Asked For (5 page)

James snatched the stool off the floor and shoved it behind the washstand before Pop could see it. Pop hated small. That’s why Mama kept it out of sight, far from Pop’s eyes. He left his brothers and rushed to the kitchen, where Mama and his sisters were scurrying to have everything ready before Pop stepped through the door. Gail was aligning tarnished silverware beside each plate. Nothing matched, nothing was new, but it had to be orderly. Pop insisted, and Gail made sure things were perfect, that was her way. James put his hand on Magdalena’s plate.

“Don’t touch that!” Gail snapped. She rushed to his side and smacked his hand away. “What are you doing? Get out of the way!”

“Magdalena’s not eating with us. I’m supposed to move her plate and tell Mama.”

Gail’s eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open. She closed it, scooped up Magdalena’s place setting and ran it to the bureau.

“He’s here!” Carla called from the front room. She wasn’t one to shout, her voice could barely be heard above the reverberation of Pop’s old truck as it rumbled into the lane.

Carla came into the dining room with a stack of cloth napkins and set each one on the table, dropping the plainest and most tattered one next to James’ plate. He was the littlest. He was the last. That’s the way things were, Pop said.

Mama darted from the kitchen, an apron tied over the same faded dress she’d worn to his ballgame. She started around the table to check the settings, make sure the plates, silverware, glasses—and one coffee cup for Pop—were all in the right place. James watched her, her movements, her quick and studious glances, all so familiar. Mama did this every night when Pop came home. She hurried. When James thought of Mama at home, he thought of
hurry!

James came alongside her as she turned the last corner and approached Magdalena’s empty spot.

Alex and Harold popped through the doorway. Mama stopped and glanced at the older boys, a smile of welcome on her tired face. They nodded, warm smiles returned, as they slipped to the backs of their chairs. They stood like sentinels. No one sat until Pop did.

James reached for his mother’s apron, the soft fabric gripped between his fingers.

“Now, Mama?” Betsy poked her head through the door. Betsy always did what was right. It was her way of keeping things peaceful and in order.

The back door opened, and Pop’s voice could be heard over the rain as he told King goodnight before stepping inside. Alex and Harold straightened. Betsy didn’t wait for Mama’s okay. She began toting steaming dishes to the table, a thin towel between her hands and the hot pottery. James heard Gail set a coffeepot on the stove. The coffee would be ready when Pop was, hot and thick, the way he liked it.

“Mama?” James whispered.

“James, get behind your chair.” Her command came out in a sharp whisper.

“But, Mama—”

“James, I said get behind your chair. We’re getting food on the table.” She stepped toward the kitchen as the back door closed.

“But, Mama, Magdalena’s gone.”

Mama stopped and stared at him. Her
hurry
churned and stalled, but it didn’t vanish.

“Gail put her dishes away. Magdalena said to tell you she’s gone out, but to tell Pop she’s trying out for a job.”

Mama drew in a deep breath and dipped her head in a slow nod. He knew she was thinking about what he’d told her, and the things she would now have to say.

She started to push around James, but he held onto her apron. “Mama…the game… I don’t want Pop to…”

This time the
hurry
vanished from her eyes. Her preoccupation was broken. A strange glimmer, a distant flicker appeared, then disappeared. She looked down at him. “No game,” she said. “Nothing about the game. Nothing about the afternoon.” She sounded like Magdalena. Warning him, more than just agreeing to keep Pop from knowing he’d messed up.

“What game?”

James saw what Pop looked like in his mother’s face. He could smell the slightly burnt odor that was permanent in Pop’s skin and clothing, tiny blackened holes testifying he was a welder. James turned and looked into his father’s face.
The game you didn’t come to. The one you don’t even remember you were supposed to come to
. The game James was relieved he hadn’t come to since it wasn’t good, not good enough for Pop.

“Nothing. Supper’s on the table,” Mama said, as she slipped from James’ fingers and rushed to the kitchen. James turned back and watched her, then took his place behind his chair.

Pop returned to the back porch. The sound of water being splashed came from the washstand where Pop washed away the grime but not the stench of welding. The towel always smelled slightly burnt after he dried his face and hands. Mama set a steaming dish of potatoes on the table and took her place behind her chair. James shot Mama a glance. The empty space where Magdalena should have been shouted her absence. Missing a meal would draw Pop’s angry inquisition. Being late always guaranteed his strap. Mama looked taut beneath the flush of hurry. Pop’s tall form could be felt in the doorway, then be seen as he made his way to the table.

