Morning Glory

Chapter 10

The smell of popcorn greeted them in the theater lobby. With eyes wide and fascinated, the boys stared up at the red and white popcorn machine, then appealed to their mother. "Mama, can we have some?" Will’s heart melted. He was reaching into his shirt pocket before Eleanor could frame a refusal. Inside the dimly lit auditorium, Donald Wade and Thomas sat on their knees, munching, until the screen lit up with Previews of Coming Attractions. When scenes from Gone With the Windradiated overhead, their hands and jaws seemed to stop functioning. So did Eleanor’s. Will eyed her askance as myriad reactions flashed across her face-amazement, awe, rapture.

"Oh, Will," she breathed. "Oh, Will, look!"

Sometimes he did. But he found the study of their faces-especially hers-far more fascinating as they were transported for the first time into the world of celluloid make-believe.

"Oh, Will, look at that dress!"

His attention wavered briefly to the billowing, hoop-skirted garment, then returned to his wife’s face, realizing something new about her: she was a woman whose head could be turned by finery. He would not have guessed so from the ordinary way she dressed. But her eyes shone and her lips looked as if they were about to speak to the images on the screen.

The color film disappeared and a newsreel came on in black and white: goose-stepping German soldiers, bombs, mortar shells, the battle front in Russia, wounded soldiers-an abrupt plunge from fantasy to reality.

Will watched the screen with rapt interest, wondering how long America could possibly stay out of the war, wondering how long he himself could stay out of it if the inevitable happened. He had a family now; his welfare suddenly mattered fiercely, whereas it never had before. It was a shock to him to realize this.

As the newsreel ended he turned and caught Eleanor watching him above the boys’ heads. The gaiety had disappeared from her eyes, replaced by a troubled frown. Obviously the grim reality of war had finally imposed itself upon her. He felt a stab of remorse for having been the one to expose her to it, the one who’d brought her here to have her sunny illusions shattered. He wanted to reach above the pair of blond heads and touch her eyelids, say to her, close your eyes for a moment and go back to pretending it isn’t happening. Be the happy recluse you were.

But just as he could not ignore the battles in Europe, and America’s ever-increasing support for England and France, neither must she. She couldn’t remain an ostrich forever, not when she was married to a man of prime age for induction, one with a prison record who was sure to be one of the first called up.

The newsreel ended and the main feature began.

Border Vigilantesturned out to be a Hopalong Cassidy movie, and the boys’ reaction made it well worth the six bits Will had laid out. He himself enjoyed the show, and Eleanor’s elation returned. But the boys-oh, those two little boys. What a sight they made with their entranced faces lifted to the silver screen while the masked rider fought for law and justice on his white steed, Topper. Donald Wade’s mouth hung open when Topper galloped into view for the first time and reared up majestically, his silver-haired rider flourishing a black hat like Will’s own. Baby Thomas pointed and stared with owl-eyes, his mouth forming a tight O. Then he squealed and clapped and had to be shushed. Eleanor’s expression shifted from one of rapt wonder to childlike delight as the scenes rolled on.

Hopalong got the lady in the end, and when he kissed her Will glanced over at his new wife. As if she felt his survey, she turned again. Their profiles, illuminated by fluttering light, appeared as half-moons in the dark theater while their own first kiss came back afresh, and they were reminded of the night ahead. In that brief moment feelings of anxiety somersaulted through them. Then the finale music swelled, Hopalong rode off into the sunset and the boys set up an exciting babbling.

"Is it all done? Where did Hopalong go? Can we come again, Will, can we, huh?"

In the car there was no talk between Will and Eleanor as there’d been that morning. Baby Thomas slept curled on her lap. Donald Wade-wearing Will’s hat-pressed himself against Will’s shoulder and exuberated over the wonders of Hopalong and Topper. Though Will answered, his thoughts projected to the night ahead. Bedtime. He cast occasional covert glances at Eleanor but she stared straight ahead and he wondered if she was thinking about the same thing as he.

