Livvie's Song

by Sharlene MacLaren

  “Your only sister,” Livvie muttered.

  “I heard the first homegrown strawberries are starting to come in,” Margie said. “Want me to pick you up some?”

  Livvie’s mouth watered at the thought of biting into a ripe strawberry. “That would be wonderful, but I can go get—”

  “I thought I’d run over to that new candy shop that Mabel Simpson just opened on East Maple Street, too—what was it? Daydream Chocolates?” she droned. “Heaven knows I can make my own fudge, but Howard insisted I bring him home a couple of pounds, anyway—not that he needs it, mind you. I’ll put some away for Alex and Nathan. I heard the little shop is doing quite well, and Howard wants to make sure we do our part to keep it that way. You know as well as anybody how hard it is to keep a new business afloat.” Margie stopped for a breath and walked ahead of Livvie into the living room. “How is that new cook working out, by the way?” She plunked her rather plump frame into Livvie’s sofa and mopped her damp brow. “My, oh my, it’s hot!”

  The month of June had ushered in another heat wave, making Livvie’s upstairs apartment uncommonly warm, despite the cross breezes generated by all the open windows.

  “I suppose he’ll work out fine. Today was his first day alone, you know. I miss Joe terribly.”

  “Well, that’s to be expected, honey, but I’m sure this new fellow will catch on quickly.”

  She wouldn’t mention that he’d already made the kitchen his own by rearranging the pots, pans, and baking sheets and moving the utensils to a different drawer. Nor would she let on how efficient the restaurant had been through the breakfast and lunch rushes, even with an overabundance of customers and their potentially distracting introductions and greetings. The exception to the generally welcoming atmosphere, of course, had been Sheriff Morris. He wanted folks to view him as watchful and protective, so, naturally, every newcomer was met with suspicious glances and peppered with questions. She was actually surprised that the sheriff hadn’t been more forthright with his interrogation. Even though Will had divulged a few details about his past to her, she sensed that he’d left much unsaid.

  “What’s he like, anyway?”

  “What?”

  “Your new cook. What’s he like? How old is he?”

  “I haven’t—I don’t exactly know. He has a big, bushy beard.” And disarming eyes and an extremely large, masculine frame. “It’s hard for me to guess his age.”

  “Is he married? Does he have children?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. He came here alone.”

  Margie arched an eyebrow. “He does have restaurant experience, right?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Apparently, he worked in some large establishment in New York.”

  “Apparently?” Margie’s forehead wrinkled like a raisin. “You don’t seem to know very much about this new employee, Liv.”

  It embarrassed her to admit the truth of her sister’s statement. “Well, Joe talked to him, and I went on his recommendation. He seems to believe Will—er, Mr. Taylor will do a fine job.”

  “Ah. So, the two of you are on a first-name basis already?”

  “It seemed appropriate, since we work together.”

  “Of course.” Margie gave a slow sigh. “Well, I suppose I trust Joe’s judgment.”

  Livvie perched on the edge of the chair across from Margie. “He plays the harmonica, not that it has anything to do with…anything, I guess. He took Alex and Nathan down to the river yesterday, and I went to check up on them—he didn’t know it, of course—and I overheard him playing for the boys. The music he made with that little instrument struck me as quite melodic and, well, just plain lovely.”

  “Really. The harmonica.” Margie cast a glance at the window, where the sheer white curtains had caught an updraft and danced in the breeze. “Didn’t old Mr. Foxworthy, Papa’s friend, play a mouth organ?”

  “I have no idea, Margie. You remember much more about Mama and Papa than I do. The house burned when I was ten.”

  “Almost eleven. You really don’t remember?”

  Livvie gave her head a slow shake and thought again about the day in early spring some twenty-plus years ago. The haziest of memories flitted across her mind—memories of thick smoke, her eyes pinched shut to avoid the sting of it; of her papa’s arms whisking her up from her bed, carrying her outside, and setting her on the ground, well away from the flaming house; of Papa’s voice, instructing her firmly to stay put while he went back inside to fetch her mama. Little had she known, while watching his shadowy figure stumble back inside the two-story structure, that she’d never see him or her beloved mama again.

