Morning Glory (26 page)

“Tell me.” He sensed her reluctance but kept his gaze steady, unrelenting. After some time she sent Will a quick peek.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I promise.”

For several seconds she concentrated on aligning her thumbnails precisely, then finally quoted shyly.

“He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

“The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.”

She paused before adding, “Somebody named Tennyson wrote that.”

In that moment Will saw a new facet of his wife. Fragile. Impressionable. Touched by poets’ words, articulate combinations of words such as she herself never used.

“It’s beautiful,” he said softly.

Her thumbnails clicked together as she vacillated between the wish to hide her feelings and reveal more. The latter won as she swallowed and added softly, “Nobody laughs at eagles.”

Oh, Elly, Elly, who hurt you so bad? And what would it take to make you forget it?
Will rolled to face her and braced his jaw on a fist. But she wouldn’t turn, and her cheeks burned brightly.

“Did somebody laugh at you?” His voice was deep with caring. A tear plumped in the corner of her eye. Understanding her chagrin at its arrival, Will pretended not to notice. He waited motionlessly for her answer, studying the ridge of her nose, the outline of her compressed lips. When she spoke it was an evasion.

“For a long time I didn’t know what azure meant.”

He watched as her throat contracted and the florid spots in her cheeks stood out like pennies on an open palm. His hand burned to touch her—her chin maybe, turn it to face him so she would see that he cared and would never ridicule her. He wanted to take her close, cradle her head and rub her shoulder and say, “Tell me... tell me what it is that hurts so bad, then we’ll work at getting you over it.” But every time he considered touching her his insecurities reared up to confront and confine him. Woman killer, jailbird, she’ll jump and yelp
if you touch her. On the first day you were warned to keep your distance.

So he stayed on his own side of the bed with one wrist riveted to his hip, the other folded beneath an ear. But what he couldn’t relay by touch he put into his expressive voice.

“Elly?” It came out softly, the abbreviated name falling from his lips as an endearment. Their gazes collided, her green eyes still luminous with unshed tears, his brown ones filled with understanding. “Nobody’s laughing now.”

Suddenly everything in her yearned toward him.

Touch me,
she thought,
like nobody ever did before, like I touch the boys when they feel bad. Make it not important that I’m plain and unpretty and more pregnant than I wish I was right now. You’re the man, Will
—
don’t you see? A man’s got to reach first.

But he couldn’t. Not first.

Touch me,
he thought,
my arm, my hand, a finger. Let me know it’s all right for me to have these feelings for you. Nobody’s cared enough to touch me for years and years. But you’ve got to reach first, don’t you see? Because of how you felt about him, and what I am, what I did, what we agreed to the first day I came here.

In the end, neither of them moved. She lay with her hands atop her swollen stomach, her heart hammering frantically, afraid of rejection, ridicule, the things she had been seasoned by life to expect.

He lay feeling unlovable due to his spotty past and the fact that no woman including his own mother had found him worth the effort, so why should Elly?

And so they talked and gazed during those lanternlit nights of acquaintance—crazy Eleanor and her ex-con husband—learning respect for each other, wondering when and if that first seeking might happen, each hesitant to reach out for what they both needed.

The honey was all bottled. The hives received fresh coats of white paint, their bases—as suggested in print—a variety of colors to guide the workers back from their forays. When
Will left the orchard for the last time, the hives held enough honey to feed the bees through the winter.

He packed away the extractor in an outbuilding until the spring honey run began and announced that night at supper, “I’ll be going to town tomorrow to sell the honey. If there’s anything you need, make a list.”

She asked for only two things: white flannel to make diapers and a roll of cotton batting.

The following day when Will stepped through the library doors, Gladys Beasley was immersed in lecturing a cluster of schoolchildren on the why and wherefore of the card catalogue. With her back to Will, she looked like a dirigible on legs. Packed into a bile-green jersey dress, wearing club-heeled shoes and the same cap of precise blue ringlets against a skull of baby pink, she gestured with her head and spoke in her inimitable pedantic voice.

