Morning Glory

Chapter 11

In the morning Eleanor opened her eyes to the back of Will Parker’s head. His hair was flattened into a pinwheel, giving a clear view of his white skull underneath. She smiled. The intimacies of marriage. She watched each breath lift his shoulder blades, studied his back with its distinctive triangle of moles, the hindside of one ear, the pattern of the hairline at his nape, the ridges of his vertebrae disappearing beneath the covers just above his waist. His skin was so much darker than Glendon’s, so much barer; Glendon always slept in an undershirt. Will’s skin looked seasoned, whereas Glendon’s had been doughy.

The object of her study snuffled and rolled onto his back. His eyeballs moved behind closed lids, but he slept on, his face exposed to the sun. It turned him all gold and brown and put glints of color in his pale hair like those in a finch’s wing. His beard grew fast, much faster than Glendon’s, and there was more hair on his arms and chest. Studying it gave her an unexpected jolt of reaction, down low.

She slammed her eyes closed only to realize that he smelled different from Glendon. No smell she could name, only the distinctive one given him by Nature-warm male hide and hair and breath-as different from Glendon’s as that of an apple from an orange. Her eyes opened stealthily, halfway, as if such caution would prevent him from waking. Through nearly closed eyelids she admired him, letting the sunlight shatter on her lash tips and diffuse over his image as if he were sprinkled with sequins. A handsome, well-built man. The whores in La Grange probably fought over him.

Again the queer radiant disturbance intensified low in her belly as she lay with her knees only inches from his hip, his unfamiliar man-smell permeating her bedclothes, his warmth and bulk taking up half the sleeping space. It was a shock to find herself susceptible to fleshly thoughts when she’d thought pregnancy made her immune.

Another disturbing consideration struck. Suppose he had studied her as intimately as she now studied him. She tried to recall falling asleep but couldn’t. They’d been talking-that was the last she remembered. Had she been lying on her back? Facing him? She glanced at the table; the lantern still hissed. He had left it on, could have lain awake for hours after she’d dropped off, taking an up-close tally of her shortcomings. Studying his becoming face, she became all too aware of how she suffered by comparison. Her hair was dirt brown, plain, her eyelashes thin and stubby, her fingers wide-knuckled, her stomach popping, her breasts mammoth. Sometimes she snored. Had she snored last night while he watched and listened?

She rolled toward her edge of the bed, thinking, just forget he’s back there and go about dressing as if it were any other day.

At her first movement Will came awake as if she’d set off a firecracker. He glanced at her back, the alarm clock, then sat up and reached for his pants, all in one motion.

They dressed facing opposite walls, and only when the final buttons were closed did they peer over their shoulders at each other.

"Mornin’," she offered self-consciously.

"Mornin’."

"Sleep okay?"

"Fine. Did I crowd you?"

"Not that I remember. Did I crowd you?"

"No."

"You always wake up that quick?"

"It’s nearly eight. Herbert’s gonna bust." He sat down on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on. A moment later he was stalking out the door, stuffing in his shirttails.

When he was gone, she dropped onto the bed and sighed with relief. They’d done it! Gone to bed, slept together, gotten up and dressed without once making physical contact, and without him seeing her ugly, bloated body.

She sat moments longer staring despondently at the mopboard.

Well, that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?

Yes!

Then why are you sitting here moping?

I’m not moping!

Oh?

Well, I’m not!

But you’re thinking about when the judge ordered him to kiss you.

Well, what’s wrong with that?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Leave me alone.

Silence. For minutes and minutes only obedient silence hummed inside her head.

If you wanted him to kiss you goodnight, you should’ve just leaned over and done it yourself.

I didn’t want him to kiss me goodnight.

Oh, sorry. I thought that’s why you were moping.

I wasn’t moping.

But she was, and she knew it.

At midmorning that day, with breakfast eaten and his routine chores done, Will returned to the house to find the veiled hat, hive tool and smoker on the back-porch steps. He grinned. So… no more egg grenades. Going inside to thank her, he almost regretted the loss.

The house was empty, on the table, a note: Gone to pick pecans with the boys. He took the stub of a pencil, scrawled across the bottom, "Thanks for the wedding gift!" and hit for the mint patch.

