by Kip Gayden
Charlie pulled away from her. “Well . . . certainly, Anna. You’re right. I don’t think there’s anything at all wrong with a man and a woman being friends. Discussing literature, poetry, that sort of thing. What is this you’re reading, for example?” He motioned toward the Vogue in her lap.
“Oh, this . . . it’s just a fashion magazine I was looking at while I was . . .”
“Waiting for me?”
“Charlie, I mean it!”
“Sorry, sorry.” He held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “So, what sort of fashions do they put in magazines?”
She handed him the Vogue. “Here. See for yourself.”
Charlie flipped through the pages, making interested noises. Then he paused for a long time. Anna looked over his shoulder. “Charlie, those are pictures of lingerie!”
He gave her a guilty smile. “I’m sorry, Anna. I don’t mean to shock or embarrass you. But I can’t help . . .”
“What? You can’t help what?”
“I oughtn’t say.”
She grabbed the Vogue away from him, looked at the page where he had lingered. “What is it? Charlie, tell me.”
“I just . . . well, Anna, I can’t help looking at these pictures and thinking of how beautiful you’d look, wearing something like that.”
Anna felt a warm sensation spread pleasurably through her body, starting somewhere below her navel and working its way out to her fingertips. “Charlie Cobb. You should be ashamed.” It was only a feeble imitation of a scold, and she was sure he knew it as well as she did. Her voice had a low, thick quality, a buttery sound that gave the lie to her words, even as she spoke them.
“I know, Anna. I’m not a good man, not really. I think things I shouldn’t.” He took her hand and looked her full in the face. “I’m sorry, Anna. I don’t deserve to be in your presence, really. You’re right to send me away. If I had an ounce of backbone, I’d get up from this swing right now and walk away, never looking back.”
Her brow furrowed. “Oh, now, Charlie. Don’t say things like that. You’re not a bad man, not at all. You can’t help it if—” She bit her lip and looked away.
“Can’t help it if what?”
Now it was her turn to look guilty. “I was about to say something unkind . . . about Daisy.”
“Oh.”
They swung for a while in silence.
“She’s a good woman,” Charlie said, finally. “She does the best she can.”
“She’s very nice,” Anna said. “I hope you all can come visit again, soon.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate the way you talk to Daisy.”
“Yes, well . . .”
Anna wanted to tell Charlie about the French nightgown. She wanted to tell him she had one much like those pictured on the page he’d looked at. She wanted him to see her in the nightgown, see that she was so much lovelier than Daisy, so much more appreciative of his charm, his imagination, his poetic spirit. Anna knew she could make Charlie happier than Daisy; she understood him in a way his own wife never could.
“Well . . . I guess I’d better be going,” he said.
“Yes. But I’m so glad you stopped by. I hope you’ll do it again.”
“On a Thursday afternoon?” He gave her a little smile.
“That would be lovely.”
“By the way, I have an answer for your original question.”
“Which one was that?”
“The one about the Argosy magazine. Not exactly the question you asked, but the one you meant to ask, maybe.”
“What was it?”
“What I thought of it. Of what you wrote.”
“Oh. Well?”
“I think you’re right about sunset.”
Anna smiled.
“And you know what I think about Thursdays.”
She smiled a little wider.
Charlie stood. “Well, Mrs. Dotson, I guess I’d better take my leave.”
She offered him her hand, and before she knew it, he’d bowed and kissed her knuckles. “Oh!” she said, pulling it back.
He smiled down at her. “Until our next meeting.” He walked across the backyard and maneuvered his bicycle through the gate. He turned for a last wave at her and rode off, whistling.
Anna watched him go. When she couldn’t see him anymore, she closed her eyes, trying to memorize the way his lips had felt on the back of her hand.
CHARLIE COBB GRINNED BROADLY as he turned his bicycle out of the alley and onto Railroad Street. So she wanted to be friends? Oh, he wanted nothing more . . . for now. And that comment she’d made—what was it? “We’re both married. We’ve made promises before God . . .” Well, who was thinking about doing anything against a marriage vow? Surely Mrs. Anna Dotson wasn’t envisioning the dark pleasures of adultery, was she?
