Morning Glory Page 18

  “Well,” Will said breathlessly with a mystified laugh. “That was that.”

  Eleanor’s perplexed gaze remained on the closed door. “I guess it was. But... so quick.”

  “Quick, but legal.”

  “Yes... but...” She lifted dubious eyes to Will and thrust her head forward. “But do you feel married?”

  Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Not exactly. But we must be. He called you Mrs. Parker.”

  She lifted her left hand and gazed at it disbelievingly. “So I am. Mrs. Will Parker.”

  The belated impact struck them full force. Mr. and Mrs. Will Parker. They absorbed the fact with all its attendant implications while their eyes were drawn to one another as if by polaric force. He thought about kissing her again, the way hewanted to. And she wondered what it would be like. But neither of them dared. In time they realized how long they’d been staring. Eleanor grew flustered and let her gaze drop. Will chuckled and scratched his nose.

  “I think we should celebrate,” he announced.

  “How?” she asked, reaching down for Baby Thomas. Will nudged her aside and hoisted Thomas onto his arm.

  “Well, if my arithmetic is right, I still have four dollars and fifty-nine cents. I think we should take the boys to the movie.”

  Excitement splashed across Eleanor’s face. “Really?”

  Donald Wade began jumping up and down, clapping. “Yeah! Yeah! The movie! Take us to the movie, Mommy, pleeeease!” He clutched Eleanor’s hand.

  Will took Eleanor’s free elbow, guiding her down the hall. “I don’t know, Donald Wade,” he teased, turning a crooked grin on his wife’s eager face. “It looks to me like we might have some trouble convincing your mama.”

  Then Mr. and Mrs. William Lee Parker—and family—left the courthouse smiling.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The smell of popcorn greeted them in the theater lobby. With eyes wide and fascinated, the boys stared up at the red and white popcorn machine, then appealed to their mother. “Mama, can we have some?” Will’s heart melted. He was reaching into his shirt pocket before Eleanor could frame a refusal. Inside the dimly lit auditorium, Donald Wade and Thomas sat on their knees, munching, until the screen lit up with Previews of Coming Attractions. When scenes from Gone With the Wind radiated overhead, their hands and jaws seemed to stop functioning. So did Eleanor’s. Will eyed her askance as myriad reactions flashed across her face—amazement, awe, rapture.

  “Oh, Will,” she breathed. “Oh, Will, look!”

  Sometimes he did. But he found the study of their faces—especially hers—far more fascinating as they were transported for the first time into the world of celluloid make-believe.

  “Oh, Will, look at that dress!”

  His attention wavered briefly to the billowing, hoop-skirted garment, then returned to his wife’s face, realizing something new about her: she was a woman whose head could be turned by finery. He would not have guessed so from the ordinary way she dressed. But her eyes shone and her lips looked as if they were about to speak to the images on the screen.

  The color film disappeared and a newsreel came on in black and white: goose-stepping German soldiers, bombs, mortar shells, the battlefront in Russia, wounded soldiers—an abrupt plunge from fantasy to reality.

  Will watched the screen with rapt interest, wondering how long America could possibly stay out of the war, wondering how long he himself could stay out of it if the inevitable happened. He had a family now; his welfare suddenly mattered fiercely, whereas it never had before. It was a shock to him to realize this.

  As the newsreel ended he turned and caught Eleanor watching him above the boys’ heads. The gaiety had disappeared from her eyes, replaced by a troubled frown. Obviously the grim reality of war had finally imposed itself upon her. He felt a stab of remorse for having been the one to expose her to it, the one who’d brought her here to have her sunny illusions shattered. He wanted to reach above the pair of blond heads and touch her eyelids, say to her, close your eyes for a moment and go back to pretending it isn’t happening. Be the happy recluse you were.

  But just as he could not ignore the battles in Europe, and America’s ever-increasing support for England and France, neither must she. She couldn’t remain an ostrich forever, not when she was married to a man of prime age for induction, one with a prison record who was sure to be one of the first called up.

