Morning Glory (16 page)
"Excuse me, ma'am," Will interrupted, rising. "Got some eggs out in the sun that need selling. I'd better see to 'em."
Lula smirked, watching him move to the bookshelves. He'd got the message. Oh, he'd got it all right—loud and clear. She'd seen him jump when her foot touched his leg. She watched him slip one book into place, then squat down to replace the other. Before he could escape, she sidled into the aisle behind him, trapping him between the two tiers of shelves. When he rose to his feet and turned, she was gratified by his quick blush. "If you're interested in my offer, I work most days at Vickery's. I'm off at eight, though." She slipped one finger between his shirt buttons and ran it up and down, across hair and hard skin. Putting on her best kewpie doll face, Lula whispered, "See y' round, Parker."
As she swung away, exaggeratedly waggling her hips, Will glanced across the sunlit room to find the librarian's censoring eyes taking in the whole scene. Her attention immediately snapped elsewhere, but even from this distance Will saw how tightly her lips pursed. He felt shaky inside, almost violated. Women like Lula were a clear path to trouble. There was a time when he'd have taken her up on the offer and enjoyed every minute of it. But not anymore. Now all he wanted was to be left to live his life in peace, and that peace meant Eleanor Dinsmore's place. He suddenly felt a deep need to get back there.
Lula was gone, cleats clicking, by the time Will reached the main desk.
"Much obliged for the use of the paper and pencil, ma'am."
Gladys Beasley's head snapped up. The distaste was ripe on her face. "You're welcome."
Will was cut to the quick by her silent rebuff. A man didn't have to make a move on a hot-blooded woman like that, all he had to do was be in the same pigeonhole with her. Especially—Will supposed—if he'd done time for killing a whore in a
He rolled his notes into a cylinder and stood his ground. "I was wonderin', ma'am—"
"Yes?" she snapped, lifting her head sharply, her mouth no larger than a keyhole.
"I got a job. I'm workin' as a hired hand for Mrs. Glendon Dinsmore. If she'd come in here and tell you I work for her, would that be enough to get me a library card?"
"She won't come in."
"She won't?"
"I don't believe so. Since she married she's chosen to live as a recluse. I'm sorry, I can't bend the rules." She picked up her pen, made a check on a list, then relented. "However, depending upon how long you've been working for her, and how long you intend to stay, if she would verify your employment in writing, I should think that would be enough proof of residency."
Will Parker flashed a relieved smile, hooked one thumb in his hind packet and backed off boyishly, melting the ice from Gladys Beasley's heart. "I'll make sure she writes it. Much obliged, ma'am." He headed for the door, then stopped and swung back. "Oh. How late you open?"
"Until
weekdays, five Saturdays, and of course, we're closed Sundays."
He tipped his hat again and promised, "I'll be back."
As he turned the doorknob she called, "Oh, Mr. Parker?"
"Ma'am?"
"How is Eleanor?"
Will sensed that this inquiry was wholly different from Lula's. He stood at the door, adjusting his impression of Gladys Beasley. "She's fine, ma'am. Five months pregnant for the third time, but healthy and happy, I think."
"For the third time. My. I remember her as a child, coming in with Miss Buttry's fifth grade class—or was it Miss Natwick's sixth? She always seemed a bright child. Bright and inquisitive. Greet her for me, if you will."
It was the first truly friendly gesture Will had experienced since coming to Whitney. It erased all the sour taste left by Lula and made him feel suddenly warm inside.
"I'll do that. Thanks, Mrs. Beasley."
"Miss Beasley."
"Miss Beasley. Oh, by the way. I got a few dozen eggs I'd like to sell. Where should I try?"
Exactly what it was, Gladys didn't know—perhaps the way he'd assumed she had a husband, or the way he'd rejected the advances of that bleached whore, Lula, or perhaps nothing more than the way his smile had transformed his face at the news that he could have a library card after all. For whatever reason, Gladys found herself answering, "I could use a dozen myself, Mr. Parker."
"You could? Well ... well, fine!" Again he flashed a smile.
"The rest you might take to Purdy's General, right across the square."
"Purdy's. Good. Well, let me go out and— Oh—" His thumb came out of the pocket, his hand hung loosely at his hip. "I just remembered. They're all in one crate.
"Put them in this." She handed him a small cardboard filing box.
He accepted it, nodded silently and went out. When he returned, she asked, "How much will that be?" She rummaged through a black coin purse and didn't look up until realizing he hadn't answered. "How much, Mr. Parker?"
"Well, I don't rightly know."
"You don't?"
"No, ma'am. They're Mrs. Dinsmore's eggs and these're the first I've sold for her."
"I believe the current price is twenty-four cents a dozen. I'll give you twenty-five, since I'm sure they're fresher than those at Calvin Purdy's store, and since they're hand delivered." She handed him a quarter, which he was reluctant to accept, knowing it was higher than the market value. "Well, here, take it! And next week, if you have more, I'll take another dozen."
He took the coin and nodded. "Thank you, ma'am. 'Preciate it and I know Mrs. Dinsmore will, too. I'll be sure to tell her you said hello."
When he was gone Gladys Beasley snapped her black coin purse shut, but held it a moment, studying the door. Now
that
was a nice young man. She didn't know why. but she liked him. Well, yes she did know why. She fancied herself an astute judge of character, particularly when it came to inquiring minds. His was apparent by his familiarity with the card catalogue, his ability to locate what he wanted without her assistance and his total absorption in his study, to say nothing of his eagerness to own a borrower's card.
