Morning Glory (9 page)

 
"
Herbert?
"
A corner of his mouth quirked.

 
She shrugged while humor lit her face. "Don't ask me how the name got on her. She's always been Herbert and that's what she answers to."

 
"I could milk,"—his grin spread—"Herbert for you if you tell me where to find another pail."

 
She completed the slice and wiped her hands on her apron, fixing a teasing grin on her mouth. "Well, my, my..." she drawled. "Is that a smile I see threatenin' the man's face?"

He allowed it to remain as they openly regarded one another, finding that the morning had brought changes they each liked. Seconds passed before they were smitten by self-consciousness. He glanced away. She turned to fetch him a galvanized pail.

 
"There's a milk stool standin' against the south side o' the barn."

 
"I'll find it."

 
The screen door slammed and she crossed to it, calling, "Oh, Mr. Parker?"

 
He pivoted in the path. "Ma'am?"

 
She studied him through the screen.

 
He had a pair of the nicest lips she'd ever seen, and they were downright pretty when they smiled.

 
"After breakfast I'm gonna cut that hair for you."

 
The grin mellowed and reached his eyes. "Yes, ma'am," he said softly with a touch on his hat brim.

 
As he turned downyard with the pail swinging at his side, he wondered when he'd been happier, when life had looked more promising. She was going to keep him!

 
Herbert turned out to be a friendly cuss with big brown eyes and a brown and white hide. She and the goat seemed to be pals, exchanging a hello of noses. The mule was out behind the barn, too, with its eyes half closed, facing the wall. Will chose to milk the cow outside instead of in the smelly barn. He tied her to a fencepost, stripped off his shirt and hunkered on the stool while the heat of the sun pelted his back. It seemed he couldn't soak up enough of it to make up for the five years' dearth. Beside him the goat watched, chewing its cud. The cow chewed too—loud, grinding beats. Comfortable. In time Will's milking matched the rhythm of Herbert's jaws. It was soothing—the warm bovine flesh against his forehead, the warmer sun, the homely sound, and the heat building up the length of his arms. In time his muscles burned—satisfying, honest heat generated by his own body toiling as a body ought. He increased his speed to test his mettle.

 
While he worked, the hens came out of their night roosts, one by one, clucking throatily, walking as if on sharp stones, exploring the grass for snails. He eyed the yard, imagining it clean. He eyed the chickens, imagining them penned. He eyed the woodpile imagining it chopped, ranked and filed. There was one hell of a lot to do, but the challenge fired him with eagerness.

 
A mother cat showed up with three taffy-colored kittens, a trio of clowning puffballs with tails straight as pokers. The mother curled against Will's ankle and he paused to scratch her.

 
"What's your name, missus?" She stood on her hind legs, braced her forefeet on his thigh, begging. Her fur was soft and warm as she jutted against his fingers. "You feedin' those three, huh? Need a little help?" He found a sardine can inside the doorway of the barn and filled it, then watched the four of them eat, one of the babies with a foot in the can. He chuckled ... and the sound of his own laughter was so foreign to his ears it made his heart hammer. He tilted his head back and squinted at the sky, letting freedom and happiness overcome him. He chuckled again, feeling the wondrous thrust of the sound against his throat. How long since he'd heard it? How long?

 
When he delivered the milk to the house he smelled bacon frying from twenty feet down the yard. His stomach growled and he paused with his hand raised to knock on the screen door.

 
Inside the kitchen, Eleanor lifted her head and their gazes caught.

 
He dropped the hand and opened the door, taking the risk and finding it easy, after all.

 
"Met the animals," he announced, setting the pail on the cupboard. "Mule's a little stuck-up, compared to the others."

 
"Well, bless my soul," Eleanor remarked. "A regular speech."

 
He backed off, rubbing his hands on his thighs self-consciously. "I'm not much for small talk."

 
"I've noticed. Still, you might try it out on the boys."

 
The pair was up, dressed in wrinkled pajamas. The older one looked up from where he was entertaining the young one on the floor with five wooden spools. He stared at Will.

 
"Howdy, Donald Wade," Will ventured, feeling awkward and uncertain.

 
Donald Wade stuck his finger in his mouth and poked his cheek out.

 
"Say good morning, Donald Wade," his mother prompted.

 
Instead Donald Wade pointed a stubby finger at his brother and blurted out, "That's Baby Thomas."

 
Baby Thomas drooled down the front of his pajamas, stared at Will and clacked two spools together. To the best of Will's recollection he had never spoken to a person so young. He felt foolish waiting for an answer and didn't know what to do with his hands. So he stacked three spools in a tower. Baby Thomas knocked them over, giggled and clapped. Will looked up and found Eleanor watching him, stirring something on the stove.

 
"I laid out Glendon's razor for you, and his mug and brush. You're welcome to use them."

 
He rose to his feet, glanced at the shaving equipment, then at her. But already she'd turned to her cooking, giving him a measure of privacy. He'd been shaving with a straight edge and no soap, hacking his skin all to hell; the mug and brush would be as welcome as the hot water, but he paused before moving toward them.

 
He'd just have to get used to it: they were going to share this kitchen every morning. He'd have to wash and shave and she'd have to comb her hair and cook breakfast and tend her babies. There were bound to be times when he'd have to brush close by her. And she hadn't jumped away so far, had she?

 
"Excuse me," he said at her shoulder. She glanced at the mug and shifted over without missing a beat in stirring the grits, letting him reach around her for the teakettle.