  The newsreel ended and the main feature began.

  Border Vigilantes turned out to be a Hopalong Cassidy movie, and the boys’ reaction made it well worth the six bits Will had laid out. He himself enjoyed the show, and Eleanor’s elation returned. But the boys—oh, those two little boys. What a sight they made with their entranced faces lifted to the silver screen while the hero fought for law and justice on his white steed, Topper. Donald Wade’s mouth hung open when Topper galloped into view for the first time and reared up majestically, his rider flourishing a black hat like Will’s own. Baby Thomas pointed and stared with owl eyes, his mouth forming a tight O. Then he squealed and clapped and had to be shushed. Eleanor’s expression shifted from one of rapt wonder to childlike delight as the scenes rolled on.

  Hopalong got the lady in the end, and when he kissed her Will glanced over at his new wife. As if she felt his survey, she turned again. Their profiles, illuminated by fluttering light, appeared as half-moons in the dark theater while their own first kiss came back afresh, and they were reminded of the night ahead. In that brief moment feelings of anxiety somersaulted through them. Then the finale music swelled, Hopalong rode off into the sunset and the boys set up an excited babbling.

  “Is it all done? Where did Hopalong go? Can we come again, Will, can we, huh?”

  In the car there was no talk between Will and Eleanor as there’d been that morning. Baby Thomas slept curled on her lap. Donald Wade—wearing Will’s hat—pressed himself against Will’s shoulder and exuberated over the wonders of Hopalong and Topper. Though Will answered, his thoughts projected to the night ahead. Bedtime. He cast occasional covert glances at Eleanor but she stared straight ahead and he wondered if she was thinking about the same thing as he.

  At home, Will tended the evening chores automatically, his mind on the bedroom he’d never seen, their first kiss today, how guarded they’d been with each other, the night ahead, a real bed and a woman to share it. But a pregnant woman, pregnant enough to eliminate the possibilities of any conjugal commerce. He wondered what a woman as pregnant as Elly looked like naked and his body felt taut with a combination of chagrin at the thought of possibly seeing her that way, and the idea of lying beside her all night long without touching her.

  Had he imagined a wedding day, ever, it wouldn’t have been like this—himself in blue jeans, the bride seven months pregnant, a dime-store ring, five minutes in a judge’s chamber and a Hopalong Cassidy movie with two rambunctious boys. But the unlikely events of the day weren’t over yet.

  Supper—due to their late return—was scarcely a wedding feast. Scrambled eggs, green beans and side pork. DonaldWade bawled when Eleanor refused to let him wear Will’s hat at the table. Baby Thomas spit out his green beans on Eleanor’s yellow dress, and when she scolded him he swatted his tumbler of milk across the room. Eleanor, her skirt soaked, leaped up and slapped his hand. Thomas howled like a fire siren while Will sat by helplessly, realizing that family life had some surprises in store for him. Eleanor went off to fetch a basin and a rag, leaving him to ponder the probability that if this wedding day seemed a letdown to an unsentimental fool like him, it must seem a sore disappointment to her. She returned to the fiasco at the table but he wouldn’t let her get down on her hands and knees in her pretty yellow dress, especially when she had to struggle these days to get up and down.

  “Here, I’ll do that.” He took the pail from her hand, trying to imagine what it must be like to carry a bride across the threshold of a honeymoon suite on the twentieth floor of the Ritz Hotel. He wished he could do that for her. Instead he could o
nly offer, “You go take care of your dress.”

  She lifted her face and he saw in her green eyes the same misgivings he had, the same strain, intensified by the boys’ uncharacteristic naughtiness on this night when it was the last thing they needed. He was touched more deeply by the fact that she was near tears.

  “Thank you, Will.”

  “Go.” He turned her toward the bedroom and gave her a gentle shove.

  Funny how one bit of cooperation led to another. A half hour later he found himself beside her, drying dishes, and a half hour after that, helping her get the boys ready for bed.

