Livvie's Song

by Sharlene MacLaren

  The wall beside the armoire featured a rectangular mirror and some curved hooks, where he figured he could drape his coat and hang some belts and maybe a shirt or two. He’d have to pick up some hangers at a five-and-dime, as there was none to be found in the armoire. Of course, he’d also need to return to the Salvation Army store for some more clothes to put on those hangers.

  “You’ll have to buy your own lamp and clock, as the ones that used to be in here belonged to Mr. Fletcher. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the whole place is sparsely furnished and could use a little work.” Olivia turned and gestured to the rest of the living area. “Of course, there’s your living room. Mr. Fletcher had a Victor Victrola, and I’m glad he took it with him. His hearing was going, so he always played it louder than a train rumbles up the tracks.”

  Will thought of his harmonica, which he often brought out to play before going to bed. He’d have to ask her sometime if it kept her awake. Anything to stay in her good graces.

  “And, speaking of trains,” she continued, “you’ll hear lots of them coming and going, what with the station being at the end of Market Street. I expect you’ll get used to it, though, just as everybody else in town has done.”

  “Hm, yes, I’ve heard the trains, and I must say I enjoy the sound of them. I also understand there’s music above us every Saturday night?”

  “Aargh,” she growled. “And dancing, loud banter, rowdy laughter, and, I suspect, Morris isn’t the best at controlling the illicit stills in Wabash County, not to mention the under-the-table sale of spirits.” She paused and looked at him, perhaps to assess whether he shared her disapproval of those who flouted the law, then went on. “The sheriff is well-known for keeping order, mind you, but he often looks the other way when it comes to issues he considers less important. Not that I agree with him, but that’s the way of it. You’ll meet him soon enough, I’m sure. Word will spread that Joe has been replaced, and he’ll want to check you out, especially since you’re new to Wabash. That’s what he does, after all. The fellow has an eye for trouble.”

  Will didn’t miss the warning in her last sentence. But who could blame her for being hesitant to trust him? He’d come to town on the late train just a few nights ago, a bum, essentially. For all she knew, he could be a mass murderer, and yet she’d hired him, anyway, out of sheer desperation—and confidence in Joe’s intuition. He had to give her credit for going out on a limb for him. When the time presented itself, he’d be sure to thank her for that. But, first, he had to prove himself.

  Thinking about the sheriff’s inevitable visit made his nerves as agitated as a swarm of bees ousted from their nest. Yet he had nothing to be concerned about, really. He’d committed a senseless crime, yes, but no one had been injured, thank God, and he’d paid the price. The problem was, he knew he would never fully recover his former innocence. Once other people found out his history, they would forever label him a criminal, no matter how “good” he appeared or how faithfully he attended church. Well, if they forced him out of town, he wouldn’t fight them. He would simply pull up stakes and head west.

  Before leaving Welfare Island, he’d determined not to give in to worry, if he could help it. Only God knew his future, according to Harry—He even had a plan for him—and he should trust the Lord, no matter what. “You’re a Christian now, son,” Harry had said. “That makes you God’s child. You can go to your heavenly Father and know beyond a doubt that He will never leave or forsake you. The Word of God tells you that very truth.” Next, he’d rattled off a bunch of Scriptures to prove his point, but Will couldn’t recall any of them right now.

  “Well, I guess that’s about it, Mr. Taylor,” Olivia said, jumping headlong into his reminiscences. “I’ll leave you to do as you please now. I expect Joe told you to return to the kitchen around four thirty to get ready for the supper hour.”

  “That he did, but I’ll probably go down earlier so I can get started with the preparations.”

  The sudden arch of her blonde eyebrows indicated surprise and, he hoped, a hint of approval. She looked at him for a few seconds, seeming to weigh whether she should say what was on her mind.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Well, I…I was just thinking that since we’ll be working together, we may as well call each other by our given names. Yours is Will, if I’m not mistaken, short for William, I presume?”

  He nodded.

  “Mine’s Olivia, but you can tell by the restaurant’s name that I mostly go by Livvie. That’s what Frank—” She silenced herself.

