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Authors: More Than Memory

BOOK: Dorothy Garlock
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“Are you ready to go back to a warm apartment, Kelly? We had bad weather in Chicago, but nothing like this.”
After feeling the bite of the cold wind they both
returned to huddle beside the stove. The dog whined a response and curled up on his bed. Nelda wandered into the living room and looked longingly at the big, three-cushioned sofa. If only it wasn’t so far from the stove. Well, it didn’t have to be, that is if she could budge it, she could move it into the kitchen.
First she would have to slide the kitchen table away so that she could position the sofa near the stove. Then the table could back up to it to allow the back door to open. Strengthened by a purpose, she went back to the living room, and removed the cushions and carried them to the kitchen table, then she went back to push the sofa, inches at a time, across the carpet. When it reached the tiled kitchen floor, it slid and was much easier to move into place in front of the cookstove. She replaced the cushions and sat down to catch her breath. Her heart was beating so fast it seemed to fill her ears.
“I did it, Kelly. Aren’t you proud of me? I just wonder if my back will ever be the same.”
She brought down from upstairs three big wool blankets and a wool comforter and piled them on the table behind the sofa. She spread one blanket over the cushions, then raced back up the stairs to grab the pillow from her bed.
“If we run out of wood, we’ll not freeze right away, Kelly.”
After she fed the dog, she opened a can of soup for herself and set the can on the stove to heat, then ate the soup from the can.
The hours dragged by. When the fire burned down she added another stick of wood. After
warming a small amount of water, she washed her face and hands and applied a thin film of cold cream. She felt refreshed.
On the sofa with a blanket around her shoulders and another across her legs, Nelda looked at her watch for the hundredth time. Two o’clock. The long afternoon and evening loomed ahead. She laid her head back and was just about to fall asleep when Kelly stirred and lifted his head to listen. He got up and went to the door. Nelda followed.
Backing up to the porch door was Lute’s pickup, loaded with sand and cut stove wood. The truck was sliding on the ice and unable to get close, so Lute got out and threw several shovels of sand under the back wheels and one on the steps. When the back of the truck was over the steps, he stopped, propped the door open and began unloading the wood, stacking it neatly on the porch.
Nelda watched from the kitchen door window, wondering if he was going to come into the house. When he finished, he went to the cab of the truck and brought out a radio. When she opened the door, he shoved it in her hands and went back to the truck. By the time she had set the radio on the table, Lute was back with a large jug of water and a brown grocery bag.
Nelda felt a flicker of panic when he entered the kitchen. He seemed to fill it. He was so big, so virile, and so capable of crushing her spirit with just a few short words. She moved around to the front of the sofa and stood with her back to the stove. When she looked at him, his eyes were dancing, and his
face wore a warm smile. The charm of that smile invaded every corner of her mind.
“That was a good idea,” he said, indicating the sofa. He snatched the cap off his head and shrugged out of his coat. “I worked up a sweat out there.”
He still wore his ring!
Each time she saw him Nelda was compelled to look at his hand.
Lute came over to the stove where she stood. His plaid wool shirt, open at the neck, showed a heavy undershirt beneath it.
“How did a little thing like you get the sofa in here?”
“It . . . wasn’t easy.”
“You should have waited for me.” He reached out with the back of his hand and stroked her cheek. “Are you feeling better?”
“I’m fine.”
“I was worried about you when I left this morning.”
“I was tired. I’ve been just fine . . . thanks to your bringing the wood and starting the fire. I wouldn’t have known how to get it going in the cookstove.”
“You’re tougher than you think.” He continued to smile down at her, rubbing her cheek with his knuckles.
“How cold is it?” She had to say something sensible.
“It’s still ten below. It’s supposed to be between twenty-five and thirty tonight.”
“Oh, my.”
“You’ll be all right.”
“I was thinking of the poor animals and the
people who have to be out in the cold fixing the wires and . . . things.”
“If the animals have food and water, they can make it.” Something like a smile crossed his wind-reddened face as he continued to study her thoughtfully. His fingers moved down to her chin. “I’m inviting myself to supper.”
“I can give you a can of soup.” She hoped to God he was unaware of the turbulent feelings he was stirring in her.
“You’ll be able to do better than that. I brought a jar of canned beef, a few potatoes, carrots, and onions.”
“For a stew.”
“Think you can handle it?”
“Did you bring a cookbook?” Her eyes glowed. She was suddenly crazily, mindlessly happy.
He laughed and moved to the table to bring the radio to the counter at the end of the sofa.
“You may get only the Mason City station. Even if the power goes off over there, they’ve got a couple of generators that will keep them on the air.” He turned the dial until he had tuned out the static. A voice came on.
“A year after nine black teenagers, backed by Federal troops integrated Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, a small group of white protesters—”
Lute turned the dial. “I’ll see if I can get some weather news.” On one station Elvis was singing “Love Me Tender.” Lute grinned at Nelda. “I wonder how Elvis is liking the army.”
“I doubt that he’ll have it as tough as a regular GI.”
He flipped off the radio. “We’ll save the batteries for tonight. I’m not sure how old they are.”
Lute checked the firebox on the stove and added a stick of wood. He reached up and turned down the damper on the stovepipe.
“Closing the damper a little keeps the wood from burning so fast. Have you been warm enough?”
“I took your advice and put on more clothes.”
“You did, huh?”
“Two sweaters under this one and a pair of pajama pants under my slacks. I was going to put on two pair, but my slacks were so tight I couldn’t bend over.”
He laughed. “I’d like to have seen that.”
“I left my ski suit in Chicago. I never thought I’d need it in north Iowa.”
“You planned to go back.” It was a statement.
“My job is there. I have to support myself.”
“The income from this farm wouldn’t keep you in the style that you’re accustomed to, is that it?”
“I don’t know.”
This was dangerous ground, Nelda knew by the tightening of Lute’s mouth. The thick-lashed eyes that seemed endowed with the ability to look a hole right though her, wandered over her face.
“Do you plan to go back to that man . . . the nightclub owner?”
Nelda laughed nervously. “
Back
to him? You should see him. He’s Al Capone reincarnated.”
“Did you go out with him?”
“Not out. I had supper with him a few times at his club. We discussed the decorating.”
“Then why does he keep calling you?”
“I don’t know. Men like him always want something they can’t have.”
“You’ve known a lot of men like him?”
“A few. Chicago is full of them. Why the questions, Lute?”
A curious stillness followed, an uneasy silence that deepened and pushed them apart. A faint color spread across her cheeks, betraying the fact that she was shaken by their exchange.
Lute turned away first. “I’ll bring in some of that wood from the porch before I go.” He proceeded to do that; and after he had a good supply stacked beside the stove, he put on his coat. “I’ll need to get my chores done before dark.”
“Are there any wires down around your place?”
“Not yet, but there will be if the wind keeps up. There are quite a few branches down. Trees split under a heavy load of ice.”
“Be careful.”
“Nelda Elaine Hanson with an
o
. Are you worried about me?” He teased, but there was no laughter in his eyes.
“Why sure. No telling how long I’ll be . . . icebound here. Without you, I might . . . might—” Her voice trailed.
Lute suddenly hooked a hand behind her neck and pulled her to him.
“Don’t be afraid. You’ll not be left here alone. I’ll be back.”
He was out the door before she could gather her wits about her. She followed to watch him through the door pane. He moved the truck down to the barn and went inside.

