Morning Glory Read online

“Crushed plantain leaves for the bites. But we better dry the boys off first. You mind doin’ one while I do the other?”

  She was gone inside the house before Will could reply. A moment later she returned with two towels, tossed one to Will and sat on the bottom step with the other. While she dried Donald Wade, Will found himself balancing on the balls of his feet with Thomas between his knees. Another first, he thought, awkwardly drawing the child closer. Thomas was pink and gleaming and his little pecker stuck out like a barricade at a railroad crossing. He stared straight into Will’s eyes, silent. Will grinned. “Got to dry you off, short stuff,” he ventured quietly. This time he didn’t feel as ignorant, talking to the little guy. Thomas didn’t yowl or fight him, so he figured he was doing all right. He soon learned that babies do little in the way of helping at bath time. Chiefly, Thomas stared, with his lower lip hanging. He had to have his arms lifted, his fingers separated, his body turned this way and that. Will dried all the cracks and crannies, going easy where the bites were worst. Thomas’s neck was so small and fragile-looking. His skin was soft and he smelled better than any human being Will had ever been near. Unexpected pleasure stole over the man.

  He glanced up and discovered Eleanor watching him.

  “How you doin’?” She smiled lazily.

  “Not bad.”

  “First time?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Never had any o’ your own?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Never married?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  They fell silent, rubbing down the boys. The mellowness inspired by the task spilled over in Will and softened his annoyance with the woman.

  “You scared the hell out of me, you know, falling like that.”

  “Scared the hell out of myself.” Her lazy smile continued.

  “Didn’t mean to bark at you that way.”

  “It’s all right. I understand.” After a pause, she added, “Reckon you’re a little shivery in those wet britches yourself.”

  “They’ll dry.”

  Thomas stood complacently between Will’s knees, and Will had no warning until he felt something warming the cold denim on his inner thigh. He glanced down, yelped and leaped to his feet. Baby Thomas unconcernedly bowed his legs and continued relieving himself in a splattering yellow arc.

  “Mercy, Thomas, look what you’ve done!” Eleanor pushed Donald Wade aside and came up off the step. “Oh, mercy, Mr. Parker, I’m sorry.” She dropped a self-conscious glance to Will’s thigh. “Baby Thomas, he ain’t trained yet, you see, and sometimes—well, sometimes—” She fumbled to a stop and turned pink. “I’m awful sorry.”

  Will stood with feet widespread, surveying the damage. “Like you said, they were wet anyway.”

  “I’d be happy to wash them for you, and I’ll get you something of Glendon’s to wear till they’re dry,” she offered.

  He lifted his head and their eyes met. Hers were dismayed, his bemused. A smile began tugging at one corner of his mouth, a smile as slow as his walk, climbing one cheek until an attractive crescent dented it. He snickered. Inside him the laughter built until it erupted. And as Eleanor’s chagrin turned to relief, she joined him.

  They stood in the sun laughing together for the first time, with the naked children gazing up at them.

  When it ended a subtle change had transpired. Their smiles remained while possibilities drifted through their minds.

  “So,” he said at length, “is this how you initiate all the men who come up here to answer your ad?” he teased drolly.

  “You never know what to expect when you got two this little.”

  “I’ll remember that next time.”

  “I’ll get them clothes of Glendon’s and you can take a pail of warm water to the barn.”

  “Appreciate it, ma’am.”

  For the moment neither of them moved. They stood rooted by surprise and curiosity, now that they’d seen each other in a new light. Her face radiated more than the reflection of her yellow dress. He thought about reaching up and touching it, thought about what her skin might feel like—maybe soft like Donald Wade’s and warm beneath the sun. Instead, he bent to retrieve his hat from the step and settled it on his head. From the safety of its shadow he told her, “I’ve decided to stay, if you still want me.”

  “I do,” she said directly.

  The thrill shot straight to his vitals. For as long as he could remember, nobody had wanted Will Parker. Standing in the sun with one foot on her porch steps and her bare children at his feet, he vowed he’d do his best by her or die trying. “And as far as marrying goes, we’ll put that off till you feel comfortable. And if it’s never, well, fine. I’ll be happy in the barn. How’s that?”

