She lifted her face and he saw in her green eyes the same misgivings he had, the same strain, intensified by the boys’ uncharacteristic naughtiness on this night when it was the last thing they needed. He was touched more deeply by the fact that she was near tears.
'Thank you, Will.'
'Go.' He turned her toward the bedroom and gave her a gentle shove.
Funny how one bit of cooperation led to another. A half hour later he found himself beside her, drying dishes, and a half hour after that, helping her get the boys ready for bed.
The pair had had a tiring day and they surrendered to their pillows with remarkable docility. While she tucked them in he wandered the room collecting their discarded clothes, small items that smelled of spilled milk and first trips to town, popcorn and broomstick cowboys. From beside a scarred chest of drawers Will watched Eleanor kiss them goodnight, smiling at the scene. Two pajama-clad boys with faces scrubbed shiny being reassured by their mother that they were loved in spite of their recent misbehavior. She had changed into a worn smock of faded brown that bellied out as she leaned over Donald Wade, kissed his mouth, his cheek; touched his nose with her own and murmured something for his ears only. And next, Baby Thomas, over the side of the crib, kissing him, toppling him into a tired heap, then brushing his hair back while he clasped a favorite blanket and stuck a thumb in his mouth.
Resting an elbow on the dresser top, Will smiled softly. Again came the yearning for things missed, but watching was almost as good as taking part. In those moments, his love for Eleanor swelled, became something more than the love of a husband for a wife. She became the mother he’d never known, the boys became himself- safe, secure, cared for.
With a pang of awe he realized he would be part of this tableau every night. He could wash freckled faces, stuff arms into pajama sleeves, collect dirty clothes and hover over their affectionate goodnights. Vicariously he might recapture a portion of what he’d missed.
The ritual ended. Eleanor lifted the side of the crib and waggled two fingers at Donald Wade. Abruptly he sat up and demanded, 'I wanna kiss Will goodnight.'
Will’s elbow came off the dresser and his face registered surprise. Eleanor turned and met his gaze across the lamplit room.
She noted his hesitation but saw beyond it to the stronger tug of anticipation. 'Donald Wade wants to kiss you,' she reiterated.
'Me?' He felt like an interloper though his chest tightened expectantly. Donald Wade lifted his arms. Will glanced again at Eleanor, chuckled, scratched his chin and crossed the room, feeling awkward and out of place. He sat on the edge of the bed and the boy’s arms clasped his neck without restraint. The small mouth-moist and smelling faintly of milk-pressed Will’s briefly. It was so unexpected, so… so… genuine. He’d never kissed a child goodnight before, had never guessed how it got to your insides and warmed you from there, out.
'Night, Will.'
'Night,
'I’m Hopalong.'
Will laughed. 'Oh, my mistake. I shoulda checked to see which horse was tied at the hitchin’ rail outside.'
When Will rose from Donald Wade’s bed, Baby Thomas was no longer lying down. He was standing at the rail of his crib with his mouth plump and his eyes unblinking, watching. Baby Thomas… who’d taken longer to warm to Will. Baby Thomas… who still intimidated the grown man at times. Baby Thomas… who imitated everything his older brother did. His kiss was hugless, but his tiny mouth warm and moist when Will bent to touch it.
Lord a-mighty, he’d never have guessed how a pair of goodnight kisses could make a man feel. Wanted. Loved.
'’Night, Thomas.'
Thomas stared at him with big hazel eyes.
'Say goodnight to Will,' his mother prompted softly.
'G’night, Wiw.'
Never before had Thomas spoken Will’s name. The distorted pronunciation went straight to the thin man’s heart as he watched Eleanor settle him down a second time before joining Will in the doorway.
They stood a moment, shoulder to shoulder, studying the children. A closeness stole over them, binding them with an accord that washed away the many shortcomings of this day, leaving them with a faith in better things to come.
Leaving the boys’ door ajar, they stepped into the front room. It was dark but for the trailing light from the boys’ lantern and another on the kitchen table.
Will ran a hand through his hair, draped it around his neck and smiled at the floor. After a moment his chest lifted with a pleasured chuckle.
'I never did that before.'
'I know.'
He searched for a way to express the fullness in his heart. But there was no way. To an orphan turned drifter, a drifter turned prisoner, a prisoner turned hired hand, a hired hand turned stand-in daddy, there was no way to express what the last five minutes had meant to him. Will could only waggle his head in wonder. 'That’s somethin’, isn’t it?'
She understood. His surprise and wonder said it all. He had never expected the right to her children to come along with the right to her house. Yet she recognized his growing affection for them, saw clearly what kind of father he could be-gentle, patient, the kind who’d take none of the small pleasures for granted.
'Yes, it is.'
He dropped his hand and lifted his head. A soft smile curved his lips. 'I really like those two, you know?'
'Even after the way they acted at supper?'
'Oh, that-that was nothin’. They’d had a big day. I reckon their springs were still twangin’.'
She smiled.
He did, too, briefly before sobering. 'I want you to know I’ll do right by them.'
Her voice softened. 'Oh, Will… I know that.'
'Well,' he went on almost sheepishly, 'they’re pretty special.'
'I think so, too.'
Their gazes met momentarily. They searched for something to say, something to do. But it was bedtime; there was only one thing to do. Yet both of them were reluctant to suggest it. In the kitchen the radio was playing 'Chattanooga Choo Choo.' The strains came through the lighted doorway into the shadows where they paused uncertainly. Across from the boys’room, their own bedroom door stood open, an oblique shadow waiting to take them in. Beyond it waited uncertainty and self-consciousness.
Eleanor fiddled with her hands, searching for a subject to put off bedtime. 'Thank you for the movie, Will. The boys will never forget it and neither will I.'
'I enjoyed it, too.'
End of subject.
'I liked the popcorn, too,' she added hurriedly.
'So did I.'
End of subject, again.
This time Will found a diversion-the boys’ clothes, still balled in his hands. 'Oh, here!' He thrust them into hers. 'Forgot I still had ’em.' He rammed his hands into his pockets.
Looking down at Thomas’s milk-streaked shirt, she said, 'Thanks for helping me get them ready for bed.'
'Thanks for letting me.'
A quick exchanged glance, two nervous smiles, then silence again, immense and overpowering, while they stood close and studied the collection of clothes in her hands. It was her house, her bedroom-Will felt like a guest waiting to be invited to stay the night, but still she made no mention of retiring. He heard his own pulse drumming in his ears and felt as if he were wearing somebody else’s collar, one size too small. Somebody had to break the ice.
'Are you tired?' he asked.
'No!' she replied, too quickly, too wide-eyed. Then, dropping her head, 'Well… yes, I am a little.'
'I guess I’ll step out back then.'
