Of the adults living at her grandpa’s, she found only Viola and Lucy. Lucy’s little boy was napping on a pallet in a little red wagon under the trees, and the three women went to the kitchen to keep from waking him. That kitchen was bigger than Maud’s and there was a round table in the middle. They strung beans while they talked. Maud, both to avoid the subject niggling at her mind and because she was worried, told her aunts Lovely was gone again. The talk centered on him. Everybody in the family was worried. Nobody thought he’d acted himself on Sunday. Lucy had talked to Sarah about his behavior a couple of weeks in the past. It was much like Able’s, only milder. But then Lovely had a mild disposition. The three agreed that his disappearances were beyond the usual laying out, and Viola said she’d send the men looking for him if he didn’t return by Saturday.
The subject of laying out brought up Mustard’s whereabouts. The women speculated on where he could be and if he’d slip back after a spell. Lucy thought that was likely; the sheriff didn’t have any evidence to pin him to the crime and the Mounts needed getting rid of. Viola thought Mustard’s returning was less sure. People were getting rich in the oil fields. Mustard liked money as well as anybody else. Then Viola said, “That’s probably where yer fella is, too.”
By then, Maud was glad to have the subject turned to Booker. She told her aunts what she’d learned from Lizzie, that he’d headed west. They both thought Booker was most likely working in the oil fields outside of Oklahoma City. But Maud felt certain oil work wouldn’t be an attraction for him. It was too rough; her father would fit right in; but Booker was a little on the dandy side. Maud couldn’t picture him working on a rig or even peddling to men with black hands, sweat-stained shirts, and headbands. Maybe to their wives, but not to the men.
However, she really didn’t know. And the speculation about Booker eventually deflated her. She turned the conversation to Lizzie, who she was, and how she’d known her grandmother. Lucy, who was one of Maud’s grandmother’s younger children, had never heard anything about Lizzie beyond her being Mr. Singer’s cook and housekeeper. But Viola said, “Pappy told that tale. If I rightly remember, she waz with yer grandma the day she waz lost to the wolves.”
Maud didn’t think her grandmother had really been lost to wolves. Nobody would survive that. Viola was using some old-fogy phrase, and Maud didn’t want to know any more about those ways. She said, “So she knew her well?”
“Don’t know ’bout that. I was about Lee’s age.” Viola nodded toward the side of the house where Lucy’s baby was asleep under the trees.
“She’s a good bit older than you are?”
“I guess. Hard to tell with them folks.”
“Hard to tell age on anyone,” Lucy contributed. “White people look like they’s a hundred and one when they’s only about forty-six.”
After that, the talk dribbled into observations on the weather and the habits of their animals. Maud began to feel the comfort that familiarity and family bring, a comfort she sorely needed. She took supper at her grandpa’s and waited to walk home when the moon was up and it was too late for visitors.
6
The next morning, Maud ate breakfast with the calendar by her plate. August 18, the date she and Booker had set for their wedding, was sixteen days away. If Booker came back, it’d be before then. The eighteenth grew larger in Maud’s eyes than the other dates, and scribbles about the numbers of eggs gathered and checkmarks she’d made figuring her monthly cycle disappeared off the page. When the one and the eight began looking like a skinny man with a shapely wife, Maud realized she’d lost track of her day.
She hurried through her chores. By midday, the heat was too high for walking the section line or the ruts to the sandbar, and the air too thick for any activity except sitting under the live oak tree and reading. Through the screen of low-hanging branches, the house and the yard seemed like they belonged to somebody else, to folks she didn’t know or want to know. The sounds of insects and birds sawed on her nerves. Her whole existence seemed hopeless. The thought that other people in other places were doing things that she’d never do made her angry. She wanted off that pitiful patch of Indian land. She stood up, determined to do something other than wait for the next two weeks. She brushed the limbs aside and stepped into the heat of the afternoon sun. A cow mooed. The rooster scratched in the dirt close to the front steps. A hawk drifted toward the river on currents that didn’t touch the tops of the trees. She felt completely alone.