  “Your husband.”

  “Yes,” she said with great reverence. “He’s the one who started calling me that way back in…well, way back. Anyway, it stuck. He also gave the restaurant its name, even though I’d have preferred something like Wabash Café or Market Street Restaurant.”

  He briefly considered her former husband and wondered how he had managed to capture the affections of the enchanting Olivia. He must have been something, this Frank Beckman. “I like the sound of Livvie’s Kitchen, myself,” Will said offhandedly. “Bears a more personal ring.” Then, he remembered what they’d been talking about. “Oh, yes—well, if it’s all right with you, I’ll address you as Livvie, and you can certainly call me Will.”

  She gave a slight nod, accompanied by an even slighter smile. It seemed she was determined to keep up an air of detachment, which was fine by him. He had no intention whatsoever of being on more intimate terms.

  Proving himself in the kitchen would be enough of a challenge.

  Chapter Six

  “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee…with the right hand of my righteousness.”—Isaiah 41:10

  Clem Dodd, Rudy Haskins, and Hank Swain sat around Clem’s kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and sipping whiskey he had brewed in his own still. “You sure he’s still in Wabash?” Clem asked, licking his lips.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Hank said. “I seen ’im jump off the car at the Wabash train depot with my own eyes. Heard ’im say he was goin’ there to look for a job.”

  Clem’s wife, Florence, stood at the sink, washing dishes. Her dull, brown hair was pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck, revealing a collar soiled from sweat. She always pretended not to be interested in their conversations, but Clem knew she listened with owl ears, the fat biddy. It didn’t matter how many whuppings he’d given her; she still wanted to know his business. One of these days, he’d boot her out on her ear for good. Fool woman gave him too much trouble.

  “You sure he didn’t reco’nize you?” Rudy asked.

  “I told you, I stayed deep in the shadows. And even if he done saw me, I had my hat pulled low ’n’ my face painted with mud. I never would’ve recognized ’im, either, if I hadn’t been watchin’ outside the jail, waitin’ for his release, and heard the guard call ’im by ’is full name. He’s a big bruiser, let me tell ya. I swear, Will’s a foot taller ’n’ broader than last we seen ’im. Sportin’ a long, thick beard, too. Anyways, I had my head down, smokin’ my cig. Him and them fellas with ’im—a guard and some other old guy—never even seen me across the road, leanin’ up against that lamppost. The one guy hugged ’im like as if they was long-lost buddies. Fairies, more’n likely.”

  “Get on with it,” Clem said, irritated. He wanted to know exactly what they were up against.

  “All right, all right. I followed ’im onto the commuter boat, keepin’ my distance, mind you, then to the subway station, an’ finally to the train depot. He took his sweet time studyin’ maps ’n’ stuff, and then he got in line to buy a ticket. Next thing I know, though, he’s off searchin’ for a freight car to jump. Sheee-ooot, I thought t’ myself, I ain’t never jumped a freight train. Good thing there weren’t no yardmen around. It turned out easy as takin’ a candy stick from a kid.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Nothin’ much. Dull as dry toast. Here and there, bums jumped off, and others got on. Nobody
said much, ’cept for one guy who talked some. That’s how I found out Will was headin’ for Wabash. Most o’ them boozers stunk like the devil hisself. When he jumped, I decided to get off at the next station and buy me a ticket back to New York.”

  “You should’ve followed ’im around Wabash, you numskull,” Clem said.

  “For what?” Hank asked. “I did what you told me to do—figgered out where he was headin’. No doubt he’ll be stickin’ ’round Wabash, lookin’ for a job.”

  “Yeah, and if he don’t find one, he’ll be movin’ on to the next town,” Rudy put in. “Then what?”

  “Then, we’ll find ’im,” Clem said, trying to keep calm. “He’s got those jewels we stole, and he ain’t about to keep ’em for hisself.”

  “What makes you so sure? It’s been almost eleven years since that robbery, Clem. Those jewels could be long gone. Prob’ly are, in fact.”

  “Shut up, Rudy, and quit bein’ so negative.”

