She glanced up from the bacon she was slicing and called, 'Put it right in the stove.'
He not only put it in the stove, he built the fire. Such a simple job, but a pleasure. In all his life, he’d never owned a stove. It had been years since he’d had the right to one, even one owned by somebody else. He took care laying the kindling, striking the match, watching the sticks flare. Savoring. Taking as much time as he pleased, realizing time was no longer controlled by someone else. When the kindling had a hearty start, he added a thick log, and though it was a warm morning, extended his palms toward the heat.
Building a fire in a stove was just another morning chore to Eleanor. Watching him enjoy the job made her wonder about the life he’d lived, the comforts he hadn’t had. She wondered what was going through his mind as he stared at the flames. Whatever it was, she’d probably never know.
He turned from the stove reluctantly, dusting his hands on his thighs. 'Anything else?'
'You could fill that water pail for me.'
From behind he scanned her yellow outfit-yellow as a buttercup-and the tail of hair bound by the checkered ribbon. She had donned an apron styled like a pinafore, tied loosely at the back. Studying the bow in the shallows of her spine, he experienced again the wrenching sense of home that had been denied him all his life, and along with it a queer reluctance to approach her. But the water pail was at her elbow, and deliberately stepping close to a woman-any woman-since doing time for killing one made him constantly expect her to leap aside in fright. He made a wide berth around her and, reaching, muttered, 'Scuse me, ma’am.'
She glanced up and smiled. '’Preciate your buildin’ the fire, Mr. Parker,' she offered, then returned to her slicing.
Crossing the room with the water pail, he felt better than he had in years. At the door, he stopped. 'I was wonderin’, ma’am…'
With the knife in the bacon she looked back over her shoulder.
'You milk that goat out there?' He thumbed toward the yard.
'No. I milk the cow.'
'You have a cow?'
'Herbert. She’s probably down by the barn by now.'
She shrugged while humor lit her face. 'Don’t ask me how the name got on her. She’s always been Herbert and that’s what she answers to.'
'I could milk'-his grin spread-'Herbert for you if you tell me where to find another pail.'
She completed the slice and wiped her hands on her apron, fixing a teasing grin on her mouth. 'Well, my, my…' she drawled. 'Is that a smile I see threatenin’ the man’s face?'
He allowed it to remain as they openly regarded one another, finding that the morning had brought changes they each liked. Seconds passed before they were smitten by self-consciousness. He glanced away. She turned to fetch him a galvanized pail.
'There’s a milk stool standin’ against the south side o’ the barn.'
'I’ll find it.'
The screen door slammed and she crossed to it, calling, 'Oh, Mr. Parker?'
He pivoted in the path. 'Ma’am?'
She studied him through the screen.
He had a pair of the nicest lips she’d ever seen, and they were downright pretty when they smiled.
'After breakfast I’m gonna cut that hair for you.'
The grin mellowed and reached his eyes. 'Yes, ma’am,' he said softly with a touch on his hat brim.
As he turned downyard with the pail swinging at his side, he wondered when he’d been happier, when life had looked more promising.
Herbert turned out to be a friendly cuss with big brown eyes and a brown and white hide. She and the goat seemed to be pals, exchanging a hello of noses. The mule was out behind the barn, too, with its eyes half closed, facing the wall. Will chose to milk the cow outside instead of in the smelly barn. He tied her to a fencepost, stripped off his shirt and hunkered on the stool while the heat of the sun pelted his back. It seemed he couldn’t soak up enough of it to make up for the five years’dearth. Beside him the goat watched, chewing its cud. The cow chewed too-loud, grinding beats. Comfortable. In time Will’s milking matched the rhythm of Herbert’s jaws. It was soothing-the warm bovine flesh against his forehead, the warmer sun, the homely sound, and the heat building up the length of his arms. In time his muscles burned-satisfying, honest heat generated by his own body toiling as a body ought. He increased his speed to test his mettle.
While he worked, the hens came out of their night roosts, one by one, clucking throatily, walking as if on sharp stones, exploring the grass for snails. He eyed the yard, imagining it clean. He eyed the chickens, imagining them penned. He eyed the woodpile imagining it chopped, ranked and filed. There was one hell of a lot to do, but the challenge fired him with eagerness.
A mother cat showed up with three taffy-colored kittens, a trio of clowning puffballs with tails straight as pokers. The mother curled against Will’s ankle and he paused to scratch her.
'What’s your name, missus?' She stood on her hind legs, braced her forefeet on his thigh, begging. Her fur was soft and warm as she jutted against his fingers. 'You feedin’ those three, huh? Need a little help?' He found a sardine can inside the doorway of the barn and filled it, then watched the four of them eat, one of the babies with a foot in the can. He chuckled… and the sound of his own laughter was so foreign to his ears it made his heart hammer. He tilted his head back and squinted at the sky, letting freedom and happiness overcome him. He chuckled again, feeling the wondrous thrust of the sound against his throat. How long since he’d heard it? How long?
When he delivered the milk to the house he smelled bacon frying from twenty feet down the yard. His stomach growled and he paused with his hand raised to knock on the screen door.
Inside the kitchen, Eleanor lifted her head and their gazes caught.
He dropped the hand and opened the door, taking the risk and finding it easy, after all.
'Met the animals,' he announced, setting the pail on the cupboard. 'Mule’s a little stuck-up, compared to the others.'
'Well, bless my soul,' Eleanor remarked. 'A regular speech.'
He backed off, rubbing his hands on his thighs self-consciously. 'I’m not much for small talk.'
'I’ve noticed. Still, you might try it out on the boys.'
The pair was up, dressed in wrinkled pajamas. The older one looked up from where he was entertaining the young one on the floor with five wooden spools. He stared at Will.
'Howdy, Donald Wade,' Will ventured, feeling awkward and uncertain.
Donald Wade stuck his finger in his mouth and poked his cheek out.
'Say good morning, Donald Wade,' his mother prompted.
Instead Donald Wade pointed a stubby finger at his brother and blurted out, 'That’s Baby Thomas.'
Baby Thomas drooled down the front of his pajamas, stared at Will and clacked two spools together. To the best of Will’s recollection he had never spoken to a person so young. He felt foolish waiting for an answer and didn’t know what to do with his hands. So he stacked three spools in a tower. Baby Thomas knocked them over, giggled and clapped. Will looked up and found Eleanor watching him, stirring something on the stove.
'I laid out Glendon’s razor for you, and his mug and brush. You’re welcome to use them.'
He rose to his feet, glanced at the shaving equipment, then at her. But already she’d turned to her cooking, giving him a measure of privacy. He’d been shaving with a straightedge and no soap, hacking his skin all to hell; the mug and brush would be as welcome as the hot water, but he paused before moving toward them.
He’d just have to get used to it: they were going to share this kitchen every morning. He’d have to wash and shave and she’d have to comb her hair and cook breakfast and tend her babies. There were bound to be times when he’d have to brush close by her. And she hadn’t jumped away so far, had she?
'Excuse me,' he said at her shoulder. She glanced at the mug and shifted over without missing a beat in stirring the grits, letting him reach around her for the teakettle.
'You sleep all right last night?'
'Yes, ma’am.'
He filled the cup and the washbasin, whipped up a froth of shaving bubbles and lathered his face, back to back with her.
'How do you like your eggs?'