  The pair had had a tiring day and they surrendered to their pillows with remarkable docility. While she tucked them in he wandered the room collecting their discarded clothes, small items that smelled of spilled milk and first trips to town, popcorn and broomstick cowboys. From beside a scarred chest of drawers Will watched Eleanor kiss them goodnight, smiling at the scene. Two pajama-clad boys with faces scrubbed shiny being reassured by their mother that they were loved in spite of their recent misbehavior. She had changed into a worn smock of faded brown that bellied out as she leaned over Donald Wade, kissed his mouth, his cheek, touched his nose with her own and murmured something for his ears only. And next, Baby Thomas, over the side of the crib, kissing him, toppling him into a tired heap, then brushing his hair back while he clasped a favorite blanket and stuck a thumb in his mouth.

  Resting an elbow on the dresser top, Will smiled softly. Again came the yearning for things missed, but watching was almost as good as taking part. In those moments, his love for Eleanor swelled, became something more than the love of a husband for a wife. She became the mother he’d never known, the boys became himself—safe, secure, cared for.

  With a pang of awe he realized he would be part of this tableau every night. He could wash freckled faces, stuff arms into pajama sleeves, collect dirty clothes and hover over their affectionate goodnights. Vicariously he might recapture a portion of what he’d missed.

  The ritual ended. Eleanor lifted the side of the crib and waggled two fingers at Donald Wade. Abruptly he sat up and demanded, “I wanna kiss Will goodnight.”

  Will’s elbow came off the dresser and his face registered surprise. Eleanor turned and met his gaze across the lamplit room.

  She noted his hesitation but saw beyond it to the stronger tug of anticipation. “Donald Wade wants to kiss you,” she reiterated.

  “Me?” He felt like an interloper though his chest tightened expectantly. Donald Wade lifted his arms. Will glanced again at Eleanor, chuckled, scratched his chin and crossed the room, feeling awkward and out of place. He sat on the edge of the bed and the boy’s arms clasped his neck without restraint. The small mouth—moist and smelling faintly of milk—pressed Will’s briefly. It was so unexpected, so... so... genuine. He’d never kissed a child goodnight before, had never guessed how it got to your insides and warmed you from there, out.

  “’Night, Will.”

  “’Night, kemo sabe.”

  “I’m Hopalong.”

  Will laughed. “Oh, my mistake. I shoulda checked to see which horse was tied at the hitchin’ rail outside.”

  When Will rose from Donald Wade’s bed, Baby Thomas was no longer lying down. He was standing at the rail of his crib with his mouth plump and his eyes unblinking, watching. Baby Thomas... who’d taken longer to warm to Will. Baby Thomas... who still intimidated the grown man at times. Baby Thomas... who imitated everything his older brother did. His kiss was hugless, but his tiny mouth warm and moist when Will bent to touch it.

  Lord a-mighty, he’d never have guessed how a pair of goodnight kisses could make a man feel. Wanted. Loved.

  “’Night, Thomas.”

  Thomas stared at him with big hazel eyes.

  “Say goodnight to Will,” his mother prompted softly.

  “G’night, Wiw.”

  Never before had Thomas spoken Will’s name. The distorted pronunciation went straight to the thin man’s heart as he watched Eleanor settle him down a second time before joining Will in the doorway.

  They stood a moment, shoulder to shoulder, studying the children. A closeness stole over them, binding them with an accord that washed away the many shortcomings of this day, leaving them with a faith in better things to come.

  Leaving the boys’ door ajar, they stepped into the front room. It was dark but for the trailing light from the boys’ lantern and another on the kitchen table.

  Will ran a hand through his hair, draped it around his neck and smiled at the floor. After a moment his chest lifted with a pleasured chuckle.

  “I never did that before.”

  “I know.”

  He searched for a way to express the fullness in his heart. But there was no way. To an orphan turned drifter, a drifter turned prisoner, a prisoner turned hired hand, a hired hand turned stand-in daddy, there was no way to express what the last five minutes had meant to him. Will could only waggle his head in wonder. “That’s somethin’, isn’t it?”