Their first twenty-four hours as husband and wife seemed to set the tone for the days that followed. They lived together amicably if not intimately, helping one another in small ways, adapting, sharing a mutual enjoyment of the children and their uncomplicated family life. From the first they accommodated each other-as with the beekeeping gear-so there were no more bursts of anger. Life was peaceful.

Though the sudden appearance of the hive tool, hat and smoker was never mentioned between them, it signaled the true beginning of Will’s work with the bees. He sensed that Eleanor would rather not know when he was out in the orchard, so he kept the equipment in an outbuilding when it was not in use, and retrieved it without telling her. Only when he returned to the house with the honeycomb frames did she know he’d been among the bees.

He learned to respect them. There was a calm about the orchard that seeped into him each time he passed there, a serenity not only among the insects, but within himself for the necessity of having to move slowly while among them. But as slowly as he moved, it was inevitable that he should eventually get stung. The first time it happened he jumped, swatted and yowled, "Ouch!" For his efforts he received three additional stings. He learned, in time, not to jump and most certainly not to swat, forcing the stinger farther into his skin. But more importantly, he learned to recognize the variations in the sounds of the bees-from the squeaky piping of the contented workers as they moved about their business on humming gauze wings to the altogether different "quacking" occasionally set up by a single provoked bee, warning him to anticipate the sting and be ready to fend it off. He came to recognize the feel of bee feet digging into his body hair for a good grip, and to pluck the insect away gently before the grip became a sting. He learned that bees are soothed by the sound of human whistling, that their least favorite color is red and their most favorite, blue.

So it was a happy man who walked among the peach trees, whistling, dressed all in blue, a veiled hat protecting his face. He could never get used to the clumsiness of gloves, so worked barehanded, scraping at the hard, varnishlike propolis with which the bees sealed every minute crack between the supers. Inside the smoker, which was little more than a spouted tin can with an attached bellows, he lit a smudge of oiled burlap. Several puffs into the open hive subdued the bees, enabling him to remove the comb cases without danger. These he transported back to the house, where he carefully scraped the wax caps off the comb with a knife heated above a kerosene lantern. The first time Eleanor saw him doing so she opened the porch door and stepped outside, shrugging into a sweater, carrying a knife. "You’ll need a little help with that," she said flatly, without casting him a glance. But she sat down on the opposite side of the lantern and showed him that it wasn’t the first time she’d scraped wax. Nor was it the first time she’d extracted, nor rendered, when it came time to do those jobs.

The extracting-pulling the honey from the combs-was done in a fifty-gallon drum equipped with a crank that spun the combs and forced the honey out by centrifugal force. From a spigot at the bottom the honey was drained-littered with fragments of comb and wax-then heated and strained before the wax was allowed to separate to the top and be skimmed off. The two products were then packed separately for sale.

There was much Will didn’t know, particularly about the rendering process, knowledge that could be learned only by experience. Eleanor taught him-albeit grudgingly most of the time, but she taught him just the same.

"How do we clean up this mess?" Will inquired of the sticky drum with its honey-coated paddles and spigot.

"We don’t. The bees do," she replied.

"The bees?"

"Bees eat honey. Just leave it outside in the sun and they’ll find it."

Sure enough, any honey-coated tool left outside soon became cleaner than if it had been steamed.

Will knew perfectly well she saw the occasional welts on his skin, but she made no comments about them and soon his body built up a natural immunity until the bee stings scarcely reacted. When he came in with a load of comb, she tacitly went into the cellar for fruit jars, washed and scalded them, then lent a hand processing and bottling the honey.

Those honey days were a time of acquaintance for Will and Eleanor. As with their first night in bed when they’d lain so still, growing accustomed to lying side by side, working with the honey lent them proximity and time to adjust to the fact that they were bound for life. Sometimes, while scraping wax or holding a funnel, Will would look up and find himself being studied. The same was true for Eleanor. There would follow quick mutual smiles and a sense of growing acceptance, each for the other.

At night in bed, they talked. He, of the bees. She of the birds. Never of the birds and bees.

"Did you know a male worker bee has thirteen thousand eyes?"

"Did you know the flycatcher makes his nest out of discarded snakeskin?"

"There are nurses in a bee colony and all they do is take care of the nymphs."

"Most birds sing, but the titmouse is the only one who can actually whisper."

"Did you know the bees’ favorite color is blue?"

