ears are present.”
The widow girl sliced a look at me that was meant to drag me along into song.
“I’ll bet you sing lovely,” she said.
“You would lose.”
“He really does sing very poorly,” Jack Bull said. “He imitates the turkey first-rate, though.”
He was peddling his social graces hard at my expense. I didn’t even want the widow.
Honeybee took my hand, as is the forward style of lonely country tykes.
“Would you do a gobble for me, sir?” she asked.
I rubbed Honeybee’s soft little head, then grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her ’til she faced in another direction.
“It is too cold, Honeybee,” I told her. “When I call turkeys—they come. They would come all a-gobble and crash right through those windows and we would freeze.”
“Oh,” she said, pouty, and I shoved her off toward her mother. “I want to hear it. I want you to gobble, sir.”
“Catch me in better weather.”
I guess I amused the widow, as she smiled at me in a tiny lip-curl fashion that I supposed indicated minute mirth.
Mrs. Evans put her arms around Honeybee and held her to her tummy.
“Don’t pester the man so,” she said. “We’re going to sing, Honeybee. You like to sing, don’t you?”
“If he won’t gobble, I’ll sing.” The wide-woman seedling smoldered a look at me. “He don’t care for me.”
This banter with a child was tightening me up. The social whirl was not my form of tumult. All my stabs at it missed the mark.
“I like you fine,” I said. “It’s just gobbling right now is not for me.”
Soon the crowd got over my not gobbling and started singing. They beat through “Dixie” and “Barbry Allen,” then worked over “Kiss Me Katie Oh.” Old Evans honked out thelow parts and Jack Bull stretched up after notes that he fumbled gamely and the women sang in the soothing center range.
Brandy was sloshed around.
I leaned against a wall and smiled constantly, like an addlebrain.
It pretty well made me jumpy, hooting out songs in a secesh house in a Federal district. I had not the same capacity for convincing myself that I was elsewhere from where I was. I knew exactly where I was and it wasn’t a place for songs.
Aw, pretty quick I said the devil with it all and went outside. I tried to keep a watch and the moon helped some by throwing that weak light down on the road. I could sort of see a good distance and that relaxed me.
The night chill had routed any ragtag pockets of heat. My nose burned. Water beaded in my eyes. A granny thing happened to my hands and they could barely clinch. I hopped about inside a blanket and crashed my hat down around my ears.
Inside the house the sing-along went on. Jack Bull Chiles would have us killed for a widow squeeze and a chance to mangle high notes in company. The voices were muffled by the walls and wind and reached my ears all souped together.
In every way, and for as many reasons, I wanted to return to the mud dugout and my rock chimney.
But if Jack Bull Chiles ever was hurt because I left him, there would be no recovery for me. I knew that. I had always known that. It was something that I knew from toenail to cowlick.
So I watched the road and blew on my hands and stamped my feet and damn near froze, but no bad luck gained on us.
It was as pleasant a night as I’d had in a while.
10
I N THE COMING days the widow found daily missions that required her presence in our dugout. George Clyde was often at Juanita Willard’s and sometimes Holt was at his side. Sometimes he was left in the dugout. Sue Lee got friendlier and more sisterly to Holt and me. Jack Bull would not be mistaken for her relative by any but the most backward sort of person.
Really, she quit seeming like a widow. She seemed like a seventeen-year-old girl from Carthage, Missouri, which is what she was. When Jack Bull started putting her paw in his, she fell for the ploy. She liked that gambit. It had worked on her before, I think.
One day when the
The widow girl sliced a look at me that was meant to drag me along into song.
“I’ll bet you sing lovely,” she said.
“You would lose.”
“He really does sing very poorly,” Jack Bull said. “He imitates the turkey first-rate, though.”
He was peddling his social graces hard at my expense. I didn’t even want the widow.
Honeybee took my hand, as is the forward style of lonely country tykes.
“Would you do a gobble for me, sir?” she asked.
I rubbed Honeybee’s soft little head, then grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her ’til she faced in another direction.
“It is too cold, Honeybee,” I told her. “When I call turkeys—they come. They would come all a-gobble and crash right through those windows and we would freeze.”
“Oh,” she said, pouty, and I shoved her off toward her mother. “I want to hear it. I want you to gobble, sir.”
“Catch me in better weather.”
I guess I amused the widow, as she smiled at me in a tiny lip-curl fashion that I supposed indicated minute mirth.
Mrs. Evans put her arms around Honeybee and held her to her tummy.
“Don’t pester the man so,” she said. “We’re going to sing, Honeybee. You like to sing, don’t you?”
“If he won’t gobble, I’ll sing.” The wide-woman seedling smoldered a look at me. “He don’t care for me.”
This banter with a child was tightening me up. The social whirl was not my form of tumult. All my stabs at it missed the mark.
“I like you fine,” I said. “It’s just gobbling right now is not for me.”
Soon the crowd got over my not gobbling and started singing. They beat through “Dixie” and “Barbry Allen,” then worked over “Kiss Me Katie Oh.” Old Evans honked out thelow parts and Jack Bull stretched up after notes that he fumbled gamely and the women sang in the soothing center range.
Brandy was sloshed around.
I leaned against a wall and smiled constantly, like an addlebrain.
It pretty well made me jumpy, hooting out songs in a secesh house in a Federal district. I had not the same capacity for convincing myself that I was elsewhere from where I was. I knew exactly where I was and it wasn’t a place for songs.
Aw, pretty quick I said the devil with it all and went outside. I tried to keep a watch and the moon helped some by throwing that weak light down on the road. I could sort of see a good distance and that relaxed me.
The night chill had routed any ragtag pockets of heat. My nose burned. Water beaded in my eyes. A granny thing happened to my hands and they could barely clinch. I hopped about inside a blanket and crashed my hat down around my ears.
Inside the house the sing-along went on. Jack Bull Chiles would have us killed for a widow squeeze and a chance to mangle high notes in company. The voices were muffled by the walls and wind and reached my ears all souped together.
In every way, and for as many reasons, I wanted to return to the mud dugout and my rock chimney.
But if Jack Bull Chiles ever was hurt because I left him, there would be no recovery for me. I knew that. I had always known that. It was something that I knew from toenail to cowlick.
So I watched the road and blew on my hands and stamped my feet and damn near froze, but no bad luck gained on us.
It was as pleasant a night as I’d had in a while.
10
I N THE COMING days the widow found daily missions that required her presence in our dugout. George Clyde was often at Juanita Willard’s and sometimes Holt was at his side. Sometimes he was left in the dugout. Sue Lee got friendlier and more sisterly to Holt and me. Jack Bull would not be mistaken for her relative by any but the most backward sort of person.
Really, she quit seeming like a widow. She seemed like a seventeen-year-old girl from Carthage, Missouri, which is what she was. When Jack Bull started putting her paw in his, she fell for the ploy. She liked that gambit. It had worked on her before, I think.
One day when the
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