Asked For (17 page)

Lana set her fork beside her plate. A cold surge spread inside as she glanced at Cletus. There was no wolfish hunger on her husband’s face as he stared at Jeanie’s hand, no demand she make sons for him. There was something else there, a different sort of desire, a gentler longing Lana had never imagined him capable of, one she’d never known how to create.

“You could stay here.” Cletus shocked Lana with his sudden invitation.

“Oh, could we? Why, thank you,” Jeanie gushed. “You’re ever so kind. But we mustn’t. We will go home. It’s more proper that way…since we’re not married.”

An unsaid “yet” hung in the air. It dangled like an empty noose. It was meant for Jim, but Lana took it. Her husband. Her husband invited them…invited her friend, Jeanie…to stay. Her husband. Her man, one she’d not understood. Her heart beat wildly in her empty breast. She’d never felt so alone.

****

She touched him during the night. The feeling was light and soft, her fingertips gliding up his arm to his shoulder, upward until they traced the line of his neck and cheek and found his lips. Her fingers tingled at the sensation. Fire burned farther down. Lana’s whole being leapt into flames. She parted his lips, hungry yet gentle.
I love you.
The words vibrated through her being, anxious to be spoken into life, but her lips stayed still, letting her fingers do her talking.

This was what it was supposed to be like, this was how she should feel with a man, and how she should make him feel.

His body turned, came alongside hers, not on top, his warmth pressing against her gown. She wanted him in a way she’d never wanted him before, a way she’d never imagined possible. There was no hurry. For once he was taking his time. It made her hunger unbearable. She was starving. She wanted him. She ached for him.

The blankets were in the way, and her gown was holding her back. She scratched at them, yanked them aside. “This is how I’m supposed to love you. This is how it’s supposed to feel. I didn’t understand, you see.”

He moved. Away instead of closer. He rolled to his side, farther from her, to the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing? Come back,” she whispered.

He fumbled with the light.

“No light.” She touched his shoulder. “No light. Just us, in the darkness.”

He paused. She squeezed against him and wrapped her arms around him.

“Why not?” he asked. “I want to see you. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Jim?” Her hands turned to ice. She drew back, scurried to her own side of the bed. Why was Jim here? Where was her husband?

“Jim?” His voice was gruff. He fumbled with the lamp until it lit. He was sitting now, Cletus’ long silhouette staring down at her. “Why’d you call for Jim?”

The ice spread throughout her body, dowsing the flames as it went. “I…I didn’t.” She shrank back into the blanket. “I wanted you, but then you said… Oh…I must have been dreaming... Please, I didn’t know…”

Cletus stared down at her. She couldn’t see his face with the light behind his back. He yanked the blanket from her clasp, stood, and took it with him. Their bedroom door slammed behind him.

“I thought it was you,” she said in the lamplight. “And I wanted you the way I’m supposed to, really I did.”

Chapter 19

James 1954

“You look rough, little brother.”

James straightened and glanced up into the mirror over the washstand. Beyond his image, fuzzy hair, like a wiry silhouette, stood between him and the light coming from the doorway to the rest of the house. He squinted. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light above the washstand when he came in from doing chores. He was too tired, too worn out to bother. He grabbed the old towel and rubbed the water off his face, then his arms and hands. He scoured hard, so hard his skin stung and turned red beneath the cloth.

“You’ll never get that burnt stench off.” Magdalena moved closer. She smelled of ashes from cigarettes. James wasn’t sure which was worse. Burnt metal scorched into the skin, or smoke, manly cigarette smoke, coming off the skin and clothing of a woman. He felt Magdalena’s smile in the shadows. Burnt metal. That’s what was worse. No matter how manly the cigarette smoke was, it suited his sister, and she wore it well.

“I won’t smell this way forever.” He tried to sound glib, like it really didn’t matter, but he meant it. He believed it, he just didn’t want to discuss it. He didn’t want anyone to laugh and say he was stuck as a welder the rest of his life, even though Pop never allowed him to weld. Pop was giving him menial jobs around the shop until he could hire a real man to replace Alex. Alex had escaped, he had gone to the army, and Harold had plans of his own. Just because James was younger didn’t mean he wouldn’t escape too. He wouldn’t sort rods or pile up pieces of scrap forever.