"And the hummingbird is the only bird that can fly backwards?"

These discussions sometimes led to insights into each other. One night Will spoke of the worker bees. "Did you know they work so hard during their lifetime that they actually work themselves to death?"

"No…" she replied disbelievingly.

"It’s true. They wear down their wings till they’re so frayed they can’t fly anymore. Then they just die." His expression turned troubled. "That’s sad, isn’t it?"

Eleanor studied her husband in a new light and found she liked what she saw. He lay in the dim lanternlight, contemplating the ceiling, saddened by the plight of the worker bees. How could a woman remain aloof to a man who cared about such things? Moved, she reached out to console, grazing the underside of his upraised arm.

His glance shot down to her and their gazes caught for several interminable seconds, then her fingers withdrew.

On a night shortly thereafter Will came up with another amazing apian phenomenon. "Did you know the workers practice something called flower fidelity? It means each bee gathers nectar and pollen from only one species of flower."

"Oh, you’re making that up!" Her head twisted to face his profile.

"I am not. I read about it in one of the books Miss Beasley gave me. Flower fidelity."

"Really?"

"Really."

He lay as he did every night during their talks-on his back with his hands behind his head. Silent, she regarded him, digesting this new snippet of information. At length she squared her head on the pillow and fixed her attention on the pale glow overhead. "I guess that’s not so unusual. Some birds practice fidelity, too. To each other. The eagles, the Canadian geese-they mate for life."

"Interesting."

"Mm-hmm."

"I’ve never seen an eagle," Will mused.

"Eagles are…" Eleanor gestured ceilingward-"Majestic."-then let her hands settle to her stomach again. A smile tipped her lips. "When I was a girl I used to see a golden eagle in a huge dead tree down in the swamp near Cotton Creek. If I were a bird, I’d want to be an eagle."

"Why?" Will turned to study her.

"Because of something I read once."

"What?"

"Oh… nothing." She twined her fingers and looked down her chest at them.

"Tell me." He sensed her reluctance but kept his gaze steady, unrelenting. After some time she sent Will a quick peek.

"Promise you won’t laugh?"

"I promise."

For several seconds she concentrated on aligning her thumbnails precisely, then finally quoted shyly.

"He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls."

She paused before adding, "Somebody named Tennyson wrote that."

In that moment Will saw a new facet of his wife. Fragile. Impressionable. Touched by poets’ words, articulate combinations of words such as she herself never used.

"It’s beautiful," he said softly.

Her thumbnails clicked together as she vacillated between the wish to hide her feelings and reveal more. The latter won as she swallowed and added softly, "Nobody laughs at eagles."

Oh, Elly, Elly, who hurt you so bad? And what would it take to make you forget it? Will rolled to face her and braced his jaw on a fist. But she wouldn’t turn, and her cheeks burned brightly.

"Did somebody laugh at you?" His voice was deep with caring. A tear plumped in the corner of her eye. Understanding her chagrin at its arrival, Will pretended not to notice. He waited motionlessly for her answer, studying the ridge of her nose, the outline of her compressed lips. When she spoke it was an evasion.

"For a long time I didn’t know what azure meant."

He watched as her throat contracted and the florid spots in her cheeks stood out like pennies on an open palm. His hand burned to touch her-her chin maybe, turn it to face him so she would see that he cared and would never ridicule her. He wanted to take her close, cradle her head and rub her shoulder and say, "Tell me… tell me what it is that hurts so bad, then we’ll work at getting you over it." But every time he considered touching her his insecurities reared up to confront and confine him. Woman killer, jailbird, she’ll jump and yelp if you touch her. On the first day you were warned to keep your distance.

So he stayed on his own side of the bed with one wrist riveted to his hip, the other folded beneath an ear. But what he couldn’t relay by touch he put into his expressive voice.

"Elly?" It came out softly, the abbreviated name falling from his lips as an endearment. Their gazes collided, her green eyes still luminous with unshed tears, his brown ones filled with understanding. "Nobody’s laughing now."

Suddenly everything in her yearned toward him.

Touch me, she thought, like nobody ever did before, like I touch the boys when they feel bad. Make it not important that I’m plain and unpretty and more pregnant than I wish I was right now. You’re the man, Will-don’t you see? A man’s got to reach first.