And, too, he was willing to go back out to Rock Creek Road and work for Eleanor Dinsmore even after the pernicious twaddle spewed by Lula Peak. Gladys had heard enough to know what that harlot was trying to do—how could anyone have missed it in this echoing vault of a building? And more power to Will Parker for turning his back on that hussy. Gladys had never been able to understand what people got out of spreading destructive gossip. Poor Eleanor had never been given a fair shake by the people of this town, to say nothing of her own family. Her grandmother, Lottie McCallaster, had always been eccentric, a religious fanatic who attended every tent revival within fifty miles of Whitney. She was said to have fallen to her knees and rolled in the throes of her religious conviction, and it was well known she got baptized every time a traveling salvation man called for sinners to become washed in the Blood. She'd finally nabbed herself a self-proclaimed man of God, a fire-and-brimstone preacher named Albert See who'd married her, gotten her in a family way, installed her in a house at the edge of town and gone on circuit, leaving her to raise her daughter, Chloe, chiefly alone.
Chloe had been a silent wraith of a girl, with eyes as large as horse chestnuts, dominated by Lottie, subjected to her fanaticism. How a girl like that, who was scarcely ever out of her mother's scrutiny, had managed to get pregnant remained a mystery. Yet she had. And afterward, Lottie had never shown her face again, nor allowed Chloe to, or the child, Eleanor, until the truant officer had forced them to let her out to attend school, threatening to have the child legally removed to a foster home unless they complied.
What the town librarian remembered best about Eleanor as a child was her awe of the spacious library, and of her freedom to move through it without reprimand, and how she would stand in the generous fanlight windows with the sun pouring in, absorbing it as if she could never get enough. And who could blame her—poor thing?
Gladys Beasley wasn't an overly imaginative woman, but even so, she shuddered at the thought of what life must have been like for the poor bastard Child, Eleanor, living in that house behind the green shades, like one buried alive.
She'd almost be willing to give Will Parker a borrower's card on the strength of his befriending Eleanor alone, now that she knew of it. And when she marched back to nonfiction and found a biography of Beethoven lying on a table, but "Bees" and "Apples" tucked flush in their slots, she knew she'd judged Will Parker correctly.
Chapter 7
C
alvin Purdy bought the eggs at twenty-four cents a dozen. The money belonged to Mrs. Dinsmore, but Will had nine dollars of his own buttoned safely into his breast pocket. He touched it—hard and reassuring behind the blue chambray—and thought of taking something to her. Just because people called her crazy and she wasn't. Just because she'd been locked inside some house most of her life. And because they'd had words before he left. But what should he take? She wasn't the perfume type. And anyway, perfume seemed too personal. He'd heard that men bought ribbons for ladies, but he'd feel silly walking up to Purdy and asking him to cut a length of yellow silk ribbon to match her yellow maternity dress. Candy? Food made Eleanor sick. She pecked like a sparrow, hardly ate a thing.
In the end he chose a small figurine of a bluebird, gaily painted. She liked birds, and there wasn't much around her house in the way of decorations. The bluebird cost him twenty-nine cents, and he spent an additional dime on two chocolate bars for the boys. Pocketing his change, he felt a keen exhilaration to get home.
On his way out of town he passed the house with the tilting picket fence surrounding it like the decaying ribs of a dead animal. He stopped to stare, involuntarily fascinated by the derelict appearance of the place, the grass choking the front steps, the rangy morning glories tangling around the doorknob and up a rickety trellis on the front stoop. Tattered green shades covered the windows, their bottoms shredded into ribbons. Gazing at them, he shivered, yet was tempted to investigate closer, to peek inside. But the shades seemed to warn him away. They'd locked her in? And pulled down the shades? A woman like Eleanor, who loved birds and katydids and the sky and the orchard? Again Will shivered and hurried on with his cargo of two chocolate bars and a glass bluebird, wishing he could have bought her more. It was a curious feeling for a man to whom gift-giving was foreign. The exchange of gifts implied that a person had both friends and money, but Will had seldom known both at once. Though he'd often imagined how exciting it would be to get gifts, he'd never expected this exhilaration at giving them. But now that he knew about Eleanor Dinsmore's past, he felt provoked by a great impatience to make reparation for the kindness she'd been robbed of as a child.
Would she still be peeved at him? An unexpected ripple of disquiet swept through him at the thought. He stalked along, studying the ground. The wagon rattled behind him. How do a man and woman learn to make up their differences? At thirty years old, Will didn't know, but it suddenly became vital that he learn. Always before, if a woman harassed him, he moved on. This was different, Eleanor Dinsmore was different. She was a good mother, a fine woman who'd been locked in a house and called crazy, and if he didn't tell her she wasn't, who would?
* * *
Eleanor had been miserable ever since Will left. She'd been churlish and snappy with him and he'd been gone nearly three hours on a trip that should have taken only half that time and she was sure he wasn't coming back.
It's your own fault, Elly. You can't treat a free man that way and expect him to come back for more.
She put supper on to cook and looked out the back door every three minutes. No Will. She put on a clean dress and combed her hair, twisting it tight and neat on her head. She studied her wide, disturbed eyes in the small mirror on the kitchen shelf, thinking of his face trimmed with shaving lather.
He ain't comin' back, fool. He's ten miles in the other direction by now and how you gonna like choppin' that wood in the morning? And how you gonna like mealtimes lookin' at his empty chair? And talkin' to nobody but the boys?
Closing her eyes, she wrapped her fists around one another and pressed them to her mouth.
I need you, Parker Please come back.
* * *
As Will hurried up the rutted driveway he heard his own heart drumming in his ears. Reaching the edge of the clearing, his footsteps faltered: she was waiting on the porch. Waiting for him, Will Parker. Dressed in her yellow outfit with her hair freshly combed, the boys romping at her ankles and the smell of supper drifting clear across the yard. She raised a hand and waved. "What took you so long? I was worried."