Maud's Line (20 page)

When Maud awoke the next morning, her great-aunt was stirring the fire in the stove and cleaning her teeth with a twig. They made breakfast and ate together. While they were drinking coffee, Viola said, “Them men think Lovely's jist off learning the ways of nature. They might be right about that or they might not. Nan knows him a lot better than me. She thinks he may be funny turned, and not in a good way.”

Maud thought Nan had probably said more to Viola than she'd said to her. What she didn't know made her uneasy. She was trying to calm herself into a response when Viola added, “Let's turn the cup. I can read the future better that way.”

Maud tried not to let any expression show. But she was as startled as if a bird had flown up in her face. She'd heard about cup turning all of her life, but she'd only done it as a child in play. She was curious, but she also considered the practice an old-fogy superstition or maybe some mysterious Creek Indian way. Still, Viola's father was a legend. Maud figured he'd passed down some of his secrets. And she wanted to find Lovely and didn't want to insult her great-aunt. She drained her cup and handed it to Viola.

Viola reached for Maud's saucer, held Maud's cup over it, and gave it a quick shake. The grounds plopped out. Viola gently shoved the saucer out of the way and peered into the cup. She bit her lower lip. A humming sound arose from deep in her chest. She clicked her teeth together and hummed some more. Finally, she sat back, looked to the ceiling, and frowned. “I'm not getting anything about Lovely.”

“What are you getting?” Maud felt stupid as soon as she'd said that. But it was out of her mouth; she couldn't take it back.

“Jist diddly-squat.” The old woman looked around the room. “I better be getting on. Lucy will've cooked the breakfast, but people'll want dinner later on. She's getting so full in the stomach, she can't be tending to men all day.” Viola pushed up from the table. “If Lovely don't show this evening, you come on our way. No need for ya to stay down here alone. Even with the Mounts gone, it's not the best situation.”

Maud told Viola she might take her up on the invitation, but she had no intention of doing so. Booker would be back at the end of the day, and with Lovely gone, he'd spend the night. She didn't anticipate being lonely or afraid. She figured her great-aunt knew that and was just being polite.

Maud spent her day doing chores and reading. And she was in the hen house gathering eggs in the late afternoon when a shadow fell through the door onto the dirt floor. She froze. She hadn't noticed any change in the level of chicken noise, hadn't heard a car, a wagon, or hooves. She picked one more egg out of a nest, held it in her hand, and turned. Lovely was in the door frame. “You scared the dickens out of me! I've a good mind to throw this egg at your head. Where have you been?”

He took a long breath. “Maud, something's happening to me.”

Maud was in a narrow space between two walls of nests and the wire in front of the roost. Lovely was blocking the door. She suddenly felt trapped. “Step back. Let me out of here.”

Lovely stood still. Maud said the same thing again before he turned from the door. In front of the chicken house, she said again, “Where've you been?”

“Away.” Lovely rubbed the back of his neck, rotated his head.

“Are you hurt?”

He seemed to think about that. “Don't think so. Not in the usual way. But I think those shots did something to me.”

“They were hurtful. No doubt about that. Let's go to the house. Let me take a look at you.”

Maud set the egg basket on the kitchen table and came back out to the porch where Lovely was sitting on the edge. She looked down at him. His neck and hands were dirty. So were his clothes. His overalls had a new hole in the knee. “Have you been in the wild? You didn't even take a gun.”

He looked out into the dirt. “I was down on Blue's allotment. Remember that place he took us when Mama died? The trees in the circle? I always liked it there. It's cool under those trees.”

Maud stepped off the porch onto the ground close to Lovely's knees. He seemed hollowed out in the cheeks. His face was as dirty as his neck and hands. She said, “It's cool under the live oak tree. And not nearly as far. You need to get in the tub.”

“I don't want a bath.”

“You're as dirty as a dog in a dust hole.”

“I want some food.”

“I'll get you some. But you need to bathe. Go out there by the pump and clean yourself up. I'm not letting you in the house the way you are. Mama'd have a fit.”

“Is Mama here?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maud . . .”

“Go on now. Go to the pump. I'll get you a bar of soap.” Maud stepped back to the porch and went in the kitchen door. She came back out with soap and Lovely's second pair of overalls. He was still seated. She nudged him with her shoe. “Here, take these. And don't go off anywhere. I'll be inside cooking. Come in when you're clean.”