At home, Will tended the evening chores automatically, his mind on the bedroom he’d never seen, their first kiss today, how guarded they’d been with each other, the night ahead, a real bed and a woman to share it. But a pregnant woman, pregnant enough to eliminate the possibilities of any conjugal commerce. He wondered what a woman as pregnant as Elly looked like naked and his body felt taut with a combination of chagrin at the thought of possibly seeing her that way, and the idea of lying beside her all night long without touching her.

Had he imagined a wedding day, ever, it wouldn’t have been like this-himself in blue jeans, the bride seven months pregnant, a dime-store ring, five minutes in a judge’s chamber and a Hopalong Cassidy movie with two rambunctious boys. But the unlikely events of the day weren’t over yet.

Supper-due to their late return-was scarcely a wedding feast. Scrambled eggs, green beans and side pork. Donald Wade bawled when Eleanor refused to let him wear Will’s hat at the table. Baby Thomas spit out his green beans on Eleanor’s yellow dress, and when she scolded him he swatted his tumbler of milk across the room. Eleanor, her skirt soaked, leaped up and slapped his hand. Thomas howled like a fire siren while Will sat by helplessly, realizing that family life had some surprises in store for him. Eleanor went off to fetch a basin and a rag, leaving him to ponder the probability that if this wedding day seemed a letdown to an unsentimental fool like him, it must seem a sore disappointment to her. She returned to the fiasco at the table but he wouldn’t let her get down on her hands and knees in her pretty yellow dress, especially when she had to struggle these days to get up and down.

"Here, I’ll do that." He took the pail from her hand, trying to imagine what it must be like to carry a bride across the threshold of a honeymoon suite on the twentieth floor of the Ritz Hotel. He wished he could do that for her. Instead he could only offer, "You go take care of your dress."

She lifted her face and he saw in her green eyes the same misgivings he had, the same strain, intensified by the boys’ uncharacteristic naughtiness on this night when it was the last thing they needed. He was touched more deeply by the fact that she was near tears.

"Thank you, Will."

"Go." He turned her toward the bedroom and gave her a gentle shove.

Funny how one bit of cooperation led to another. A half hour later he found himself beside her, drying dishes, and a half hour after that, helping her get the boys ready for bed.

The pair had had a tiring day and they surrendered to their pillows with remarkable docility. While she tucked them in he wandered the room collecting their discarded clothes, small items that smelled of spilled milk and first trips to town, popcorn and broomstick cowboys. From beside a scarred chest of drawers Will watched Eleanor kiss them goodnight, smiling at the scene. Two pajama-clad boys with faces scrubbed shiny being reassured by their mother that they were loved in spite of their recent misbehavior. She had changed into a worn smock of faded brown that bellied out as she leaned over Donald Wade, kissed his mouth, his cheek; touched his nose with her own and murmured something for his ears only. And next, Baby Thomas, over the side of the crib, kissing him, toppling him into a tired heap, then brushing his hair back while he clasped a favorite blanket and stuck a thumb in his mouth.

Resting an elbow on the dresser top, Will smiled softly. Again came the yearning for things missed, but watching was almost as good as taking part. In those moments, his love for Eleanor swelled, became something more than the love of a husband for a wife. She became the mother he’d never known, the boys became himself-safe, secure, cared for.

With a pang of awe he realized he would be part of this tableau every night. He could wash freckled faces, stuff arms into pajama sleeves, collect dirty clothes and hover over their affectionate goodnights. Vicariously he might recapture a portion of what he’d missed.

The ritual ended. Eleanor lifted the side of the crib and waggled two fingers at Donald Wade. Abruptly he sat up and demanded, "I wanna kiss Will goodnight."

Will’s elbow came off the dresser and his face registered surprise. Eleanor turned and met his gaze across the lamplit room.

She noted his hesitation but saw beyond it to the stronger tug of anticipation. "Donald Wade wants to kiss you," she reiterated.