But he couldn’t. Not first.

Touch me, he thought, my arm, my hand, a finger. Let me know it’s all right for me to have these feelings for you. Nobody’s cared enough to touch me for years and years. But you’ve got to reach first, don’t you see? Because of how you felt about him, and what I am, what I did, what we agreed to the first day I came here.

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 clasped her 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.

"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, 1/2 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."

Calmly she set the bowl aside, rose and closed the book. "Iknow what we’ll need, Will." Unflinchingly she met his worried brown eyes. "And I’ll have it all ready. You shouldn’t be reading that stuff,’cause it just scares you, is all."

"But it says-"

"I know what it says. But having a baby is a natural act. Why, the Indian women squatted in the woods and did it all alone, then walked back into the fields and started hoeing corn as soon as it was over."

"You’re no Indian," he argued intensely.

"But I’m strong. And healthy. And if it comes down to it, happy, too. Seems to me that’s as important as anything else, isn’t it? Happy people got something to fight for."

Her calm reasoning punctured his anger with surprising suddenness. When it had disappeared, one fact had impressed him: she’d said she was happy. They stood near, so near he could have touched her by merely lifting a hand, could have curled his fingers around her neck, rested his palms on her cheeks and asked, Are you, Elly? Are you really? For he wanted to hear it again, the evidence that for the first time in his life, he seemed to be doing something right.

But she dropped her chin and turned to retrieve the bowl of nuts and carry them to the cupboard. "Not everyone can stand the sight of blood, and I’ll grant you there’s blood when a baby comes."

"It’s not that. I told you, it’s the risks."

She turned to face him and said realistically, "We got no money for a doctor, Will."

"We could get up enough. I could take another load of scrap metal in. And there’s the cream money, and the eggs, and now the honey. Even pecans. Purdy’ll buy the pecans. I know he will."

She began shaking her head before he finished. "You just rest easy. Let me do the worrying about the baby. It’ll turn out fine."

But how could he not worry?

In the days that followed he watched her moving about the place with increasing slowness. Her burden began to ride lower, her ankles swelled, her breasts widened. And each day brought him closer to the day of delivery.

November tenth brought a temporary distraction from his worries. It was Eleanor’s birthday-Will hadn’t forgotten. He awakened to find her still asleep, facing him. He rolled onto his stomach and curled the pillow beneath his neck to indulge himself in a close study of her. Pale brows and gold-tipped lashes, parted lips and pleasing nose. One ear peeking through a coil of loose hair and one knee updrawn beneath the covers. He watched her breathe, watched her hand twitch once, twice. She came awake by degrees, unconsciously smacking her lips, rubbing her nose and finally opening sleepy eyes.

"Mornin’, lazybones," he teased.

"Mmm…" She closed her eyes and nestled, half on her belly. "Mornin’."

"Happy birthday."

Her eyes opened but she lay unmoving, absorbing the words while a lazy smile dawned across her face.

"You remembered."

"Absolutely. Twenty-five."

"Twenty-five. A quarter of a century."

"Makes you sound older than you look."

"Oh, Will, the things you say."

"I was watching you wake up. Looked pretty good to me."

She covered her face with the sheet and he smiled against his pillow.

"You got time to bake a cake today?"

She lowered the sheet to her nose. "I guess, but why?"

"Then bake one. I’d do it, but I don’t know how."

"Why?"

Instead of answering, he threw back the covers and sprang up. Standing beside the bed with his elbows lifted, he executed a mighty, twisting stretch. She watched with unconcealed interest-the flexing muscles, the taut skin, the moles, the long legs dusted with black hair. Legs planted wide, he shivered and bent acutely to the left, the right, then snapped over to pick up his clothes and begin dressing. It was engrossing, watching a man donning his clothes. Men did it so much less fussily than women.

"You gonna answer me?" she insisted.

Facing away from her, he smiled. "For your birthday party."

"My birthday party!" She sat up. "Hey, come back here!"

But he was gone, buttoning his shirt, grinning.

It was a toss-up who had to work harder to conceal his impatience that day-Will, who’d had the plan in his head for weeks, Eleanor, whose eyes shone all the while she baked her own cake but who refused to ask when this party was supposed to happen, or Donald Wade, who asked at least a dozen times that morning, "How long now, Will?"

