Asked For (7 page)

James nodded. He snatched his glove and closed the car’s door behind him. He stood on the sidewalk and watched his brothers pull into the street and drive on. Pop’s shop was a few buildings down on the left. Pop would be inside, probably having his lunch. If James headed back to Main Street the way they’d just come, he’d likely avoid being seen if Pop had gone out. The red brake lights of the car his brothers were in flared as Harold moved it into a parking spot across from the welding shop. James ducked his head, for once glad he was small, and headed the opposite way.

James rounded the corner and headed down Main Street, pausing in front of Andy’s dad’s hardware store. Andy had been at the baseball practice also, the one Harold and Alex held on Saturday mornings. When they finished their practice, Andy’s mom had dragged him off to a haircut, Andy scowling and yelping he was about to be scalped. James grinned, thinking about Andy. He caught the grin in his reflection in the window. He looked different when he smiled. He looked good. Maybe that’s why Andy always made him laugh.

“You been out practicing?”

James jumped. He thrust his glove behind his back and wheeled from the hardware store’s window. Mr. Morgan was there, a sandwich sign on the sidewalk in front of him advertising his daily lunch special. James let the wind out of his lungs as Mr. Morgan toed the sign into place. He had an apron on, something Pop said was sissy. Mr. Morgan brushed his tan hands together and walked over to James.

“Yes, sir,” James said. “I was.” He brought the glove around in front of him, relieved it wasn’t Pop, and slipped one hand inside. He socked his other fist into it.

Mr. Morgan eyed the glove, watching James jab it with his fist. “With your brothers or with the coach?”

James stopped pounding the glove and looked up. “My brothers. How’d you know?”

Mr. Morgan grinned, and it made James grin back. He liked Mr. Morgan’s eyes, especially when he smiled. He’d seen Mama in them the time Mr. Morgan showed him how to bat better. He thought he’d seen himself in there too, but his eyes didn’t dance or talk the way Mr. Morgan’s did. Mr. Morgan shook his head, a slow jovial wag, his dark hair glinting in the noonday brightness. “Small town. News travels fast when it doesn’t have far to go. Good news, bad news, even fake news. It gets around.”

James tapped his fist into the glove and squinted at Mr. Morgan, wondering if it was good news or bad that his brothers helped him and some of the boys. James ground his fist into the leather. “They always helped me a little. They used to use sticks and dirt clods when we were out doing chores. That was when I first started playing, though.” That was when he was six. When Pop had said baseball wasn’t in James’ blood. He ground his fist deeper, remembering the thrashing Pop had given him one night, whipped him with his belt for not getting chores done on time when a game went into extra innings. Alex had stepped in and Pop thrashed him too. Alex didn’t cry, but James did. “I quit once for awhile. But then Harold and Alex started helping some of my friends play, so I decided to join them.”

“You’ve got good brothers.” Mr. Morgan’s eyes were on him. James hit the glove hard. It felt right, he felt like he owned it. “You keep up the good work. You’ve really improved.”

James stopped pounding the glove. Mr. Morgan came to a lot of the games… He must be watching him if he noticed how James played. “Thank you, sir.” He cleared his throat. “I will.”

“Well, I need to get back into the restaurant. Noon rush and all.” Mr. Morgan stayed where he was instead of walking away. “I wondered…would you tell your...” He put a hand to his mouth, ran it over his lips, then dropped it. “Tell your brothers they’re doing a fine job with you and the boys.” He turned toward his café.

“Mr. Morgan?” James stopped him. “Was there smoke down here a little bit ago? A fire or something?”

Mr. Morgan stopped and looked back, his brow furrowed. “No. No smoke. No fire, either, that I know of. Thank God for that, right? Some would probably think it was coming from my kitchen.”

Or from Pop’s shop.
Mr. Morgan could have said that, but he didn’t. He raised his eyebrows in pretend alarm instead.

James smiled. “Just wondered. Good day, sir.”

Mr. Morgan disappeared through the restaurant’s door. James moved in front of the café’s large front window and watched Mr. Morgan as he made his way to the back. Ida, Mr. Morgan’s sister, was watching him, too. Mr. Morgan hesitated halfway and glanced to his left. His hand came to his chin. James watched him scratch it pensively before he resumed his trek toward the kitchen. He passed his sister, and Ida turned toward James, staring at him, a solemn gaze that didn’t let up.