"Me?" He felt like an interloper though his chest tightened expectantly. Donald Wade lifted his arms. Will glanced again at Eleanor, chuckled, scratched his chin and crossed the room, feeling awkward and out of place. He sat on the edge of the bed and the boy’s arms clasped his neck without restraint. The small mouth-moist and smelling faintly of milk-pressed Will’s briefly. It was so unexpected, so… so… genuine. He’d never kissed a child goodnight before, had never guessed how it got to your insides and warmed you from there, out.

"Night, Will."

"Night, kemo sabe."

"I’m Hopalong."

Will laughed. "Oh, my mistake. I shoulda checked to see which horse was tied at the hitchin’ rail outside."

When Will rose from Donald Wade’s bed, Baby Thomas was no longer lying down. He was standing at the rail of his crib with his mouth plump and his eyes unblinking, watching. Baby Thomas… who’d taken longer to warm to Will. Baby Thomas… who still intimidated the grown man at times. Baby Thomas… who imitated everything his older brother did. His kiss was hugless, but his tiny mouth warm and moist when Will bent to touch it.

Lord a-mighty, he’d never have guessed how a pair of goodnight kisses could make a man feel. Wanted. Loved.

"’Night, Thomas."

Thomas stared at him with big hazel eyes.

"Say goodnight to Will," his mother prompted softly.

"G’night, Wiw."

Never before had Thomas spoken Will’s name. The distorted pronunciation went straight to the thin man’s heart as he watched Eleanor settle him down a second time before joining Will in the doorway.

They stood a moment, shoulder to shoulder, studying the children. A closeness stole over them, binding them with an accord that washed away the many shortcomings of this day, leaving them with a faith in better things to come.

Leaving the boys’ door ajar, they stepped into the front room. It was dark but for the trailing light from the boys’ lantern and another on the kitchen table.

Will ran a hand through his hair, draped it around his neck and smiled at the floor. After a moment his chest lifted with a pleasured chuckle.

"I never did that before."

"I know."

He searched for a way to express the fullness in his heart. But there was no way. To an orphan turned drifter, a drifter turned prisoner, a prisoner turned hired hand, a hired hand turned stand-in daddy, there was no way to express what the last five minutes had meant to him. Will could only waggle his head in wonder. "That’s somethin’, isn’t it?"

She understood. His surprise and wonder said it all. He had never expected the right to her children to come along with the right to her house. Yet she recognized his growing affection for them, saw clearly what kind of father he could be-gentle, patient, the kind who’d take none of the small pleasures for granted.

"Yes, it is."

He dropped his hand and lifted his head. A soft smile curved his lips. "I really like those two, you know?"

"Even after the way they acted at supper?"

"Oh, that-that was nothin’. They’d had a big day. I reckon their springs were still twangin’."

She smiled.

He did, too, briefly before sobering. "I want you to know I’ll do right by them."

Her voice softened. "Oh, Will… I know that."

"Well," he went on almost sheepishly, "they’re pretty special."

"I think so, too."

Their gazes met momentarily. They searched for something to say, something to do. But it was bedtime; there was only one thing to do. Yet both of them were reluctant to suggest it. In the kitchen the radio was playing "Chattanooga Choo Choo." The strains came through the lighted doorway into the shadows where they paused uncertainly. Across from the boys’room, their own bedroom door stood open, an oblique shadow waiting to take them in. Beyond it waited uncertainty and self-consciousness.

Eleanor fiddled with her hands, searching for a subject to put off bedtime. "Thank you for the movie, Will. The boys will never forget it and neither will I."

"I enjoyed it, too."

End of subject.

"I liked the popcorn, too," she added hurriedly.

"So did I."

End of subject, again.

This time Will found a diversion-the boys’ clothes, still balled in his hands. "Oh, here!" He thrust them into hers. "Forgot I still had ’em." He rammed his hands into his pockets.

Looking down at Thomas’s milk-streaked shirt, she said, "Thanks for helping me get them ready for bed."

"Thanks for letting me."