Will had planned to wait until after supper, but the cake was ready at noon, and by late afternoon Donald Wade’s patience had been stretched to the limit. When Will went to the house for a cup of coffee, Donald Wade tapped his knee and whispered for the hundredth time, "Now, Will… pleeeease?"

Will relented. "All right, kemo sabe. You and Thomas go get the stuff."

The stuff turned out to be two objects crudely wrapped in wrinkled white butcher’s paper, drawn together with twine. The boys each carried one, brought them proudly and deposited them beside Eleanor’s coffee cup.

"Presents?" She crossed her hands on her chest. "For me?"

Donald Wade nodded hard enough to loosen the wax in his ears.

"Me ’n’ Will and Thomas made ’em."

"You made them!"

"One of ’em," Will corrected, pulling Thomas onto his lap while Donald Wade pressed against his mother’s chair.

"This one." Donald Wade pushed the weightier package into her hands. "Open it first." His eyes fixed on her hands while she fumbled with the twine, pretending difficulty in getting it untied. "This dang ole thing is givin’ me fits!" she exclaimed. "Lord, Donald Wade, help me." Donald Wade reached eagerly and helped her yank the bow and push the paper down, revealing a ball of suet, meshed by twine and rolled in wheat.

"It’s for your birds!" he announced excitedly.

"For my birds. Oh, myyy…" Eyes shining, she held it aloft by a loop of twine. "Won’t they love it?"

"You can hang it up and everything!"

"I see that."

"Will, he got the stuff and we put the fat through the grinder and I helped him turn the crank and me ’n’ Thomas stuck the seeds on. See?"

"I see. Why, I s’pect it’s the prettiest suet ball I ever seen. Oh, thank you so much, darlin’…" She gave Donald Wade a tight hug, then leaned over to hold the baby’s chin and smack him soundly on the lips. "You too, Thomas. I didn’t know you were so clever."

"Open the other one," Donald Wade demanded, stuffing it into her hands.

"Two presents-my goodness gracious."

"This one’s from Will."

"From Will…" Her delighted eyes met her husband’s while her fingers sought the ties on the scroll-shaped package. Though his insides were jumping with impatience, Will forced himself to sit easy in the kitchen chair, an arm propped on the table edge with a finger hooked in a coffee cup.

Opening the gift, Eleanor gazed at him. With an ankle braced on a knee his leg formed a triangle. Thomas was draped through it. It suddenly occurred to Eleanor that she wouldn’t trade Will for ten Hopalong Cassidys. "He’s somethin’, isn’t he? Always givin’ me presents."

"Hurry, Mama!"

"Oh… o’ course." She turned her attention to opening the gift. Inside was a three-piece doily set-an oval and two crescents-of fine linen, all hemstitched and border stamped, ready for crochet hook and embroidery needle.

Eleanor’s heart swelled and words failed her. "Oh, Will…" She hid her trembling lips behind the fine, crisp linen. Her eyes stung.

"The sign called it a Madeira dresser set. I knew you liked to crochet."

"Oh, Will…" Gazing at him, her eyes shimmered. "You do the nicest things." She stretched a hand across the table, palm-up.

Placing his hand in hers, Will felt his pulse leap.

"Thank you, dear."

He had never thought of himself as dear. The word sent a shaft of elation from his heart clear down to the seat of his chair. Their fingers tightened and for a moment they forgot about gifts and cakes and pregnancies and pasts and the two little boys who looked on impatiently.

"We got to have the cake now, Mama," Donald Wade interrupted, and the moment of closeness receded. But everything was intensified after that, tingly, electric. As Eleanor moved about the kitchen, whipping cream, slicing chocolate cake, serving it, she felt Will’s eyes moving with her, following, questing. And she found herself hesitant to look at him.

Back at the table, she handed him his plate and he took it without touching so much as her fingertip. She sensed his distance as a cautious thing, an almost unwillingness to believe. And she understood, for in her craziest moments she’d never have believed anything as crazy as this could happen. Her heart thundered at merely being in the same room with him. And a sharp pain had settled between her shoulder blades. And she found it hard to draw a full breath.

"I’ll take Baby Thomas." She tried to sound casual.

"He can stay on my lap. You enjoy your cake."

They ate, afraid to look at each other, afraid they had somehow misread, afraid they wouldn’t know what to do when the plates were empty.

