Asked For (31 page)

“Thank you.” She smiled at her daughter. It felt good to smile. She did feel richer inside, and more alive. Her timidity had begun to dissolve under Mr. Morgan’s welcomes. And her courage had strengthened each time she came in, with her hope that other woman wouldn’t come in also, the one whose sweet smell blended with Cletus’ burnt odor. But if she did…Lana looked across the table at her fair-haired daughter… Lana would be bolstered by two friends, Magdalena and Mr. Morgan. Maybe that small budding of mettle was the real beauty Magdalena saw, or maybe it came from the sundaes Mr. Morgan served, the doorways to her soul.

He’d laughed the first time he said that to her. She’d never seen a sundae before, except from a distance. And she’d never imagined what one would taste like until he brought two to their table that first time, sliding one in front of Magdalena and the other in front of her. She’d gasped. Magdalena had clapped and squealed. It was then that he first said it, that sundaes unlocked the soul.

When that first sweet savor of ice cream covered in chocolate touched the inside of her mouth, an explosion of sugar, a blast of sensation, coursed through her. There was nothing quite so delectable anywhere. Her troubles disappeared and, for a moment, nothing else mattered. The sundae had trickled deep inside, awakening her as it created a world she’d given up fantasizing about, one where all was right, all was perfect, all was pleasant and enjoyable.

Mr. Morgan appeared alongside their table, one sundae in each hand, two spoons sticking up from the pocket of his white apron. His dark skin contrasted with the pools of white below the lava of chocolate dripping down from the mounds of ice cream. He smelled of chocolate, fried food, and pine soap. He smelled clean and safe. He was good, delivering another key to free her soul.

Lana glanced across the table. Magdalena was watching Mr. Morgan’s hands as he set the dishes of ice cream in front of them. Then she looked up, her eyes on his face as he retrieved the spoons from his pocket and placed them beside each dish.

“Eat well,” he said, “and enjoy.”

Magdalena grinned, and Lana saw it, the longing in a girl for a prince. Magdalena…her invisible pony long gone, her first prince, Jim, now married. Grandma had written a little about Jim’s wedding and that he still came by to help her even though she’d tried to shoo him away. Jim came because he was kind and he cared. He was a good prince, just like Mr. Morgan.

Oh, Lord, when my little girl chooses a real prince someday, let him be like Jim or Mr. Morgan.

“You should join us.” Magdalena’s eyes flashed. She latched her fingers around the table’s edge to scoot aside and let Mr. Morgan sit next to her.

He glanced at Lana, then turned and surveyed the restaurant. There was only one other customer, the kitchen was quiet, it was a lazy afternoon.

“Certainly,” she heard herself say. “Of course you should join us. You’re always so generous. You can share my sundae.” Lana scooted her dish toward Magdalena’s side of the table as her daughter slid toward the wall.

“I really never do things like this,” he said. Mr. Morgan wiped his hands on his apron, watching Lana, then looking at the empty spot next to her daughter. “Maybe for a minute.”

It was strange yet right to see someone like him across the table. She was so used to harsh looks and a head bent in silence. Now she looked into a smile, into dark eyes that flickered, at dark hair that shone. She put her fingers on the edge of the cold ice cream dish and pushed it farther. “I would be honored to share with you.”

One side of Mr. Morgan’s mouth kicked up. It somehow reminded her of Magdalena’s pretend pony, the way it kicked up in glee. “That one’s for you.” He slid the dish and spoon her way.

Magdalena suddenly disappeared. She disappeared under the table and reappeared at its edge, where he’d been standing before. She raced to the fountain counter and ducked behind it. Lana watched as her daughter emerged and ran back to the table, a dish in one hand and a spoon in the other. They clattered on the tabletop as she ducked under again and popped up next to Mr. Morgan. Before Lana could say anything, Magdalena dipped ice cream from both of their dishes onto the clean one, splitting the sundaes into three equal amounts.

“There,” she said, sliding the new dish and spoon in front of Mr. Morgan. “Now we’ll all share.”

Lana stared. “Magdalena, how did you know… How did you…”

“I learn things,” she said. She retrieved her spoon and scooped a big bite from her own dish. “Let’s eat!”