  “Fine,” she agreed, flashing him a brief, nervous smile. He wondered if her insides were stirring like his. He might never have known had she not at that very moment dropped her gaze and fussily checked the hair at the back of her neck.

  Well, I’ll be damned, Will thought. I’ll be ding-dong double damned.

  CHAPTER

  6

  That first week Will Parker was there Eleanor hardly saw him except at mealtimes. He worked. And worked and worked. Sunup to sunrise, he never stopped. Their first morning had established a routine which they kept by tacit agreement. Will chopped wood, carried it in and made a fire, then filled the water pail and left to do the milking, giving her privacy in the kitchen. She’d be dressed by the time he returned, and would start breakfast while he washed up and shaved. After they’d eaten, he fed the pigs, then disappeared to do whatever tasks he’d set for himself that day.

  The first two things he did were to make a slatted wooden grid for beneath the pump and to fix the ladder to his hayloft. He cleaned the barn better than Eleanor ever recalled seeing it—cobwebs, windows and all—hauled the manure out to the orchard and spread the gutters with lime. Next he attacked the hen house, mucking it out completely, fixing some of the broken roosts, putting new screen on the door and the windows, then sinking posts to make an adjacent pen for the chickens. When it was done, he announced that he could use a little help herding the birds inside. They spent an amusing hour trying to do so. At least, Eleanor found it amusing. Will found it exasperating. He flapped his cowboy hat and cursed when a stubborn hen refused to go where he wanted her to. Eleanor made clucking noises and coaxed the hens with corn. Sometimes she imitated their strut and made up tales about how the hens came to walk that way, the most inventive one about a stubborn black cricket that refused to slither down a hen’s throat after it was swallowed. Chickens weren’t Will’s favorite animal. Goddamn stupid clucks is what he called them. But by the time they got the last one into the hen house, Eleanor had teased a reluctant smile out of him.

  Will got along well with the mule, though. Her name was Madam, and Will liked her the moment he saw her wide hairy nose poking around the barn door while he was doing the evening milking. Madam smelled no better than the barn, so as soon as it was clean, Will decided she should be, too. He tethered her by the well and washed her down with Ivory Snow, scrubbing her with a brush and rinsing her with a bucket and rag.

  “What the devil are you doing down there?” Eleanor called from the porch.

  “Giving Madam a bath.”

  “What in blazes for?”

  “She needs one.”

  Eleanor had never heard of an animal being scrubbed with Ivory Snow! But it was the durndest thing—Glendon had never been able to do a thing with that stubborn old cuss, but after her bath, Madam did anything Will wanted her to. She followed him around like a trained puppy. Sometimes Eleanor would catch Will looking into Madam’s eye and whispering to her, as if the two of them shared secrets.

  One evening Will surprised everyone by showing up at the back porch with Madam on a hackamore.

  “What’s this?” Eleanor stepped to the door, followed by Donald Wade and Baby Thomas.

  Will grinned and hoped he wasn’t about to make a fool of h
imself. “Madam and me... well, we’re goin’ to Atlanta and we’ll take any passengers who want to come along.”

  “Atlanta!” Eleanor panicked. Atlanta was forty miles away. What did he want in Atlanta? Then she saw the grin on his lips.

  “She said she wanted to see a Claudette Colbert movie,” Will explained.

  Suddenly Eleanor understood. She released a peal of laughter while Will rubbed Madam’s nose. Foolery wasn’t easy for him—it was apparent—so she appreciated it all the more. She stood in the doorway with a hand on Donald Wade’s head, inquiring, “Anybody want a ride on Madam?” Then, to Will, “You sure she’s safe?”

  “As a lamb.”

  From the porch Eleanor watched as Will led the smiling boys around the yard on Madam’s back, that back so broad their legs protruded parallel with the earth. Donald Wade rode behind Thomas with his arms folded around the baby’s stomach. Surprisingly, Baby Thomas wasn’t frightened. He clutched Madam’s mane and gurgled in delight.