A quick exchanged glance, two nervous smiles, then silence again, immense and overpowering, while they stood close and studied the collection of clothes in her hands. It was her house, her bedroom-Will felt like a guest waiting to be invited to stay the night, but still she made no mention of retiring. He heard his own pulse drumming in his ears and felt as if he were wearing somebody else’s collar, one size too small. Somebody had to break the ice.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"No!" she replied, too quickly, too wide-eyed. Then, dropping her head, "Well… yes, I am a little."

"I guess I’ll step out back then."

When he was gone, her shoulders wilted, she closed her eyes and pressed her burning cheeks into the stale-smelling clothes. Silly woman. What’s there to be skittish about? He’s going to share your mattress and your quilts-so what?

She freed her hair, washed her face and got ready for bed in record time. By the time she heard him reenter the kitchen she was safely dressed in a white muslin nightgown with the quilts tucked to her armpits. She lay stiffly, listening to the sounds of him washing up for bed. He turned off the radio, checked the fire, replaced a stovelid. Then all remained quiet but for the beat of her own pulse in her ears and the tick of the windup alarm clock beside the bed. Minutes passed before she heard his footsteps cross the front room and pause. She stared at the doorway, imagining him gathering courage while her own heart throbbed like the engine of Glendon’s old Steel Mule the time she’d ridden it.

Will paused outside the bedroom doorway, fortifying himself with a deep breath. He crossed the threshold to find Eleanor lying on her back in a proper, white, long-sleeved nightie. Her brown hair lay free against the white pillow and her hands were crossed over the high mound formed by her stomach beneath the quilts. Though her expression was carefully bland, her cheeks wore two blots of pink, as if some seraph had winged in and placed a rose petal upon each. "Come in, Will."

He swept a slow glance across the room-curtainless window, homemade rag rug, hand-tied quilt, iron bedstead painted white, a closet door ajar, a bedside table and kerosene lamp, a tall bureau with a dresser scarf and a picture of a man with large ears and a receding hairline.

"I’ve never seen this room before."

"It’s not much."

"It’s warm and clean." He advanced two steps only, forcing his eyes to range further until they were drawn, against his will, back to the picture.

"Is that Glendon?"

"Yes."

He crossed to the bureau, picked up the framed photo and held it, surprised at the man’s age and lack of physical attractiveness. A rather beaked nose and a bony, hollow-eyed face with narrow lips. "He was some older than you."

"Five years."

Will studied the picture in silence, thinking the man looked much older.

"He wasn’t much of a looker. But he was a good man."

"I’m sure he was." A good man. Unlike himself, who had broken the laws of both God and man. Could a woman forget such transgressions? Will set the picture down.

Eleanor asked, "Would it bother you if I left the picture there-so the boys don’t forget him?"

"No, not at all." Was it a reminder that Glendon Dinsmore still held a special place in her heart? That though Will Parker might share her sheets tonight, he had no right to expect to share anything else-ever? He faced the wall while pulling his shirttails out, wanting to impose nothing upon her, not even glimpses of his bare skin.

She watched him unbutton his shirt, shrug it off, hang it on the closet doorknob. Her fascination came as a surprise. There were moles on his back, and firm, tan skin. He was tapered as a turnip from shoulder to waist, and his arms had filled out considerably in the two months he’d been here. Though she felt like a window-peeper, she continued gaping. He unbuckled his belt and her eyes dropped to his hips-thin, probably even bony inside his jeans. When he sat down the mattress sagged, sending her heart aflutter-even so slight a sharing of the bed felt intimate, after having it to herself for over half a year. He hoisted a foot, removed a cowboy boot and set it aside, followed by its mate. Standing, he dropped his jeans to the floor, then stretched into bed with one fluid motion, giving no more than a flash of thighs textured with dark hair and an old pair of Glendon’s shorts before the quilt covered him and he stretched out beside her with his arms behind his head.

They stared at the ceiling, lying like matched bookends, making sure not so much as the hair on their arms brushed, listening to the tick of the clock, which seemed to report like rifle shots.

