Sweeping Up Glass (14 page)

When Phelps stands, I see there’s no flesh on his bones. Alone, he’d hardly make a dent in the snow, and I see now why he needs other people to do his work.

I say, “Word’s out you’re looking for a donkey to keep scavengers off the place. So I’ve brought our Sanderson Two. He’s old, but he’ll run off coyotes, vermin.”

His cheeks and chin are pockmarked. He raises his brows and steeples his fingers like this is big business. Comes around and half sits on his desk, looking at me. Takes a cigar from a box, bites
off the end, and spits in the wastebasket. He lights the thing with a silver lighter and puffs until the air turns blue. “How much you want for him?”

The cigar smoke chokes me, but I will not cough. “Twenty dollars.”

His cheeks go in and his lips push out. He’s looking somewhere over my head. “Done,” he says, and moving back around, he opens a drawer, takes out four five-dollar bills.

“One more thing, Mr. Phelps. About our mountain—”

His brows shoot up. “What mountain would that be?”

“Big Foley, behind our house.”

He draws out his words. “I wasn’t aware that you owned the entire thing, Miz Cross.”

“The south strip I do. Somebody shot two of our wolves up there. Cut off the ears.”

Whole minutes go by. I look up at the buck, its soft dark nostrils, the great round eyes.

He looks up, too. “Beautiful animal, that one.”

I want to hit him so badly, I sway on the soles of my boots. “What gall it must take for you to say that and then kill it. Maybe someday I’ll mistake you for a wild thing up there and shoot you. Twice.”

All things considered, he holds himself well. “You listen to me, Miz Cross. Today, I am all right with you driving your ugly truck up my driveway. And I’ll buy your goddamn broken-down mule, but you will not speak to me that way. And you’ll remember your place.”

My place?
Smoke cyclones around my head. “I posted signs. I can get the sheriff from Buelton—”

“You’ll want to pay attention, Miz Cross. Sheriff Pink is a friend of mine.”

His face is so close I could spit and blind him.

He laughs through his nose. “I’m sure whoever’s kilt your wolves would like to see papers of ownership—and where old scores were settled.”

He means James Arnold, the way he died. But he leans away and rearranges his face. “Miz Cross, I paid dearly for the right to hunt on that land. I’ll remind you that I have left you alone for a very long time. But I see that you’re getting uppity in your ways. Now, if you’re goin’ to cause trouble—”

“The mule is yours. What happened to James Arnold I cannot fix.” I pick up the bills and turn away. But the doorknob sticks, and I can’t turn it to save myself. I’ve never claimed to have one ounce of dignity.

I stand in the marble entryway, not wanting to go out through the front, but I don’t want to encounter the missus again, either. It has to be one or the other. I keep my chin up and my eyes straight ahead—down through the hall and find the kitchen, where I slip out the back door. Miz Phelps is nowhere in sight. In the gravel curve behind the house, Phelps’ men come running and tell me to follow them out to the pasture. I get in and start the truck, and there on the seat beside me is a pie wrapped in waxed paper, making the cab smell like warm fruit and pastry. I follow the two in their fancy pickup, along a narrow road to a stable, where they fix up a ramp, untie Sanderson Two, and walk him down. I figure that old mule is already the joke of the place, although they spend more time looking at my truck than anything.

When I ask if there’s a back way off the property, they point, and I rattle away, skidding in the ruts. I’m relieved to be away from the big house, off his rail-fenced land, and for a while I swallow my anger, but after a time I pull over. I get out of that truck and walk around it twice, banging the fenders, kicking up snow,
and swearing. Then I climb back in, my boots muddy on the floorboard, and slam the door. Goddamn Phelps, I’m sure he could tell by looking at me that I needed the money. My belly twists, and if I were so inclined, I’d cry. But what’s done is done. There’s enough money in my pocket to pay this month’s bills and stock a couple of shelves.

I
n truth, I can’t wait to show Will’m what I’ve got for our supper. Ida may not get a single bite, she who never gave me anything but grief. I think about Miz Phelps’ yellow dog and the way my pap tucked it in the back of his wagon—the same way he wrapped up Ida when he took her away. I marvel that he could love all things and people, and wonder if he learned that in his doctoring books. Wouldn’t hurt me to learn the same. Which leads me to think—if I could find those books, I might know more about saving the cubs.