Two thirds of a sundae was the most satisfying treat Lana’d ever had. As the silky sweetness went down, a gentle flow of conversation rose up. The three of them laughed, shared stories, compared life in the country to life in town. When they finished, Magdalena disappeared once again under the table. She stacked their dishes and spoons on one arm and toted them away, promising to return with glasses of water.

“I don’t know how she…” Lana commented as Magdalena walked away, the dishes balanced on her arm.

“But you know why,” Mr. Morgan said. He was watching Lana instead of Magdalena. If she hadn’t known why before, she did now. She saw herself in his eyes, in a way she never had before. She was beautiful, she was a woman, she had value. Something she’d never recognized but something she’d always wanted.

He said so much by saying so little, his silence full of meaning as opposed to silence that suffocated. Mr. Morgan’s silence elicited conversation from her, even though she didn’t feel compelled to say anything in return. He somehow evoked meaning in their quietness, answered thoughts even his sundaes couldn’t reach.

“Three waters,” Magdalena said, scooting under the table and popping up next to Mr. Morgan again. The water was good, cool and clear. They drank in silence, a beautiful silence that said more, meant more, than all of the sundaes and conversations she’d ever had.

Chapter 45

James 1959

The letter came. The offer from the Lakewood team. James would begin training in the spring after a brief winter practice to introduce the players to each other and touch base as a team.

“You sign the top page down here. Use the carbon paper between them so you have a copy. Send the one you signed back to them.” Mr. Morgan stood at James’ shoulder, the two of them on the street in front of Pop’s shop, looking over the sheet of paper in James’ hands. Dirt and rust from the iron rods left spots where his fingers rested. He brushed his hands on his pants, one at a time, then tried to blow the faint grime away.

“I can’t believe it,” James said. He couldn’t. The sounds and echoes of the welders inside the cavernous building disappeared, and all he could hear was the smack of a baseball into a mitt, the crack of a bat as it sent a ball out of the field. “Can you believe it?” He looked into Mr. Morgan’s face. His excitement was reflected there. James threw his arms around Mr. Morgan’s neck, held the man in a squeeze, and couldn’t let go. “I won’t be all that far away,” James said in Mr. Morgan’s ear. “You can come and watch. So can Mama and Magdalena. At least when we have home games.” James felt Mr. Morgan nod, felt the man’s hands reach around him and hug him back. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Thank you.”

The sounds from Pop’s shop grew louder, as if a window had opened. Then they quieted again, as if the window had shut. James didn’t look up. He didn’t let go of Mr. Morgan. His mind was full of baseball, his heart sailing through the air like the first homerun he’d ever hit.

“You can have that boy you’ve got ahold of there. You can have his mama, too.” Pop’s voice cut hotter and more fiery than a welding torch.

James had never felt such searing hatred. He dropped his arms from around Mr. Morgan and looked behind him. Pop was close, closer than he’d ever been. James looked up into his father’s face at the hatred, the intense dislike.

“Go! Get on out of here!” Pop roared. Two men stepped out of the shop behind Pop.

“What do you mean, get out of here?”

“I said get out! Both of you! I’ve put up with this long enough. Never should have to begin with!”

James looked from Pop to Mr. Morgan.

“Your son got his baseball contract today,” Mr. Morgan stated. “His second one.”

“My son!” Pop laughed. James had never heard his father laugh before. Men trickled from the shop, began to line up along the front. “My son!” He laughed again.

Mr. Morgan moved next to James. “This is his second one because something happened to the first.”

Pop’s arms were like snakes, quick and limber, shooting out faster than lightning and striking true. Before James could react, there was an ugly sound, a fleshy sound, and Mr. Morgan was on the ground. Someone gasped, someone hooted, while James dropped to the ground beside Mr. Morgan.

“I said get out, and I meant it!”

Blood trickled from the side of Mr. Morgan’s mouth. He curled upward, and propped himself on one elbow. A mountain of red, like a mound of strawberry ice cream, rose on his face. James’ heart exploded. Men moved closer, and his father’s legs were right behind him.

“Get out of here, both of you!”

“You okay, Mr. Morgan?” James asked, bent over the man. Mr. Morgan nodded.

James burst backwards then, threw all his weight into the knees behind him. A gasp of surprise sounded above him, and men scurried away as Pop toppled to the ground. James was on him before Pop could move. He’d never wanted to hit his father, never thought it would make him feel any better, but he’d never been this age before, with this many years of frustration pent up and the only man who’d really been a father to him lying on the ground behind him.

