Morning Glory (11 page)
"I wouldn't know about that, ma'am."
"Bet you'd like to try one, wouldn't you?"
He gave her a sideward glance. "Reckon I would."
"Could use a little fat on them bones, Mr. Parker."
He leveled his eyes on the quince trees and tugged his hat brim so low it cut off his view of the horizon. Thankfully, she changed the subject.
"So where'd you eat 'em, then?"
"
"
"Picked fruit there one summer when I was a kid."
"You see any movie stars?"
"Movie stars?" He wouldn't have guessed she'd know much about movie stars. "No." He glanced at her. "You ever seen any?"
She laughed. "Now where would I see movie stars when I never even seen a movie?"
"Never?"
She shook her head. "Heard about 'em from the kids in school, though."
He wished he could promise to take her sometime, but where would he get the money for movies? And even if he had it, there was no theater in Whitney. Besides, she avoided the town.
"In
Hollywood
, and it gets cold in parts where there are mountains. And the ocean's dirty. It stinks."
She could see she had her work cut out for her if she was to get that pessimism out of him. "You always so jolly?"
He would have tugged his hat brim lower, but if he did he'd be unable to see where he was walking. "Well,
"You know, I can't say I'd mind if you'd smile a little more often."
He tossed her a sullen glance. "About what?"
"Maybe, Mr. Parker, you got to find that out for yourself." She let the baby slip from her hip. "Lord, Thomas, if you ain't gettin' heavier than a guilty conscience, I don't know. Come on, take Mommy's hand and I'll show you somethin'."
She showed him things Will would have missed: a branch shaped like a dog's paw—"A man could whittle forever and not make anything prettier," she declared. A place where something tiny had nested in the grass and left a collection of empty seed pods—"If I was a mouse, I'd love livin' right here in this pretty-smellin' orchard, wouldn't you?" A green katydid camouflaged upon a greener blade of grass—"Y' got to look close to see he's makin' the sound with his wings." And in the adjacent woods a magnolia tree with a deep bowl, headhigh, where its branches met, and within that bowl, a second tree taken root: a sturdy little oak growing straight and healthy.
"How'd it get there?" Donald Wade asked.
"How d' you think?"
"I dunno."
She squatted beside the boys, gazing up at piggyback trees. "Well, there was this wise old owl lived in these woods, and one evenin' at dusk he came by and I ast him the same thing. I says to him, how'd that li'l old oak tree get t' growin' in that magnolia?" She grinned at Donald Wade. "Know what he told me?"
"Uh-uh." Donald Wade stared at his mother, mystified. She dropped to her rump and sat like an Indian, stripping bark from a stick with her thumbnail as she went on.
"Well, he said there was two squirrels lived here, years ago. One of 'em was a hard worker, spent every day totin' acorns into that little pocket in the tree up there." She pointed with the stick. "The other squirrel, well, he was lazy. Laid on his back on that limb over there"—she pointed again, to a nearby pine—"and made a pillow out of his tail and crossed his legs and watched the busy squirrel gettin' ready for winter. He waited until there was so many nuts they was about to start spillin' over the edge. Then when the hardworking squirrel went off to look for one last nut, the lazy one scrambled up there and ate and ate and ate, until he'd ate every last one of 'em. He was so full he sat on the limb and let out a burp so almighty powerful it knocked him off backwards." She drew a deep breath, braced her hands on her knees and burped loudly, then flopped back, arms out-flung. Will smiled. Donald Wade giggled. Baby Thomas squealed.
"But it wasn't so funny, after all," she continued, gazing at the sky.
Donald Wade sobered and leaned over her to look straight down into her face. "Why not?"
"Because on his way down, he cracked his head on a limb and killed himself deader'n a mackerel."
Donald Wade smacked himself in the head and fell backward, sprawled on the grass beside Eleanor, his eyelids closed but twitching. She rolled up and took Thomas into her lap. "Now when the busy little squirrel come back with that one last nut between his teeth, he climbed up and saw that all his acorns were gone. He opened his mouth to cry and the last acorn he brung up, why, it fell into the nest beneath the nutshells the greedy squirrel had left." Donald Wade, too, sat up, his interest in the story aroused once again. "He knew he couldn't stay here for the winter, 'cause he'd already gathered up all the nuts for miles around. So he left his cozy nest and didn't come back till he was old. So old it was hard for him to climb up and down the oak trees like he used to. But he remembered the little nest in the magnolia where it had been warm and dry and safe, and he climbed up there to see it again, just for old times' sake. And what do you think he found?"
"The oak tree growin' there?" the older boy ventured.
"That's right." She finger-combed Donald Wade's hair off his brow. "A sturdy little oak with enough acorns that the old squirrel never had to run up and down a tree again, 'cause they was growin' all around his head, right there in his warm, cozy nest."
Donald Wade popped up. 'Tell me another one!"
"Uh-uh. Got to go on, show Mr. Parker the rest of the place." She pushed to her feet and reached for Thomas's hand. "Come on, boys. Donald Wade, you take Thomas's other hand. Come on, Mr. Parker," she said over her shoulder. "Day's movin' on."
Will lagged behind, watching them saunter up the lane, three abreast, holding hands. The rear of her skirt was wrinkled from the damp grass, but she cared not a whit. She was busy pointing out birds, laughing softly, talking to the boys in her singsong Southern fashion. He felt a catch in his heart for the mother he'd never known, the hand he'd never held, the make-believe tales he'd never been told. For a moment he pretended he'd had one like Eleanor Dinsmore. Every kid should have one like her.