"You can turn down the lantern some. It doesn’t need to be that bright."

He rolled and reached, tugging the bedclothes. "How’s that?" He peered back over his outstretched arm while the light dimmed to pale umber, enhancing the shadows.

"Fine."

Again he stretched flat. The silence beat about their ears. Neither of them risked any of the settling motions usually accompanying the first minutes in bed. Instead they lay with hands folded primly over quilts, trying to adjust to the idea of sharing a sleeping space, dredging up subjects of conversation, discarding them, tensing instead of relaxing.

Presently, he chuckled.

"What?" She peeked at him askance. When his face turned her way she fastened her gaze on the ceiling.

"This is weird."

"I know."

"We gonna lay in this bed every night and pretend the other one isn’t there?"

She blew out a long breath and let her eyes shift over to him. He was right. It was a relief, simply acknowledging that there was another person in the bed. "I wasn’t looking forward to this. I thought it’d be awkward, you know?"

"It was. It is," he admitted for both of them.

"I been jumpy as a flea since suppertime."

"Since morning, you mean. Hardest thing I ever did was to open that door and walk into the kitchen this morning."

"You mean you were nervous, too?"

"Didn’t it show?"

"Some, but I thought I was worse that way than you."

They mulled silently for some time before Will remarked, "A pretty strange wedding day, huh?"

"Well, I guess that was to be expected."

"Sorry about the judge and the kiss-you know."

"It wasn’t so bad. We lived through it, didn’t we?"

"Yeah, we lived through it." He crossed his hands behind his head and contemplated the ceiling, presenting her with a hairy armpit that smelled of Ivory soap.

"I’m sorry about the lantern. It’ll keep you awake, won’t it?"

"Maybe for a while, but it doesn’t matter. If you hadn’t slept in a real bed for as long as me, you wouldn’t complain about a lantern either." He lowered one hand and ran it across the coarse, clean sheet which smelled of lye soap and fresh air. "This is a real treat, you know. Real sheets. Pillow cases. Everything."

No reply entered Eleanor’s mind, so she lay in silence, adjusting to the feeling of his nearness and scent. Outside a whippoorwill sang and from the boys’ room came the sound of the crib rattling as Thomas turned over.

"Eleanor?"

"Hm?"

"Could I ask you something?"

"Course."

"You afraid of the dark?"

She took her time answering. "Not afraid exactly… well, I don’t know. Maybe." She thought a moment. "Yeah, maybe. I been sleepin’ with the lantern on so long I don’t know anymore."

Will turned his head to study her profile. "Why?"

Her eyes met his, and she thought about her fanatic grandparents, her mother, all those years behind the green shades. But to talk about it would make her seem eccentric in his eyes, and she didn’t want to be. Neither did she want to ruin her wedding day with painful memories. "Does it matter?"

He studied her green eyes minutely, wishing she’d confide in him, tell him the facts behind Lula’s gossip. But whatever secrets she held, he wouldn’t hear them tonight. "Then tell me about Glendon."

"Glendon? You want to talk about him… tonight?"

"If you do."

She considered for some time before asking, "What do you want to know?"

"Anything you want to tell. Where did you meet him?"

Studying the dim circle of light on the ceiling, she launched into her recollection. "Glendon delivered ice to our house when I was a little girl. We lived in town then, my mother and my grandparents and me. Grandpa was a preacher man, used to go out on circuit for weeks at a time." She peered at Will from the corner of her eye, gave a quirk of a smile. "Fire and brimstone, you know. Voice like a cyclone throwing dirt against the house." She told him what she chose, winnowing out any hints of her painfully lonely youth, the truth about her family, the bad memories from school. Of Glendon she spoke more frankly, telling about their meetings in the woods when she was still a girl, and of their shared respect for wild creatures. "The first present he ever brought me was a sack of corn for the birds, and from then on we were friends. I married him when I was nineteen and I been livin’ here ever since," she finished.