Lovely washed up, but he didn't come in. Maud brought plates of food to the porch. She watched the road for Booker as they ate, let the subject of where Lovely had been alone, and told him what had gone on while he'd been away. She left out visiting Gilda and her conversation with Booker under the tree. But she left in looking for him and Viola spending the night and turning the cup.

Lovely didn't ask questions. After he'd eaten two plates of food, he got up from his chair and walked to the edge of the porch. He looked down at the ground. His silence made Maud uneasy. And she was becoming irritated with Booker for being late. She, too, got up from her chair. She piled Lovely's plate on top of hers, went to the kitchen, and poured water from a bucket into the washing pan. She placed the pan on top of the stove and stoked the fire to heat the water. Then she scraped their scraps into the slop bucket. She thought she knew the time, or thereabouts, but she wished she had a clock to confirm her sense of the sun. But she mostly wished she knew what was holding Booker up. She hoped he didn't turn out to be one of those men who was never around when they were needed, and to distract herself, she was counting in her head which of the men in her family fell into that category when Lovely came into the main room and started making noises. She turned to the door.

Lovely had thrown his sheet onto their father's bed. He was breaking his cot down. “What're you doing?” Maud said.

“Moving my bed.”

“To the tree?”

“I'm gonna sleep in the chicken house.”

“You're not sleeping in the chicken house. That's a fool thing to do.”

“It's safer in there.”

“Safer than what?”

Lovely looked around the room. “Safer than here.”

“There's nothing here to fear. Daddy's gone.”

“Where'd he go?”

“I wish I knew. You're not going to the chicken house.”

Lovely continued folding his cot. Maud grabbed his shoulder. He jerked loose from her grip and backed away. “It's not your bed.”

“Of course it's not.” Maud ran a hand through her hair. “But why on earth sleep in the chicken house?”

“Are you not listening to me? It's safer in there.”

“What do you think's going to happen to you in your own home?”

Lovely ran his hand over his mouth. “I'm not sure.”

Maud stepped toward him. “Look, you've been poorly. You're not yourself. But you're with me now. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. Remember how I took care of you when you had the throw-ups? I'll take care of you again. Nothing's going to hurt either one of us. If you don't want to sleep inside, you can take your cot to the porch and sleep out there. Or you can sleep under the tree. But you can't sleep in the chicken house. It's dirty. And you'll upset the chickens.”

“They won't care.”

“They will, too. They'll stop laying. They've almost stopped because of the heat as it is. We need eggs. You can't be irritating the hens.”

Lovely seemed to consider that. Then he unfolded his bed and Maud handed him his sheet. “Why don't you go on out to the porch? There's still some light to read. Get your Bible or one of the books Booker brought. He's coming soon. He'll be glad to see you.”

Lovely turned and walked out the door. As soon as Maud felt he'd stay in his rocker and not wander off, she turned back to the kitchen. The water in the washing pan was moving with the heat. She tested it with her finger and set to washing dishes.

Booker hadn't come by sunset. And Maud sat in a rocker long after Lovely had brought his cot out to the porch and fallen asleep. The moon was dark. She finally went inside and lay on her father's bed. She lay there all night, fighting to sleep, winning toward morning, but waking to the first crow of the cock. In the gray of dawn, the chest stood against the wall like a hunkered bear. The sheet hung like a ghost. Maud felt queasy. She rolled over and closed her eyes. That didn't help. She got up feeling sluggish, wished she'd had more sleep, and checked on Lovely. He was still knocked out on his cot when she went to do her business.

She came back in, fed kindling into the stove, stoked up a fire, and poured flour into a bowl for biscuits. She was cutting lard into the flour when she suddenly felt like she was going to throw up. She made it to the side of the porch. Then she went to the pump and washed her mouth out. Lovely was up by then. She told him he needed to make the biscuits and fry the eggs and side meat if he wanted to eat. Then she sat on the porch and rested her head on the back of her rocker until he called her. She slid into a chair at the kitchen table and ate half a biscuit. That made her feel better. She went to the main room and lay on the bed. She quickly fell to sleep.

