pain. Or worse, putting lead in someone else's body. She
shuddered, then locked the closet and returned the skeleton key to the drawer,
the flashlight to the night table.
She
picked up her jar of Pond's cold cream and spread a thin layer on her face. The
jar was almost empty.
Back
in bed, she hugged her pillow, listening to crickets through open windows and
doors. A breeze stirred gently through the window, across the bed, bringing in
the sweet scent of honeysuckle and iris. A poor woman's orchids. She pulled the
sheet up to her neck as an owl screeched nearby.
A
screech owl—was it an omen?
She
stared into the darkness, thinking, wondering, worrying. What would become of
them all if Daniel never returned?
Why
hadn't he told her about the wounds? About his award?
"Where
are you?"
From
the other side of town came the long whistle of the late train crossing the
high wooden trestle—on time for a change. Daniel always said he could set his
watch by the train. But with the Depression, the freight had been late more
than once.
What
if he never returned? Her lips moved in silent prayer. What's become of my
good man? Please send him home.
What
am I saying? Though she'd uttered the
words, she really didn't think Daniel would suddenly appear one day. After all,
more than a year had passed. If God had wanted him to come home, He would've
answered her prayers months ago.
Some
days she couldn't even bring up the image of his face, or remember how nice he
smelled after shaving. Confused and unhappy one day, LaDaisy was infuriated the
next. She couldn't stay this way forever. But could she move on? Remarry? What
man would want a worn-out, used-up woman with four kids? Another man's
leftovers. No, she'd never find anyone willing to do that.
But
waiting for Daniel seemed a hopeless dream. If he left, it was obviously
because he didn't want her anymore—why would he come back? And if he did, what
would she say?
Welcome
home, it's good to see you. Did you have a good time pretending you weren't a
married man with kids? Maybe you were out making babies with some other woman.
How many little boys have your bald head? And how many girls the Tomelin birthmark
in their ear?
Not
a day went by that she didn't argue with herself: take Daniel back or kick his deserting
ass out the door? It was useless, because deep in her heart, she knew it was
over between them.
Silent
tears fell, and a short time later, she heard the patter of bare feet on the
linoleum. The side of the bed heaved, the springs creaked as a small sweaty
body climbed onto the bed and snuggled next to her.
"Bobby?
What's the matter, honey?"
"'fraid.
Sleep Mama."
She
gathered her son in her arms. Of course he was afraid, waking in the dark room
he shared with his brother and sister, finding himself alone. "It's okay, honey,
Mama's here."
Sometimes
mothers are afraid, too. These days, everyone's afraid.
Chapter 7
Daniel
stood across the road watching the two-story white house. It wasn't long before
a man in a dark suit came outside and cranked a 1931 Ford Roadster, got the
engine running and climbed inside. He tipped his cap as the car backed down the
long driveway and pulled into the street. But the driver ignored him, stepped
on the gas and left him in a trail of exhaust and grit. He removed his glasses
and wiped his eyes. Picked up his sack, hitched the banjo up on his shoulder
and started across a dry lawn. Giant spirea and a few overgrown lilac bushes
framed the front porch. On the front railing sat a concrete urn with a few
bright but scraggly moss rose blossoms. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of
home. He could almost smell lingering traces of blossoms long dead as he
climbed the steps for the second time since midnight.
A
wooden swing hung by two chains from one end of the porch ceiling. Last night
it had looked inviting. But when he'd sat in it, the chains had protested so
much he'd gotten out again for fear of waking the owners.
Now
the front door
shuddered, then locked the closet and returned the skeleton key to the drawer,
the flashlight to the night table.
She
picked up her jar of Pond's cold cream and spread a thin layer on her face. The
jar was almost empty.
Back
in bed, she hugged her pillow, listening to crickets through open windows and
doors. A breeze stirred gently through the window, across the bed, bringing in
the sweet scent of honeysuckle and iris. A poor woman's orchids. She pulled the
sheet up to her neck as an owl screeched nearby.
A
screech owl—was it an omen?
She
stared into the darkness, thinking, wondering, worrying. What would become of
them all if Daniel never returned?
Why
hadn't he told her about the wounds? About his award?
"Where
are you?"
From
the other side of town came the long whistle of the late train crossing the
high wooden trestle—on time for a change. Daniel always said he could set his
watch by the train. But with the Depression, the freight had been late more
than once.
What
if he never returned? Her lips moved in silent prayer. What's become of my
good man? Please send him home.
What
am I saying? Though she'd uttered the
words, she really didn't think Daniel would suddenly appear one day. After all,
more than a year had passed. If God had wanted him to come home, He would've
answered her prayers months ago.
Some
days she couldn't even bring up the image of his face, or remember how nice he
smelled after shaving. Confused and unhappy one day, LaDaisy was infuriated the
next. She couldn't stay this way forever. But could she move on? Remarry? What
man would want a worn-out, used-up woman with four kids? Another man's
leftovers. No, she'd never find anyone willing to do that.
But
waiting for Daniel seemed a hopeless dream. If he left, it was obviously
because he didn't want her anymore—why would he come back? And if he did, what
would she say?
Welcome
home, it's good to see you. Did you have a good time pretending you weren't a
married man with kids? Maybe you were out making babies with some other woman.
How many little boys have your bald head? And how many girls the Tomelin birthmark
in their ear?
Not
a day went by that she didn't argue with herself: take Daniel back or kick his deserting
ass out the door? It was useless, because deep in her heart, she knew it was
over between them.
Silent
tears fell, and a short time later, she heard the patter of bare feet on the
linoleum. The side of the bed heaved, the springs creaked as a small sweaty
body climbed onto the bed and snuggled next to her.
"Bobby?
What's the matter, honey?"
"'fraid.
Sleep Mama."
She
gathered her son in her arms. Of course he was afraid, waking in the dark room
he shared with his brother and sister, finding himself alone. "It's okay, honey,
Mama's here."
Sometimes
mothers are afraid, too. These days, everyone's afraid.
Chapter 7
Daniel
stood across the road watching the two-story white house. It wasn't long before
a man in a dark suit came outside and cranked a 1931 Ford Roadster, got the
engine running and climbed inside. He tipped his cap as the car backed down the
long driveway and pulled into the street. But the driver ignored him, stepped
on the gas and left him in a trail of exhaust and grit. He removed his glasses
and wiped his eyes. Picked up his sack, hitched the banjo up on his shoulder
and started across a dry lawn. Giant spirea and a few overgrown lilac bushes
framed the front porch. On the front railing sat a concrete urn with a few
bright but scraggly moss rose blossoms. Everywhere he went, he was reminded of
home. He could almost smell lingering traces of blossoms long dead as he
climbed the steps for the second time since midnight.
A
wooden swing hung by two chains from one end of the porch ceiling. Last night
it had looked inviting. But when he'd sat in it, the chains had protested so
much he'd gotten out again for fear of waking the owners.
Now
the front door
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