Yet she and Hank had made it through, in part because they could count on each other. But it was more than just that, Laurel had always believed. It was also knowing that miserable as life was, there was someone else going through the same thing. As long as Hank could stand it, she could too, not just the hard work but the stares and snubs when they went to Mars Hill with Slidell. At night or rainy days or when the snow flew, they'd play cards or checkers or get out the wish book and pretend they had a thousand dollars and take turns picking out things until neither of them had a single penny left. As they got older, evenings Hank would whittle and Laurel would sew or read copies of the
Marshall Sentinel
that Slidell passed on to them. Sometimes she would take out the geography book Miss Calicut had given her and turn to a page and try to imagine such a farther land. But she never could. They were too distant. All the while their father lingered in the back room, more and more needful as the years passed.
Then Hank got conscripted. I'll never see him again, her father lamented, and he'd been right. One morning Laurel came into her father's room and he lay in the bed dead, his eyes open, as if in death still looking for pity. But Hank had come back. She had never let herself believe he wouldn't. The morning he'd been shot, she had awakened in bed knowing that he had been hurt, but knowing also as the hours passed that he lived, that he would return.
Laurel rose and checked the rags the stranger had worn, found them yet damp. It was near dark but she'd let the outcrop's warmth dry them a few more minutes. She sat back down on the granite and looked out over the cove to the blue mountains.
Waiting for her life to begin.
Still waiting a year after her father's death. But now she felt something was about to happen, maybe already had happened, a beginning this stranger might be part of. Laurel took the flute from the case and found the instrument heavier than she'd have reckoned. It seemed queer that music so light and airy could come from such a solid-feeling thing. She held the flute's mouthpiece to her lips. His lips had touched here as well and the thought pleased her. Laurel made a tentative puff before placing fingers over some of the holes. The silver and her breath brought forth a low plaintive note.
E
xcept for two trips to the privy, the man did not leave the bed. He slept through supper and had not awakened when she and Hank went to sleep. In the morning, Laurel set Hank's plate and cup before him and took coffee to the stranger.
“This may taste some different from what you're used to. There's chicory mixed in with the store bought.”
The man raised his back against the headboard and took the cup. The swelling had gone down and his color was back. The starch was back in him too. His hands didn't tremble when he brought the cup to his mouth. Laurel nodded at the two stacks of clothes on the bureau, his money and the note beside them. The haversack was near the door and she pointed it out as well.
“I got your clothes washed best as I could but they're in a sorry way,” Laurel said. “I read the note, so I know you can't talk. But I can tell you hear okay, and if you done that note you can read and write.”
The man shook his head.
“You can't?”
He shook his head again.
“Someone else wrote it for you?”
He nodded.
“Well, anyway, I need to get the daubings off you. They've drawn what poison they will. Besides, like Hank said, you don't want to be mistook for a bobcat.”
Laurel went to the front room. As she filled a wash pan with water, Hank pushed back his chair and brought his plate and cup to the basin.
“His clothes are rags so I'm going to give him some of Daddy's to wear,” Laurel said. “They're too small for you so someone ought to get use out of them.”
“Damn, Laurel,” Hank said. “We've already doctored him and give him a bed for the night. That's charity enough. How many folks have done anything for us?”
“Slidell has.”
“That's one person.”
“And that's all we're helping,” Laurel answered. “You saw the note, the man can't even talk.”
“Okay,” Hank said, “but I'm still taking the shotgun with me.”
After Hank left, Laurel sweetened her breath with a piece of licorice root and then took the wash pan into the bedroom, set it on the bed. The man closed his eyes as she rubbed scabs of paste off his face and neck. The washrag was thin and she could feel his skin against her fingertips. As Laurel leaned to free the paste from the other side of his neck, her hair brushed his shoulder. She swept it back behind her ear and tugged the dress collar close to her neck. Brash of her to be so near the man, maybe even dangerous now that he was stronger, but she didn't fear him. He'd stolen, but he'd done that out of hunger. More than anything though, she didn't believe anyone who made such beautiful sounds could be dangerous. Laurel set the cloth in the pan.
“I'll let you dab the ones on your hands and belly,” Laurel said.
She took overalls, a chambray shirt, and socks from the bureau's bottom drawer.
“After you finish washing, put them on,” Laurel said, setting the clothes on the bed. “Come to the front room and I'll have your breakfast.”
