Dunaway's Crossing (11 page)

C
hapter 12

A
Model T chugged past Will’s wagon, churning orange dust over the dry country road. The driver, decked out in goggles and a driving cap, waved a leather-gloved hand as he sped by. The horse rotated his ears, then turned his head slowly, as if taking uninterested notice of a strange, bothersome beast. He continued his slow pace toward the crossing.

“He’s going nowhere fast, isn’t he, Buster?” Will shook his head and curled his lip. People looked silly in their special driving clothes, especially the goggles. If they didn’t go so fast, they’d have no need for the thick, bug-eyed glasses. The car had to have been speeding at least twenty-five miles an hour. Those kinds of daredevils were the same ones Will saw stuck in muddy ditches, their rubber tires spinning in the air, the drivers scratching their heads in confusion. Buster had helped pull two or three motorcars out of ditches already, and some folks in town had suggested Will start a business just for that purpose. But he couldn’t face a job like that. Not after what happened at Belleau Wood.

He rubbed bleary eyes, stretching and yawning in his seat. The nightmare had returned last night, for the first time since Bea Dot and Netta had come to stay. He awoke in the darkness in a tangle of blankets and couldn’t shake the image of the distraught, pale woman with curly red hair, holding up her arms in defense as Will steered the ambulance straight toward her.

He shook his head fiercely.
Stop it, Dunaway
. He rubbed one e
ye, then the other, with the back of his hand. No need to relive the terror.

At the sound of an engine behind him, Will pulled the reins to the right, guiding Buster to the edge of the road to let the driver pass. To Will’s surprise, the engine slowed, and a dusty truck pulled alongside the wagon. Harley, the undertaker’s assistant, waved for Will to stop.

“What are you doing out here, Harley?”

“I heard you were back in town today.” Harley squinted at Will in the midday sun. “I tried to catch you at Richardson’s store, but I was too late.”

Will leaned forward, elbows on knees, letting the reins go slack. “I need to get back to the crossing as soon as I can,” he replied. “Some folks waiting for supplies.” Fortunately, he was finally able to load and unload them without any pain in his side.

“Weren’t you just in town a couple of days ago?”

“Yep.” Will nodded. “Already running low on some goods. Richardson and I are arranging some standing orders. Maybe he can make some deliveries too, so I won’t have to go back and forth so much.” Will frowned slightly. “Did you drive all the way out here to ask about that?”

A breeze blew up, and Will turned his jacket collar up around his neck. Buster sniffed the ground and nibbled on a few blades of grass.

Harley shook his head, turning in his seat to face Will better. He fiddled with the gearshift as he spoke. “Pritchett’s overwhelmed, what with this flu and all. His suppliers are too. We’ve got a list of clients who need to schedule funerals, but we don’t have coffins for them.”

The truck shuddered as its engine idled. Will waited a second for Harley to continue. Then his eyes widened as he caught Harley’s point. He shivered. Did the temperature just drop? “You want me to build coffins?”

“Could you?” Harley almost pleaded with him. “You were the first person we thought of since . . . well . . . you don’t have any family in town. Most everybody else has a sick one to tend to.”

The reference to no family simultaneously tugged at Will and buoyed him. He stiffened his back as another breeze brushed by. Usually his friends and neighbors felt sorry for him—annoyingly sorry—because his father was dead and his mother had moved away. For the first time, someone saw his solitude as a benefit instead of a burden—if one could call the ability to build coffins an advantage.

“Well, I’ve got Miss Netta and her cousin out at the crossing,” he said, wondering if he could look after the women and help Pritchett at the same time. He turned the reins over in his hands, and when Harley said nothing, Will continued. “Maybe I can help you out.” How could he refuse?

“Thank you.” Harley smiled. “I’ll tell Pritchett you’ll be along this afternoon.”

“Make it tomorrow,” Will replied. “I still have to unload these goods and take care of some other business.”

Will watched Harley turn the truck around, just to make sure he didn’t back it into the ditch. Then he watched the red dust cloud up behind the truck as it drove away.

Will slapped Buster’s behind lightly with the reins, and the horse pulled the wagon onto the road to travel the last mile to the crossing. His memories of last night’s dream receded to make room for present concerns. How would he manage building coffins and running the store? Could he ask Bea Dot to help out even more? He hated taking advantage of her willingness to pitch in. Then again, she did seem to enjoy the work more for herself than for him. He liked that. His requests for assistance always made her beam, and those beautiful grins always made his insides swim like minnows circling a bait pail. He smiled at the thought of Bea Dot humming behind the counter, dutifully keeping track of all the sales.

Then he checked himself.
Damn it, Dunaway, stop it
. Ralph and Netta had encouraged him to seek out a young lady’s company. Just his luck that the first woman he’d taken a liking to was married.

Knit two, knit two together, knit two, slip . . . No, that wasn’t right. Netta pulled her stitches out again. She’d pulled out three rows in the past hour.

Purl two, purl two together . . .

She put her needles in her lap and wiggled her fat fingers, their tips tingling at each movement. Her swelling worsened each day, further hampering her knitting and writing, the two tasks she had to do most. When she wasn’t working on the layette, she composed her daily page to Ralph, praying for him constantly. She also prayed the telephone would ring and Ralph would tell her to come home.

She shifted in her rocker—she just barely fit in it now—as the back door opened. Bea Dot entered with a large basket on her hip, her cheeks pink from the October breeze. Her dark brown curls had sprung from their pins, and she swiped them away from her face with a raw, cracked hand. “I must look like Medusa,” she said. “The wind is picking up out there.”