At the end of her recital, Will felt disappointed. He’d learned nothing of the house in town nor why she had been locked in it, none of the secrets of Eleanor Dinsmore Parker. The truth seemed strange: she was his wife, yet he knew less about her than he knew of some of the whores he’d frequented in his day. Above all, he wanted to know about that house so that he could assure her it made no difference to him. Given time, she might tell him more, but for now he respected her right to privacy. He, too, had secret hurts too painful to reveal yet.

"Now your turn," she said.

"My turn?"

"Tell me about you. Where you lived when you were a boy, how you ended up here."

He began with sterile facts. "I lived mostly in Texas but there were so many towns I couldn’t name ’em all. Sometimes in orphanages, sometimes people would take me in. I was born down around Austin, they tell me, but I don’t remember it till I grew up and went back there one time when I was doing some rodeoing."

"What do you remember?"

"First memories, you mean?"

"Yes."

Will thought carefully. It came back slowly, painfully. "Spilling a bowl of food, breakfast cereal, I think, and getting whupped so hard I forgot about being hungry."

"Oh, Will…"

"I got whupped a lot. All except for one place. I lived there for a half a year, maybe… it’s hard to remember exactly. And I’ve never been able to remember their names, but the woman used to read me books. She had this one with a real sad story I just loved called A Dog of Flanders, and there were drawings of a boy and this dog of his, and I used to think, Wow, it must be something to have a dog of your own. A dog would always be there, you know?" Will mused a moment, then cleared his throat and went on. "Well, anyway, this woman, the thing I remember about her most is she had green eyes, the prettiest green eyes this side of the Pecos, and you know what?"

"What?" Elly turned her face up to him.

Smiling down, he told her, "The first time I walked into this house that was what I liked best about you. Your green eyes. They reminded me of hers, and she was always kind. And she was the only one who made me think books were okay."

For a moment they gazed at each other until their feelings came close to surfacing, then Elly said, "Tell me more."

"The last place I lived was with a family named Tryce on a ranch down near a dump called Cistern. The old man’s watch came up missing and I figured soon as I heard what was up that they’d pin the blame on me, so I lit out before he could whup me. I was fourteen and I made up my mind as long as I stayed on the move they couldn’t stick me in any more schools where all the kids with ma’s and pa’s looked at me like I was a four-day-old pork chop left in somebody’s pocket. I caught a freight and headed for Arizona and I been on the road ever since. Except for prison and here."

"Fourteen. But that’s so young."

"Not when you start out like I did."

She studied his profile, the dark eyes riveted on the ceiling, the crisp, straight nose, the unsmiling lips. Softly, she asked, "Were you lonely?" His Adam’s apple slid up, then down. For a moment he didn’t answer, but when he did, he turned to face her.

"Yeah. Were you?"

Nobody had ever asked her before. Had he been anyone from town, she could not have admitted it, but it felt remarkably good to answer, "Yeah."

Their gazes held as both recognized a first fallen barrier.

"But you had a family."

"A family, but no friends. I’ll bet you had friends."

"Friends? Naww." Then, after thoughtful consideration, "Well, one maybe."

"Who?"

He tipped an eyebrow her way. "You sure you wanna hear this?"

"I’m sure. Who?"

He never talked about Josh. Not to anyone. And the story would lead to a conclusion that might make Eleanor Parker rethink her decision to invite him into her bed. But for the first time, Will found he wanted it off his chest.

"His name was Josh," he began. "Josh Sanderson. We worked together on a ranch down near a place called Dime Box, Texas. Near Austin." Will chuckled. "Dime Box was somethin’. It was like… well, maybe like watchin’the black and white movie after seeing the previews in color. A sorry little dump. Everything kind of dead, or waitin’ to die. The people, the cattle, the sagebrush. And nothing to do there on your night off. Nothing." Will paused, his brow smooth while his thoughts ranged back in time.

"So what’d you do?"

He shot her one quick glance. "This ain’t much of a subject for a wedding night, Eleanor."