 

 

C
hapter
N
ine
N
ELDA FELT AS IF SHE OWNED THE WORLD
. S
HE
was fixing supper for Lute. It might be the one and only time, but she refused to think about that.
Her hands stilled as she stirred the bubbling stew. She had to put a lid on her thoughts and stop analyzing each look and each word he said and enjoy the time she had with him. She had just about convinced herself that there was a chance that he was fond of her because of what they had been to each other when they were young and that he might even still love her . . . a little.
She sat down on the couch and stared at the stove. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Lute’s emotions ran deep; she had known that when they were young. Whatever feelings he had for her, if any were left, were more than likely related to her being the mother of his dead child, sentimental remnants of a first love gone astray. She must not get her hopes up, and she must not make the mistake of talking about her life in Chicago.
She left the warmth of the kitchen and went into
the bathroom, where she looked at herself in the mirror.
Sheesh! I look like death warmed over.
She repaired the ravages of a sleepless night as best she could by applying light makeup. She didn’t want Lute to think she’d made up her face for him. There wasn’t much she could do with her hair. It needed to be cut. She brushed it and looped the strands behind her ears.
Lifting the lid on the toilet, she grimaced. She couldn’t use it again. A sudden thought flashed through her mind and she headed up the stairs to see if the chamber pot was still in her grandmother’s room. She found it in the closet. Grandma called it a toilet bowl. Grandpa called it a slop jar.
Nelda smiled at the memory as she pulled down her various garments and sat down on the ice-cold rim. When she finished she covered it with the china lid and hurried back down to the warm kitchen.
During the long afternoon, she paced the floor and tried to get interested in the daring new novel,
Peyton Place
. She had brought the Grace Metalious book with her from Chicago, but this was the first time she had opened it. Lastly, she brought her grandmother’s picture album in, thumbed through it, and laid it aside. It brought back too many memories, happy and sad.
It was after seven o’clock when Nelda, standing beside the window, saw car lights coming up the lane. A feeling of excitement quickened her heartbeat. Regardless of what happened in the future, she would be with Lute for an hour or two tonight.
Lute went first to the barn. When he came out, he moved his pickup up closer to the house, out from under the ice-loaded branches of the oak tree. Nelda was waiting for him when he came in, bringing with him the biting cold of the outdoors.
“It’s getting colder.” He wiped his boots on the rug just inside the door and took off his gloves and cap. “I smell the stew. Smells good.”
“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells.” She took his coat and hung it on the back of the chair.
Kelly was there wiggling and waiting for attention. Lute scratched him behind the ears.

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