  “I ain’t bein’ negative. I’m speakin’ the truth.”

  Clem ignored him. “We’re going to have to go to Wabash to keep a close eye on ’im, watch his comin’s and goin’s for a while, and see if he leads us to the stash. We risked our fool heads for them jewels, and we deserve our share.”

  “He’s the one who done paid for the crime. You think he’s gonna spare us so much as a penny?” Hank asked.

  “He better,” Clem snarled. “Ain’t our fault he got caught. Just shows we was smarter than ’im by escapin’.”

  “What if he got hisself an accomplice in prison?” Rudy asked. “It’s more’n possible somebody else is involved by now. Might be the whole reason he chose to settle in Wabash. It’s as unlikely a spot as any to hide a treasure.”

  Clem rubbed his three-day-old beard, took another swig of whiskey, and felt the burn of it clear to his toes. “We can’t think about that now,” he said with a hard swallow. “We got to come up with some sort o’ plan for goin’ to Wabash.”

  Florence spun around, skirts flaring. “You’re serious about goin’ clear to Indiana? What about the shoe factory? You can’t just quit your job in hopes of recoverin’ some long-lost treasure. And what are little Eddie ’n’ me supposed to do while you’re wanderin’ all over the countryside?”

  “Shut up, woman. This ain’t your concern.” Clem felt his gut tighten with fierce anger for the way his old lady always butted in to his affairs. All she ever thought about was herself and that kid—and Clem wasn’t his father. “I ain’t responsible for Eddie, and you know it. Why don’t you go look up his daddy if you need money?”

  She stuck out a pouty lip and turned back to the sink.

  “She has a point, Clem,” Rudy put in. “Hank ’n’ me got jobs, too. What are we s’posed to tell our bosses? ‘Uh, we need to take off a few days so we can recover some stolen property’?”

  “I don’t know. Make up somethin’. Tell ’em you got an aunt in Timbuktu who’s dyin’, and you got to go see her one last time,” Clem spat. He threw a sneering glance at Florence. “Shoot, maybe I’ll just go to Wabash on a permanent basis.”

  “You do that, and I’ll divorce you, Clem,” Florence said, hissing like a rattlesnake, her wet hands doubled into tight fists. “I’m sick and tired of your lawbreakin’ ways.” If Rudy and Hank weren’t there, she probably would’ve hauled off and slugged him in the jaw. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  “You go right ahead. I won’t miss you or that redheaded brat o’ yours one bit. You’ll have to come up with the divorce money, though, since you’re the one filin’. And your lawyer will be hard put to find me.” He cackled louder than usual, his nerves raw and jumping. Nobody made him go crazier in the head than Florence. He’d give just about anything to be rid of her and find himself a woman who appreciated him and treated him the way he deserved.

  “Oh, he’ll find you, all right. I’ll tell him right where to look.”

  That did it. He pushed back his chair, leaped up, took a giant step toward her, and put his hands around her neck, squeezing till her beady eyes bulged and she stopped making noise. Her fingers pulled at his wrists, her nails digging in to the skin. “You mutter one stinkin’ word of what you heard us talkin’ ’bout, and you’re dead,” he growled in her ear. “You got that, woman?”

  Eyes wild, she managed a hasty nod of the head. He probably would have killed her on the spot if Hank and Rudy hadn’t each taken an arm and dragged him away from her. She sagged onto the floor, gasping and coughing and clutching her throat.

  When the kid started crying in the other room, she got to her feet and stumbled out, leaving the three of them in peace.

  ***

  Just after she’d come to believe that Joe was really leaving, but well before she felt ready for him to go, Livvie and her boys bid him good-bye at the train station. It was the Sunday following his final week as cook at Livvie’s Kitchen. Cora Mae and a few others had come to the station to bid him farewell, then had gone, leaving Livvie and her boys alone with Joe and his luggage. She held her emotions at bay until the train whistle blew and the conductor bellowed, “All aboard!”

  “Do you really have to go?” she asked for at least the dozenth time that day. “I know, I know, your daughter and grandchildren want you to come, and I don’t blame them one bit, I really don’t, but—”

  He pulled her to him, wrapping her in a big bear hug. “I’ll write soon.”