"Most wives already know this kind of stuff about their husbands by their wedding night. Tell me-what’d you do?"

As if settling in for a long talk, he rolled his pillow into a ball, crooked his head against it, lifted one knee and linked his fingers over his belly. "All right, you asked, I’ll tell you. We used to go down to La Grange to the whorehouse there. Saturday nights. Take a bath and get all duded up and take our money into town and blow damn near all of it on booze and floozies. Me, I wasn’t fussy. Take anyone that was free. But Josh got to liking this one named Honey Rossiter." He shook his head disbelievingly. "Honey-can you believe that? She swore it was her given name but I never believed her. Josh did, though. Hell, Josh’d believe anything that woman told him. And he wouldn’t hear anything bad about Honey. Got real pissed off if I said a word against her. He had it bad for her, that’s a fact.

"She was tall-eighteen hands, we used to joke-and had this head full of hair the color of a palomino, hung clear down to her rump. It was some hair all right, curly but coarse as a horse’s mane, the kind a man could really sink his hands into. Josh used to talk about it, laying in his bunk at night-Honey and her honey hair. Then pretty soon he started talking about marrying her. Josh, I says, she’s a whore. Why would you want to marry a whore? Josh, he got real upset when I said that. He was so crazy over her he couldn’t tell truth from lies.

"She was like…" He rested a wrist on the updrawn knee, absently toying with a piece of green yarn on the quilt. "… well, like an actress in a picture show-played at being whatever a man needed. She’d change herself to suit the man, and when she was with Josh she acted like he was the only man for her. Trouble is, Josh started believing it.

"Then one night we came there and when Josh asked for Honey the old harlot who ran the place says Honey’s been spoken for for the next two hours. Who else would he like?

"Well, Josh never wanted anybody else, not after Honey. He waited. But by the time she come back down he was so steamed his lid was rattlin’ and he was ready to blow. She comes saunterin’ into the Leisure Room-that’s what they called the bar where the men waited on the women-and Lord a-mighty, you never heard such a squall as when Josh jumped her about who she was spendin’ two hours with while he was left downstairs coolin’ his heels.

"She says to him, You don’t own me, Josh Sanderson, and he says, Yeah, well, I’d like to. Then he pulls a ring out of his pocket and says he’d come there that night intendin’ to ask her to marry him."

Will shook his head. "She laughed in his face. Said she’d have to be crazy to marry a no-count saddle bum who’d probably keep her pregnant nine months out of twelve and expect her to take care of a houseful of his squallin’ brats. Said she had a life of luxury, spendin’ a few hours on her back each night and wearing silk and feathers and eatin’ oysters and steak anytime she wanted ’em.

"Well, Josh went wild. Told her he loved her and she wasn’t gonna screw anybody else-never. She was gonna leave with him-now!He made a grab for her and out of nowhere she pulls this little gun-Christ, I never knew the girls there even carried ’em. But there it was, pointed right at Josh’s eye and I reached for a bottle of Old Star whiskey and let her have it. Hell, I didn’t think. I just… well, I just beaned her. She went down like a tree, toppled sideways and cracked her head on a chair and laid there in a puddle of broken glass and blended whiskey and hardly even bled, she died so fast. I don’t know if it was the bottle or the chair that killed her, but it didn’t matter to the law. They had me behind bars in less than half an hour.

"I figured things’d come out all right-after all, I was defending Josh. If I hadn’t clunked her, she’d have shot Josh smack through his left eye. But what I didn’t figure was how serious he was about marrying her, how broke up he was when she died.

"He…" Will closed his eyes against the painful memory. Eleanor sat up, watching his face closely.

"He what?" she encouraged softly.

Will opened his eyes and fixed them on the ceiling. "He testified against me. Told this sob story about how he was gonna make an honest woman out of Honey Rossiter, take her away from her lousy life in that whorehouse and give her a home and respectability. And the jury fell for it. I did five years for savin’ my friend’s life." Will ran a hand through his hair and sighed. For seconds he stared at the ceiling, then rolled to a sitting position with arms loosely linked around his knees. "Some friend."