Maud wished Lovely would get his butt home. She’d intended to walk into town and talk to Gilda the day before, but the conversation with Lizzie had distracted her. It was too hot and too late in the day to start that walk now. And she was at the far end of ruts at the end of a section line in the middle of nowhere. She walked to the pump, disturbed a cluster of toads, and jacked the handle up and down. Cool water running over her hand and arm made her feel better. She sat down on the wooden platform and looked out over the wild. She missed Booker. She missed Lovely. She missed her daddy. Evening would come and the only company she’d have would be cows and chickens, and if she went to the barn, the mean cat and her kittens. She thought about taming one of the kittens for company. But if she and Booker went to Fayetteville, that wouldn’t be fair. Maud picked up a pebble and threw it. She looked down toward her feet for another. That was when she began to wish Billy would show.
And he did. He didn’t ask any questions about where she’d been. But he came in a clean shirt, and with a half a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. They ate and smoked on the porch, and then Billy stood up and leaned over Maud’s rocker. He placed his hands on each arm, pushed down, and tilted her forward. He kissed her tenderly, little pecks around her lips and then square on them. He kissed her neck. He was kissing her collarbone when Maud said, “We’ll be more comfortable on the bed.”
They fumbled at first, then hurried like a couple of animals. After a while, they made love a second time in a way that was gentler but more satisfying to Maud. She let out a moan that could’ve been heard on the river, and then she gasped until she got her breath. She kissed Billy all over his head. He kissed her all over her breasts. And then they both curled up and slept.
When the cock crowed, Maud woke with a start. The crack on the ceiling seemed to have grown in the middle of the night. She looked over at Billy. He was asleep on his stomach. She put her hand on her belly. It seemed almost as flat as usual, but when she touched her breasts, they were a handful. If she wasn’t pregnant already, she soon would be. Maud sighed. Billy shifted his leg. She breathed more shallowly. She didn’t want to wake him and face whatever he was going to say.
Maud slowly shifted her weight and slipped out of the bed. She was completely naked. She pulled back the sheet on the wire, stepped behind it, cleaned herself with a rag, and drew one of Lovely’s shirts over her shoulders. It hung down to the middle of her thighs. After that, she put on clean drawers, went outside, did her business, came back in, and started a fire. She had biscuits in the oven, coffee on the stove, and fatback frying when she heard the front door. She peeked out. Billy was relieving himself off the side of the porch. Her mother had trained her father and brother not to do that during daylight.
Later that morning, Billy gave her a lift to the highway. Then he rode east to work and she walked toward Ft. Gibson. A milk truck picked her up. She rode with the milkman as far as the Pierce building. She’d come into town to see Gilda, but at first she window-shopped; she rarely got to do that and she was starved for a taste of life beyond dirt and chickens. Then she thought about going to Taylor’s and looking at her wedding dress material. She headed quickly in that direction. But once she got to the store, she was afraid to go in. She might cry if she saw the bolt. Instead, to keep her heart from aching, she lingered at the window and read a newspaper clipping about a loaf of bread that came presliced in a package. The sliced bread settled her some, and she was wondering about the usefulness of it and if sliced bread tasted better than unsliced when she h
eard her name. She turned to see Gilda crossing the street.
They went to Berd’s soda fountain. It being early in the day, they had their pick of booths and they took the one in the corner. Gilda bought herself a chocolate milkshake and bought Maud a vanilla one. They didn’t say anything of significance until the shakes and straws were at their table and John Berd had finally worn out his talkative welcome. They’d sipped a quarter of their drinks by then, and Maud was determined to make hers last, but she had Gilda in front of her so she asked straight-out if she knew where Lovely might be.
“He’s not at home?”
“No, he left Sunday night after a big family get-together.”
Gilda rubbed her straw with the tips of her thumb and forefinger. Then she put both palms on the table. “Maud, we broke up Saturday night. I really care about Lovely. But he’s gotten so strange he gives me the jitters. And Daddy’s been throwing a fit.” She slumped against the back of the booth but kept her hands on the wood. “He took it hard. I couldn’t stand myself if anything happened.”