Charlie laughed out loud. I didn’t make any promises before God, only a sleepy justice of the peace in Herndon, Kentucky. He was pretty sure that didn’t count—at least, not in his books.
Oh, Anna, sweet Anna . . . I’ll have you yet.
13
Walter waited as Brother Olmstead finished shaking Charlie Cobb’s hand. Charlie complimented the minister on his sermon and introduced Daisy and Alice.
“I’m so glad you visited our church today, Charlie,” Walter said when the minister had finished his greetings.
“We’re glad to be here, Doc. Thanks for inviting us.”
“I hope you’ll come back. Did Alice like it?”
“I think so,” Charlie said, glancing at his daughter. “She still doesn’t talk much, and never around folks she’s just met, but I’ll bet when we get home, she’ll give Daisy an earful.”
Walter smiled. “I don’t know if you have plans this afternoon or not, but I’m going to set up our Graphophone a little later. I’d love for you all to come by and enjoy the music with us.”
“Graphophone? Don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that.”
“Well, then you need to come by. It’s the latest thing. I’ve got about a dozen music cylinders for it. It’s like having an orchestra right on your front porch.”
Walking home from church, Walter told Anna he’d invited the Cobbs to come listen to the Graphophone later that afternoon.
“Oh? Well, that’s all right, I guess,” she said.
“I really like Charlie Cobb,” Walter said. “He has a very pleasing manner about him. I really hope I can get him interested in Masons. I think he’d be an asset to the lodge.”
“I’m sure that’s right, dear. He seems a nice enough fellow.”
After they were finished with lunch, Walter carried the heavy Graphophone out onto the front porch. The device was housed in a wooden cabinet. A stylus tracked along the grooves of a six-inch wax cylinder that was turned by a spring-driven mechanism. The vibrations from the cylinder resonated along the stylus, then were amplified by a large brass horn, narrow at the bottom and opening up to fourteen inches wide at the mouth. The horn had a decorative, floral-shaped design. He set it up on a table on the front porch, then noticed a smudge or two on the lacquered finish of the horn. He rubbed the smudges with his shirtsleeve until he was satisfied with the result. Walter brought out another box full of cylinders for the machine and made his first selection, “The Washington Post” by Sousa. Soon, the music could be heard blocks away. Folks started gathering on the front porch of the Keystone Hotel, listening to the music as if it were a concert. Walter loved to entertain.
Sometimes he played along with the tunes from the Graphophone on his tuba or his violin. Today he was content to just listen and wave at passersby as they loitered along the sidewalk in front of the house or stood by the front gate.
Soon he saw Charlie and Daisy Cobb walking toward the house. Charlie tipped his hat.
“Anna, they’re here,” he called through the doorway. He turned and waved at Charlie and Daisy as they came up the front walk.
“I really like the music. What’s this song called?” Charlie said.
“
‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon.’ It’s pretty popular. The fellow who sold me the cylinder said it’s sold over fifty thousand copies of sheet music.”
“It is very pretty,” Daisy said.
“Hello, Daisy,” Anna said, coming onto the front porch. “But where’s Alice?”
“She was playing with another little girl close to the house, so we just let her stay there,” Daisy said.
“Oh, dear. Mabel will be disappointed. But never mind,” Anna said. “Here, sit down, sit down. I’ll get us some lemonade.”
Charlie and Daisy settled into a pair of wicker chairs as Anna went to the kitchen to get the lemonade. Walter began explaining the mechanism of the Graphophone. “They’ve got hundreds of different cylinders nowadays, everything from classical music to church hymns. Even some ragtime—I wouldn’t own anything like that, of course. And you can listen to it all right in your home, with one of these.”
Charlie nodded and looked interested. Daisy fanned herself and smiled.
Anna came outside, bearing a tray that held four glasses filled with chipped ice and a pitcher of lemonade. She poured for everyone, then sat down next to Daisy.