  In the days following that ride, Donald Wade took to trailing after Will just as Madam did. He pitched a fit if Eleanor said, no, it was time for a nap, or no, Will would be doing something that might be dangerous. Nearly always, though, Will would interject, “Let the boy come. He’s no trouble.”

  One morning while she was mixing up a spice cake the pair showed up at the back porch with saws, nails and lumber.

  “What’re you two up to now?” Eleanor asked, stepping to the screen door, stirring, a bowl against her stomach.

  “Will and me are gonna fix the porch floor!” Donald Wade announced proudly. “Ain’t we, Will?”

  “Sure are, short stuff.” Will glanced up at Eleanor. “I could use a piece of wool rag if you got one.”

  She fetched the rag, then watched while Will patiently sat on the step and showed Donald Wade how to clean a rusty sawblade with steel wool and oil and a piece of soft wool. The saw, she noticed, was miniature. Where he’d found it she didn’t know, but it became Donald Wade’s. Will had another larger one he’d cleaned and sharpened days ago. When the smaller saw was clean, Will clamped the blade between his knees, took a metal file from his back pocket and showed Donald Wade how a blade is sharpened.

  “You ready now?” he asked the boy.

  “Yup.”

  “Then let’s get started.”

  Donald Wade was nothing but a nuisance, getting in Will’s way most of the time. But Will’s patience with the boy was inexhaustible. He set him up with his own piece of wood on the milking stool, showed him how to anchor it with a knee and get started, then set to work himself, sawing lumber to replace the porch floor. When Donald Wade’s saw refused to comply, Will interrupted his work and curled himself over the boy, gripping his small hand, pumping it until a piece of wood fell free. Eleanor felt her heart expand as Donald Wade giggled and looked up with hero-worship in his eyes. “We done it, Will!”

  “Yup. Sure did. Now come over here and hand me a few nails.”

  The nails, Eleanor noticed, were rusty, and the wood slightly warped. But within hours he had the porch looking sturdy again. They christened it by sitting on the new steps in the sun and eating spice cake topped with Herbert’s whipped cream.

  “You know”—Eleanor smiled at Will—“I sure like the sound of the hammer and saw around the place again.”

  “And I like the smell of spice cake bakin’ while I work.”

  The following day they painted the entire porch—floor in brick red, and posts in white.

  At the “New Porch Party” she served gingerbread and whipped cream. He ate enough for two men and she loved watching him. He put away three pieces, then rubbed his stomach and sighed. “That was mighty good gingerbread, ma’am.” He never failed to show appreciation, though never wordily. “Fine dinner, ma’am,” or “Much obliged for supper, ma’am.” But his thanks made her efforts seem worthwhile and filled her with a sense of accomplishment she’d never known before.

  He loved his sweets and couldn’t seem to get enough of them. One day when she hadn’t fixed dessert he looked letdown, but made no remarks. An hour after the noon meal she found a bucket of ripe quince sitting on the porch step.

  The pie—she’d forgotten. She smiled at his reminder and glanced across the yard. He was nowhere to be seen as she picked up the bucket and headed inside and began to mix up a piecrust.

  For Will Parker those first couple of weeks at Eleanor Dinsmore’s place were unadulterated heaven. The work—why, hell—the work was a privilege, the idea that he could choose what he wanted to do each day. He could cut wood, patch porch floors, clean barns or wash mules. Anything he chose, and nobody said, “Boy, you supposed to be here? Boy, who tol’ you to do that?” Madam was a pleasurable animal, reminded him of the days when he’d done wrangling and had had a horse of his own. He flat liked everything about Madam, from the hairs on her lumpy nose to her long, curved eyelashes. And at night now, he brought her into the barn and made his own bed beside her in one of the box stalls that were cleaned and smelled of sweet grass.

  Then came morning, every one better than the last. Morning and Donald Wade trailing along, providing company and doting on every word Will said. The boy was turning out to be a real surprise. Some of the things that kid came up with! One day when he was holding the hammer for Will while Will stretched wire around the chicken pen, he stared at an orange hen and asked pensively, “Hey, Will, how come chickens ain’t got lips?” Another day he and Will were digging through a bunch of junk, searching for hinges in a dark tool shed when a suspicious odor began tainting the air around them. Donald Wade straightened abruptly and said, “Oh-oh! One of us farted, didn’t we?”