Maud felt a surge of friendship for the girl across from her even though she’d dumped her brother. She understood why she would. “Do you mind telling me what he’s doing that’s so strange? He’s strange at home, too. But it seems to me that if there was a pattern to it, it might be easier to cure.”
Gilda bit her lower lip. “It’s not so much what he does. He’s not mean, or violent, or anything like that. It’s more like he’s deep. We’ve got a rosebush next to the front porch. And Saturday night, he cut off a rose with his knife and got to talking about bugs crawling in it and ruining it and everything going to dust and rot. Not what you usually talk about on a date. And he didn’t want to go to the dance. He didn’t want to see anybody except me. And sometimes he looks at me like he sees straight through me. I don’t mean like I have something to hide. More like he’s looking through my face to a wall behind me. Does that make any sense?”
It did. In some respects, Lovely had always been like that. But there was no doubt he’d been worse in the past few months, and Maud understood Gilda’s jitters. More to buy thinking time than to disagree, she said, “Our mother was killed by a snake hiding under a rosebush. Roses don’t bring the best out in Lovely.”
“I’m sorry. I’d forgotten that. Maybe that explains the rose conversation. But really, Maud, he’s that way about other things, too.”
Maud told Gilda she understood. She was just thinking it through. And the two spent the rest of their shakes trying to figure out where Lovely could be. Maud didn’t think he was in the bottoms. Somebody would’ve sent him home or sent her word. He could be camping on the sandbar. She hadn’t been down there since he’d disappeared. She asked Gilda if Lovely had been on his mule Saturday night. She said he hadn’t. And Maud knew Lovely had come back to the bottoms on Early’s horse. Drunk, too, which was unusual for him. She started to ask Gilda if he’d been drunk with her, but she decided to let that dog lie. She went back to thinking about the mule. Lovely wouldn’t want Gilda to see him riding a mule and had probably left it at Mr. Singer’s on Saturday afternoon. The milk truck had picked her up too far away from the mule’s usual pasture to have seen if it was there. Still, Mr. Singer might’ve seen Lovely. And the mule was another reason to talk to him. Maud wished she’d brought his books. She didn’t want him to think she wasn’t planning to return them. She could explain she’d come to town without them. She was sorting out how to put it all to Mr. Singer and not look like a pest about missing men when Gilda said, “He still has my Bible.”
That brought Maud’s mind back to Lovely and made her feel that Gilda could tell she was thinking about books. But that had to be a coincidence. Without being able to recall where the Bible was, Maud replied, “I’ll get it to you. Don’t worry about that.”
“You could read it yourself, if you want.”
“I’ve read parts when Lovely wasn’t around. It’s good.”
“You could come to church with us anytime you want. I’ve been praying for Lovely morning and night.”
Maud knew how conversations with Christians went. And she had a strategy for closing them. “I sure appreciate that. I have my own devotional every morning. Would go to church if I had reliable transportation. Can’t be troubling others. I’m a Baptist. What are you?”
“We’re Methodists. Lovely didn’t say anything about you being Baptist.”
Maud knew all the churchgoing Starrs were Methodists. But she felt stupid for not figuring in Lovely’s and Gilda’s conversations. She took a long suck on her straw that made a slurping noise she apologized for. “Lovely was never baptized. We have to be a certain age before we’re dipped. I got dipped, but he was afraid of the water, so my parents held off on him. Then Mama died and things got out of whack.” Maud said that with a straight face and silent thanks for the conversations at school between girls who thought dipping was the only way to heaven and ones who thought baby sprinkling was foolproof.
Maud and Gilda agreed to get each other word when Lovely turned up. And as soon as they parted, Maud headed toward Mr. Singer’s. She was picked up by a couple she knew and given a ride as far as the highway. As soon as she got close to the potato barn, she checked the mule’s pasture and saw her standing under a tree with a couple of horses. Neither of the horses was Booker’s.
When Maud walked through the barn, she saw Mr. Singer sitting at a table on his back porch. She was already brought to tears by the familiar smell, and she’d hoped to have a few moments to pull herself together before talking. But Mr. Singer looked up and smiled. Maud felt touched by the smile, and it brought out more tears. She wiped them away with a knuckle.