 
"You sleep all right last night?"

 
"Yes, ma'am."

 
He filled the cup and the washbasin, whipped up a froth of shaving bubbles and lathered his face, back to back with her.

 
"How do you like your eggs?"

 
"Cooked."

 
"Cooked?" She spun around and their eyes met in the mirror.

 
"Yes, ma'am." He tilted his head and scraped beneath his left jaw.

 
"You mean you're in the habit of eating 'em raw?"

 
"I been known to."

 
"You mean straight out of some farmer's hen house?"

 
He shaved away, avoiding her eyes. She burst out laughing, drawing his reflected glance once again. She laughed long, unrestrainedly, resting an arm on her stomach, until his eyes—black as walnuts above the white shaving soap—took on a hint of amusement.

 
"You think it's funny?" He rinsed the razor.

 
She sobered with an effort. "I'm sorry."

 
She sounded anything but sorry, but he found her amusement did pleasant things to her face. Outlining a sideburn, he said, "Farmers tend to blame it on the foxes, so nobody comes lookin'."

 
She studied him a while, wondering how many miles he'd drifted, how many hen houses he'd raided, how long it would take him to lose that distance he maintained so carefully. For the moment she'd created a crack in it, but inside he was rolled up like a possum.

 
She found herself enjoying the smell of shaving soap in the house again. His face emerged, one scrape at a time, the face she'd be looking at across her table for years to come, should he decide to stay. She was surprised to find herself fascinated by it, by the shape of his jaw, the clean line of his nose, the thinness of his cheeks, the darkness of his eyes. When he glanced up and found her still studying him, she spun back toward the stove.

 
"Fried soft, hard or scrambled?"

 
His hands fell still at the question. In prison they were always scrambled and tasted like damp newspaper. My God—to be given a choice.

 
"Fried soft."

 
"Soft it'll be."

 
While he washed up and combed his hair, he listened to the spatter as the eggs hit the pan, a sound he'd seldom heard, living in bunkhouses and boxcars as he had for much of his free life. Sounds. In his life he'd heard a lot of rumbling wheels and other men snoring. Clanging bars, male voices, washing machines.

 
Behind him the boys jabbered and giggled, and the wooden spools clattered to the floor. The stovelids clanged. The ashes collapsed. A log thudded. The teakettle hissed. A mother said, "Time for breakfast, boys. Jump up on your chairs now."

 
The smells in this kitchen were enough to make a man drown in his own saliva. In prison the two prevailing smells were those of disinfectant and urine, and food there seemed to have as little smell as it did taste.

 
When they sat down to breakfast, Will openly stared at the wealth of food on his plate: three eggs—three!—done to a turn. Grits, bacon, hot black coffee and toast with boysenberry jam.

 
She saw his hesitation, saw him rest his hands on his thighs as if afraid to reach out again.

 
"Eat," she ordered, then began chopping up an egg for Baby Thomas.

 
As he had last night, Will ate in a state of disbelief at his good fortune. He was half done before realizing she was only picking at a piece of dry toast. His forkhand paused.

 
"What's the matter?" she inquired, "Somethin' cooked wrong?"

 
"No. No! It's ... why, it's the best breakfast I ever had in my life, but where's yours?"

 
"Food don't agree with me this early in the morning."

 
He couldn't imagine anyone not eating if food was plentiful. Had she given him her share, too?

 
"But—"

 
"Women get that way when they're expectin'," she explained.

 
"Oh." His eyes dropped to her belly, then quickly aside.

 
Why, I swear
, she thought.
That man's blushin'!
For whatever reason, the thought pleased her.

* * *

After breakfast she sat him on a chair in the middle of the kitchen and tied a dishtowel around him, backward. Her first touch sent shivers down his calves. He listened to the scissors snip, felt the comb scrape his skull and closed his eyes to savor each movement of her knuckles against his head. He shuddered and let his hands go limp on his thighs, covered by the dishtowel.

 
She saw his eyes drop closed.

 
"Feel good?" she asked.

 
They flew open again. "Yes, ma'am."

 
"No need to stiffen up." She nudged his shoulder gently. "Just relax."

 
After that, she worked in silence, letting him absorb the pleasure undisturbed. His eyelids slid closed again and he drifted beneath the first gentle woman's touch he'd experienced in over six years. She brushed the tip of his ear, the back of his neck, and he was lulled into his private, soft place. Lord, lord ... it was good...

 
When the haircut was done she had to wake him.

 
"Hm?" He lifted his head, then jerked awake, dismayed at finding he'd dozed. "Oh ... I must've—"

 
"All done." She whisked the dishtowel off and he rose to peer into the tiny round mirror next to the sink. The hair was slightly longer above his right ear than above his left, but overall the haircut was a great improvement over the close shearing he'd received in prison.

 
"Looks good, ma'am," he offered, touching a sideburn with his knuckles. He looked back over his shoulder. "Thank you. And for breakfast, too."

 
Whenever he thanked her she brushed it off as if she'd done nothing. Sweeping the floor, she didn't look up. "You got a healthy head of hair there, Mr. Parker. Glendon's was thin and fine. Always cut his, too." She waddled to the side of the room for a dustpan. "Enjoyed doin' it again. Enjoyed the smell of the shavin' soap around the house again, too."

 
She had? He thought he'd been the only one to enjoy those things. Or perhaps she was being kind to put him at ease. He found himself wanting to return the favor.