“Well, I look like Jack should chop me down from a beanstalk.” Netta chuckled and waited for a contradiction that didn’t come. Stung by Bea Dot’s silence, she picked up her knitting again.

“I’ve gotten my sleeves wet doing the laundry,” Bea Dot said after a short pause. “And my hands are blocks of ice. I’m going to stand by the stove.” And with that, she went into the kitchen.

Oh, no thank you, Bea Dot
, Netta grumbled in her head.
I don’t need anything, but it’s so thoughtful of you to ask.
Netta closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, chastising herself for her grumpiness, which grew with her girth. In her discomfort, Netta often let Bea Dot’s poor housekeeping skills irritate her. Repeatedly, she’d had to check her surly attitude and remind herself that her cousin was trying her best at doing the laundry and minding the kitchen. Still, Netta assured herself she’d never again complain about Lola’s work.

When she stood to stretch her back, her large middle shifted on its own. She put her hand on her side and felt a little lump—was it a foot or a hand?—roll under her skin and across her torso. “How big will you be when you’re born?” she asked her child, whom she’d taken to calling Little Ralph. The baby’s recent activity made her think it was a boy. “I hope you’ll fit into these clothes I made for you.”

Voices from the kitchen interrupted her thoughts. Will must be home. Her heart thumped in her chest, but she told it to stop, daring not to get her hopes up. She’d received no other telephone calls, no letters, nothing, since she spoke to Ralph three days ago. She waddled into the kitchen to hear whether Will had news from town, willing herself not to be disappointed if he didn’t.

“Where’s Netta?” he asked. She found him holding a plate of last night’s ham while Bea Dot stood by warming her hands at the stove. Netta shook her head in disbelief, wondering how Bea Dot could stand there and let Will make his own lunch.

“Will, you’re home sooner than we expected,” she said, shuffling to the table and resting her hands on one of its straight-backed chairs. These days, sitting was no more comfortable than standing. “Are you hungry?” She lilted her voice, a signal that Bea Dot should offer to make him a plate. But Bea Dot only turned to face Netta, warming her backside. Giving up on her cousin, Netta reached for the plate of ham. “Let me make you some lunch.”

“No, no.” Will pulled the plate away before Netta could touch it. “I’m making sandwiches. Have a seat. You’ll eat one, won’t you?” He cut thick slices of ham, and Bea Dot went to the cupboard and pulled out three cups, which she filled with water. At least her cousin had the wherewithal to do that.

“How were things in Pineview?” Netta asked tentatively, unsure whether she really wanted news. She eased herself into a chair.

“About the same,” Will said, now slicing the bread. “I didn’t see Ralph, but I didn’t stay in town long—just picked up my order and came straight home.” He gave her an apologetic look.

Netta lifted her eyebrows and nodded. Why should the report be any different?

“I do need to talk to you about something,” he said, placing a plate in front of her. The chunk of ham between thick slices of bread resembled a tongue poking out of a fat man’s mouth. Netta missed Lola’s cooking.

Will and Bea Dot joined her at the table. Will bit into his sandwich, but Bea Dot picked up a piece of bread and spread butter on it and ate her ham with a knife and fork. Netta did the same.

“What do you need to tell us?” Bea Dot asked.

Will swallowed, then spoke. “I talked to Harley this morning.” He turned to Bea Dot. “That’s the undertaker’s man.” To both of them he continued, “He says Pritchett is overwhelmed with work. Evidently his supplier hasn’t kept up with demand, and he can’t conduct funerals without making coffins.”

The morsel of ham Netta had eaten turned to stone in her stomach. She put down her knife and fork. “Just how many coffins does he need?”

“I don’t know a number,” Will replied gravely, “but it must be a lot if he sent Harley out for me.”

The idea of that many people dying was almost too much to comprehend.

“And he wants you to build them?” Bea Dot asked.

No, Bea Dot
, Netta thought,
Pritchett wants Will to sell him a box of nails.

“Yes.” Will turned a table knife in his hand, gazing at it as if it were a puzzling new tool.

After a pause, Bea Dot asked, “How long will you be gone?”

“A few days, I think. Depends on how fast I can work.” He faced Bea Dot. “I hope you won’t mind helping me out at the store.”

Netta couldn’t help noticing that Will wouldn’t meet her own eyes. She knew he was trying not to alarm her, but what he didn’t seem to realize was the more he didn’t say, the more nervous she became. Fear and disappointment gripped her, and she searched for words. Fortunately, Bea Dot found them for her. “Are you the only person who can help?”

Will gave her a puzzled frown.

“I mean,” Bea Dot continued carefully, “does this Mr. Harley know that Netta and I are here? Does he know Netta is so close to her time?”

“He knows you’re here.” Will nodded and finally eyed Netta with a considerate smile. “But I didn’t offer particulars about Miss Netta’s condition.”

How irksome. He was about to leave her in the pine forest with no way to get to town. Protecting her privacy was the least of her concerns at the moment. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure Bea Dot and Will could see her chest thumping.

“While I hate to be an obstacle to Mr. Pritchett’s needs,” she said, “I must say I’d feel terribly insecure without you here.” She patted her forehead with the rough rag she used as a napkin. Suddenly the room was too warm.

“How will we get Netta to Pineview when the baby comes?” Bea Dot asked. “You’ll have your wagon in town.”