Pop was slower than his hands had been a moment before. There was surprise on his face, making his arms and legs lag behind the realization that James was on him, hitting him, had knocked him to the ground. Dirt, rust, blotches of red and blood appeared on Pop’s face. He threw his hands up in defense, but then he caught the rhythm and got past his surprise. He went from warding off James’ blows to throwing a few of his own.

There were words, but James didn’t care what Pop said. There were hands on his back, grabbing at his shirt, but he shrugged them away. Pop was fierce now, hands that had worked hard all his life turning to fists that had hated for years. James felt Pop’s hatred, felt the years of silence screaming in Pop’s blows. More hands grabbed at him, some at Pop, men’s voices shouted above and around them.

James felt himself yanked upward, dragged off his father. As he was pulled away, he was no longer like himself, he was like an animal—no thought, no heart, just furor and fervor. He clawed at air, reaching for Pop. He yelled. Pop wasn’t clawing toward him. Pop’s arms were down as his friends dragged him back. Pop had stopped. When they released him, he rose to his feet and shoved the men aside. He stepped to James, one finger raised. The finger came to James’ face. More threatening than Pop’s fist, it stopped, poised.

“Never come back. Not to my shop, not to my house. Same for your mother. Neither of you come back.” Pop turned, brushed through the crowd of men, and disappeared into his shop.

Hands dropped James. Men disappeared through the same door Pop had gone through. Only James was left. James, Mr. Morgan, and dirt clumped by drops of blood. James kicked the dirt. He kicked it again, his toe digging into the gullies cut by their brutality. He turned to Mr. Morgan, stared into his face, retrieved the contract from the ground, and marched away.

Chapter 46

Lana 1941

“Do you ever intend to marry?” Lana cupped her hands around the mug of coffee, wondering why she had asked and whether he would answer.

Magdalena had gone with her brothers and sisters to the movie this time, leaving Lana to shop, to spend the extra money as she saw fit. She had—on fabric, flour, sugar, and more. Too much to carry on her own, so it was stacked just inside the door to Mr. Morgan’s restaurant while she sat at her usual booth, the remaining few cents she’d had left buying the cup of warm coffee she had her hands wrapped around now.

Mr. Morgan was relaxed across from her, taking a break while business was slow. He ran a fingertip around the rim of his cup, hemming in the steam and the black drink with an imaginary circle. “I don’t think marriage is something we should intend to do. We can’t plan it, as if the sort of love we want is secondary to making a ceremonial commitment. I see it the other way. To love well is essential. With or without a ceremony. With that sort of love, I’ll be married in my heart.”

Lana felt it, a tiny ember so layered under years of just being asked for, of so much hurt and ice that she’d forgotten it was there. It jumped from deep within—longing, forgotten longing that had been there her whole life. What Mr. Morgan said fanned it and brought it to life. Tears followed, roiled upward behind it, and she looked into her cup.

“That probably was more than you wanted to know. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t just tell you yes or no. Not you. You needed to hear the truth because it’s there in you, the same as it is in me. You haven’t really forgotten it’s there, you’ve just tried to.”

That scream, it wasn’t a scream at all. It was an ache, a deep need to love and be loved. It resented mockeries, it despised superficial imitations, and it wanted to live. Be let out and live.

The flames glowed, lighting up the dark cavern inside. “I can…” She didn’t know what else to say or how to say it. There weren’t words or fables for what she could. It was just there, the ability in her to love and be loved. “I can.”

“Yes, you can. That’s what’s beautiful in you, the love that knows no bounds. Love like yours is a law to itself, limitless, only confined by the nature of what love is.”

She understood deep within. The ember leapt even further to life. His hand touched hers, his warmth helping to thaw her ice. He slid from his seat and drew her up, the ache bubbling up like a fire into her throat. By the time she was beside him, it came out, it came out with tears, deep sobs of joy and agony, all rolling out onto his shoulder.

She’d never known the smell of a man without the scent of burnt metal. Or cheap perfume. She’d never known that beneath the smell of pine soap, sweets, and fried food, Mr. Morgan smelled like heart, like soul, like strength and kindness. She drew him in, inhaled him. He was the same as her. She felt his cheek on top of her head and his arm pulling her close. It tightened around her middle and forced the rest of the ache upward, making it spill out even more, soaking his shoulder.