She woke sweating with the heat. Her first thought went to Booker, her second to Lovely. She went outside. Lovely was nowhere to be seen. She came back in. Next to the Calumet tin on the kitchen table was a note in Lovely's hand. He'd milked the cow and gone to work. She felt relieved. She pulled the pan of biscuits from the oven and ate two with some honey and a piece of side meat. She dressed and let the chickens out. She took her rifle from the corner and walked the lane to the road.

She went right past Nan's without going in and without, apparently, being seen. She saw Lovely and the mule pulling a log toward a pile. At the cross of the section lines, she checked their mailbox. It was as empty as usual, except for a flyer addressed to the Beechers and misplaced in their box. She took the flyer to the Beechers' door and talked to Mrs. Beecher about the weather and the crops, but she turned down an offer of buttermilk. Then she walked on. When she got to the ruins of the school, she barely noticed them because her eyes were focused ahead, searching for the rolls of blue. She didn't see them or the wagon. The potato barn grew bigger and bigger.

She was close enough to the barn to smell the potato stink when a man she'd never seen came out. He looked at her rifle. She said, “It's for the snakes.”

“Sometimes they lay in the spuds,” he said.

“Do you work in the barn?”

“Not usually. I work the fields. But the feller who was selling the spuds has up and gone.”

Maud felt like she was going to sink to the ground. She steadied herself with her rifle. “Where to?”

The man scratched his head. “Don't rightly know.”

“Is Mr. Singer in?”

“I reckon. I ain't seen his Packard go out. You want some spuds?”

Maud shook her head. She held her breath through the potato barn and walked out the other side. The Singer house was painted white. It was double storied, sat facing south, and had a large back porch. A summer kitchen sat not far behind the house; a wisp of smoke curled from a chimney. Maud climbed the back steps and knocked on the door. Inside the screen, she saw a long hall and the back of a staircase. She heard footsteps descending the stairs. The outline of a woman was coming her way. At the door, the woman said, “Can I help ya?”

Maud had seen the woman before when she'd borrowed books and returned them, but she didn't know her by name. “I'm Maud Nail. I'd like to see Mr. Singer if he's in.”

The woman bit her lower lip. She was a Negro. She was wearing a white apron that went down past her knees and her hair was done up in a red kerchief. She held a broom in her right hand. “I'll see ifin he's around. But ifin he is, leave yer gun on the porch.”

Maud propped her rifle against a window frame, turned toward the summer kitchen, and clasped her hands behind her back. She stood there, straining to hear what was going on inside the house. But the sound of a tractor prevented that. She was caught by surprise when a voice behind her said, “Maud, I suppose you're looking for Mr. Wakefield.”

Maud turned as quickly as if she'd been tapped on the shoulder by a finger from the grave. Mr. Singer was standing inside the screen. He was slighter than she last recalled, and through the screen, he looked pale. He opened the door and stepped out. Maud wanted to step back, but she was at the edge of the porch as it was and she didn't want to step down. She put her hand on a post.

Mr. Singer had on a white shirt, its cuffs rolled up to midforearm. He took an envelope out of his pocket. “He left this for you.”

Maud reached for the envelope. “Thank you.”

Mr. Singer pursed his lips. He looked off over Maud's head but didn't move. She felt her hand trembling. She didn't have a pocket to put the letter in, and she didn't want to open it in front of Mr. Singer. She said, “Is he going to be gone for long?”

Mr. Singer seemed to consider that question. Then he said, “You'll probably know more than I do when you read the letter.” He paused, said, “Good to see you,” and turned back into the house.

Maud grabbed her gun and left the porch quickly. She veered away from the potato barn to avoid its odor and another conversion with the man she'd talked to earlier. She chose a path that went up a rise and ended at the highway near the Arkansas River bridge. She'd crossed the road all of her life, but she was rarely afoot that far west, and she heard the roar of the water and the sounds of traffic on the planks. When she got near the road, she stopped in the shade of a tree and stared at the envelope. Her future was in it. Booker's hand had written her name across the front; his tongue had licked the flap. Maud started to open the letter right there but hesitated. She was a long way from home on foot. What if it said something she couldn't bear? She leaned against the tree, then sunk to a root at its trunk. She heard a car rattling the planks on the bridge. She watched it pass. She looked at the letter in her hand, studied the writing for any sign it could give.