“I told you you’re different from Pop. I’m surprised you agreed to work for him.”

James stared at Magdalena in the mirror. Funny to hear that again from a sister Pop said always lived at dead ends. She’d said herself she was stuck, and even though James would never say it out loud, he was afraid she was. She was trying, though. Trying hard to get free, and the scars were there, evidence of her internal battle etched onto her face.

“Have to work for him,” he said. “For now, anyway.” He said that last part a little louder, an emphasis for both of them. He set the towel down, turned, and leaned back against the washstand. “Gotta earn my keep. Pop said boys do that, that’s all.” He wondered if she understood, if she would snort or argue, but she didn’t. When she said nothing, he watched her, then added, “Until I can play ball somewhere. For money.”

He’d never said it out loud before. Not even when he was alone, to himself. But there it was, his dream—spoken, exposed to scrutiny, and now, even though he was still so young, something he had to live up to. The words bolted like lightning from the air and through his heart. They lit up his thoughts and feelings. He saw a different future than anyone would ever have predicted for him. A vision coming to life in a blaze of fire.

Magdalena touched his arm, a call back to home and what still was, but he wasn’t ready to go there, not now that his heart was out. Her expression was hidden in the dull light, and he wondered if she could feel his excitement through her fingers. He latched onto her hand and held it.

“You’re different. You’re better. Don’t let go of that.” She came closer.

What she said sounded like a warning instead of a celebration. He looked up toward her face. She towered above him, just like she always had, tall and lanky, a reminder he was shorter and stouter. His vision vanished for a moment, the excitement of his dream dwindled.
Baseball’s not in your blood.
He straightened. He fumbled for the towel behind him. If only he’d been built like her, taken after Pop more…

“You’re different. You’re better. Remember that,” she said again, louder.

She’d read his thoughts. Magdalena knew him too well, and she’d unearthed the doubt that lived in his mind. She’d caused it to flare up so she could wash it away. Magdalena slipped her fingers from between his and lifted her hand to his head and tousled his hair. It didn’t flop like it used to. It was gummy with heat and dirt, thick and wiry. “And you’re handsome,” she added. He could feel her smile.

He smiled back, a ginger smile, but he wanted to hug her. “You staying for supper?” James asked instead.

Magdalena rarely came by in the evenings. She said it had something to do with being married now, but everyone knew it had more to do with Pop. Tonight was council meeting night, so Pop was eating in town. He went to all of the meetings, his war against the city council never ending.

“Yeah, thought I might. Don’t bother dragging my chair back to the table. I’ll sit in Pop’s.” She laughed. She really wouldn’t sit in Pop’s chair, but it wasn’t because she respected him or was afraid. Magdalena had her own space at the table and she defended it, making a show of carrying her chair to the table and leaving it there every time she visited. It was hers and she owned it, no matter what Pop said.

“Earl with you?”

She started to glance away, then caught herself and turned back to James, looking him square on. “He’s busy.”

Earl was always busy. He never came with Magdalena. Earl had come to the house after their wedding, only because Mama insisted. She’d forced him by holding a reception that Pop didn’t want either, the two men so much the same, two stoic figures present only in body. The neighbors came, some of Magdalena’s friends came, Earl’s mother came, but no one else. Mama had done it up big in heart to make up for what she couldn’t in decorations and gifts. She’d made Magdalena a princess for the day, a bride, the focal point of the celebration. Mama’s excitement had sparkled briefly in Magdalena’s eyes, a tiny glitter that flickered, then waned, then went away altogether. Maybe Mama’s enthusiasm wasn’t enough to infect Magdalena with the idea of being a princess because Earl wasn’t much of a prince, or because Pop didn’t see his daughter as anything remarkable, much less descended royalty. Mama had tried hard. Her insistence that Magdalena be deigned as special on her wedding day was powerful, but not compelling enough to convince Earl, or even her daughter, that Magdalena was exceptional, even on the one day that was hers.

Magdalena ran a hand over her wiry curls. They bent under her touch, then rebounded back to their normal disarray as her hand passed. She stood differently than she used to, she looked a little harder, more powerful than she had before she married Earl. She smelled stronger of smoke, and chose brighter colors for her makeup. Harold said wearing more makeup wasn’t a good sign, especially for a married woman.