“Well, that’s quite a marvel,” Charlie said, still admiring the Graphophone.
“I really enjoy it. I’ve even gotten some of the sheet music for a few of my cylinders so I can teach it to the band.”
“What instrument do you play?” Daisy wanted to know.
“The tuba and the violin, mostly. A little piano. We’ve got a Steinway in the parlor, but I don’t get to practice much.”
“We want Mabel to take lessons, one of these days,” Anna said.
“Put on another cylinder, would you, Walter?” Charlie said.
Walter slid “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” off the spindle and replaced it with another recording. “This is a new one, just came out last year,” he said. He cranked up the mechanism and carefully placed the stylus on the spinning cylinder. A male voice, accompanied by a piano, began singing.
Let me call you “sweetheart” I’m in love with you.
Let me hear you whisper that you love me, too.
Keep the love light glowing in your eyes so true;
Let me call you “sweetheart” I’m in love with you.
Anna’s eyes found Charlie’s during the song; silent messages passed between them. Walter and Daisy, as far as she could see, were oblivious.
“That’s a nice song,” Charlie said when it was over. “I like it a lot.”
“The woman who wrote it is from Tennessee,” Walter said.
“Sure enough?”
“Fresh ice,” Daisy said after a pause, admiring her glass. “That’s so nice on a warm afternoon like this. Are you able to get deliveries on the weekends?”
“Oh, no. But the weekly delivery usually lasts us, even in the hot part of the summer,” Anna said.
“You must have a real nice icebox,” Daisy said.
“Would you like to see the kitchen?” Anna said.
“I sure would,” Daisy said.
They went inside, and Anna took Daisy into the kitchen. She showed her the large, walk-in icebox. Next to the icebox was the pantry, with shelves lining both walls from the floor up to the eight-foot ceiling, laden with canned vegetables and canisters of flour, sugar, and other staples.
“That’s the biggest icebox I believe I have ever seen,” Daisy said. “You can keep so much in it . . . Do you like to cook?”
“I like to, but I’m not very good at it,” Anna said. “Gertrude does most of the cooking. What do you like to cook?”
“Charlie likes fresh vegetables and fruit, and I like to cook fresh meat when we can afford it.”
“Maybe you can come over and teach me how to cook some of the meals that you prepare for Charlie. I would like to learn to cook better for Walter and the children.”
“I reckon I could do that, if you’d like.”
They went upstairs and Anna showed her the children’s bedrooms and bathroom, then her room and Walter’s, separated by their bath.
“That’s so nice, to have your own room like that,” Daisy said. “Charlie and me have always slept in the same bed. But he snores so bad,” she said, giggling. “I’d love to be able to close a door and not have to listen to it.”
Anna smiled at her and tried to think of something to say. She was confused and momentarily speechless for she was beginning to take a liking to Daisy.
“CHARLIE, I’D LIKE TO ASK A FAVOR OF YOU,” Walter said, setting his glass on the table and giving him a serious look.
“Well, sure, Doc, what is it?”
“You know how everybody talks down at the barbershop.”
Charlie nodded, giving Walter a careful look.
“I think people like you and J. P. have a lot more influence, here locally, than you think.”
“Well, Doc, I don’t know. I’m still pretty new in town.”
“Yes, but the fellows down at the barbershop like you. I can tell. And they listen to what you’ve got to say.”
Charlie shrugged.
“So, I’d like to get you to put in a good word for Horace Oldham. He’s up for reelection as judge, and I think we ought to keep him in office.”
Charlie nodded. “If you say so, Walter. I’ll do what I can. I try to stay out of politics, but if somebody asks me what I think, I don’t mind putting in my two cents.”
“Good enough. I’d sure appreciate it. Several of us on the Board of Aldermen are trying to talk to enough people to make sure Horace gets back into office.”
“Suits me. But speaking of the Board of Aldermen . . . are you any closer to a decision on this suffrage business?”
Walter looked pained. “Charlie, I wish I knew what to tell you. But to tell the truth, I can’t say I know my own mind on that.”
