Maud's Line (30 page)

The handwriting struck Maud like a bolt of lightning. She stared at it, her eyes wide, her mouth open. Her breath was uneven. Mr. Singer continued. “Came enclosed with one to me. He may not be too sure how often you get to your mailbox.”

Maud recalled the dirt dobbers and telling Billy to mail her the letter in Nan's box. She hadn't even checked their box since running into the wasps. They rarely got anything unless they'd ordered from Sears and Roebuck; they hadn't done that in a long time. Booker's first letter had come by way of Mr. Singer; she'd thought that he hadn't known her route number. She felt panicked over what she might've missed. She jumped up.

Mr. Singer jerked and stepped back. “Why don't I leave you to read by yourself? I'll shelve your books. I have a new one you might enjoy.”

Maud wasn't sure she'd be able to talk after she opened her letter. And she still needed to tell Mr. Singer about Lovely. But her mind sped in another direction. She said, “I'd appreciate a new book.” She sat back down. She studied Booker's handwriting while Mr. Singer was gone.

When he returned, he handed her a book and said something about it. But Maud didn't hear that. She felt like a field on fire. She blurted out, “Lovely's dead. He killed himself.”

Mr. Singer's face grew as pale as his goatee. Maud stood to let him sit down. But he waved the seat away with his hand. He put a palm on a post. The other hand he wiped across his mouth.

“I didn't mean to be so forward. I'm upset.” Her tears started again. She drew her handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped them.

Mr. Singer drew out his own handkerchief and blew his nose. “He was a fine young man. A credit to your family. To your grandpa and grandma. To your great-grandpa.”

Maud forgot, just for a moment, how much she longed to be out of the place she lived, and she felt comforted by a memory that spanned generations. Mr. Singer's gaze went to the west horizon; his mind seemed to follow it.

She said, “We were all proud of him.”

Maud left with the book clutched to her breast, the envelope tucked inside with the tip sticking out so she could keep a watch on it. She walked to the tree beside the highway. She sunk to the roots and wedged her back against the trunk. She opened the book and drew the letter from between its pages. Her thumb shook as she slipped her nail beneath the fold.

Dear Maud,

I have to confess I thought you'd at least answer my second letter. I know I'm at fault, but I'm not the only one. There's plenty of blame to go around. I hope you'll reconsider.

I've moved from the boarding house. My new address is 355 So. Brier. Please write me and tell me what you're thinking. I didn't figure you would be so mad that we couldn't even be friends.

Yours sincerely,

Booker

She'd read the letter twice when she heard a motor coming over the bridge. The rumble of the planks came nearer and nearer. She felt like her destiny was coming upon her and would appear momentarily. But by the time the truck had passed, Maud realized she didn't even know what city Booker was in. Muskogee? Tulsa? Oklahoma City? Some smaller town beyond that bridge? She needed to go back to Mr. Singer and ask him where the postmark on his letter was from. And she needed to look for the other letter. The second one.

Maud jumped up from the roots, dusted her dress and legs off, and stuck the letter and its envelope back in the book. She edged down the embankment sideways on an angled course from rock to rock to a clump of grass until she landed on level ground. But by the time she did, she heard a motor, looked up, and saw a black Chrysler coming along the road toward Mr. Singer's house. She stopped where she was. The car stopped at the end of the drive in front of the garage next to a hitching rail. A man, a woman, and three children tumbled out. Maud didn't recognize any of them, but she supposed they were Mr. Singer's family come to visit, maybe from a long way away. She turned back to the bank beside the highway and climbed it again. From there, she walked down the road to the section line and turned south.

She endured catcalls from the men at the school site. But nobody approached her, and she decided she'd walk that way again. If she didn't have the courage to walk down her own section line, she wouldn't have the courage to walk down the street in a city. She rushed on, thinking about what might be waiting in her mailbox. She thought about how many times she'd walked near it and about the letter Billy had mailed in the box next to it.

