Maud's Line

by Margaret Verble

  He pulled up his horse at the trough. Walking toward her, he stopped midstep. His eyes grew round. He took his hat off and scratched his head. He turned and looked at his horse. He put his hat back on and then turned around again and looked at Maud. He said, “I’ll shore miss Lovely.”

  “How’d you hear?”

  “Early. Saw him on the way down.” He took his hat off again, rubbed the brim with both hands. He looked off toward the barn.

  Maud sighed. She didn’t care if he liked her hair or not. It was hers to cut. But maybe he was just overcome about Lovely. She said, “I brought home some of Viola’s cooking.”

  They ate on the porch. Billy talked about a horse he was breaking at work. Maud thought about her hair. She was thinking she’d made a mistake. She put her hand to the back of her head and felt her bare neck. She shook her head. Billy kept talking about the horse. She finally said, “Do you notice anything different?”

  “Didja put a little color on yer cheeks?”

  Maud threw her plate out toward the yard. The food went higher than the dish. The chickens squawked, fluttered away, and then rushed back, squabbling over the bits. She stood to speak. “You can just get out of here!” She pointed toward Billy’s horse.

  He grinned and leaned back in his rocker. “I sorta like a high-tempered woman.”

  Soon after that, they started making love against a porch post. They heard the beat of hooves in midthrust and moan, but they couldn’t stop until they’d come all the way. Then they saw Early standing on Gourd’s porch, staring toward them. Early waved. Maud said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass. Nothing he hasn’t seen before.” Billy waved back.

  Inside, they lay on the bed and stared at the crack in the ceiling. Then Billy rolled over onto his side, propped his face in his palm, and said, “I wasn’t shore I’d like making love to a boy.” He caught some of Maud’s hair between his fingers and pulled it a bit.

  “You better get used to it. And I’m gonna cut my dresses down. Show my knees.”

  Billy ran a hand down her thigh and rested his palm on the scar on the back of her leg. “I like yer knees.”

  They made love once again and slept through the night like the dead. When Maud woke, Billy was standing over her, his elbow working. She said, “What’re you doing?” He smiled. Then he reached for her arm, pulled her toward him, and said, “Open yer mouth. Put it in.”

  He came so fast he didn’t get his penis much past the tip of her tongue. She pulled back, put the tips of her fingers to her lips. She swallowed. “It’s salty.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You’ve done that before?”

  Billy sat down, put his arm around her waist, drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly. When he pulled back, he said, “No, not really. I heared tell. Men talk, you know.”

  Maud didn’t believe him. He’d had another girlfriend. She had big breasts. The thought of those breasts stabbed her with jealousy. “If I catch you talking about me, I’ll do the same thing to you I did to my hair.”

  “Oh, Maud. Cross my heart. I won’t talk about you.” Billy paused. “I won’t have to. Early’ll do it fer me.” He started giggling.

  Maud pushed him down on the mattress and stood up. “I’ll make a gelding out of Early, too. It’s morning. Time to go to work.”

  Once Maud saw Billy out of the house, she went about her chores, focused on the conversations she needed to have with Mr. Singer and Gilda. Speaking with Gilda would be the hardest; Mr. Singer might make her feel better. When she headed out, talking to them in that order was her plan. She carried in a sack pulled to her chest Gilda’s Bible and Mr. Singer’s books. She stopped in to visit with Nan, took iced tea and pie there, explained her haircut as wanting to try something new, and found out that her grandfather had gone into town to register Lovely’s death. When she got to the section lines, Mr. Beecher, headed out in his wagon, gave her a ride into Ft. Gibson. She dallied there, putting off calling on Gilda until after dinner so that the Starrs wouldn’t try to feed her. She wanted to tell Gilda and get away fast.

  Gilda’s first reaction was to Maud’s hair. But she quickly said, “You look all hollow in the cheeks. What’s the matter?” She took Maud’s sack and set it on a table. She put her hands on Maud’s upper arms and looked her over.

  Maud started to cry.

  “It’s Lovely, isn’t it? Tell me. Take a seat.” Gilda nodded toward a sofa.