James stared down at his plate. He knew by heart how Pop looked and what he would do. Pop’s chair skidded backwards, its legs scraping across the floor. He dropped into it with a heave, and scooted it forward. The rest of them sat, their chairs silent as they settled into their places.

Dishes of food streamed Pop’s way. He didn’t even have to ask. Mama said he’d asked once, years ago, when they first married. She just passed them now, and she’d taught James, and his brothers and sisters, to do the same.

“Posts and wire in the shed?” Pop asked around a mouthful of pork.

“Yes, sir,” Harold responded. “Fence is down and everything put away, just like you wanted.”

Pop nodded. “Where’s Magdalena?” Pop’s attention was off Harold and Alex. His gaze went from Magdalena’s empty space to Mama.

Mama didn’t hesitate. She answered as suddenly as he’d asked. “Trying out for a job.”

Pop stopped chewing. “Restaurant?”

Mama shook her head, quick and sharp, as if the idea of Magdalena working in a restaurant was ludicrous. No one said a thing as Pop stared Mama down. “She wouldn’t do that,” Mama said, the muscles in her jaw tight.

Pop watched Mama a moment longer, then stabbed a chunk of meat on his fork and wagged it at her. “What else would a girl be doing this time of night?”

Mama took a bite and chewed. James watched her lower jaw grind, side to side, and up and down. She shook her head as if that was answer enough for Pop’s question.
I don’t know what our daughter is doing, but it’s okay.
James wished Magdalena had stayed home and just done what Pop wanted.

Pop turned his gaze on James. James drew in a shallow breath and met his father’s eyes. The fork pointed his way, and Pop’s look sharpened. “What’s in your sister’s blood ain’t fit to be discussed at this table.” He shot a glance at Mama, then back at James. “I’ll deal with her when she gets home.” Pop’s eyes carried the fiery spark of welding, pinpointed and hot, as he zeroed in on James. He didn’t want to look in Pop’s eyes, just like he wasn’t supposed to look at the bright light of welding. “And you...” Pop’s voice took on a darker tone. “You got some of your sister’s blood in you, but that ain’t your problem. It’s what you ain’t got that is. Forget about that game you were talking about earlier. Baseball’s
not
in your blood.”

Chapter 4

Lana 1929

The roar and rumble of Cletus’ truck created a cocoon, a shell of noise around a wordless vacuum. Lana welcomed the silence the first hour they drove toward Cletus’ home. She’d stared out the side window, the scenery a teary blur as she forced her heart to catch up to them. She was married now. It was senseless to linger over a childhood that was gone. Grandma’d told her what she had to do, and she’d do it, even without her father there helping her make the transition. She stole a glance to her left, across the seat, at her new husband. Cletus’ large hands gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Lana needed to see Cletus’ face again, see more than the sallow blue eyes that had said hello and hurry at the same time. She’d been too surprised when she opened the door, too uncertain as Cletus’ long legs turned and led her to his truck. Lana glanced again out her side window and rested her hands on the cloth bag on her lap. Grandma would give her father the picture Lana had left behind. He would surely know it meant come, come see me now.

Cletus had said very little since he’d taken her from Grandma’s. He’d held the truck door for her while she climbed in. She thanked him, and he nodded before he took his place in the driver’s seat and drove. When they reached the courthouse, and the justice of the peace asked him, Cletus had said, “I do.” Then he asked the justice of the peace how much and paid him. Nothing more had been said. He’d eyed her when she climbed back into his truck, like he was studying something he’d just bought. He looked satisfied, and she’d smiled. He nodded again; then they drove on.

She ventured another glance his way. It would be nice to talk, hear more of his voice, learn what he thought, if he was happy now that she was his wife. She set one hand on the seat between them, she tapped a finger, but still Cletus stared straight ahead, tall in the seat, towering over her in height the same way he did in years. His legs were so long his knees bumped the dashboard, and the top of his head brushed the cab’s ceiling. His hair was stiff and light, maybe whitish, maybe blondish. Maybe he really was too old to care if girls were pretty. She pulled her hand back to her lap. Grandma had said he was…at least girls like her. Maybe Grandma was right.

