Songs for Dark Seasons

by Lisa Hannett

  Grubby palm flat out in front of her, Daisy holds the pins like they’s firecrackers with lit fuses. Lip curling as her mind whirs for an excuse to stay. Wide eyes twitching back ’n’ forth. Pins. Jax. Pins. Jax.

  Jax.

  “But nothing,” Mag says, shoving the girl off her chair. “See ya in the morning.”

  Before the door’s full-shut behind the sullen gal, Jax sidles up to Mag. Lovey-dovey, he tugs at the breast pocket on her overalls. Smiles and waggles his brows. Even in the dim candlelight, his irises is fetching. The pupils tiny black dots in a sea of malamute blue.

  “Checking up on me?” she asks, crossing her arms. “Or what.”

  Dimples darken Jax’s scruffy cheeks. Fiddling with the brass buttons on Mag’s gear, he stops just short of undoing ’em. “May well be. Then again, maybe I just missed ya. Gits right lonely, y’know. All that waiting ... ”

  “Does it now,” Mag says, slapping his hands away. Not playful. Serious. “Way I seen it, y’all had plenty enough company today.”

  Pale blue circles flicks toward the door, confirming Mag’s suspicions. Fool girl’s gointa git a talkin-to ... Jax steps back, fails to read her expression, his forehead gathering around secrets. “What you gitting at, Firebug?” The nickname stings, but Mag schools her features. Ain’t no-one but Jax uses it--whips it out when he’s in a tight spot, hoping to red-flag her bull temper. Not this time, she thinks, cold smiling. She won’t let him razz her blind and dangerous.

  “Seen Miss Maberry lately? How about Butcher?”

  “So what if I has?” Jax pulls her in firm now, no arguments. Scrapes his five o’clock shadow against her temple, smooching and cooing into her ear. “No harm done. I likes a fresh bit o’ meat every now ’n’ again, is all.”

  Mag stiffens. “I ain’t in the mood, Jaxon.”

  “Not even for this?” Thumbing her lips, he steals another kiss then turns to hoist a saggy canvas rucksack off the floor. Two buckles and a drawstring later, he gots the top flap open, a stank of sour milk heaving out from inside. “Batch gone and spoiled yesterday,” Jax says, “and, more fool me, I dunked a few sheets in the mix anyhow. Testing how bad it turned, if it were at all salvageable.” His tongue clicks over that piece of stupidity. “No-one else won’t shell out so much as a nickel for it. But then I looks at it and thinks, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if the very drabness of it don’t catch Miss Magnolia’s--” Pausing, he glances at her lap, breasts, back up to her ‘--eye.”

  At the first flash of the cobweb-hued fabric, Mag knows it’s well worth trading for. That smock of hers needs longer ties, plus a wider trim along the hem. And if there’s any material left over, she can attach a row of pockets ...

  They both knows she’s game.

  Can’t give it up that easy though, Mag reckons, else the colourman won’t never give her no peace. So she hesitates, puts on a show of calculating. Considering. A spread for a spread, that’s the contract. That’s the regular bargain.

  For now.

  Dollars to ducks, Jax won’t be so keen to come a-calling once Mag’s finally pinned herself plain.

  “Deal,” she says, reaching up to unlatch her straps. Two sizes too big, the coveralls instantly bag down to her hips, then slide into a puddle round her socks. “I’ll want a good yard of that cotton, a good tumble, and not another word out of you ’til we’re done.”

  * * *

  When Daisy finally gits home, Mama’s ghost is in the Shaker chair she loved, a crocheted afghan draped cross her lap. Cherrywood runners creak as she rocks, slow and steady, watching night drop its moth-eaten curtain over the kitchen’s small window.

  Just short of stomping, Daisy makes a beeline for the fireplace. “What ye reckon they’s gabbing about,” she asks, no preamble. Clawing the useless brooch off her dress, she crushes the flimsy bone-petals and chucks ’em onto the coals. The pieces blacken immediately, fizzle with a whiff of singed fingernails. Always first to opine in life, now Mama’s ghost simply see-saws, keeping all thoughts wrapped under her messy topknot. Nothing like death for cooling a hot tongue, Daisy thinks. Still, she can’t help but pester for a response.

  “Well? Don’t be shy, Mama.”

  No answer.

  That’d be right, she thinks. Just her luck: even here, she can’t escape older gals set on wasting her precious time today.