I drive back to town with three wedding-ring quilts on the seat beside me. I stop first at Dooby’s, and wait for him to finish filling a prescription.

“Do something for you, Olivia?” he asks from behind the glass partition. He counts tablets into a bottle.

I’m not sure how much I should say. If word gets out I have wolves on my place … “I had a wild dog about the place, Dooby, and she’s had babies. I’ve taken them in, but they’re not doing well. Is there a way I can save ’em?”

“You’ve got no choice,” he says. “You’ll have to put ’em down.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Well,” he says. “She won’t touch ’em now because they’ve got your smell on ’em.”

“She’s dead,” I say. “And Will’m’s got his heart set on keeping them.”

Dooby sighs. Will’m has swept up and made deliveries for him these last two years. “Then I need to know about the bitch before I can do right by her pups.”

“She—was part wolf,” I say.

“What kind of dog would mix with a wolf?”

I’m a lot of things, but not a good liar. “They’re wolf cubs, Dooby, but—”

“Shoot ’em, Olivia. They’ll eat you and Will’m, and Ida, too.”

“I don’t plan on keeping them forever.”

“But you’d have to,” he says, looking up at me. “In for a penny, in for a pound. They’ll depend on you. Won’t know how to find so much as a blade of grass.”

“If Pap was alive, he wouldn’t turn them out just like that. Dooby, I had that she wolf in my kitchen all night, and if I’d known what to do for her, she’d be alive now.”

Outside, cars shush by, and the clock over the fountain ticks away.

He clears his throat. “Your pap and I had an arrangement, Olivia.”

“What kind of arrangement?”

He comes out from behind the counter, we sit on stools, and he opens two bottles of pop. The bell over the door jingles, and two ladies from up Mount Sumpter come in. “Help you, girls?” Dooby says, and he goes off to sell them things.

By the time he comes back, I have finished my drink.

“What arrangement?” I ask again.

“I used to trade supplies for your pap’s home brew.”

“Well, I’m sorry we’re not making whiskey anymore, Dooby. But I can give you one of my best quilts in exchange. That’s fair.”

He thinks this over. “You promise me you aren’t goin’ to try to save every wounded thing, Olivia? I can’t use more’n one quilt.”

“I promise.”

He shakes his head. “You’re Tate Harker all over again. But—all right. My missus’d like a quilt fine.”

I get down off my stool and go out to the truck and fetch him the red one with blue and white daisies, the one I like least.

Meanwhile, he gathers packets of things, marking each with his fountain pen. Chamomile to help the cubs sleep and ginger for the bellyache. Sulfur drops, tweezers, an eyedropper. A chest warmer of flannel that he cuts in pieces, jars of things to increase their appetites, strengthen their bones. He writes down how often and how much.

I tell him thank you. “Dooby, I recall my pap having doctoring books. You got any idea what might have happened to them?”

“Bet Ida could tell you, if she will. We all saw you goin’ by this morning with that mule in your truck. A few of us thought Ida’d up and died, but Little Ruse said no, she’d just acted the fool again, and you’d got rid of it to teach her a lesson.”

I say nothing. It’s mostly true.

“Now you take this slip on over to the dairy, and Nels will give you a pint of sweetmilk for the pups and another next week. Good luck with all of this,” he says. “And Olivia—bring home rabbits, possum if you got to—but no more wolves. They got mighty sharp teeth.”

I leave the store with the parcels under my arms—and the certainty that the two doses of old chloroform I gave the gray probably sent her right out of her head. Maybe that’s why she went
through the window. If Ida hadn’t shot her, some other thing would’ve got her.

I sit in my truck and contemplate the last two quilties. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make myself go across to the hotel, and I drive back up the hill, irritated because I’ve kept the store closed and haven’t done what I’d said. Anyway, I’ve got to feed those cubs that are costing me money in more ways than one. When Will’m gets home, he can clean out their straw.

Just now I can’t afford to replace the broken window. And anyway, the view’s nothing special. It looks out at the falling-down barn and the goat pen where the snow looks wallowed and dirty. I set the pie in the larder. Maybe in summer I’ll sell an extra quilt and we’ll have new glass in the kitchen window.

Ida, apparently, has taken her willow bark and gone off to sleep because there’s not a peep from her side of the yard. And it’s quiet in my kitchen, only a tiny mewling coming from the box on the table. In the farthest corner, one of the cubs is dead.