“Is it much farther?” she shouted above the truck’s roar.

He looked at her then, his brows arching as if he’d forgotten she was there.

“I asked if it was much farther.” She leaned his way, caught his pale blue eyes, and studied them. This was her husband, this was the man she would spend the rest of her life with. He wasn’t handsome; he was rather ordinary looking. Her darker hair and complexion stood in stark contrast to his almost wan color. He probably wouldn’t think she was pretty since she was so different from him, but that was okay because she didn’t think he was particularly good-looking.

“Not much. Maybe another hour. I need to keep my eyes on the road.” He didn’t shout, but she heard him. He returned his attention to driving. She nodded and looked at the road too.

No boy had ever said she was pretty. Jeanie claimed that’s how it started, that’s what a prince did when he met the girl he wanted for his princess. A couple of boys in school had said they liked her. Jim Dillon, who used to come over and help her with chores now and then, acted like he maybe thought she was nice-looking. Grandma said he wasn’t actually coming over because of Lana, he did what he did for pay, but with Lana watching he was too proud to take the canned goods or eggs she offered him. Sometimes Jeanie followed him over. Jeanie talked even more when Jim was around. He never really said much back to Jeanie. He just kept helping Lana with the chores, the two of them letting Jeanie talk.

Lana studied the passing grass and fields. Cletus was putting a lot of miles between Jim’s kindness and her. Maybe she should have told Jim she was getting married. Grandma had said not to tell him, there wasn’t time. She wished Grandma had let her. Jim probably would have come by today.

Cletus revved the engine, then let off the gas as he jammed the gearshift into another gear. The engine rumbled to a low hum as he turned into a driveway. He hit the gas again and accelerated over bumps and cuts in the lane. Lana bounced off the seat, the yellow sash on her dress flying up. Her head struck the ceiling, and her teeth bit hard when the truck hit the ground again. She grabbed for the dashboard as the truck lurched over the next rut, and the next. Cletus finally rounded an old house and yanked the truck to a stop. The engine cut to nothing, and the smell of hot fumes filled the cab.

“We’re here?” Lana gazed at the two-story structure in front of her, thick gray boards laid one over the other in lines, each one beaten raw by the hot sun and icy winters. Upstairs, rags protruded from a couple of the windows, wads of faded cloth where glass should have been. She shivered and glanced at Cletus, wondering where her…their…bedroom would be. Rusty tin made up the roof of a low back porch, sloping their direction, protruding over a door in a windowless wall. “This is where you…I mean, we…live?” She pivoted in her seat when he nodded—an old barn, a smokehouse, an outhouse near a shed, and a fence that needed mending behind them, everything arching around the backside of the house and its parking area.

She straightened in the seat and glanced Cletus’ way. He was watching her, one eyebrow hiked up as he did. Maybe he was hoping she liked her new home. “You can put in a garden over there.” Cletus nodded toward a patch of tall, dry weeds.

She stared where he indicated. “Now?” Her voice sounded weak. “Now?” She tried again. She twisted the yellow fabric of her belt around her fingers.

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

She glanced at the house, then back at her new husband. “What’s your middle name?” She could tell by the look on his face she’d startled him. She twisted the yellow belt tighter around two fingers. “I mean…well, I just want to know…”

“It’s Anthony. We should go in.” He slid out his side of the truck and slammed the door behind him. He walked to her side, opened the door, and waited for her. She slipped to the ground.

“Mine’s Elaine. Now my name is Lana Elaine Paine. That sounds kind of nice, don’t you think? It rhymes.”

“Glad you like it.” He turned toward the house, and she followed him.

A long narrow rut ran the length of the back part of the house where the slanted roof shed its rain, a gouge dug in the dirt along the wall. Cletus’ long legs stepped over it as if it weren’t there. He opened the door and paused, waiting for her to enter. She edged past him into a blinding dimness, a dank smell telling her more than her eyes could about this back room. He followed and closed the door behind him. She stood there, afraid to move until her eyes adjusted. She heard water to her left. He was pouring it, sloshing it in a pan. He splashed, then it splattered into a slop bucket.