  From that day forward, her sister and brother-in-law had been her adoptive parents. They’d raised her as their own, along with their two boys, Duane and Keith, who had always been more like younger brothers than nephews to her. “I wish I could remember more about my childhood, but my memories prior to the fire are just a lot of mush.”

  Margie gave a sullen nod and played with the folds of her cotton skirt. “I suppose a traumatic event such as a house fire will do that to a child—erase memories, whether good or bad.”

  “I sometimes wonder if that hasn’t happened with my boys regarding Frank’s accident. They seldom talk about him anymore, even though I try my best to keep his memory alive.”

  “I know, honey, but I’m sure they remember more than you think they do. Especially Alex. Maybe they just don’t feel ready to talk about it. Sometimes, these things take months, even years.”

  Outside, a car horn honked, and another one answered. Impatient drivers! It was a wonder more folks weren’t killed on the busy streets of Wabash, what with all the traffic coming and going and pedestrians crossing the street wherever they chose. The advent of automobiles in recent years had certainly done much to speed up society—as if folks weren’t already scurrying about like ants at a picnic.

  “I know you’re right. And I appreciate all that Howard does for the boys. They need that male influence in their lives, and he’s always so good with them.”

  “Yes, well, it’s no trouble. I just wish we had more time to give. They truly are fine little men. You have the Lord to thank for that, you know.”

  She did know, but she couldn’t bring herself to validate Margie’s claim. It seemed that she’d wandered away from God’s everlasting arms, and that getting back to them would take great effort. She nodded briefly.

  Margie made a little sniff and smoothed out her skirt. “Well, I should probably be on my way. It was good seeing you. I’ll stop by again soon and take you and the boys out to the farm.”

  Livvie rose with her sister and tried to smile, although her spirits had dipped low during the talk of her parents and the perilous fire and then Frank’s accident. “That sounds nice. What do you hear from those boys of yours?”

  Margie started making her way to the door, and Livvie followed. “Oh, those crazy boys. I haven’t heard from either of them in over a month. I guess the armed services keep them too busy to write. At least, that’s what they’d like me to believe.”

  She stopped at the coat tree and grabbed her hat. At that precise moment, the familiar sound of feet racing up the back staircase alerted the women that the boys were home from school. They fumbled with the lock, and then their excited voices filled the hallway, getting louder and louder, until the apartment door burst open. “Mommy!” Nathan exclaimed, barely taking notice of Margie’s presence. “You won’t believe it!”

  “I won’t?”

  He and Alex were both gasping for air, their faces red and damp with sweat.

  “Tell me, tell me!” she urged them, expecting to hear about some exciting event from their final week of school. She could barely believe that in the fall, Alex would be starting third grade, Nathan second grade.

  Instead, they announced in unison, “Mr. Taylor shaved his beard!”

  Chapter Nine

  “For thou art not a God that hath pleasure in wickedness: neither shall evil dwell wit
h thee.”—Psalm 5:4

  Will ran a hand down his face, still trying to get accustomed to the smooth feel of his clean-shaven cheeks and chin. Man, if he’d known how much cooler he’d be minus all those whiskers, he would have shaved them off long ago.

  He found himself whistling a tune as he scooped a spoonful of flour out of the canister and sprinkled it on the wooden block. He also floured his hands, then took the metal bowl of dough out of the refrigerator and scooped up the stiff, round glob. Whistling still, he laid the dough gingerly on the block, then pulled apart a section of dough and, with a rolling pin he’d rubbed with flour, started pressing it into a smooth, flat circle. Why, he could almost smell the piecrusts baking in the oven now.

  The aroma would always remind him of the day when Harry had first demonstrated how to make a fruit pie. He’d sung hymn after hymn as he’d rolled the dough, Will working right alongside him, and they’d baked pies by the dozen in the big oven. Thanks to Harry’s patient instruction, he’d learned a good deal about food preparation—and even more about the Lord. Strange how the two had somehow ended up going hand in hand.