  But Donald Wade was more than merely amusing. He was curious, bright, and worshiped the shadow Will cast. Will’s little sidekick, following everywhere—“I’ll help, Will!”—getting his head in the way, standing on the screwdriver, dropping the nails in the grass. But Will wouldn’t have changed a minute of it. He found he liked teaching the boy. He learned how by watching Eleanor. Only Will taught different things. Men’s things. The names of the tools, the proper way to hold them, how to put a rivet through leather, how to brace a screen door and make it stronger, how to trim a mule’s hoof.

  The work and Donald Wade were only part of what made his days blissful. The food—God, the food. All he had to do was walk up to the house and take it, cut a piece of spice cake from a pan or butter a bun. What he liked best was taking something sweet outside and eating it as he ambled back toward some half-finished project of his choice. Quince pie—damn, but that woman could make quince pie, could make anything, actually. But she had quince pie down to an art.

  He was gaining weight. Already the waistband on his own jeans was tight, and it felt good to work in Glendon Dinsmore’s roomy overalls. Odd, how she volunteered anything at all of her husband’s without seeming to resent Will’s using it—toothbrush, razor, clothes, even dropping the hems of the pants to accommodate Will’s longer legs.

  But his gratitude was extended for far more than creature comforts. She’d offered him trust, had given him pride again, and enthusiasm at the break of each new day. She’d shared her children who’d brought a new dimension of happiness into his life. She’d brought back his smile.

  There was nothing he couldn’t accomplish. Nothing he wouldn’t try. He wanted to do it all at once.

  As the days passed, the improvements he’d made began tallying up. The yard looked better, and the back porch. The eggs were easy to find since the hens were confined to the hen house and, slowly but surely, the woodpile was changing contours. As the place grew neater, so did Eleanor Dinsmore. She wore shoes and anklets now, and a clean apron and dress every morning with a bright hair ribbon to match. She washed her hair twice a week, and he’d been right about it. Clean, it took on a honey glow.

  Sometimes when they’d meet in the kitchen, he’d look at her a second time and think, You look pretty this morning, Mrs. Dinsmore. But he could never say it, lest she think
he was after something more than creature comforts. Truth to tell, it had been a long, long time, but always in the back of his mind lingered the fact that he’d spent time in prison, and what for. Because of it, he kept a careful distance.

  Besides, he had a lot more to do before he’d proved he was worth keeping. He wanted to finish the plastering, give the house a coat of paint, improve the road, get rid of the junk cars, make the orchard produce again, and the bees... The list seemed endless. But Will soon realized he didn’t know how to do all that.

  “Has Whitney got a library?” he asked one day in early September.

  Eleanor glanced up from the collar she was turning. “In the town hall. Why?”

  “I need to learn about apples and bees.”

  Will sensed her defiance even before she spoke.

  “Bees?”

  He fixed his eyes on her and let them speak for him. He’d learned by now it was the best way to deal with her when they disagreed.

  “You know about libraries—how to use ‘em, I mean?”

  “In prison I read all I could. They had a library there.”

  “Oh.” It was one of the rare times he’d mentioned prison, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he went on questioning. “Did your husband have one of those veiled hats, and things to tend bees with?” He didn’t know a lot, but he knew he’d need certain equipment.

  “Somewhere.”

  “Think you could look around for me? See if you can find ‘em?”

  Fear flashed through her, followed quickly by obstinacy. “I don’t want you messin’ with those bees.”

  “I won’t mess with ‘em till I know what I’m doing.”

  “No!”

  He didn’t want to argue with her, and he understood her fear of the bees. But it made no sense to let the hives sit empty when honey could bring in cold, hard cash. The best way to soften her might be by being soft himself.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d look for them,” he told her kindly, then pushed back from the dinner table and reached for his hat. “I’ll be walkin’ into town this afternoon to the library. If you’d like I can take whatever eggs you got and try to sell them there.”