  She understood. His surprise and wonder said it all. He had never expected the right to her children to come along with the right to her house. Yet she recognized his growing affection for them, saw clearly what kind of father he could be—gentle, patient, the kind who’d take none of the small pleasures for granted.

  “Yes, it is.”

  He dropped his hand and lifted his head. A soft smile curved his lips. “I really like those two, you know?”

  “Even after the way they acted at supper?”

  “Oh, that—that was nothin’. They’d had a big day. I reckon their springs were still twangin’.”

  She smiled.

  He did, too, briefly before sobering. “I want you to know I’ll do right by them.”

  Her voice softened. “Oh, Will... I know that.”

  “Well,” he went on almost sheepishly, “they’re pretty special.”

  “I think so, too.”

  Their gazes met momentarily. They searched for something to say, something to do. But it was bedtime; there was only one thing to do. Yet both of them were reluctant to suggest it. In the kitchen the radio was playing “Chattanooga Choo Choo.” The strains came through the lighted doorway into the shadows where they paused uncertainly. Across from the boys’ room, their own bedroom door stood open, an oblique shadow waiting to take them in. Beyond it waited uncertainty and self-consciousness.

  Eleanor fiddled with her hands, searching for a subject to put off bedtime. “Thank you for the movie, Will. The boys will never forget it and neither will I.”

  “I enjoyed it, too.”

  End of subject.

  “I liked the popcorn, too,” she added hurriedly.

  “So did I.”

  End of subject, again.

  This time Will found a diversion—the boys’ clothes, still balled in his hands. “Oh, here!” He thrust them into hers. “Forgot I still had ‘em.” He rammed his hands into his pockets.

  Looking down at Thomas’s milk-streaked shirt, she said, “Thanks for helping me get them ready for bed.”

  “Thanks for letting me.”

  A quick exchanged glance, two nervous smiles, then silence again, immense and overpowering, while they stood close and studied the collection of clothes in her hands. It was her house, her bedroom— Will felt like a guest waiting to be invited to stay the night, but still she made no mention of retiring. He heard his own pulse drumming in his ears and felt as if he were wearing somebody else’s collar, one size too small. Somebody had to break the ice.

  “Are you tired?” he asked.

  “No!” she replied, too quickly, too wide-eyed. Then, dropping her head, “Well... yes, I am a little.”

  “I guess I’ll step out back then.”

  When he was gone, her shoulders wilted, she closed her eyes and pressed her burning cheeks into the stale-smelling clothes. Silly woman. What’s there to be skittish about? He’s going to share your mattress and your quilts—so what?

  Sh
e freed her hair, washed her face and got ready for bed in record time. By the time she heard him reenter the kitchen she was safely dressed in a white muslin nightgown with the quilts tucked to her armpits. She lay stiffly, listening to the sounds of him washing up for bed. He turned off the radio, checked the fire, replaced a stovelid. Then all remained quiet but for the beat of her own pulse in her ears and the tick of the windup alarm clock beside the bed. Minutes passed before she heard his footsteps cross the front room and pause. She stared at the doorway, imagining him gathering courage while her own heart throbbed like the engine of Glendon’s old Steel Mule the time she’d ridden it.

  Will paused outside the bedroom doorway, fortifying himself with a deep breath. He crossed the threshold to find Eleanor lying on her back in a proper, white, long-sleeved nightie. Her brown hair lay free against the white pillow and her hands were crossed over the high mound formed by her stomach beneath the quilts. Though her expression was carefully bland, her cheeks wore two blots of pink, as if some seraph had winged in and placed a rose petal upon each. “Come in, Will.”

  He swept a slow glance across the room—curtainless window, homemade rag rug, hand-tied quilt, iron bedstead painted white, a closet door ajar, a bedside table and kerosene lamp, a tall bureau with a dresser scarf and a picture of a man with large ears and a receding hairline.

  “I’ve never seen this room before.”

  “It’s not much.”

  “It’s warm and clean.” He advanced two steps only, forcing his eyes to range further until they were drawn, against his will, back to the picture.