James had stepped back from the glass and started to walk on, his fist hitting the glove, when he spotted the smoke. There in a booth along the left wall inside Mr. Morgan’s restaurant. Magdalena. Her back was to him, her right elbow at the edge of the table, a long cigarette, balanced between her fingertips, sending smoke snaking toward the ceiling. A man sat across from her, a man James had never seen before. James pressed close to the glass and stared. The man was tall, he looked rugged, and his eyes were fixed on James’ sister in a funny way. Rick never looked at Magdalena that way. That’s who Magdalena was usually with.

James watched his sister, wondering if that was the fire Harold and Alex were trying to put out before it started. The man who wasn’t Rick stood and moved to Magdalena’s side of the booth. The smoke thinned and disappeared along with her arm when the man slid in next to her, scooting her out of James’ view. Pop would be furious if he saw Magdalena this way. She shouldn’t be in Mr. Morgan’s restaurant, since Pop was at war with all the downtown merchants, and she shouldn’t be smoking and sitting with a strange man. Pop would rage, and it would feel like a fire had struck when he was done. But not to Magdalena. She’d make sure she didn’t care. It was Mama who’d suffer. Whatever heat Pop sent Magdalena’s way would make Mama melt.

****

Magdalena was like cold water on a fire. She’d never burn; she did her best to make sure of it.

The heat rose during the night, late, so late it woke James, and probably the rest of the house.

“You know what you are, don’t you?” Pop’s voice boomed.

James sat up and rubbed his eyes. His brothers, who slept in the same room with him, lay still. Maybe they didn’t hear, but surely they did.

“I’m Magdalena Paine,” his sister responded. There was no waver, no shame, no excuse for what she was. James admired Magdalena, but he feared for her, too. Pop was never one to strike them, other than to whip them with his belt. He didn’t have to strike them—his temper was harsh enough. But James listened, still expecting to hear the sound of Pop’s large hand across his sister’s face.

“Say it, Pop,” Magdalena’s voice went on. “Say, ‘No Paine would ever be a whore or a hag.’ ”

The silence that followed felt heavy, so heavy James could hardly breathe. He fought to listen through it, praying Pop would drop it, let Magdalena go, and not call her the names James was finally beginning to understand.

A door slammed. Someone had gone out into the night. James threw back the covers to run downstairs and find Magdalena.

“Don’t.” Alex lifted his head from the pillow. “Stay where you are.”

“But…”

Then James heard it. Female voices, soft and quiet. He wanted to go to the door and listen, but Alex’s gaze held him. He stayed on his bed. The voices were low. Mama’s was there and it rose; he recognized it.

“If Pop hurts Mama,” James muttered.

“Just stay put,” Alex said.

Harold lifted his head. “Pop’s outside.”

“But that was Magdalena that left…” James listened harder. The voices contrasted, Mama’s soft one and Magdalena’s coarse one. His brothers were right. “I thought… Why’d Pop go out?”

“Got a lot to think about,” Alex said. Both brothers dropped their heads to their pillows. “I imagine he’ll get another jab at Magdalena, but she’ll do what she always does and get him back.”

“Get to sleep, little brother,” Harold said. “Someday Pop and Magdalena will figure out this battle’s already done and realize who the winner is.”

Chapter 6

Lana 1930

No one had ever told Lana how beautiful a baby could be, or how wonderful she’d feel as she looked at a child of her own. She’d been just a child herself when she’d come to be Cletus’ wife, and now she was a mother. Cletus had done his part making this baby, and now she had done hers. Almost. This new daughter, their first child… Lana saw her as a good beginning, proof of what she was capable of, a promise she would bear more for him, especially sons.

Ella Canfield stood at the side of Lana’s bed, stains from the birth discoloring her hands and apron. Ella tipped her head and brushed a wisp of gray hair aside with her shoulder as she gazed down at the new baby. “She’s beautiful. Just like you.”

Lana shook her head.
I’m a wife, but I’ve made a beautiful baby.
Jeanie’s notions about love and marriage had been wrong. Marriage wasn’t like those childish fairy tales. Cletus wanted uncomplicated, he wanted his meals on time and his silverware in a line. He had been good to her, considerate of her condition while she carried what was supposed to be his son, but he didn’t care about beautiful. And she knew he didn’t care about daughters. But this baby was perfect. “She is beautiful, just look at her.” The fact his first one wasn’t a son wouldn’t matter when Cletus saw his new baby girl. He would feel like Lana felt, he would say this daughter was wonderful and their next one would be a son.

