Morning Glory Page 21

  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 claspedher 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.

&nbs
p; “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.

  You now need the advice of your parents more than ever before, the essay advised, for the young man will be attracted by you and you will be attracted by him. This is natural. If you make a mistake it may wreck your whole life. Take your mother into your confidence. There are some rules that are safe to follow in this matter. Never have anything to do with a young man who is “sowing his wild oats,” or who has sown them.

  Will absently rubbed his lip and peeked at Eleanor, but she was busy with the nutcracker.

  Never marry a man to reform him. Leave those who need reforming severely alone. There are men who do not drink and yet who are more dangerous to you than drunkards. A man who sows his wild oats or is morally lax may be afflicted with diseases that can be given to an innocent and pure wife and thus entail upon her life-long suffering. Marriage is a lottery. You may draw a prize, or your life may be made miserable. Tell your parents if you are attracted toward a young man so that they may find out if he is a man of good character and pure in heart and life. It is so much better to remain single than to make an unfortunate marriage.

  He wondered how many ignorant virgins had read this stuff and ended up more confused than ever about the facts of life.

  His speculative gaze wandered to Elly. She dropped a pecan into the bowl and his eyes followed. Her stomach had grown so full it barely left room for the bowl on her knees. Her breasts seemed to have doubled in size in the last three months. Had she been a virgin when she married Glendon Dinsmore? Had Glendon “sowed wild oats” like Will Parker had? Had Elly consulted her parents and had they checked out Dinsmore’s character and found him pure in heart and life—unlike her second husband?

  She picked another pecan clean and raised the last morsel to her mouth. Will’s eyes again followed and he absently stroked his lips. One thing about Elly—she sure hadn’t married to reform him. If he had reformed it was because of her acceptance, rather than the lack of it.

  He turned a page to a section in which Miss Beasley had left a marker. “How to Conceive and Bear Healthy Children.” All right, he thought, secretly amused, tell me how.

  The one main reason for the establishment of marriage was for the bearing and rearing of children. Nature has provided for man and woman the organs for this purpose and they are wonderfully constructed.

  End of enlightenment. Will swallowed another chortle and his finger continued hiding the grin. He couldn’t help picturing Miss Beasley reading this, wondering what her reaction had been.

  From his delight over the construction of human organs the author had skipped directly to a passel of ludicrous advice on conception: If the parents are drunk at the time the child is conceived they cannot expect healthy offspring, either physically or mentally. If the parents dislike each other they will transmit something of that disposition to their offspring. If either one or both of the parents are much worried at the time of conception the child will be the sufferer.

  Without warning Will burst out laughing.

  Eleanor looked up. “What’s so funny?”

  “Listen to this...” He straightened in his chair, laid the book flat on the table and read the last passage aloud.

  Eleanor gazed at him unblinkingly, her hands poised around a pecan in the jaws of the nutcracker. “I thought you were reading about electricity.”

  He sobered instantly. “Oh, I am. I mean, I... I was.”

  She reached across the table and, with the nose of the nutcracker, tipped the book up.

  “New Era Domestic Science?”

  “Well, I... it...” He felt his cheeks warming and randomly flipped the pages. They fell open to a diagram of a homemade telephone. “I was thinking about making one of these.” He turned the book and showed her.

  She glanced at the diagram, then skeptically at him before the pecan shell cracked and fell into her palm. “And just who did you think we’d call on it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You never can tell.”

  He hid his discomposure by delving into the book again.

  After you become pregnant you owe it to yourself, your husband and especially your unborn young one to see that it comes into the world endowed with everything that a true, good, and devoted mother can possibly give it, both physically and mentally. To this end, keep yourself well and happy. Eat only such foods as are easily digested and that will keep your bowels regular. Read only such books as will tend to make you happier and better. Choose the company of those whom you feel will lift you up. Gossips will not do this so do not listen to croakers who are so ready to converse with you at this time.

  Such capricious advice went on and on, but Will’s amusement died when he found what he’d been looking for: “Preparations for Labor.” It began with a list of recommended articles to have on hand:

  5 basins

  1 two-quart fountain syringe

  15 yards unsterilized gauze

  6 sanitary bed pads; or,

  2 pounds cotton batting for making same

  1 piece rubber sheeting, size 1 by 2 yards

  4 ounces permanganate of potash

  8 ounces oxalic acid

  4 ounces boric acid

  1 tube green soap

 
1 tube Vaseline

  100 Bernay’s bichloride tablets

  8 ounces alcohol

  2 drams ergotol

  1 nail brush

  2 pounds absorbent cotton

  My God, they’d need all that? Will began to panic.

  The opening instructions read, The nurse should prepare enough bed and perineal pads, sterilizing them a week before, along with towels, diapers, ½ pound absorbent cotton and some cotton pledgets.

  Nurse? Who had a nurse? And enough? What was enough? And what did perineal mean? And what were pledgets? He couldn’t even understand this, much less afford it! Pale now, he turned the page only to have his disillusionment doubled. Phrases jumped out and grabbed him by the nerve-endings.

  Cramp-like pains in the lower abdomen... rupturing membranes... watery discharge... a marked desire to go to stool... bulging of the pelvic floor... tearing of the perineal flesh... temple bones engaged in the vulva... proper manipulation to expel the afterbirth... stout clean thread... sever immediately... exception being when child is nearly dead or does not breathe properly...

  He slammed the book shut and leaped to his feet, pale as seafoam.

  “Will?”

  He stared out a window, knees locked, cracking his knuckles, feeling his pulse thud hard in his gut.

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  Fear lodged in his throat like a hunk of dry bread. He gulped, but it stayed. “I wasn’t reading about electricity. I was reading about delivering babies.”

  “Oh... that.”

  “Yes, that.” He swung to face her. “Elly, we’ve never talked about it since the night we agreed to get married. But I know you expect me to help you, and I just plain don’t know if I can.”

  She rested her hands in the bowl and looked up at him expressionlessly. “Then I’ll do it alone, Will. I’m pretty sure I can.”

  “Alone!” he barked, lurching for the book, agitatedly flapping pages until he found the right one. “Listen to this—’The cord is usually tied before being cut, the exception being when the child is nearly dead and does not breathe properly. In such a case it is best to leave the cord untied so that it may bleed a little and aid in establishing respiration.’” He dropped the book and scowled at her. “Suppose the baby died. How do you think I’d feel? And how am I supposed to know what’s proper breathing and what isn’t? And there’s more—all this stuff we’re supposed to have on hand. Why, hell, some of it I don’t even know what it is! And it talks about you tearing, and maybe hemorrhaging. Elly, please let me get a doctor when the time comes. I got the car filled with gas so I can run into town quick and get him.”