At the line of boxes, she stopped with her hand on the flap of hers, trying to remember one of the ancient Cherokee love formulas she'd copied from Mooney's book. But she couldn't bring one up that she felt sure was exact, and she didn't want to say one, even in her head, that might be incorrect and jinx the insides of the box. She focused her eyes on the beans in the field beyond. What if she opened the box and it was empty? She wouldn't be able to bear that. Still, she had one letter in hand. That was better than nothing. She stood to the side to avoid any angry dirt dobbers, tugged hard once, and then eased the flap open.

There was a dead dirt dobber lying on top of a flyer with a picture of a tractor on it. She tilted the flyer and dumped him off. She pulled out a handwritten offer from a well digger and a book of coupons. Below them was a letter addressed in Booker's writing and postmarked from Tulsa. Her hand shook as she held it. She dropped the book. It landed on her toe.

Bending over, Maud suddenly felt faint. She'd had too much excitement and heat and too little water. The back of her neck was burning where it'd never been exposed to the sun. She rose up slowly, afraid she might faint. Nan's house sat beyond the beans. She decided to walk toward it at a slow pace and read the letter there. She walked, both letters in the book, and took deep, regular breaths that she hoped would get her to within sight of her aunt's if her body gave out.

Renee was standing out in the road. She ran up steps to the pump, picked a tin cup off the top of the handle, and dipped it into a bucket. She came back out to the road and walked toward Maud, spilling some water as she came. Maud had never been so glad to see the child in her life. She drank noisily, drained the cup of every drop, and wiped her face with her forearm.

Renee said, “You're wobbly. And you look peaked.”

“I feel peaked.”

“Want me to carry your book?”

“No, I'll carry it myself. You carry these.” She handed Renee the rest of the mail. “Thanks for the water. Can I lean on you a bit?”

Renee stepped to Maud's side and took the cup. Maud drew her arm over the girl's shoulders. They walked down the middle of the road. The house Nan was living in was built on a natural rise that had protected it from the flood. A wall of sandstone held back the rise where it was cut down for the road. Five steps led up to the yard. When they got to the steps, Renee said, “Can you do these?”

Maud shook her head. “Let me rest here. Go get your mama.”

Maud was resting the side of her face on her book and the book on her knees when Nan shooed her kids away and sat down beside her. She rubbed Maud's back. “You can't be walking in this heat in yer condition. Not with the blow you've had.”

Maud straightened up. “I've heard from Booker.” She tapped the book's cover. “Two letters. In here.”

“What'd they say?”

“I haven't read one of them.”

Nan's hand stopped rubbing. “Let me see.”

Maud opened the book and handed her the unopened envelope. “You read it. Tell me what it says. I can't face it alone.”

Nan held the envelope up to the sun. She carefully broke open a side with little rips. She pulled the letter out and was silent. Then she said, “He's working in a store named Vandever's. His boss is Mr. Gary. He's selling men's ready-to-wear. He's living in a boarding house with three other men. The woman who runs it is a good cook but wears dirty aprons. One of the men is from Missouri. One is from Texas and the other one is from a place I can't make out the name. Evelyn and Arlene, that's his horses, right? Well, they're down the street in a stable. He don't say anything about his wagon or wares.”

“Does he say anything about me?”

Nan bit her under lip. She read more. “He says he admires yer spirit and hopes you'll write and tell him what yer thinking.”

“That's it?”

Nan nodded.

“Let me see.” Maud pulled the letter from her aunt's hand. She read it silently
. I admire your spirit and hope you'll write and tell me what you're thinking
was the most personal thing in it. Maud growled.

“He don't know yer in a family way, do he?”

Maud looked up from the letter to the far side of the road. Over there, a few trees provided shade and the ground ample nesting for snakes. She said, “I have to get rid of this baby. Will you make Viola help me?”

Nan clasped her knees with her hands and tapped her thumbs together.

“Aunt Nan, I can't have this baby. I just can't. Booker doesn't know about it. We were trying not to get in a family way. And I can't show up on his doorstep and say it's his. He doesn't even sound that interested.” She waved the letter in front of her face like a fan. “He's more interested in his job and people in Tulsa. And I've got another letter that says he wants to be friends.”

“Have you written him?”

“No. I didn't know where he was. And now . . .” Maud looked down at her stomach.