Maybe, Mr. Parker, you got to find that out for yourself
. Her words echoed through his mind as they moved on, and Will found himself glancing back over his shoulder at the oak tree growing out of the magnolia, realizing fully what a rare thing it was.
In time they came to a double flank of beehives, grayed, weathered and untended, dotting the edge of the orchard. He searched his mind for any knowledge of bees, but found none. He saw the hives as a potential source of income, but she gave them wide berth and he recalled that her husband had died tending the bees, was buried somewhere out here in the orchard. But he saw no grave and she pointed none out. In spite of the way Dinsmore had died, Will felt himself drawn to the hives, to the few insects that droned around them, and to the scent of the fruit—wormy or whole—as it warmed beneath the
sun. He wondered about the man who'd been here before him, a man who maintained nothing, finished nothing and apparently never worried about either. How could a man let things run to ruin that way? How could a man lucky enough to own things—so many things—care so little about their condition? Will could count in ten seconds the number of things he'd ever owned: a horse, a saddle, clothing, a razor. Lengthening his stride to catch up with Eleanor Dinsmore, he wondered if she. were as hopeless a dreamer as her husband had been.
They came to a pecan grove that looked promising, hanging thick with immature nuts, and in the lane over the next hill a tractor, which blocked their way.
"What's this?" Will's eyes lit up.
"Glendon's old Steel Mule," she explained while Will made a slow circuit around the rusting hulk. "This was where she stopped running, so this is where he left 'er." It was an old Bates Model G, but of what vintage Will couldn't be sure—'26 or '27, maybe. At the front it had two wide-set steel wheels, and on each side at the rear three wheels of telescoping size surrounded by tracks with lugs. The lugs were chewed, in some places missing. He glanced at the engine and doubted it would ever make a sound again.
"I know a little about engines, but I think this one's shot for good."
They moved on, reaching the far end of the property, turning back toward the house ofl another path. They passed stubbled fields and patches of woods, eventually topping a rise where Will stopped dead, pushed back his hat and gaped. "Holy smokes," he muttered. Below lay a veritable graveyard of iron stoves, rusting in grass tall enough to bend in the wind.
"A bunch of 'em, huh?" Eleanor stopped beside him. "Seemed like he'd haul another one home every week. I said to him, 'Glendon, what're you going to do with all them old stoves when everybody these days is changin' to gas and kerosene?' But he just kept hauling 'em in here whenever he heard of someone changin' over."
There had to be five hundred cif them, as bright orange as the road to Whitney. "Holy smokes," Will repeated, lifting his hat and scratching his head, imaginin the chore of hauling them out again.
She glanced at his profile, clearly defined against the blue sky, with the hat pushed back beyond his hairline. Did she dare tell him about the rest? Might as well, she decided. He'd find out eventually anyway. "Wait'll you see the cars."
Will turned her way. After all he'd seen, nothing would be a surprise. "Cars?"
"Wrecks, every one of 'em. Worse'n the Steel Mule."
Hands on hips, he studied the stoves a long moment. At length he sighed, tugged down his hat brim and said, "Well, let's get it over with."
The cars lay immediately behind the band of woods surrounding the outbuildings—they'd come nearly full circle around the place—and created a clutter of gaping doors and sagging roofs in the long weeds. They approached the windowless wreck of an old 1928 Whippet. Wild honeysuckle climbed over its wire wheels and along the front bumper. On the near runningboard a bird had made its nest against the lee of the back fender.
"Can I drive it?" Donald Wade asked eagerly.
"Sure can. Wanna take Baby Thomas with you?"
"Come on, Thomas." Donald Wade took his brother's hand, plowed through the grass and helped Thomas board. The two clambered up and sat side by side, bouncing on the tattered seat. Donald Wade pumped the steering wheel left and right, malcing engine noises with his tongue. When Eleanor and Will approached, he whipped the wheel even more vigorously. Imitating his brother, Thomas stuck out his tongue and blew, sending specks of saliva flying onto a cobweb strung across the faded black paint of the dashboard.
Eleanor stood beside the open door and laughed. The more she laughed, the more the boys bounced and blew. The more they bounced and blew, the more animatedly Donald Wade worked the steering wheel.
She crossed her arms on the window opening, bent forward and propped her chin on a wrist. "Where y'all goin', fellers?"
"
Atlanta
!" squealed Donald Wade.
"'Lanta!" parroted Thomas.
"
Atlanta
?" teased their mother. "What y'all think y're gonna do clear over there?"
"Don' know." Donald Wade drove hell-bent for leather, the old wheel spinning in his freckled hands.
"Care to give a pretty lady a ride?"
"Can't stop—goin' too fast!"
"Hows 'bout if I just jump on the runnin' board while you whiz by?"
"Okee-dokee, lady!"
"Ouch!" Eleanor jumped back and grabbed her foot. "You run over my toe, young feller!"
"Eeeeech!" Donald Wade's stubby foot slammed the brake pedal to the floor as he came to a screeching halt. "Git in, lady."
Eleanor acted affronted. She put her nose in the air and turned away. "Don't reckon I care to, now you run over my toes that way. Reckon I'll find myself somebody drives less reckless than you. But you might ask Mr. Parker here if he needs a lift to town. He's been walkin' some and he's probably plum tuckered, ain't you, Mr. Parker?" She squinted up at him with a crooked smile.