  But Maud didn’t feel she could sit until she’d said what she’d come to say. “You better sit yourself.”

  Gilda did. She looked up at Maud and said, “Tell me.”

  “Lovely passed away. He’d been poorly since the rabies shots. Couldn’t get over them.”

  Gilda’s mouth fell open. “He died of his shots?”

  Maud wanted to run out the door. But to get the rest out, she figured she needed to sit. She settled on the arm of a chair. “No. He was afraid he was going mad. We have a cousin that happened to. I guess he didn’t want to be put away. I don’t know, really.” She shook her head. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have taken my eyes off him.” Tears welled up. She wiped them away with a handkerchief.

  Gilda turned her head. She shuddered. She looked back at Maud. “He killed himself?”

  Maud stood again. Her voice caught as she spoke. “It’s not your fault. Don’t take any blame. If it’s anybody’s, it’s mine. I should’ve tried to help him more. I didn’t know what to do or how bad it was.” She shook her head.

  Gilda looked down. Maud thought she was praying. After what seemed forever, Gilda lifted her face. “He’s with the Lord now,” she said, but she was crying.

  Maud wanted to escape. “Yes, yes, he is.” She didn’t believe that, but she didn’t not believe it. And she would’ve said whatever it took to get out of the house. She handed Gilda her Bible and told her they’d read from it at the service. That the verses had been a real help and were what Lovely would’ve wanted. They tried to comfort each other with hugs and reassuring words. But as soon as she thought she could go with any grace, Maud got out the door.

  She felt relief as soon as she got to the street. She threw the sack of books over her shoulder, and by the time she reached the center of town, she felt better than she had when she’d arrived. And she realized that, beyond her guilt, she, too, felt Lovely was better off where he was. He would’ve been haunted in his head for the rest of his life. Why was mysterious and beyond her reach. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t think anybody did.

  She was given a ride out of town on the back of a horse ridden by a boy she knew. He took her all the way to the potato barn, dismounted when she slid off, and tried to talk to her about going off to the oil fields. Maud endured that as long as she could. Then she abruptly told him Mr. Singer was expecting her, turned, and marched toward the barn. But in there, the potato odor flew up her nostrils and down to her stomach. She suddenly became sick and retched in a corner. She didn’t think that was related to the baby. She thought it was due to having to tell Gilda. She remembered her mother’s death going to her gut. She sat down outside in the barn’s shade until she was sure nothing else was coming up. Then she walked to a rainwater barrel and washed her mouth out. She scooped water with her palm onto her arms and neck to cool them down from the heat.

  A few minutes later, she cupped her hand against the summer kitchen’s screen door. The room was dark and a large table sat in the center, a fireplace at the far end. Lizzie wasn’t in there, so Maud went to the back door of the main house and knocked. Nobody came. But the porch was shady, and she was exhausted. She sat down on a rocker with cushions on its seat and back, and fell asleep. Sometime later, she awoke to the sound of her name. Mr. Singer was standing inside his screen. “I didn’t hear a knock. Then you looked so tuckered out, I let you sleep. Feel better now?” He opened the screen and stepped out.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” She started to get up.

  “Keep your seat. I’ll lean against the post. An old man sits too much. Ne
ed to stir my blood.”

  “Thank you. I brought your books.” Maud put her hand on the sack on the table beside the chair. “They were good, especially the Sherlock Holmes.”

  Mr. Singer nodded. “I can read about Holmes late into the night. Often do.” He patted his chest and reached into his shirt pocket. He drew out an envelope. “You might be interested in this.” He handed it to her.

  The handwriting struck Maud like a bolt of lightning. She stared at it, her eyes wide, her mouth open. Her breath was uneven. Mr. Singer continued. “Came enclosed with one to me. He may not be too sure how often you get to your mailbox.”

  Maud recalled the dirt dobbers and telling Billy to mail her the letter in Nan’s box. She hadn’t even checked their box since running into the wasps. They rarely got anything unless they’d ordered from Sears and Roebuck; they hadn’t done that in a long time. Booker’s first letter had come by way of Mr. Singer; she’d thought that he hadn’t known her route number. She felt panicked over what she might’ve missed. She jumped up.