  He wiped his brow with his forearm, then glanced at the clock on the far wall. Suppertime started in half an hour. Anytime now, customers would start milling about outside, waiting for Livvie or Cora Mae to unlock the door and flip the sign to “Open.” He stopped whistling and grinned to himself as he wondered how folks would react to his clean-shaven face. Chuckling, he recalled the stunned expressions on Alex and Nathan’s faces when they’d bounded through the back door about an hour ago and found him sweeping the floor.

  “Who’re you?” a wide-eyed Nathan had asked, halting his steps to stare at Will.

  “Is that any way to greet the fellow who taught you how to skip rocks?” he’d asked, pausing to lean on his broom.

  At that, both boys had dropped their chins, narrowed their eyes to mere slits, and slowly advanced, staring good and hard. “Is that you, Mr. Taylor?” Alex had asked, scratching the tip of his freckled nose.

  “It looks like his body.”

  “It sounds like his voice.”

  “It’s me, all right,” he’d said, smiling broadly. “Got rid of that fur on my face. So, what do you think?”

  Neither had stopped staring. “Your nose looks littler,” Nathan had observed.

  “My—my nose?”

  “No it don’t, silly,” Alex had insisted, poking his brother. “It’s the same nose. It’s his mouth. You can see his mouth now—and his cheeks.”

  “Yeah,” Nathan had said, his blue eyes flickering with awareness. “Yeah, I never seen his lips before—’cept when he played that little mouth piano. Then I seen a little bit of ’em.”

  “Organ, dummy. Mouth organ,” Alex had corrected him.

  Almost unconsciously, Will had touched his nose while they’d chattered on, and he wondered if it seemed unusually large to other people. He didn’t care one way or the other, really; he was just curious. More than likely, the absence of his beard simply made everything about his face look different, including the size of his nose. He laughed now at their earnest observations.

  Then, he wondered what their mother would say when she saw his new look. Since their first meeting, she’d made no bones about how much she disliked his facial hair. Would she think that he’d shaved it to make her happy? He certainly hoped not. The truth was, he wanted to keep Sheriff Morris off his back, and he’d figured a clean-shaven look would go far to accomplish that end.

  On the stove, a kettle of vegetable beef soup and another of chicken noodle simmered, and, on the counter, fresh-baked loaves of bread cooled on metal racks. Tonight’s supper would consist of the usual fare: soup, bread, and fried chicken with mashed potatoes or hamburgers with French fries. Will had not abandoned his hope of spicing up the menu with secret family recipes, especially since he feared that once folks’ curiosity about the new cook had tapered off, so would the number of customers they saw on a nightly basis. Perhaps, he could talk to Livvie tonight, once she’d put her boys to bed. The sooner they made some changes, the sooner they could turn this little business around for the better. He hoped she’d agree.

  ***

  “Flo, bring us some more o’ that moonshine!” Clem Dodd hollered to his wife in the kitchen. Across the room, Rudy and Hank lounged in run-down chairs, while the cigarettes that dangled from their mouths spewed rings of smoke that swirled over their heads. Truth be told, both fellows disgusted him, but a cord of crime kept them bound tight together. Since their first robbery—a jewelry store—they’d committed plenty of infractions and petty thefts, from late-night muggings in subway stations to midnight break-ins at various stores, taking whatever they could carry and exchanging it for cash at a pawn shop. Sure, they had daytime jobs, but not the kind that provided enough funds to feed their favorite habits: smoking, drinking, and gambling. Besides, they found enjoyment in the thrill of doing the crime but not the time. They were darned good at what they did, and getting better with age and experience. Even without experience, they’d gotten lucky in that jewelry store heist, except for the fact that Will Taylor had kept the loot. It was high time they caught up with him and found out where he’d stashed the goods.

  Florence entered the living room, carrying a tray of drinks. Her hair fell forward over her cheeks, probably in an attempt to hide the bruise he’d put on her left one after she’d mouthed off to him the night before. Fool woman didn’t know when to shut her trap. They’d had another knock-down-drag-out after she’d put her kid to bed. He wasn’t about to admit to the boys that he had a good-sized bump on his own head, which he’d had to nurse with a bag of ice. They’d never let him live it down.

