Livvie's Song (4 page)

“Mommy, when’re we goin’ upstairs?” asked Nathan, bounding out of the back room.

“In a minute, honey. Go back—”

“Who’s that?” he blurted out. Never one to shy away from strangers, probably because he’d grown up seeing them on a regular basis, he boldly approached the bearded man. “Hi, mister. You got a long beard. I haven’t never saw you in here before. My name’s Nathan. Well, usually, it’s Nate, unless my mommy’s trying to make a point. What’s yours?”

“Nathan, please don’t pester,” Livvie admonished him.

“He’s no bother, ma’am.”

Livvie glanced at the man long enough to see that his eyes were the color of a flawless summer sky, and she wondered if he was aware of their penetrating brilliance, even when viewed from a distance. To keep from staring into them, she focused on her son. “Is the back room all picked up? We’ll be going upstairs in a few minutes.”

“Yep,” he told her, then turned back to the man. “We live upstairs.”

“Is that so?” The man raised one eyebrow.

“Yeah, and there’s another ’partment next t’ us, but it’s empty, ’cause ol’ Mr. Fletcher couldn’t walk up them stairs anymore.”

“Nathan James, don’t talk so much,” Livvie chided him.

“On the third floor, there’s a dance hall. Mommy hates that, though, ’cause on Saturday nights, the bands come in t’ play their music, and the poundin’ keeps us all awake. But I don’t care. Sometimes, Mommy pokes the ceilin’ with a broomstick t’ see if she can keep the folks from makin’ so much noise, but Alex always says that’s silly, ’cause they can’t hear a little broomstick whilst they’re dancin’ up a storm.”

“Nathan, what did I tell you?” Both her boys had a tremendous bent for talking. Of course, they came by it naturally; their daddy had been the friendliest man one could ever hope to meet. Still, there were times when she’d like to stick Popsicles in their mouths to stop their yapping.

As expected, Alex emerged to investigate Nathan’s new “friend” and joined the conversation almost seamlessly.

Rolling her eyes, Livvie lifted the broom, her chore complete, and started for the back of the store. Joe passed her with a hot plate of food and cast her an amused wink. “Come on, boys,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m done down here.”

“Mommy, this here man’s name is Mr. Taylor,” said Nathan. “He just got off the train. Isn’t that somethin’? When’re we ever gonna take a train ride?”

“You’ve been on the train plenty of times,” she said, setting the broom and dustpan in the corner.

“Only to go to Manchester or Peru, and that one time we went to Marion to visit some old lady.”

“That was my great-aunt,” she clarified. “Come along, now. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“You boys best mind your mother,” said Mr. Taylor. She looked at him and could have sworn she detected the slightest glimmer of a smirk.

Groaning in protest, the boys started to turn, but then, Alex looked back at Mr. Taylor. “You plannin’ to come back again, mister?”

“Well, I don’t know, young man. The food here’s mighty good.”

“Yeah, but Mr. Stewart has to go to Chicago, and then the food won’t be so good anymore.”

“You don’t know that,” challenged Nathan. “Mommy says there’s lots o’ good cooks ’round Wabash.”

“But nobody cooks like Mr. Stewart. Anyways, that what Mr. Hermanson always says, and he ought to know, ’cause he comes in here lots.”

Mr. Taylor’s eyes twinkled as he chewed, his long beard quivering with the up-and-down motion of his jaw. “You boys sleep tight, now,” he said between bites. Then, to Livvie, he said, “Good night, ma’am, and I do thank you for the food. As I said, I’ll be sure to pay double.”

“You’ve got Joe to thank for the food, and he’s already told you, there’s no need to pay extra.” She paused and put an arm around each of her boys, who had come to stand on either side of her. “Good night.”

He gave a slow nod and looked down at his plate, his cobalt eyes trained on his fork as he scraped up what remained of his meal. Livvie thought of the spare apartment upstairs and almost asked where he planned to bunk up for the night, but she quickly decided against it. Offering some dispossessed, scruffy-looking man a place to stay had the earmarks of trouble with a capital T.

“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”—Romans 8:28

The next day dawned with only a partial view of the sun and a thick band of clouds threatening rain. Also, the temperature had dropped a good thirty degrees since yesterday, which would make Will’s job-hunting jaunt downright brisk, especially with no jacket to his name. Drat! He should have taken the one Harry had offered him, but he never had been one for charity and had even refused the extra cash Harry’d wanted him to take. Now, he questioned his good sense. After counting in his head the cash stuffed deep in his pocket, he calculated how many nights he could stay here at the Dixie Hotel, one of the cheaper lodgings in town, before declaring himself completely broke. Two weeks, tops, he figured; maybe three, if he starved himself.

He knew he ought to shave his beard, but that would require preliminary cutting with a good, sharp pair of scissors. What he needed was a professional haircut, but he could hardly spare the money for a barber. Thankfully, he was able to at least take a warm bath. Cleanliness had to count for something.