  Mr. Singer jerked and stepped back. “Why don’t I leave you to read by yourself? I’ll shelve your books. I have a new one you might enjoy.”

  Maud wasn’t sure she’d be able to talk after she opened her letter. And she still needed to tell Mr. Singer about Lovely. But her mind sped in another direction. She said, “I’d appreciate a new book.” She sat back down. She studied Booker’s handwriting while Mr. Singer was gone.

  When he returned, he handed her a book and said something about it. But Maud didn’t hear that. She felt like a field on fire. She blurted out, “Lovely’s dead. He killed himself.”

  Mr. Singer’s face grew as pale as his goatee. Maud stood to let him sit down. But he waved the seat away with his hand. He put a palm on a post. The other hand he wiped across his mouth.

  “I didn’t mean to be so forward. I’m upset.” Her tears started again. She drew her handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped them.

  Mr. Singer drew out his own handkerchief and blew his nose. “He was a fine young man. A credit to your family. To your grandpa and grandma. To your great-grandpa.”

  Maud forgot, just for a moment, how much she longed to be out of the place she lived, and she felt comforted by a memory that spanned generations. Mr. Singer’s gaze went to the west horizon; his mind seemed to follow it.

  She said, “We were all proud of him.”

  Maud left with the book clutched to her breast, the envelope tucked inside with the tip sticking out so she could keep a watch on it. She walked to the tree beside the highway. She sunk to the roots and wedged her back against the trunk. She opened the book and drew the letter from between its pages. Her thumb shook as she slipped her nail beneath the fold.

  Dear Maud,

  I have to confess I thought you’d at least answer my second letter. I know I’m at fault, but I’m not the only one. There’s plenty of blame to go around. I hope you’ll reconsider.

  I’ve moved from the boarding house. My new address is 355 So. Brier. Please write me and tell me what you’re thinking. I didn’t figure you would be so mad that we couldn’t even be friends.

  Yours sincerely,

  Booker

  She’d read the letter twice when she heard a motor coming over the bridge. The rumble of the planks came nearer and nearer. She felt like her destiny was coming upon her and would appear momentarily. But by the time the truck had passed, Maud realized she didn’t even know what city Booker was in. Muskogee? Tulsa? Oklahoma City? Some smaller town beyond that bridge? She needed to go back to Mr. Singer and ask him where the postmark on his letter was from. And she needed to look for the other letter. The second one.

  Maud jumped up from the roots, dusted her dress and legs off, and stuck the letter and its envelope back in the book. She edged down the embankment sideways on an angled course from rock to rock to a clump of grass until she landed on level ground. But by the time she did, she heard a motor, looked up, and saw a black Chrysler coming along the road toward Mr. Singer’s house. She stopped where she was. The car stopped at the end of the drive in front of the garage next to a hitching rail. A man, a woman, and three children tumbled out. Maud didn’t recognize any of them, but she supposed they were Mr. Singer’s family come to visit, maybe from a long way away. She turned back to the bank beside the highway and climbed it again. From there, she walked down the road to the section line and turned south.

  She endured catcalls from the men at the school site. But nobody approached her, and she decided she’d walk that way again. If she didn’t have the courage to walk down her own section line, she wouldn’t have the courage to walk down the street in a city. She rushed on, thinking about what might be waiting in her mailbox. She thought about how many times she’d walked near it and about the letter Billy had mailed in the box next to it.

  At the line of boxes, she stopped with her hand on the flap of hers, trying to remember one of the ancient Cherokee love formulas she’d copied from Mooney’s book. But she couldn’t bring one up that she felt sure was exact, and she didn’t want to say one, even in her head, that might be incorrect and jinx the insides of the box. She focused her eyes on the beans in the field beyond. What if she opened the box and it was empty? She wouldn’t be able to bear that. Still, she had one letter in hand. That was better than nothing. She stood to the side to avoid any angry dirt dobbers, tugged hard once, and then eased the flap open.