  He was getting plain sick of Flo, especially since she’d gotten bold and started dishing back his blows. Their fights almost always had to do with money—she’d complain that he gambled away all his earnings; he’d tell her to go out and get a job. They generally wound up reducing each other’s characters to squat, too, using the worst kinds of names and getting some kind of sick pleasure from it.

  Flo set the bottle of home-brewed liquor on the coffee table without speaking to Clem or meeting his eyes. Good. At least she’d heard him on that count. “Keep your fat mouth shut when the fellas come over,” he’d told her this morning. “You poke your nose in where it don’t belong, and I’ll cut it off, you hear?”

  Apparently, she had, for she’d holed up in the kitchen and worked on the evening meal, having sent Eddie to her mother’s house for the night.

  Clem watched her leave the room. When she was out of earshot, he said, “I came up with a plan.”

  “Yeah?” Hank flicked his cigarette and lifted an eyebrow. “I bet it’s just brilliant.”

  He ignored the jab. “I’ll head to Wabash on my own and see if I can figure out what Taylor’s up to.”

  “I thought you wanted all three of us to go,” Rudy said.

  “You both whined about havin’ to leave your pathetic jobs, remember? I been giving it some thought, and it prob’ly wouldn’t make sense for all three of us to traipse off to Indiana till we know what’s what. I’ll go on ahead, figure out where Taylor’s hangin’ ’is hat, and see if he’s carousin’ with anybody in particular. If I see anythin’ suspicious, I’ll call you and tell you to get your behinds to Wabash. I won’t confront ’im on my own.”

  Hank lifted a corner of his lip and snorted, his eyes gone dark. “And what if you don’t learn a blessed thing? What if our old friend is mindin’ ’is manners? Could be prison taught ’im a thing or two.”

  Clem reached over to the coffee table and refilled his glass. Then, he brought it to his lips and took a long swig of the liquid, which sizzled like fire all the way down. He nearly choked, but he breathed deeply and gathered his wits as he waited for the burn to subside. “Then, I s’pose I’ll come on back here.”

  “Yeah, right.” Hank emitted a nervous cluck. “You’re just lookin’ for a way to escape that biddy out in the kitchen, and
Wabash is soundin’ pretty good about now. Don’t matter that you know nothin’ ’bout the place. You just wanna disappear.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Clem spat. But, even as he hissed the words, he knew Hank’s statement rang true.

  ***

  Livvie couldn’t help stealing hurried glances at Will Taylor throughout the supper hour. Since shaving that shaggy rug off his face, he was just about the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on—with the exception of her Frank, of course. Gracious! What business did she have noticing another man’s good looks? She had sworn to love Frank and no other till she took her dying breath, and not even Will Taylor’s square-set face, wavy brown hair, striking blue eyes, and generous mouth would stop her from keeping that promise.

  Meanwhile, Cora Mae hadn’t excused herself for swooning over his absent beard. She’d made an utter fool of herself, going so far as to make Will blush. “I had no idea there was a fine-looking face under all that bushiness, Mr. Taylor,” she’d crooned. “Why, if I were twenty years younger—”

  “Cora Mae Livingston, behave yourself!” Livvie had scolded her. The woman’s lack of delicacy was embarrassing.

  Will had thrown Livvie a fleeting smile, and she’d noticed a twinkle in his eyes. She’d figured he was waiting to see what she’d have to say about his beardless face.

  Of course, she’d said nothing, not wanting him to think it mattered one whit. He must have known that it did, though, considering how adamantly she’d encouraged him to shave. She should have thanked him for obliging her, but her pride wouldn’t allow it.

  At six o’clock, Charley Arnold and Roy Scott strolled in, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Ire and dread immediately rose in her chest. She hadn’t seen them in a good week and had secretly hoped they’d chosen another café, where they could puff away till the cows came home.

  “Hello, boys,” she greeted them, struggling to put on a friendly façade. “I have an open table right here by the door. I’d appreciate it if you’d put out those smokes before you settle in, though. You know good and well I have a no-smoking policy. This is a family restaurant.”