The blackberry jam and cornbread and butter were still on the table so she set out a plate and knife. Laurel emptied the stove's ash catch and fed more kindling into the firebox. She filled the berlin kettle with snap beans and potatoes to simmer for noon-dinner. Laurel looked around the room and tried to see it the way the stranger might. There wasn't much to make notice of, no pictures or calendars on the wall, no radio or music box. Maybe the Franklin clock with its hands on the ten and two like stilled wings, or the rio lamp also on the fire board, or the woodstove with the word
RAVEN
embossed on its iron door. He'd notice the two nailed-together crates that held the books Miss Calicut had given her and probably the flour barrel and butter churn beside the washstand. But nothing bright and pretty like the flute.
When he came into the front room, Laurel saw that the overalls were a decent enough fit. She poured him more coffee and a cup for herself and sat down with him. The man acted near starved from how fast he ate the slavered cornbread, but he didn't make notice of wanting more until it was offered. When he'd finally got enough, Laurel filled their coffee cups again.
“My name's Laurel, though I guess there's not much cause to tell you. It's not like you can say it if you had need to, but I still like you knowing, especially now that I know your name. Is that what you answer to, Walter?”
The man nodded.
“My brother's name is Hank. You might not of noticed yesterday but he's only got one hand. He don't complain but his lot in life is the harder for it, at least in most ways. Not being able to talk, that's got to be burdensome too. I'd think it could make you feel a lavish of aloneness. After my daddy died and Hank was over in France, I was here by myself and it was a hard row to hoe. I guess your music helps you to feel less lonesome, but I've never had anything like that.”
Laurel hadn't meant to say so much. Walter didn't move his head or shrug his shoulders but he was listening. She could tell by the way he looked at her while she talked. To have someone meet her eyes was as pleasing a thing as him listening, because so many people looked away or past her like she wasn't even there. Her coffee cup was empty and there were plenty of chores to be done, but Laurel decided they could wait a few more minutes.
“I heard you playing your flute the other day. I was down the creek below you. It was the prettiest thing I've ever heard. Sometimes when I was in school we'd do some singing, and there's music at the victory jubilees, but we've never had it here. Daddy and Momma hadn't a fiddle or guitar or the least sort of music maker. Not that we had much to sing about, at least in a happy way. But just hearing music, even the saddest sort of song, lets you know you're not all of every way alone, that someone else has known the likesomeness of what you have. At least that's what I felt when I heard you playing. Does it ever feel such to you?”
Walter let his eyes settle on the coffee cup. Pondering the question in a serious sort of way, she could tell, like it was something he'd thought about before. He looked up and gave a slight nod.
Laurel smiled.
“You might figure it a blessing this morning that you can't talk, because I've got a peck of questions I'd love to ask. If you could write, I'd surely have you wear out both those yellow pencils on the bookshelf yonder. Well, I do know one thing. You sure look better today than yesterday. Are you feeling more your ownself again?”
Walter nodded and raised the cup to his lips and drank the last of the coffee, shook his head when she asked if he wanted more. He gestured toward the back window and stood up. As he walked out to the privy, Laurel took the dishes and knife to the basin. When Walter came back inside, he seemed unsure what to do so lingered near the door. She watched his eyes take in the room, settling on nothing long until he saw Hank's tunic on a peg.
“That's Hank's army coat. I guess you can't be a soldier unless you can speak.”
Walter nodded.
“You're lucky. Hank didn't want no part of that fight but they made him go anyway.”
Laurel washed the dishes and tinware, set them out to dry.
“I've got to fetch the eggs and feed the chickens. Just sit comfortable where you like. I won't be long.”
She did the chores as quickly as she could, looking toward the cabin every few minutes. When she came back inside, he was in the bedroom. The bureau was bare and the haversack lay beside the door.
“You ain't got need to pack up,” Laurel said. “I'll be fixing noon-dinner before long. It'd make me feel a poor host if you just up and left.”
For a few moments he didn't tilt his head one way or another.
“It ain't the least bother.”
He nodded then.
“You can sit at the table or just rest in here.”
He nodded that he'd stay in the bedroom.
Probably tired of my prattling on, Laurel thought, but it had felt so good to speak to someone. She hadn't talked this much since seeing Marcie at the victory jubilee last month. Slidell, good a man as he was, talked easier to Hank than to her. As for Hank, it seemed they spoke a little less each day. Sometimes they'd eat a meal with hardly a word between them. But to never be able to speak, what an awful thing that would be. Music might be the onliest thing that gave you cause to stand it, because it flowed out on your breath like words, and you could hear it. In its way, it answered you.
He's asleep, Laurel thought, but after a while a few notes came from the bedroom and then a song. The whole cabin suddenly became less gloamy, as though the music pulled in more light through the windows and chink gaps. One song blended into another as Laurel got the eggs and milk and flour and mixed the cornbread batter and smoothed it in the bake pan. As she set the table, Laurel wished she knew the songs so she could hum along. She was about to take the cornbread out of the stove when she saw Hank in the doorway listening. Laurel wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door.