  There was a dead dirt dobber lying on top of a flyer with a picture of a tractor on it. She tilted the flyer and dumped him off. She pulled out a handwritten offer from a well digger and a book of coupons. Below them was a letter addressed in Booker’s writing and postmarked from Tulsa. Her hand shook as she held it. She dropped the book. It landed on her toe.

  Bending over, Maud suddenly felt faint. She’d had too much excitement and heat and too little water. The back of her neck was burning where it’d never been exposed to the sun. She rose up slowly, afraid she might faint. Nan’s house sat beyond the beans. She decided to walk toward it at a slow pace and read the letter there. She walked, both letters in the book, and took deep, regular breaths that she hoped would get her to within sight of her aunt’s if her body gave out.

  Renee was standing out in the road. She ran up steps to the pump, picked a tin cup off the top of the handle, and dipped it into a bucket. She came back out to the road and walked toward Maud, spilling some water as she came. Maud had never been so glad to see the child in her life. She drank noisily, drained the cup of every drop, and wiped her face with her forearm.

  Renee said, “You’re wobbly. And you look peaked.”

  “I feel peaked.”

  “Want me to carry your book?”

  “No, I’ll carry it myself. You carry these.” She handed Renee the rest of the mail. “Thanks for the water. Can I lean on you a bit?”

  Renee stepped to Maud’s side and took the cup. Maud drew her arm over the girl’s shoulders. They walked down the middle of the road. The house Nan was living in was built on a natural rise that had protected it from the flood. A wall of sandstone held back the rise where it was cut down for the road. Five steps led up to the yard. When they got to the steps, Renee said, “Can you do these?”

  Maud shook her head. “Let me rest here. Go get your mama.”

  Maud was resting the side of her face on her book and the book on her knees when Nan shooed her kids away and sat down beside her. She rubbed Maud’s back. “You can’t be walking in this heat in yer condition. Not with the blow you’ve had.”

  Maud straightened up. “I’ve heard from Booker.” She tapped the book’s cover. “Two letters. In here.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “I haven’t read one of them.”

  Nan’s hand stopped rubbing. “Let me see.”

  Maud opened the book and handed her the unopened envelope. “You read it. Tell me what it says. I can’t face it alone.”

  Nan held the envelope up to the sun. She carefully broke open a
side with little rips. She pulled the letter out and was silent. Then she said, “He’s working in a store named Vandever’s. His boss is Mr. Gary. He’s selling men’s ready-to-wear. He’s living in a boarding house with three other men. The woman who runs it is a good cook but wears dirty aprons. One of the men is from Missouri. One is from Texas and the other one is from a place I can’t make out the name. Evelyn and Arlene, that’s his horses, right? Well, they’re down the street in a stable. He don’t say anything about his wagon or wares.”

  “Does he say anything about me?”

  Nan bit her under lip. She read more. “He says he admires yer spirit and hopes you’ll write and tell him what yer thinking.”

  “That’s it?”

  Nan nodded.

  “Let me see.” Maud pulled the letter from her aunt’s hand. She read it silently. I admire your spirit and hope you’ll write and tell me what you’re thinking was the most personal thing in it. Maud growled.

  “He don’t know yer in a family way, do he?”

  Maud looked up from the letter to the far side of the road. Over there, a few trees provided shade and the ground ample nesting for snakes. She said, “I have to get rid of this baby. Will you make Viola help me?”

  Nan clasped her knees with her hands and tapped her thumbs together.

  “Aunt Nan, I can’t have this baby. I just can’t. Booker doesn’t know about it. We were trying not to get in a family way. And I can’t show up on his doorstep and say it’s his. He doesn’t even sound that interested.” She waved the letter in front of her face like a fan. “He’s more interested in his job and people in Tulsa. And I’ve got another letter that says he wants to be friends.”

  “Have you written him?”

  “No. I didn’t know where he was. And now . . .” Maud looked down at her stomach.

  “That’s three letters in all. Sounds like he’s still interested. He just needs some encouragement.”