  “No, you won’t,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “You didn’t even write your own daughter.”

  He laughed. “All right, then. I’ll ring you on the telephone.”

  “That’s better than an old letter, anyway.” She stepped back and brushed the tears from her eyes.

  “Are you ever gonna come back to visit us?” Nathan asked, squinting into the bright sunshine that streamed through the clouds as he looked up at Joe.

  Joe squatted down next to him. “Well, now, what kind o’ friend would I be if I didn’t, huh? O’ course, I’m gonna visit you. In fact, you can bank on it. In the meantime, though, you got to make Mr. Taylor feel at home in the restaurant, you hear?”

  “I already am,” Alex announced. “We played a game of cards yesterday. He learned me how to play Go Fish. He tol’ me he mostly used to just play poker, so he’s not very good at Go Fish. Mom won’t let me play poker.”

  “Of course, I won’t let you play that detestable game!” Livvie exclaimed. “I don’t like you playing any game with those evil cards. They lead to gambling.” Joe looked up at her. “I’m afraid that man is going to be a bad influence on my boys, Joe,” she whispered.

  “What’s poker?” Nathan asked, tapping on Joe’s bent knee.

  “Oh, it’s just a silly game, too complicated to explain right now.”

  “What’s ‘compilcated’?”

  “It means it’s hard, stupid,” Alex answered in Joe’s place. He kicked a small stick off of the platform.

  “Alex, don’t call your brother names. You know better.” Fresh tears, these ones of frustration, trickled out of the corners of her eyes and made paths down her cheeks. She wiped them away, not wanting her boys to notice. So far, so good.

  Joe stood and lifted her chin with his forefinger. “Everything’s gonna be fine. You’ll see,” he said, his voice soothing. “I think Will’s a decent man. Might be a little rough around the edges, but I’ve had some good chats with ’im.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothin’ too deep, but I got a feelin’ from the little he did tell me that he’s been around the block a time or two and learned some worthwhile lessons along the way. He didn’t go into detail, but I think he’s had some hard knocks. That aside, the fella can cook. He’s a real natural. Do your best to give him a chance, Livvie-girl.”

  She gave a long sigh and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll try.”

  ***

  At the sound of the train whistle, Will closed the book he’d been reading, Streams in the Desert. Harry had given it to him b
efore he’d left Welfare Island, and he’d been lapping up the wisdom in its pages like a thirsty mongrel ever since his arrival in Wabash. Each day, he discovered something new and fresh about God’s love and goodness.

  It’d been a busy day thus far. Will had attended church, where he’d met Dan and Clara Gillen and been invited to their home for lunch. Dan owned and operated a poultry farm outside of town, so it had seemed only natural to have baked chicken. Will had complimented Clara so profusely on the meal that she’d given him the recipe for the batter. It had been passed down to her by her grandmother, and she’d never shared it with anyone else. He’d accepted it gratefully and promised that he’d feature it as a weeknight special at Livvie’s Kitchen—and that he’d keep the recipe a secret, too. The woman had glowed with pride. “You let us know when, and we’ll be the first customers through the door that night. Isn’t that right, Daniel?” she’d said, beaming.

  “Only if you intend to pay my way, Clara,” her husband had chortled with a teasing twinkle in his eye.

  “Can we come, too?” one of their young sons had chimed in. “We don’t hardly ever get to go to a rest’rant.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Will had said to the boy. “The night I use your great-grandmother’s recipe, your family’s dinner will be on us.” He knew he’d gone out on a limb, and he could almost hear Livvie’s reaction: “You did what? Offered to let an entire family eat for free?” Since making the offer, he’d been trying to come up with ways to still the rough waters once they rolled in.

  In fact, he’d been thinking a lot about Livvie—her restaurant, rather—tossing around possible ways to bring in more weeknight customers. One idea that struck a positive chord in his noggin was to use home cooks’ tried-and-true secret recipes—the more confidential, the better. First, though, he’d have to get Livvie on board somehow.