  Now she really is stomping. Over to the sink, where she fishes a near-clean cutting board out the scummy water, then to the butcher’s block where Pa insists they store the knives. Six of ’em, good ’n’ sharp. The mood Daisy’s in, only a cleaver will do. Soon it’s sshhhnnnking through yams and blind potatoes, chopping ’em up skin ’n’ all.

  Ain’t fair, she thinks. Miss Maggie sending her off on a mule-run like that, just as her spell were taking effect. Working its magick. Daisy beheads a cauliflower, hacks it to crumbs. Jax shows up and--wham, carrots become coins--Mag shoos her away like a pigeon. Tells her not to come back, even. Never mind that it weren’t all that long a hike to Penny-Jane Maberry’s. A skip through the eastern forest, the cornfields, the roadside paddock. Daisy were there and back in forty-five minutes, tops. And maybe if Penny-Jane ain’t dithered so, maybe she might of made it back to Mag’s before quitting time. Oh but didn’t the greedy cow just have to tsk at the gift Daisy brung. Didn’t she just have to lift that narrow chin of hers and peer down that perfect snout.

  Think Magnolia could swap these stones for me? Purple’s nice ’n’ all, only ... Red’s the colour always gits girls to nationals. Can’t y’all git me some rubies?

  Sure, whatever, she’d replied, eager to head. And still Penny-Jean held her up, chatting all friendly-like. Acting like the best friend Daisy ain’t never knew she had.

  I hear Jax Kellermin had hisself a sweetheart visit today, said the beauty queen, leaning close, hush-hush. Didn’t he just.

  Colour rising, Daisy breathed in the gal’s tea-rose perfume, failed to suppress a grin. Word sure gits round, she said. How’d it land in yer ears?

  Penny-Jean shrugged, but kept on talking. Ain’t so far a walk from yer neck of the woods to this one, now is it. Even closer from there to Jaxon’s hill ...

  Don’t I know it, Daisy’d said proudly. Made it there ’n’ back this morning--even had a drink after--before Miss Maggie knowed I were gone.

  Oh darlin, Penny-Jean said, rocking and tittering like she’d heard the best damn joke on earth. Ain’t that precious. The two of you--and him!--together! Today!

  Yeah, Daisy’d said, forcing a laugh though she sure didn’t think it were all that funny. Me ’n’ Jax. He even come round to the workshop just now. To see me?

  Well, didn’t Penny-Jean find that hilarious.

  Now, glancing into the stewpot, Daisy realises there ain’t no onions in there. She fetches a couple from a crate stowed next to her bed, starts slicing. Fumes git up her nose, set her eyes a-leaking.

  She lets the tears flow.

  Everyone knows the pinmaker’s a cheapskate when it comes to wicks, wax, and oil. She hoards them bright-makers as though the end of days is nigh, doles them out drop by tiny drop, inch by stingy inch. And yet, only a few moments ago, Miss Maggie’s cabin were still lit up when Daisy cut cross her yard. From that high gable window, a shaft of yellow firelight were blurring a warm streak through the evening fog. Some golden lines was slipping under the front door, others highlighting thin gaps between the cabin’s timbers. Standing out in the drive, with the shadow-struck woods closing in and crows cawing down the night-dark, Daisy squinted at them shining beams. Black wings flapped overhead. Smoke and feathers roiled inside her.

  Only one reason Mag ain’t yet snuffed them burners, Daisy reckoned, and it weren’t for her benefit.

  Why ain’t Jax skedaddled yet?

  Were he waiting on her?

  Hoping she were coming back?

  “I didn’t do it,” Pa says, coming in with a gust of cold air, shaking Daisy from her reverie. Raising big hands in mock surrender, he clomps t
hrough the sitting area no-one ever sits in and over to the kitchen, keeping his coat on ’til the shivers leaves his bones. “Whatever put that snarl on yer muzzle, girlie, it weren’t me.”

  Chuckling, he pats Mama’s ghost on the shoulder. Brushes a kiss across the frayed parting of her hair. “And how were yer day, darlin,” he asks, pulling up a stool beside the rocker. For a minute or two, he watches them blued lips open and shut, head cocked like he were truly listening. While Mama’s ghost silently yammers, Butch nods and laughs. Never interrupts, not even when she seems to drone on, and the rumble in his belly talks louder ever than she does. In the pauses between stories, he reaches back to filch carrot chunks off the countertop, minding his fingers near Daisy’s serious blade.