She explained she’d gone into town on another errand and didn’t bring his books with her. She said Lovely hadn’t been feeling well and apologized for his absence from work.
Mr. Singer had a ledger and four yellow pencils laid out on the table. A fifth pencil nestled in the ledger’s crease. He reached into his front pocket, drew out his knife, and pinched out a small blade. He picked up a pencil and carefully whittled a sharp point. He said, “I’ve been worried about Lovely for some time. Even before we thought he had rabies. He’s down at the house, is he?” Mr. Singer held the pencil up, eyed it, and laid it down.
Maud had hoped to get information without having to confess Lovely had up and gone. But now that would require an outright lie rather than just a little skirting around. “No, to tell you the truth, he’s not. I’ve been in town talking to the girl he’s been sparking. She hasn’t seen him, either.”
Mr. Singer picked up another pencil and whittled again. Before he got that one done, he asked, “How long’s he been gone?”
“Left out Sunday night after a big family meal.”
“Any of them know where he is?”
“They’ve all been worried about him, too. If he was at one of their houses, they would’ve sent word.”
Mr. Singer laid the pencil down next to the other sharpened one. He leaned back in his rocker and called, “Lizzie!”
Lizzie appeared at the screen door of the summer kitchen. She said, “Lemonade, tea, or buttermilk?”
Mr. Singer looked to Maud. She said, “Any’s perfect for me,” and he said to Lizzie, “Whatever’s easiest. Thank you.”
Mr. Singer talked about varieties of potatoes, the effect of the flood on his crop, and the competition from northern states until Lizzie brought out a pitcher and two glasses on a tray. Maud tried to catch the cook’s eye with a smile, but Lizzie had a blank look on her face that Maud read as no trespassing.
Halfway into their buttermilk, Mr. Singer was still talking potatoes. The men in Maud’s family did the same about cattle, horses, dogs, corn, wheat, and every blame thing in the bottoms. She was tired of male talk and was thinking about how to turn the conversation to Booker when Mr. Singer said, “Have you heard from our friend?”
Maud was startled that Mr. Singer had read her mind. “No, I was hoping you had.”
> Mr. Singer twirled an end of his moustache. Then he bit his lower lip. “You know, I have four daughters. Love them ever’ one. Never could stand to see one of them hurt. Maybe you should forget Mr. Wakefield. You’re a lovely young woman. There are as many men walking the Earth as fish swimming the river. You’ll find another easy enough.”
Maud’s first thought was that Mr. Singer had heard about Billy. She flushed. But then a worse notion crept over her; Mr. Singer was saying Booker wasn’t coming back. Her tears reappeared. They dropped onto her cheeks, and, when she ducked her head, onto her lap. Mr. Singer pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She cried, her shoulders shaking; and he twirled his moustache. He said, “Now, now,” and put his hand back to the knife and started cleaning under his fingernails.
Maud pulled herself together enough to say, “I don’t mean to be silly.”
“No, no.”
“We were talking about getting married.”
“He said something about the front porch.” Mr. Singer tilted his head in that direction.
Maud was surprised. Booker had asked for that favor without telling her. The tears came out again. “We didn’t mean to impose.”
“No imposition. I was happy to agree to it.”
“When did he ask you?” She gulped some air.
“I can’t rightly say. It was before he left, of course.”
“Right before?”
Mr. Singer clicked his teeth together. “I was just trying to recall. I don’t think it was the same day.”
She looked at the handkerchief. Mr. Singer was going to run out of handkerchiefs if she didn’t stop crying. “If it happens to come to you, it would help me know his intentions.”
“How so?”
She wasn’t sure. “Maybe if it was right when he was leaving, it would mean he was planning on coming back?”
Mr. Singer winced. She read from that wince that Booker had asked him for the use of his porch at an earlier time. She was sucking air for another sob when he said, “Well, I reckon if he’s coming, it’ll be in time for the wedding. When was that planned for? I can’t recall.”
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