Eleanor studied the moles on his back, wanting to reach out and touch, comfort. Like him, she’d had only one friend. But hers had turned out loyal. She could imagine how deep her own hurt would have gone had Glendon betrayed her.

"I’m sorry, Will."

He threw his head aside as if to look back at her, but didn’t. Instead his gaze dropped to his loosely linked wrists. "Aw, what the hell. It was a long time ago."

"But it still hurts, I can tell."

He flopped back, ran both hands through his hair and clasped them behind his head.

"How’d we get on a subject like that anyway. Let’s talk about something else."

The mood had grown somber, and as they lay side by side Eleanor could think of little except Will’s sad, friendless youth. She had always thought herself the loneliest soul on earth, but… poor Will. Poor, poor Will. Now he had her at least, and the boys. But how long would it last if the war came?

"Is the war really like that, Will… like they showed in the movies?"

"I guess so."

"You think we’re gonna be in it, don’t you?"

"I don’t know. But if not, why is the President drafting men for the military?"

"If we were, would you have to go?"

"If I got drafted, yes."

Her mouth formed an oh, but the word never made it past her lips. The possibility pressed upon her, bringing with it a startling dread. Startling because she hadn’t guessed she’d feel so possessive about this man once he was her husband. The fact that he was made a tremendous difference. The black and white pictures from the newsreel flashed through her memory, followed by the colored ones of the War between the States. What an awful thing, war. She supposed, in the days when Grandpa had been alive, they would have prayed that America stay out of it. Instead, she closed her eyes and forced the grim pictures aside to make way for those of the beautiful ladies in their enormous silk skirts, and the men in their top hats, and Hopalong waving his white hat… and Donald Wade in Will’s black one… and eventually when she rode the thin line between sleep and wakefulness, Will himself riding Topper, waving his hat at her from the end of the driveway…

Minutes later, Will turned to say, Let’s not worry about it until the time comes. But he found she had fallen asleep, flat on her back, lips parted, hands crossed demurely beneath her breasts. He watched her breathe, a strand of hair on her shoulder catching the light with each beat. His gaze drifted down to her stomach, back up to her breasts, soft and unsculptured beneath her nightgown. He thought about how good it would feel to roll her onto her side, curl up behind her with his arms where hers were now and fall asleep with his face against her back. But what would she think if she awakened and found him that way? He would have to be on guard, even asleep.

His eyes wandered once more to her stomach.

It moved!

The quilts shifted as if a sleeping cat had changed positions underneath. But she slept soundly, as still as a mummy. The baby? Babies moved… that much? Cautiously, he braced up on one elbow until he sat over her, studying the movements at close range. Boy or girl? It shifted again and he smiled. Whatever it was, it was rambunctious; he couldn’t believe all that commotion didn’t wake her up. He resisted the urge to turn the quilts back for a better look, the even greater one to rest a hand on her and feel what he was watching. Either-of course-was out of the question.

He lay back down to worry that he’d agreed to deliver that baby. God, what had he been thinking? He’d kill it for sure with his big, clumsy hands.

Don’t think about it, Will.

He closed his eyes and concentrated instead on the goodnight kisses of Donald Wade and Baby Thomas. He recalled their childish voices wishing him goodnight, especially Thomas-"’Night, Wiw…" He tried to wipe his mind clean of all thought so sleep would come. But the light shone through his eyelids, urging them open once again.

Eleanor flipped onto her side, facing him. He studied her eyelashes lying like fans against her cheeks, the palm of her left hand resting near his chin with the friendship ring peeking through her relaxed fingers. He let his eyes roam over the button placket of her nightgown, the quilt that had slipped down to her waist, the white cloth covering her breasts. He reached out carefully-very carefully-and took the fabric of her sleeve in his fingers, rubbing it as a greedy man rubs two coins together. Then he withdrew his hand, flipped over in the opposite direction and tried to forget the light was on.