  Daisy’s sure Jax has eyeballed her the way Pa still does Mama, despite her only being half here. She seen love like that in Jax’s lookings, hasn’t she just. Hasn’t she.

  “Alright, spill,” Butch says, once it’s clear Mama ain’t gots no more to share. Elbows on knees, he leans forward and pulls off his wool cap. Rakes fingertips across his scalp, scraping an itch what’s been building all day. Meanwhile, he looks over his shoulder at Daisy. “What’s eatin ya, my girl?”

  The cleaver thunk-thunk-thunks through a bunch of parsnips while Daisy collects her thoughts. Pa snags an off-white sliver, crunches, while she tops and tails a few turnips. “How much cloth d’you reckon it takes to kit a gal out for, oh, say, the Miss Butchers Holler pageant?”

  “Depends,” Pa says, turning to face her straight on. Expression grown serious, as it always done when it comes to talking beauty contests. “If yer just goin in for the hogtie round, ain’t nothing stopping ya from wearing what coveralls and Stetson y’already gots. No-one expects gals to ruin new duds while they’s running round in pig shit. Preserves ’n’ pie contest don’t take much neither--a fresh apron, maybe a nice sundress? Yer Ma stitched herself a couple different options, took turns wearing ’em so’s she wouldn’t never have to show up for a new pageant in the last one’s losing frock. She saved for years, I reckon. Of course, if it’s the whole shebang yer after--title and crown, like she were--it’s bound to be a sight more pricey. Gots to git yer stretchy swim-cloth, yer spangled evening gown stuff, and something worth ironing up for the interview round ... All that only comes cheap as yer hoping to look. Yer Ma were a real class act, weren’t she just, and wanted to dress the part. Every penny she picked on them southern fruit fields gone straight into the colourman’s pocket. Every red cent. By the time I caught her eye, well now, yer Ma had a rich trunkful of fabric and not a dime more to her name.”

  “Right,” Daisy says, whacking down the knife. “So why on God’s green earth would a gal need so much of the dyed stuff if she ain’t never had no intention of running? Why keep ordering cloth by the bolt-load--gitting it hand-delivered, no less!--if she ain’t never gointa show it off?”

  Suddenly, the fire’s lickspittle murmur is the loudest sound in the kitchen. Water in the dinner pot burbles as it steams to a boil. Outside, the wind takes a breather; the windowpanes stop rattling, the pinecones and maple-keys avoid the roof. With a quiet squeak of boot leather, Butch stands. Behind him, Mama’s chair quits its steady rocking.

  “I gather we ain’t talking bout yer Ma.”

  “Course not, Pa.” Daisy hears the sharp whine in her voice, but can’t do nothing to blunt its edge. Unfairness turns even the best folk into squeakers, every once in a while. “It’s just,” she huffs, “how greedy can she git? She ain’t never had to pay for nothing--nothing--no, we never made her, did we--and now she’s taking handouts, taking freebies what should be mine. And what’s Mag want all that cloth for anyway? Already she gots more than most gals ever will--never mind that she covers most of it with bone-sticks and charms and what have you. Don’t think I ain’t seen her do it! May as well go pinning garbage bags together, for all the fabric she don’t leave showing through them prickly clusters. But no, that just ain’t good enough for Miss Magnolia. Course it ain’t. She wants more and more and more! So now Jax is there, open-armed, giving it to her--”

  “He’s giving it to her?”

  The hollow growl under his belt suddenly forgotten, Pa snatches up his hat, shunts it back on, and is out the door before Daisy can blink.

  In the Shaker chair, Mama’s ghost lifts a pale hand. Fails to cover a grin.

  “What,” Daisy snaps.

  Cocking a brow, the woman resumes her rocking. Says nothing, just like she use to when Daisy were little and peppering her with questions too easy to warrant answers.

  How has Miss Maggie been paying for all that fabric, Daisy wonders. Old Gerta’s last will and testament ain’t left much worth trading. And there ain’t no sign she’s been magicking Jax over to her place. No proof Daisy can see that he’s been hexed ... Why else would the colourman be so keen to come calling at closing time?

  Ain’t so far a walk ...

  The ghost nods, gaze leading Daisy on the short path from one to one equaling two. Once more, Butch’s words play through her mind, but now the emphasis is changed. Now it ain’t, “He’s giving it to her?” so much as: “He’s giving it to her.”

  “No,” Daisy says, stomach dropping. It’s the other way round, ain’t it just. She’s giving it to him. Nod nod. Wink wink. And he wouldn’t be, would he, if Daisy were there instead. Jax’s gal.