“The Dewey Decimal System was named after an American librarian named Melvil Dewey over seventy years ago. James,” she digressed, “quit picking your nose. If it needs attention, please ask to be dismissed to the lavatory. And in the future please see to it that you bring your handkerchief with you to school. Under the Dewey Decimal System books are divided into ten groups...” The lecture continued as if the remonstration had not interrupted.

Meanwhile, Will stood with an elbow braced on the checkout desk, waiting, enjoying. A little girl pirouetted on her heels—left, right—gazing at the overhead lights as if they were comets. A red-headed boy scratched his private rear quarters. Another girl balanced on one foot, holding the opposite ankle as high against her buttock as she could force it. Since coming to live with Elly and the boys Will had grown to appreciate children for their naturalness.

“... any subject at all. If you’ll follow me, children, we’ll begin with the one hundreds.” As Miss Beasley turned to herd stragglers, she caught sight of Will lounging against the desk. Involuntarily her face brightened and she touched her heart. Realizing what she’d done, she dropped and clasped
her hand and recovered her customary prim expression. But it was too late—she was already blushing.

Will straightened and tipped his hat, pleasantly shocked by her telling reaction, warmed more than he’d have thought possible by the idea of such an unlikely woman getting flustered over him. He’d been doing everything in his power to get his wife to react that way but he’d certainly never expected it here.

“Excuse me, children.” Miss Beasley touched two heads in passing. “You may explore through the one hundreds and the two hundreds.” As she approached Will the tinge of pink on her cheeks became unmistakable and he grew more amazed.

“Mornin’, Miss Beasley.”

“Good morning, Mr. Parker.”

“Busy today,” he observed, glancing at the children.

“Yes. Mrs. Gardner’s second grade.”

“Brought you something.” He held out a pint jar of honey.

“Why, Mr. Parker!” she exclaimed, touching her chest again.

“From our own hives, rendered this week.”

She accepted the jar, lifting it to the light. “My, how clear and pale.”

“Lots of sourwood out our way. Sourwood honey’s light like that. Takes on a little color from the tupelo, though.”

She drew in her chin and gave him a pleased pout. “You
did
do your homework, didn’t you?”

He crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly apart, smiling down at her from the shadow of his hat brim. “I wanted to thank you for the pamphlets and books. I couldn’t’ve done it without them.”

She held the jar in both hands and blinked up at him. “Thank
you,
Mr. Parker. And please thank Mrs. Dinsmore for me, too.”

“Ah...” Will rubbed the underside of his nose. “She’s not Mrs. Dinsmore anymore, ma’am. She’s Mrs. Parker now.”

“Oh.” Surprise and deflation colored the single word.

“We got married up at Calhoun the end of October.”

“Oh.” Miss Beasley quickly collected herself. “Then congratulations are in order, aren’t they?”

“Well, thank you, Miss Beasley.” He shifted his feet uneasily. “Ma’am, I don’t want to keep you from the kids, but I got honey to sell and not much time. I mean, there’s a lot to do out at the place before—” Again he shifted uneasily. “Well, you see, I’m wantin’ to put in an electric generator and a bathroom for Eleanor. I was wondering if you’d see what you got for books on electricity and plumbing. If you could pick ‘em out, I’ll stop back for ‘em in an hour or so when I get rid of the honey.”

“Electricity and plumbing. Certainly.”

“Much obliged.” He smiled, doffed his hat and moved toward the door. But he swung back with designed offhandedness. “Oh, and while you’re at it, if you could find any books about birthing, you could add them to the stack.”

“Birthing?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Birthing what?”

Will felt himself color and shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Oh... ah... horses, cows...” He gestured vaguely. “You know.” His glance wandered nervously before flicking back to her. “Humans, too, if you run across anything. Never read anything about that. Might be interesting.”

He felt transparent beneath her acute scrutiny. But she set the jar in the place of honor beside her nameplate and advised in her usual caustic voice, “Your books will be ready in one hour, Mr. Parker. And thank you again for the honey.”