“That's three letters in all. Sounds like he's still interested. He just needs some encouragement.”

“Maybe he does. But showing up on his doorstep and announcing I'm carrying isn't likely to rekindle his interest.”

“It might. He might want a baby.”

“I want him to want me.”

Nan seemed to study the trees. Eventually, she said, “That Billy's a worker.”

“That might be, but the baby's not his.”

Nan grunted. “He's too full-blooded to care.”

Maud put her chin in her hands. Her elbows were balanced on the book on her knees. She knew Cherokee men weren't too bothered by who'd fathered the children in their own homes. Mostly, they parented their sisters' kids, their certain blood kin. That, Maud supposed, was the upside to their everlasting comings and goings. She said, “You don't understand. I've got to get out of here. Aunt Nan, the whole world's passing me by. Will you talk to Aunt Viola for me?” Her voice sounded high.

Nan sighed. “You haveta please yerself. But if ya do it, be sure it's in the right sign.”

“What sign would that be?”

“I'd have to study on it. But not in the heart, belly, or reins. You'd bleed to death as quick as that.” She snapped her fingers.

The snap startled Maud. And the thought of bleeding to death filled her with horror. She didn't think astrological signs were reliable, but most of her family was high on them, particularly for planting, hog killing, and tooth pulling. She didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. Bleeding to death in the bottoms would be worse than being snakebit and getting it over with fast.

Nan patted Maud's back. She asked her to stay for supper. And they were eating when they heard a wagon. Morgan hopped up to see who it was. He came back and slid into his seat with a grin on his face. Ryde said, “Well?”

“It's one of Maud's fellows.”

Maud said, “In a wagon?”

“Yep.”

“Does it have a blue cover?”

“Nope. Got a rocker and chest in the back. Saw a dog, too.”

Maud burst out crying. She jumped up from the table and fled out the back door. She ran to the smokehouse, lifted the latch, stepped into salty dark, and pulled the door closed behind her. She turned her face to the wood, beat her forehead against it again and again, and sobbed. After she cried herself out, she wiped her nose and face on her handkerchief. She turned around and peered into the dark. Her uncle was renting this house and had been in it for only a couple of years. She was unfamiliar with its particular smokehouse, but she'd been in smokehouses all of her life. They didn't much vary. When her eyes adjusted, she saw three hams hanging from the ceiling and a curing chest against the back wall. She moved over to the chest, swiped her finger against the wood to test it for grease, and tasted the results. She sat down. She needed to think, if she could just get her head clear. She inhaled salt. It burnt.

When she got back home, she couldn't think any
better. Billy was in the barn, his dog patrolling the front porch. Maud growled at the dog louder than he growled at her. She threw out a leg in his direction as she went inside. Billy's chair and chest were hunkered in the main room like a couple of contented hogs. The chest was particularly grating. It was sitting where Lovely's cot usually sat and it seemed solid and permanent. But Maud had already felt that living alone without the hope of Lovely returning was worse than living alone thinking he would show any day. So her feelings were running completely crossways.

Maud went to the cow lot, prodded Carrie into place with a little stick, and fussed at the cow, even though the animal was as cooperative as usual. She stood behind Carrie and smacked her on her rump more than once, trying to make the cow kick her in the stomach. But Carrie just turned a big brown eye and a wide, wet mouth Maud's way and flicked her tail like she was bored with the whole conversation. Maud gave up. She set her bucket and stool in place, rested her cheek on the cow's side, and closed her eyes. She tried to get some comfort from Carrie's hide as she milked.

When she came in from the cow lot, Billy was hungry, first for food and then for sex. Settled some by milking, she provided him both. But while she and Billy rocked back and forth, she got to thinking about Booker, seventy or eighty miles away in Tulsa, doing the same thing with a big-city girl. Probably a flapper with a long string of pearls. Maud started crying before Billy was through. She cried over Booker having a girlfriend in Tulsa, over Billy's furniture making her choice for her, over Lovely's death. Billy was so deeply occupied that his rhythm didn't change. But when he was through, he asked her what the matter was. She said, “I'm just crying for Gilda. I told her today.”