“You ever heard anything as pretty?” she asked softly.
“It's nice to the ear,” Hank admitted, his voice soft too.
Hank came inside. He stepped lightly across the puncheon floor. Laurel took the cornbread from the stove and quietly closed the metal door. She set the bread basket and yellowware bowl on the table and poured spring water in the cups. Only when the song ended did she go to the bedroom door and tell Walter the meal was ready.
“You look a sight more alive than when we hauled you in,” Hank said when Walter joined them. “So you'll be heading on, I guess.”
Walter nodded as Laurel passed him the bowl.
“There's plenty so don't be shy about taking what you want. We much admired your music earlier, didn't we, Hank?”
“It was pleasing enough,” Hank said.
“That's what you do, play music, to make a living I mean?” Laurel asked.
Walter nodded.
“And you were on your way to New York to play music but something happened?”
Walter nodded again.
“If you'd been robbed you'd not have that sixty dollars,” Laurel said, “but whatever happened, it caused you to get lost up here, right?”
Walter nodded.
“I guess I was wrong to take you for a tramp,” Hank said, and for the first time Laurel noticed a change in his tone. “There's a lot I'd think you not able to do since you can't talk, but your being able to make your music, people got to respect that.”
They spoke little for a few minutes, Walter again taking only food he was offered, something that she could tell Hank noticed too. After they finished, Walter walked over to the bookshelf and pointed at the yellow pencils, waiting until Laurel nodded that it was okay. He came back to the table and took the note from his pocket and turned it over.
“I thought you couldn't read nor write?” Laurel said.
Walter drew two vertical lines, across them six slashes. He studied his drawing a moment and flipped the pencil stem and shortened the slashes with the eraser, brushed off the specks of rubber.
“You want to know where the railroad is?” Hank asked.
Walter nodded.
“It's in Mars Hill,” Hank said. “You want to go there so you can get on to New York, I reckon?”
Walter nodded.
“It's a three-mile walk from here,” Laura said. “That's likely too far after what you've been through, but Slidell goes every Saturday. He lives up at the notch. He's got a horse and wagon and he'd not mind taking you.”
“Maybe Walter don't want to wait till Saturday,” Hank said.
“We don't mind you staying on a few days,” Laurel said. “You could help Hank stob the fences up, make you some extra money for your trip.”
“You think I might have the least little say in this,” Hank interrupted.
“He'll lose his way without someone going with him, especially since he can't read nor talk,” Laurel said. “Besides, you're the one always says it's shameful that a man of Slidell's years is over here helping most every day. Walter and you could get that fence near raised by Saturday.”
“Sister, you don't even know if he's ever done farmwork.”
“Ask him then.”
“Have you?” Hank asked.
Walter paused, then nodded.
“What about all them stings?” Hank said to Laurel. “A minute ago you was fretting he'd be too puny to walk three miles.”
“If he gets to feeling puny he can stop and rest.”
Hank looked at her steadily for a few moments, like he saw something he'd not taken much notice of before. He raised his nubbed wrist and showed Walter where the skin had been knit into a crisscross of stitches.
“There's things I can't do by my ownself, so I'll put a dollar a day in your pocket if it proves out you know what you're doing. That'll give you four dollars to add to what you already got, enough for a new shirt and britches, city clothes that fit. Four and a half if you got the grit to start today.”
“You can wait till morning,” Laurel said, but Walter nodded again and rose from the table.
“I'll get the hammer and nails,” Hank said as they walked out the door. “The wire's already up there but I'll need you to fetch some locust posts.”
Laurel cleared the table, but before doing anything else she went to the window and peeked out. There'd be women who would fault his sharp-honed features, she knew, but he was handsome in his way. Hank was crossing the pasture, in his hand a pail holding staples and a hammer. Walter stood next to the barn, but he wasn't loading his arms with locust posts. Instead, he looked first at Hank before glancing toward the cabin. He kneeled and slipped something into the rock foundation. Walter looked around once more and rose, began filling his arms with locust posts.
Laurel waited a few minutes and then took a roundabout way to the barn so the men didn't see her. She felt inside the rock gap and found the chain and medallion. Save his life and take him in and he figures us to steal from him, Laurel thought, and grabbled deeper, expecting to find the money too. Nothing else was hidden. She studied the medallion's one word, whispered how it might be pronounced before placing it back. She went to the cabin and opened the dictionary, thumbed past
T
and
U
before stopping at
V
. Laurel set her index finger on the slick onionskin paper and moved her finger down one page and on to the next. The word wasn't there.