“Is that so?”
Walter nodded. “Anna has gotten all caught up in it, and I guess I ought to say more to her about it, but you know how it is with wives. You can only talk them out of so much.”
Charlie gave him a grin.
“I’ve been doing some reading on it, and honestly, I still don’t know what to think.”
“Well, I can’t say I envy you the responsibility. You’ve got a lot on your mind these days. I honestly don’t know how you fit in everything you’re involved in. Your patients, your church, the Masons, all of it. You’re on the go an awful lot, seems like to me.”
Walter nodded. “True enough. A time or two, Anna has tried to get me to slow down, and I keep meaning to, but, to tell you the truth, I’m really interested in all these things. My music, and the Masons, and lecturing, and the Board of Aldermen . . . I don’t know, I just . . .” He gave Charlie a sad little smile. “Here I am a doctor, and you’re the one listening to all my complaints.”
Charlie grinned and shrugged. “Well, Doc, it’s the least I can do.”
“YOU’VE GOT SUCH PRETTY THINGS, ” Daisy said, eyeing the dresses in Anna’s closet. “Thank you for letting me see them.”
“Well, of course. I’m so glad you asked.”
“I’d love to have some time to make me a nice dress like one of these,” Daisy said. “I think Charlie would like it if I could fix up a little.”
“Oh, don’t be silly! You’re lovely as a peach, just like you are,” Anna said.
Daisy blushed a little and smiled. “Well, thank you. But, well, sometimes, with Charlie . . .”
Anna gave her a careful look. “What, Daisy?”
Daisy gave her a guilty look. “Oh, I shouldn’t say. It’s just a feeling I get, sometimes.”
“Please, Daisy. Tell me.”
“Well . . . Charlie has what you might call a wandering eye.”
Anna waited.
“I can see the way he looks at other women, sometimes. I guess maybe I worry about it . . . a little.”
“Well . . . I don’t think . . .”
“Oh, I don’t reckon he does much about it,” Daisy said. “I guess lot
s of men look; that’s just their way.”
Anna nodded.
“I just think if I could have some nicer things . . . Walter must like to see you fixed up all pretty, mustn’t he?”
Anna looked out the window. “Oh, I . . . Walter is a very busy man, Daisy, you must understand. He’s gone so much that . . .”
“Well, anyway. I don’t need to rattle on about it,” Daisy looked at Anna. “It’s just that . . . I never really had a woman friend, before. It was just me and my mother and daddy and brother, and then Charlie came along, and now . . . I just wanted to talk to somebody about it. A woman.”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” Anna said.
WALTER WAS EXPLAINING some of the projects of the local Masonic lodge to Charlie when the two women came back out on the porch. Charlie and Walter stood and held chairs for their wives.
“Put another song on, Walter,” Anna said. “Put on that last one: ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart.’ I like it.”
The cylinder was still on the spindle from its last playing. Walter cranked up the spring drive and set the stylus. The song floated out over the front yard and the neighborhood.
Walter sat back down in his chair and closed his eyes, swaying a little in time with the waltz tempo of the song. It was nice, sitting out on the front porch with friends, listening to the music. Walter felt himself softening, relaxing. He thought about what he’d just been saying to Charlie, about being gone so much of the time. Maybe it was the sentiment of the song, or the general mellowness of the afternoon and the pleasant passing of time, but he was feeling genuinely remorseful—a little ashamed of how he was neglecting Anna and the children. A man could win a popularity contest and lose his own family in the process, if he wasn’t careful.
Walter thought about Horace Dobbs and his young wife, Savannah. Now there were two people who had just about nothing except each other, more so than just about anybody you’d likely meet. Last week, Savannah had gone into labor with their first baby. Walter had feared it was going to be a difficult delivery; he’d had two consultations with the young woman at the end of her first two trimesters. When the message came—a boy who lived down the rutted dirt road from the Dobbses had ridden bareback into Gallatin to fetch Walter—it was after five in the afternoon.