Before they were, Donald Wade looked out the window and pointed with his fork. "Who’s that?"

Will looked and leaped to his feet. "Lord a-mighty!"

Eleanor dropped her fork and said, "What’s she doing here?"

Before Will could conjure a guess, Gladys Beasley mounted the porch steps and knocked on the door.

Will opened it for her. "Miss Beasley, what a surprise."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Parker."

"Come in."

He had the feeling she would have, whether invited or not. He poked his head outside. "Did you walk clear out here from town?"

"I don’t own an automobile. I didn’t see any other way."

Surprised, Will ushered her inside and turned to perform introductions. But Gladys took the matter out of his hands.

"Hello, Eleanor. My, haven’t you grown up."

"Hello, Miss Beasley." Eleanor stood behind a chair, nervously fingered her apron edge as if preparing to curtsy.

"And these are your sons, I suppose."

"Yes, ma’am. Donald Wade and Baby Thomas."

"And another one on the way. My, aren’t you a lucky child."

"Yes’m," Eleanor answered dutifully, her eyes flashing to Will’s. What does she want?

He hadn’t an inkling and could only shrug. But he understood Eleanor’s panic. How long had it been since she’d engaged in polite conversation with anyone from town? In all likelihood Miss Beasley was the first outsider Eleanor had ever allowed in this house.

"I understand congratulations are in order, too, on your marriage to Mr. Parker."

Again Eleanor’s eyes flashed to Will, then she colored and dropped her gaze to the chair, running a thumbnail along its backrest.

Miss Beasley glanced at the table. "It appears I’ve interrupted your meal. I’m-"

"No, no," Will interjected. "We were just having cake."

Donald Wade, who never spoke to strangers, inexplicably chose to speak to this one. "It’s Mama’s birthday. Will and me and Baby Thomas was givin’ her a party."

"Won’t you sit down and have some?" Eleanor invited.

Will could scarcely believe his ears, but the next moment Miss Beasley settled her hard-packed bulk in one of the chairs and was served a piece of chocolate cake and whipped cream. Though Will hadn’t actually missed having outsiders around, he found their absence unhealthy. If there was ever the perfect person to draw Eleanor out of her reclusiveness, it was Miss Beasley. Not exactly the gayest person, but fair-minded to a fault, and not at all the sort to dredge up painful past history.

Miss Beasley accepted a cup of coffee, laced it heavily with cream and sugar, sampled the cake and pursed her hairy lips. "Mmmm… quite delectable," she proclaimed. "Quite as delectable as the honey you sent, Eleanor. I must say I’m not accustomed to receiving gifts from my library patrons. Thank you."

Donald Wade piped up. "Wanna see the ones we give Mama today?"

Miss Beasley deferentially set down her fork and focused full attention on the child. "By all means."

Donald Wade scrambled around the table, found the suet ball and brought it to the librarian couched in his hand. "This here’s for her birds. Me’n Will and Baby Thomas made it all ourselfs."

"You made it… mmm." She examined it minutely. "Now aren’t you clever. And a homemade gift is certainly one from the heart-the best kind, just like the honey your mother and Mr. Parker gave me. You’re a lucky child." She patted him on the head in the way of an adult unused to palavering socially with children. "They’re teaching you the things that matter most."

"And this here…" Donald Wade, excited at having someone new on whom to shower his enthusiasm, reached next for the doilies. "These’re from Will. He bought ’em with the honey money and Mama she can embroidry on ’em."

Again Miss Beasley gave the items due attention. "Ah, your mother is lucky, too, isn’t she?"

It suddenly struck Donald Wade that the broad-beamed woman was a stranger, yet she seemed to know his mother. He looked up at Miss Beasley with wide, unblinking eyes. "How do you know ’er?"

"She used to come into my library when she was a girl not much bigger than you. Occasionally I was her teacher, you might say."

Donald Wade blinked. "Oh." Then he inquired, "What’s a lie-bree?"

"A library? Why, one of the most wonderful places in the world. Filled with books of all kinds. Picture books, storybooks, books for everyone. You must come and visit it sometime, too. Ask Mr. Parker to bring you. I’ll show you a book about a boy who looks quite a bit like you, actually, named Timothy Totter’s Tatters.Mmmm…" Leaning back, she tapped an index finger on her lips and examined Donald Wade as if a decision hung in the balance. "Yes, I should say Timothy Totter is just the book for a boy… what? Five years old?"