Calvin Purdy bought half the honey and, after some dickering, took four more jars in exchange for ten yards of white flannel and a bat of cotton. At the filling station Will bartered two more pints of honey for a tankful of gasoline—it had been on his mind to keep the tank full from now until the baby came, just in case. While the gas was being pumped he lowered his brows and ruminated on Vickery’s Cafe, down at the corner. Biscuits and gravy in the morning; biscuits and
honey
in the evening, he’d guess. But to make a sale he’d probably have to face Lula Peak again, and there was no telling where she might decide to run her scarlet claw this time. He scratched his chest and glanced away in distaste. The honey wouldn’t spoil.

With a full tank of gas, he motored around the square to the library again. Mrs. Gardner’s second grade was gone, leaving silence and an empty library.

“Hello?” he called.

Miss Beasley came out of the back room, dabbing her mouth with a flowered handkerchief.

“Am I interrupting your lunch?”

“Actually, yes. You’ve caught me sampling your honey on my muffin. Delicious. Absolutely delicious.”

He smiled and nodded. “The bees did most of the work.” She chuckled tightly, as if laughter were illegal. But he could see how pleased she was over his gift. On the surface she wasn’t a very likable woman—militant, uncompromising—probably hadn’t many friends. Perhaps that was why he was drawn to her, because he’d never had many either. Her lips were surrounded by more than their fair share of baby-fine, colorless hair. A tiny droplet of honey clung to one on her top lip. Had he liked her less, he might have let it go unmentioned. As it was, he pointed briefly—“You missed something”—then hooked his thumb on his back pocket.

“Oh!... Oh, thank you.” Fussily she mopped her mouth but managed to miss what she was after.

“Here.” He reached. “May I?” Taking her hand, hanky and all, he guided it to the proper spot.

It was one of the most decidedly personal touches Miss Beasley had ever experienced. Men were put off by her, always had been, especially in college, where she’d proved herself vastly more intelligent than any who might have taken an interest. The men in Whitney were either married or too stupid to suit her. Though she had accepted her spinsterhood long ago, it startled Gladys to find a man who—given other circumstances, other times—might have suited nicely in both temperament and intellect. When Will Parker touched her, Gladys Beasley forgot she was shaped like a herring barrel and old enough to be his grandmother. Her old maid’s heart flopped like a fresh-caught bream.

The touch was brief and not untoward. Quickly, almost shyly, he backed off and let his thumb find his rear pocket
again. When Gladys lowered the handkerchief she was decidedly rattled, but he graciously pretended not to notice.

“So. Did you find anything for me?” he inquired.

She produced a stack of five books, some with slips of paper marking selected spots. Curious, he tried to read the titles upside down as she stamped each card. But she was very efficient with her
Open, stamp, slap! Open, stamp, slap!
He hadn’t made out one title before she pushed the pile his way with his card placed neatly on top.

“Much obliged, Miss Beasley.”

“That’s my job, Mr. Parker.”

His smile spread slowly, formed only halfway before he touched his hat brim and slipped the books to his hip. “Much obliged anyway. See you next week.”

Next week, she thought, and her heart raced. Fussily she tamped the tops of the recessed cards to cover her uncharacteristic flutteriness.

She had chosen for him
The Plumber’s Handbook, The ABC’s of Electricity, Edison’s Invention, Animal Husbandry for the Common Farmer,
and another entitled
New Era Domestic Science.

That night after supper while Eleanor shelled pecans at the kitchen table, Will sat at a right angle to her, turning pages. He spent an informative half hour spot-reading in three of the books, then picked up the fourth—
New Era Domestic Science.
It covered a range of subjects, some vital, others—to Will—silly. He smiled in amusement at such subjects as “How to Choose a House Boy,” “How to Clean a Flatiron by Rubbing on Salt.” There was a recipe for “Meat Jelly,” another for fried tomatoes, then dozens of others; a discourse on insomnia, entitled, “The Science of Sleep”; a tip about cleansing the interior of your teakettle by boiling an oyster shell in it. His finger stopped shuffling when he arrived at “A Chapter for Young Women.” His eyes scanned ahead, then retreated to an essay on “Choosing a Husband.” As he began reading, he slumped lower and lower in his chair until his spine was bowed, the book rested against the edge of the table and an index finger covered his grin.