man jerked his head toward the door. Harold followed him out, the welded bar in his hand. Harold was nothing like Pop or Alex. They could swear and shout at and with the customers. Harold never did, but he still fit in well. James watched his brother walk out, chatting with the man as if they were friends instead of opposites.

  Metal clanked all around, curses sandwiched in between, sounds that stuck with him like the stench of burnt metal. Harold was determined not to stay a welder. He wasn’t going to join the service like Alex, either, and he wasn’t interested in baseball like James. Harold wanted to run a store. He had his eye on an empty one along the main street, across the way from Mr. Morgan’s restaurant, near the theater and the tavern. In his impatience to get married, he and Sandra had already tied the knot and were subsisting happily on little while they scrimped and saved. He talked privately with James when Pop and the customers were far away, how he wanted to raise a family and be a good father, the kind Pop had not taught him how to be and the kind Mama had always been.

  Harold appeared in the doorway again, two bars of metal in his hands, the man close at his heels, complaining how much time he’d lost having to come back into town to straighten this out. James smiled. Harold was taking it well. No one would have guessed what a misfit he was here, or where his heart really lay.

  “What’s the problem?” Pop’s voice shattered James’ thoughts. He could hear Pop stalk across the shop. James bent and retrieved three more bars of metal to sort and store. Pop reached Harold, had the metal in his hands, looking from the bars to the man.

  “Wrong length. One of you welded that bar wrong.” The man’s weathered finger was pointing again. Pop followed its path. Then he looked up, back over his shoulder at James. Pop never allowed James to weld. James turned back to the rods and grabbed three more, sorting by length, age, and type.

  “Time you learned to weld.” Pop dropped the two pieces of metal to the dirt behind James, his voice louder than the ringing in James’ ears.

  “Me?” James turned.

  “You need a trade. You can learn this.” Pop walked away.

  James started to argue. He didn’t need a trade. He expected a letter any day from the baseball league, telling him if he’d made the team or not. He probably wouldn’t, but if he did, he’d tell Pop he wasn’t going to be a welder. Then he’d tell Mama, Harold, and his sisters. He’d send a letter to Ale
x. Alex was in France right now. If James didn’t make the team, he was going to try again. Go to every tryout he could find until he made the cut and could walk away from welding, from Pop, from a trade he didn’t want.

  “Get a move on.” Pop looked back at James. James glanced at Harold. Harold knew James’ plans, just as he knew Harold’s. Harold shook his head back and forth, almost invisibly, and James knew to do as Pop said. He set the last rod in the pile, picked up the two pieces Pop had dropped, and followed his father. When the letter came, if he made the cut, he’d be gone. If not, he’d try again. He recited his plan in his mind to the cadence of his steps behind Pop’s. Someday, somewhere, he’d go. He couldn’t stay here and work for Pop. Pop didn’t want him. That boy was in Pop’s eyes, in his gestures, in the distance he kept his youngest son.

  Pop took the two bars from James when they reached the corner where light welding was done. He nodded toward a face shield, and James lifted it from the bench and set it over his head. It tipped to the side. He straightened it and tried to see Pop through the glazed glass.

  Pop was talking. He was lifting the bars and pointing at the welder. James had watched from a distance for months, but no one had told him the details, the gas names, the pressure, the metal types he’d need. Pop ran on, fast, authoritative. Then he laid the bars down, stared at James, and walked away.

  “That boy know what he’s doing?” the man called after Pop. Pop stopped, looked his way, and shrugged. That boy. Did that boy know what he was doing?

  “James can do anything,” Harold said. “You should see him play ball.”

  James aligned the bars on the floor with his foot. One was barely shorter than the other. He measured the difference and lifted the smaller one to the bench. He turned, glad for the weeks and months he’d spent sorting, learning about metal, understanding the types.

  “Come on outside,” Harold said to the man. “It’s cooler out there. James’ll let us know when he’s finished.”

  The man muttered, then shuffled behind Harold, James’ brother leading the man away so James could have enough air and space to breathe.