Donald Wade made his hair bounce, nodding.

"Do you have a dog, Donald Wade?"

Mystified, he wagged his head slowly.

"You don’t? Well, Timothy Totter does. And his name is Tatters. When you come, I’ll introduce you to both Timothy and Tatters. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to Mr. Parker a moment."

Miss Beasley could not have chosen a gentler method of bringing Eleanor around to the idea of bumping up against the outside world again. If there was an ideal way to reach Eleanor it was through her children. By the time Miss Beasley’s interchange with Donald Wade ended, Eleanor was sitting, looking less as if she was preparing to bolt. Miss Beasley told her, "That’s the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t mind having the recipe," then turned to Will without pause. "I’ve come bearing some sad news. Levander Sprague, who has cleaned my library for the past twenty-six years, dropped dead of a heart attack night before last."

"Oh… I’m sorry." He’d never heard of Levander Sprague. Why in the world had she brought the news clear out here?

"Mr. Sprague shall be sorely missed. However, he lived a long and fruitful life, and he leaves behind nine strapping boys to see their mother through her last years. I, however, am left without a custodian. The job pays twenty-five dollars a week. Would you like it, Mr. Parker?"

Will’s face flattened with surprise. His glance shot to Elly, then back to the librarian, as she hastened on. "Six nights a week, after the library closes. Caring for the floors, dusting the furniture, burning the trash, stoking the furnace in the winters, occasionally carrying boxes of books to the basement, building additional shelves when we need them."

"Well…" Will’s amazement modified into a crooked smile as he chuckled and ran a hand down the back of his head. "That’s quite an offer, Miss Beasley."

"I thought about offering it to one of Mr. Sprague’s sons, but quite frankly, I’d rather have you. You have a certain respect for the library that I like. And I heard that you were summarily dismissed from the sawmill, which irritated my sense of fair play."

Will was too surprised to be offended. His mind raced. What would Elly say? And should he be gone evenings when she was so close to due? But twenty-five dollars a week-every week-and his days still free!

"When would you want me to start?"

"Immediately. Tomorrow. Today if possible."

"Today… well, I… I’d have to think it over," he replied, realizing Elly ought to have a say.

"Very well. I’ll wait outside."

Wait outside? But he needed time to feel Elly out. He should have guessed that Miss Beasley would tolerate no shilly-shallying. He was already scratching his jaw in consternation as the door closed. At the same moment Eleanor arose stiffly from her chair and began clearing away the cake plates.

"Elly?" he asked.

She wouldn’t look at him. "You take it, Will. I can see you want to."

"But you don’t want me to, right?"

"Don’t be silly."

"I could buy fixtures for a bathroom and I’d still have days free to put it in for you."

"I said, take it."

"But you don’t like me hangin’ around town, do you?"

She set the dishes in the dishpan and did an about-face. "My feelings for town are mine. I got no right to keep you from it, if that’s what you want."

"But Miss Beasley’s fair. She never put you down for anything, did she?"

"Take it."

"And what about when the baby starts coming?"

"A woman has plenty of warning."

"You’re sure?"

She nodded, though he could see that it cost her dearly to let him go.

He crossed the room in four strides, grasped her jaws and planted a quick, hard kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, honey." Then he slammed out the door.

Honey? When he was gone she placed her palms where his had been. She was probably the most unhoney female within fifty miles, but the word had warmed her cheeks and tightened her chest. Before the thrill subsided, Will came slamming back inside.

"Elly? I’m giving Miss Beasley a ride back to town and she’ll show me around the library, then I’ll probably sweep up for her before I come back. Don’t wait supper for me."

"All right."

He was half out the door before he changed his mind and returned to her side. "Will you be all right?"

"Fine."

Looking up into his eager face, she bit back all her misgivings. He’d never know from her how badly she wanted him here from now until the baby came. Or how she feared having him working in town where everyone called her crazy, where prettier and brighter women were bound to make him take a second look at what he’d married and regret it.

But how could she hold him back when he could scarcely stand still for excitement?

"I’ll be fine," she repeated.

He squeezed her arm and was gone.