I sigh and feed the last two with the eyedropper Dooby gave me, and tuck them back in their box. I carry their brother and a big cooking spoon out to the rise, bury him next to his ma’am and say a prayer in Will’m’s name. I mark the place with a stick. It’s an extravagant funeral for so small a thing. But all living things do not feel about their ma’ams the way I do. In fact, maybe this one missed his so much, he went off to be with her.

That’s what I’ll tell Will’m when he comes home, that its dying was a loving thing.

A
round noon, Levi the Box Man arrives, as he does regularly, and I go across to his supply truck and look through his stuff. I choose six tins of raisins and one of figs, a barrel of flour because it’s what I can afford, another of sugar, three bolts of calico, for spring will be here if we live long enough, and four bottles of vanilla. I need coffee beans and brown sugar, cream of tartar, and rubbed sage. I choose a jar of licorice sticks, needles, pins, and tobacco, but I must turn down oranges and bananas, grated coconut and cheese. The store has a case for cooling things, and years ago I kept wedges of cheese, fresh-killed chickens, and smoked pork, but I unplugged it long ago.

I take eight bundles of batting—four for myself—and go into the kitchen and take out Phelps’ twenty and another ten against my account. When Will’m comes home, he can restock the shelves. On Saturday, when he gets back from Dooby’s, I’ll send him to the barn to unwrap the batting and beat it with a stick to make it light. Then I’ll put together the quiltie that’s now just a shell. It’s folded on the foot of my bed—a wedding-ring pattern in silver and gray. Tied in black it should bring a good price.

By three o’clock there’s been no more business, and there’s no
reason not to put the quilts back in the truck and head for town. I’m fearfully nervous. A couple of cars are parked in front of the hotel, so I know Wing has guests. I marvel that anyone traveling through Kentucky knows this place is here, but I’ve heard the service is a wonder, and the beds so feather soft that folks keep coming back. They used to drink Wing’s coffee by the gallon and gobble up hot cross buns, jelly rolls, and fruit turnovers. I wonder if he ever makes them anymore.

He’s reworked the doorways to accommodate Miz Grace’s wheelchair. I still love the smell in this old lobby—wood and wax, the only elegant place left around here. The carpet’s as thick as when it was new. A round-faced girl, Molly, sits behind the counter, fingering her braids and reading a dime novel. Wing’s bent over a glass case in the front window.

He sees me with the quilts on my arm, and, as if I’m Lazarus rising from the grave, he cries out, “Olivia! I’ll be through here in half a minute—”

“No hurry.” I’m grateful for a moment to settle myself. It’s absurd, after all these years, but seeing him sucks the breath right out of me. “The place looks real nice.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m thinking of knocking out that side wall, adding a dining room. I’d only open it in summer, and maybe hunting season. Little Ruse says he’ll come over and cook weekends if it doesn’t offend his daddy.”

I scare up a laugh. Little Ruse is forty-five. Big Ruse is crippled, and doesn’t weigh eighty pounds. He still waits on customers, but has gotten so slow that the gravy’s cold before it gets to the table.

Wing puts his hammer and screwdriver away in a toolbox. “Things all right up at your place? You haven’t killed Ida yet?” he says, as if we’ve talked over coffee just yesterday.

While I look for my voice, I consider how much I should say. “We’re fine.”

“The boy’s sure growing. I saw him at Dooby’s last Saturday. Great kid—thoughtful. Takes after his gran.”

I let that go by because Wing doesn’t know me anymore. Like mine, his hair has gone partly gray. His glasses still sit on the end of his nose.

“Love Alice said you were puttin’ in a shop.”

“Just a case in this window. But it’s something.” He gives the glasses a push.

“Well. I was wondering …”

I’m an interruption in the flow of his life, an old woman in skirt and trousers and a heavy wool cape, thick hair wound around her head. For the life of me, I can’t think why I’m here.

“You’ve brought quilts,” Wing says, being helpful. He comes to look, runs his thumb over the stitching. “Good God, Olivia. In Louisville, these would bring a lot of money. I can’t pay you much—”

“Don’t expect you to pay me anything,” I say, twitching and sweating under my clothes. “You sell them for five each, give me half.”

Wing’s face is still the most expressive I’ve seen—high flat cheekbones, only now the lines are so deep I could plant corn in them.