The still air in the bedroom felt almost cool, she and the baby both still damp. Soft grunts came from the bundle, making the infant quiver in her arms. Lana stared at their new daughter, admiring the fair-haired, red-skinned baby in her arms. Ella tucked the small blanket under the baby’s chin, her hands like Grandma’s, worn, leathery, and kind. Wife hands. What Lana’s would become with time.

“Thank you,” Lana said.
Thank you for helping me with the birth, and for all of the invisible lessons you’ve given me since I married Cletus.

Ella lived more than a mile down the road, and little in these months of learning to be a wife had made Lana’s heart beat with more excitement than the stout form of Ella coming over the rise, plodding through the dust and rocks to see her, to show her how to do things good enough to satisfy Cletus. “You think I can handle a baby all right?” The baby squirmed, emitted a soft cry that made Lana feel as helpless as it sounded.

“Of course you can, even though you’re barely older than she is.” Ella laughed. “Brides get younger and younger every year, I swear.”

Lana tried to smile.
Grandma was right about that, too. Lana hadn’t been a bride, only a wife. But wives sure made beautiful babies.
She thought of the nearby picture on Cletus’ chest of drawers, the wife who was bright, happy, pretty, and holding onto his son. Lana didn’t look up at the woman. She hurt, she was bleeding, but she was alive, and so was Cletus’ daughter. Their family was started. This was a new beginning.

Cletus had touched her belly while she carried this child, his eyes prying to look inside at his son. He had tamed his passion at night, made sure she was comfortable and her belly out of his way, all the while explaining sons’ value, how they kept a man alive. She’d slowly begun to understand the liberty sons had. It didn’t matter if they were beautiful, it didn’t matter if they were there or gone. Making love wasn’t an issue for them, either, only making babies, and having a wife who gave them sons.

Lana drew her daughter against her breast and held her there. If this baby had been a boy instead of a girl… Lana pressed the baby tighter, leaned close, and whispered against her head.
You’ll always be beautiful. Someday you will be a bride. You’re a girl, and that’s still special.

“What are you going to name her?” Ella asked. Lana looked up. Ella was gathering wet and bloody towels and rags from around the bed, taking away the stains that said this had been a painful experience. It had been painful. Lana relaxed her hold on the baby and drew in a long breath. It was still painful. This tiny bundle had stretched and torn Lana’s body to make its way to her arms, but it was worth it. The pain was welcome. None of what she’d gone through would frighten her away from the marvel of having more children, lots of sons, maybe even another girl.

“We never talked about what to name her. Cletus planned on a boy, so he probably never thought much about a girl’s name.” Her head felt heavy, and she let it sink deep into the pillow. She was so tired and yet so exuberant.

“What about you? You thought of any names?”

Lana looked down at her daughter. Her misshapen face, her matted light hair, her puffy eyes. Ella’d told her all infants looked like this right after birth, as if the shock of leaving a womb was something to be apologized for. It didn’t matter to Lana how her baby looked now or a year from now. She was precious, and she always would be. It was the rest of the world that would think differently, the men who needed sons, Cletus who was outside waiting to greet his new boy. “She has to have a special name,” Lana said in a whisper. “One that will shout how beautiful she is.”

Ella tucked the dirty towels into a bag and leaned over the bed, peering down at Lana’s daughter. “You could call her Rose,” she suggested. “Roses are beautiful.”

“They are.” Lana nodded. “But I want a name even more special than Rose. I want a name that will remind her and everyone else she’s exceptional.”

Ella straightened and frowned.

“You know. A name people will notice.” Lana traced a finger around the dried crust on her baby’s skin, thinking of the few women she’d known, books about heroines she’d read, and stories Jeanie had shared about fabled princesses. “Like Magdalena,” she said. Magdalena Trenton was a girl from Jeanie’s tales, a girl who’d suffered years of desolation and hardship, only to find out later she was actually royalty, mistakenly thrown into the wrong environment as an infant, but related to a king.

The back door opened and closed. Ella puckered her lips as she looked from mother to daughter. They both listened to the sound of Cletus coming through the house. “Your husband’s here.” Ella shifted her gaze to the door.