“You’re different. You’re better. Remember that,” James said. He said it quietly so only Magdalena would hear. She looked away this time. The profile of her face against the backlight was worthy of a painting, and James wished he could capture it and show her what he saw. “You may not be as different from Pop as you want to be yet, but you’re sure different from any woman I know. You’re better than all of them, except maybe Mama. You two are equal. You’re Mama’s daughter, and that makes you beautiful. Remember? Mr. Morgan said so.”

Magdalena glanced at him, then turned toward the doorway to the rest of the house. “Come on, let’s go help get supper.”

He straightened and touched her arm. “One more thing. Don’t say anything about me playing ball. Playing for money, that is.”

She glanced back at him, an easy smile on her face. “Of course not, little brother. I’ll let you tell everyone when you’re ready. Tell everyone except Pop. Him, you can show.”

Chapter 20

James 1954

“So tell me about tonight’s council meeting,” Magdalena said as she led James from the washroom. “What are they arguing about this time?”

They stepped into the dining room. It was lit up in more ways than one, vastly different from the nights Pop was home. It was freer, and everyone came to eat on these nights. Sometimes Harold brought Sandra and Gail brought Jackson. Betsy, beautiful as she was, never invited a beau; she refused all their offers, content to stay here with her family, no matter how difficult Pop made it. James felt the freedom and excitement as they scattered dishes of food all over the table instead of just at Pop’s end. Silverware and plates were in stacks, waiting for each person to grab their own. No wonder Magdalena came on these nights. These were good nights, when they talked and breathed much more easily.

“Some new fire rule someone proposed,” James said as they approached the table. He’d heard that much from Pop’s tirades in his and Mama’s bedroom at night. Grumbles and rants about a ridiculous law, Mr. Morgan, and
that boy
all jumbled into his complaint, as if James had anything to do with council meetings or town rulings.

Mama spotted the two of them and smiled as she greeted Magdalena, setting a bowl of green beans on the table before she hugged her daughter.

“Hello, Mag,” Carla called. She grinned, and their other sisters joined her. Gail scurried to the table with glasses, while Betsy toted hot dishes. They weren’t hurrying, they were scurrying, a happy scuttle they actually enjoyed.

James knew someone had proposed all fires be banned within the town, especially downtown. He also knew Pop blamed Mr. Morgan more than he blamed the business owner who wanted his hot and smelly business relocated. Pop had been in the same location for years, fighting to hold on to it the way Magdalena defended her spot at the table. There’d never been an accidental fire in Pop’s shop, never been much of an odor escape, either, not any worse than what they carried home on their bodies at night.

Harold tromped into the room, his usual grin on his face. “Cow’s fed and watered. We’re done for the night.” Ever since Alex had gone and James had been working for Pop, Harold helped with the chores, no matter what. “Let’s eat! I’m starved!”

Harold grabbed a plate and sat down. Everyone else followed, happy chatter bubbling up everywhere. James grinned. He was exhausted, almost too tired to eat, but he wouldn’t miss supper on council meeting nights for anything.

“So what’s the deal with the meeting tonight?” Magdalena asked Mama as she passed a plate of rolls to her right. “What’s the latest fire rule?”

“Whatever it is, Pop’s planning to use it to get Morgan’s restaurant shut down,” Harold said as he tore a bite out of a roll.

Magdalena glanced at Mama. Mama spooned a healthy portion of beans onto her plate.

“Your father says a fire’s a fire,” Mama explained without looking up. “They want to make a rule banning fires anywhere near the downtown, so since Glen…I mean, Mr. Morgan, cooks downtown, Pop’s going to claim that’s as much a danger as his welding.” Mama passed the green beans to Betsy.

“I tell you what,” Magdalena said, pointing her knife at James. “If Pop can’t get Mr. Morgan’s restaurant shut down but they’re still after Pop, you should start skewering hunks of meat on metal rods and cook them over the welding torch. Say it’s soldered sandwich meat. You’ll make a bunch of money.”

“I wouldn’t make that much.” James laughed. “I’ve no talent for cooking in my bones. Nothing I make would be as good as what Mr. Morgan does.”