  His one ’n’ only.

  “Back in a tick,” she says, slamming the knife down. Waving off the ghost’s scowl. “Seems I left something what’s mine over at Miss Maggie’s.”

  -- 9 --

  Truth be told, Mag thinks: it ain’t awful, these dealings with Jax.

  Stirring them dye vats day after day, lifting miles of waterlogged cloth, wringing and pressing and baling it up--all by his lonesome; he’s a stickler for quality--sure has done wonders on the man’s muscles. Them broad shoulders of his, slicked with effort, feel right nice under Mag’s palms. The groove of his spine sits so pretty between the hard curves of his back, a nice deep trail leading her fingers down to his arse. Them firm buns is the perfect size for her hands. His thighs is bigger than hers, which is heartening, though his hips is narrower, his chest and stomach flatter. Mag’s gots enough padding to keep their pelvises from knocking together, a feature Jax’s been known to admire, and the wherewithal to turn over if he gits tired of doing it missionary. He ain’t overly hairy, but ain’t bare as a boy--a right turn-off, that is--and like most men Mag’s known, Jax don’t give a second thought to having his parts on show. Not that he’s boasting; he ain’t huge, after all, though he does just fine with what he gots. Just fine indeed. With only them two in the snug cabin, he wears nakedness easy as flannel pyjamas: as comfortable now with his rolls and folds as when he were a kid.

  Starkers, Jax sure is a sight to behold--not to mention much friendlier on the nose. Most of the dye-house reek peels away with his clothes, chucked off at the foot of the bed. Once he really gits going, the clean smell of sweat washes the vinegar pall off his skin. Then there’s a musk about him, strong and natural, what matches the way he ruts. Eager and a bit rough--he likes a good tumble, likes tumbling her--grinding and touching and nibbling and licking with a confidence bolstered by instinct. He don’t never overthink it, only follows his body’s lead ’til it feels good.

  It always feels good in the end.

  They’ve been at it a while now, almost long enough, when Mag hears a thud outside. On the bottom, she can’t see much round Jax hunching over her, watching her expression change as the heat builds in their nethers. When he’s in the groove, he don’t grunt like a hog or huff his day-old breath in her face. He simply grins. True to their deal, he don’t talk. He don’t break rhythm, don’t do nothing fancy. Only puts his hands where they’s most needed. Helps things along with fingers and tongue.

  He’s had lots of practice.

  So much so, he don’t even miss a thrust when there’s a quick knock-knock on the front door, and Butcher barges in. Mag flai
ls to cover herself, but Jax keeps her pinned. Hips pumping, he glances over a shoulder at the older man. Hardly blinks.

  “Won’t be long,” he says, picking up the pace.

  “Thought I told you to lay off,” says Butcher. Cheeks red and puffing, he’s staring at the colourman so’s not to stare at Mag. Torso hinging toward the bed, urging him forward, but his legs is rigid. His feet ain’t taking him nowheres. “Daisy, Mags, whoever-the-hell-else y’all are drilling--lay off. These gals gots enough on their plates without yer filling ’em up with this nonsense.”

  Daisy. Mag’s guts churn as she thinks on the girl’s weirdness today. Of course. All them questions about competing ... That hound-dog look she threw when Mag sent her home early ... The stains on her sweater and calico dress, all them blotches what must’ve soaked in when Jax sprawled Butcher’s daughter on her back ...

  “Twice in one day?” Mag whispers. Soon a different heat starts a-roiling inside her, familiar and dangerous. If she don’t git up, now, things is gointa take an ugly turn. Someone’s gointa git hurt. Smoke seethes from her handprints on Jax’s arms as she shoves, but he don’t pay it no mind.

  “Seem to recall you saying something about laying,” he comments, holding onto Mag’s shoulders, grunting with another hard thrust. “As for gitting off? Well, I’d be lying if I said your presence weren’t slowing us down on that front.”

  “Funny man,” says Butch through clenched teeth. He takes a few steps forward. Raises a white-knuckled fist. “Think this is a joke?”

  “Git off,” Mag says, trying to push Jax away without touching him. Between ’em, sweat turns to steam. Furnace air seeps from her pores, her nostrils, her mouth. “Git off!” She bucks and writhes, but can’t dislodge him. “This were a mistake.”

  Yet another in a long line of ’em, she thinks, bracing her forearms against Jax’s chest. Heaving.