'That’s right.' She finger-combed Donald Wade’s hair off his brow. 'A sturdy little oak with enough acorns that the old squirrel never had to run up and down a tree again, ’cause they was growin’ all around his head, right there in his warm, cozy nest.'
Donald Wade popped up. 'Tell me another one!'
'Uh-uh. Got to go on, show Mr. Parker the rest of the place.' She pushed to her feet and reached for Thomas’s hand. 'Come on, boys. Donald Wade, you take Thomas’s other hand. Come on, Mr. Parker,' she said over her shoulder. 'Day’s movin’ on.'
Will lagged behind, watching them saunter up the lane, three abreast, holding hands. The rear of her skirt was wrinkled from the damp grass, but she cared not a whit. She was busy pointing out birds, laughing softly, talking to the boys in her singsong Southern fashion. He felt a catch in his heart for the mother he’d never known, the hand he’d never held, the make-believe tales he’d never been told. For a moment he pretended he’d had one like Eleanor Dinsmore. Every kid should have one like her.
In time they came to a double flank of beehives, grayed, weathered and untended, dotting the edge of the orchard. He searched his mind for any knowledge of bees, but found none. He saw the hives as a potential source of income, but she gave them wide berth and he recalled that her husband had died tending the bees, was buried somewhere out here in the orchard. But he saw no grave and she pointed none out. In spite of the way Dinsmore had died, Will felt himself drawn to the hives, to the few insects that droned around them, and to the scent of the fruit-wormy or whole-as it warmed beneath the eleven o’clock sun. He wondered about the man who’d been here before him, a man who maintained nothing, finished nothing and apparently never worried about either. How could a man let things run to ruin that way? How could a man lucky enough to own things-so many things-care so little about their condition? Will could count in ten seconds the number of things he’d ever owned: a horse, a saddle, clothing, a razor. Lengthening his stride to catch up with Eleanor Dinsmore, he wondered if she were as hopeless a dreamer as her husband had been.
They came to a pecan grove that looked promising, hanging thick with immature nuts, and in the lane over the next hill a tractor, which blocked their way.
'What’s this?' Will’s eyes lit up.
'Glendon’s old Steel Mule,' she explained while Will made a slow circuit around the rusting hulk. 'This was where she stopped running, so this is where he left ’er.' It was an old Bates Model G, but of what vintage Will couldn’t be sure-’26 or ’27, maybe. At the front it had two wide-set steel wheels, and on each side at the rear three wheels of telescoping size surrounded by tracks with lugs. The lugs were chewed, in some places missing. He glanced at the engine and doubted it would ever make a sound again.
'I know a little about engines, but I think this one’s shot for good.'
They moved on, reaching the far end of the property, turning back toward the house on another path. They passed stubbled fields and patches of woods, eventually topping a rise where Will stopped dead, pushed back his hat and gaped. 'Holy smokes,' he muttered. Below lay a veritable graveyard of iron stoves, rusting in grass tall enough to bend in the wind.
'A bunch of ’em, huh?' Eleanor stopped beside him. 'Seemed like he’d haul another one home every week. I said to him, 'Glendon, what’re you going to do with all them old stoves when everybody these days is changin’ to gas and kerosene?’ But he just kept hauling ’em in here whenever he heard of someone changin’over.'
There had to be five hundred of them, as bright orange as the road to Whitney.
'Holy smokes,' Will repeated, lifting his hat and scratching his head, imagining the chore of hauling them out again.
She glanced at his profile, clearly defined against the blue sky, with the hat pushed back beyond his hairline. Did she dare tell him about the rest? Might as well, she decided. He’d find out eventually anyway. 'Wait’ll you see the cars.'
Will turned her way. After all he’d seen, nothing would be a surprise. 'Cars?'
'Wrecks, every one of ’em. Worse’n the Steel Mule.'
Hands on hips, he studied the stoves a long moment. At length he sighed, tugged down his hat brim and said, 'Well, let’s get it over with.'
The cars lay immediately behind the band of woods surrounding the outbuildings-they’d come nearly full circle around the place-and created a clutter of gaping doors and sagging roofs in the long weeds. They approached the windowless wreck of an old 1928 Whippet. Wild honeysuckle climbed over its wire wheels and along the front bumper. On the near runningboard a bird had made its nest against the lee of the back fender.
'Can I drive it?' Donald Wade asked eagerly.
'Sure can. Wanna take Baby Thomas with you?'
'Come on, Thomas.' Donald Wade took his brother’s hand, plowed through the grass and helped Thomas board. The two clambered up and sat side by side, bouncing on the tattered seat. Donald Wade pumped the steering wheel left and right, making engine noises with his tongue. When Eleanor and Will approached, he whipped the wheel even more vigorously. Imitating his brother, Thomas stuck out his tongue and blew, sending specks of saliva flying onto a cobweb strung across the faded black paint of the dashboard.
Eleanor stood beside the open door and laughed. The more she laughed, the more the boys bounced and blew. The more they bounced and blew, the more animatedly Donald Wade worked the steering wheel.
She crossed her arms on the window opening, bent forward and propped her chin on a wrist. 'Where y’all goin’, fellers?'
'Atlanta!' squealed Donald Wade.
'’Lanta!' parroted Thomas.
'Atlanta?' teased their mother. 'What y’all think y’re gonna do clear over there?'
'Don’ know.' Donald Wade drove hell-bent for leather, the old wheel spinning in his freckled hands.
'Care to give a pretty lady a ride?'
'Can’t stop-goin’ too fast!'
'Hows ’bout if I just jump on the runnin’ board while you whiz by?'
'Okee-dokee, lady!'
'Ouch!' Eleanor jumped back and grabbed her foot. 'You run over my toe, young feller!'
'Eeeeech!' Donald Wade’s stubby foot slammed the brake pedal to the floor as he came to a screeching halt. 'Git in, lady.'
Eleanor acted affronted. She put her nose in the air and turned away. 'Don’t reckon I care to, now you run over my toes that way. Reckon I’ll find myself somebody drives less reckless than you. But you might ask Mr. Parker here if he needs a lift to town. He’s been walkin’ some and he’s probably plum tuckered, ain’t you, Mr. Parker?' She squinted up at him with a crooked smile.
Will had never played such games before. He felt conspicuous and unimaginative, while they all watched him, waiting for a reply. He frantically searched his mind and came up with a sudden stroke of genius. 'Next time, boys.' He lifted one scuffed boot above the grass. 'Just got this here new pair of boots and I gotta get ’em broke in before the dance Saturday night.'
'Okee-dokee, mister.
Eleanor’s laughter faded, but her smile remained as she studied Will. He leaned against the side of the car with his weight on one foot, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The sunlight lit the tip of his nose. On his lips was a genuine smile. 'Well, now, would you lookit there,' she said softly.
He glanced up and found her studying his mouth. So she’d done it; she’d made him smile. It felt as revitalizing as a full belly, and he neither dimmed nor hid it, but rained it on Eleanor Dinsmore.
'Feels good, don’t it?' she asked quietly.
His brown eyes softened as they appreciated her green ones. 'Yes, ma’am,' he replied quietly.
Smiling up at him, noting the pleasure in his eyes, Eleanor thrilled at the realization that she and the boys had succeeded in putting it there. Heaven’s sake, what a smile did to Will Parker’s face-eyes hooked down at the