After his bath, he dressed himself in his second pair of trousers and shirt, only to find the garments wrinkled beyond help. He went down to the front desk to ask about borrowing an iron and an ironing board, but he was informed by the middle-aged receptionist that they had none to lend.

“You sure?” he asked her.

“About the iron, yes. You can use the ironin’ board, if you’ve a mind to,” she responded drily.

When he didn’t laugh, she looked down her hook nose at him and scowled. “I can see you need an iron, mister, but the only one we had got stole last week by one of our guests when he took off for Iowa. Mrs. Dillard plans to buy another on Monday, after she gets the books put to rights. You plannin’ on stayin’ here again tonight? Maybe she can borrow one for you.”

“I guess I will,” he said. “I’d appreciate that.”

She made note of it on a piece of paper, then raised her head to give him an up-and-down perusal, tapping her pencil on the marred wooden countertop. “You got some sort of business dealings here in Wabash?” He supposed it was her polite way of saying, “What’s a hobo like you doing hanging around here?”

“I…not exactly. I’m lookin’ for a job.”

She raised a sparse eyebrow. “That so? You could try the foundry or the baking powder factory. There’s also the railroad yard. Good chance they need an extra hand.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks.”

He walked out of the Dixie Hotel with an empty stomach, then trekked down to Factory Street at the south end of town, close to the river, where several factories, foundries, and other manufacturing companies operated. At every stop, though, he was met with rejection, either from the hiring boss himself or the first person to greet him from behind a cluttered desk or counter. Whether his disheveled appearance was to blame or they truly had no openings remained unclear. He knew only that his hunt for a job had not been a success.

But it was only the first day.

Don’t let the ol’ enemy discourage you right off the bat.
Harry’s parting words played in his mind.
Sometimes, the good Lord waits till the last minute to answer our prayers. One thing I’ll tell you, though: He’s always right on time.
Will ruminated that thought as he trudged along, searching shop windows and doors for “Help Wanted” signs.

By one o’clock, his stomach literally burned from hunger. Finding himself on Market Street again after having traipsed all over Wabash, he decided to return to Livvie’s Kitchen in pursuit of a good, hot meal—forget the expense! Besides, he wouldn’t mind getting another glimpse of that pretty woman’s shapely calves. Women’s fashions sure had changed during the ten years he’d spent behind bars, particularly when it came to dress length. At the train station yesterday morning, he’d found his neck craning more than once as one woman after another passed, toting youngsters, walking next to their men, or even sashaying along with an air of independence he didn’t recall seeing years back. He thought of his mother—dead and buried, bless her soul—who had always worked in a long-sleeved dress with a hem that reached her ankles. Nowadays, it seemed women had no qualms about showing their arms clear up to their shoulders.
Well, good for them
, he thought. He never could figure out how they managed all that housework, not to mention barnyard chores, with layers of skirts and big, puffy sleeves always getting in the way.

He hadn’t caught the name of the lady at the restaurant, but, since she lived upstairs with her boys—and her husband, for all he knew—he could only assume that she owned the place, and that her name was Livvie, unless the restaurant’s namesake was a former proprietress. He paused to let a parade of cars, noisy trucks, and horse-drawn buggies go by before he jogged across the street. For a small town by New York City standards, Wabash was a constant flurry of activity—women going in and out of stores carrying armloads of merchandise, men dressed in business suits toting satchels and scurrying around or engaged in conversations on the street corners. It made him wonder about their private lives—their families, their homes, and their faith, if they professed any. The town sure had its share of churches. He’d have to try a number of them to figure out where he fit in best. Granted, he might not fit in anywhere; was there any church where an ex-con could feel at home? He supposed he’d add that concern to his long list of things to pray about. At the top of that list was a job.

At the little diner, he twisted the knob and gave the wooden door a slight shove, taking note of the restaurant’s schedule, which was posted there: “OPEN MONDAY THRU SATURDAY, 7 am–2 pm & 5 pm–7 pm. CLOSED SUNDAYS.” Below the schedule hung a sign that read, “Cook Needed.” He’d had plenty of experience in the prison kitchen, had even learned a good deal about food preparation, but he wouldn’t think of applying for a job in a restaurant—not if it would mean divulging where he’d picked up his culinary skills.

As he entered Livvie’s Kitchen, a bell jingled overhead to announce his arrival. Grateful for the rush of warm air coming from a nearby radiator, he stood there and glanced around, noticing several open tables. The midday rush was apparently over, and only a few folks remained, some sipping mugs of coffee and poring over their copies of the
Wabash Daily Plain Dealer
, while others enjoyed a late lunch. A few people glanced up at his entrance, but none wasted any time gawking. He advanced straight ahead to the lunch counter and sat on the stool closest to the kitchen, where delectable aromas wafted from the oven—cookies and cake, if his nose wasn’t failing him, and perhaps some cinnamon buns. The cook, whose name he remembered as Joe, stood at a counter with his back to him, holding a large bowl and stirring vigorously. He must not have heard the bell or the scrape of the bar stool legs. A further perusal of the place showed no sign of a waitress, so Will cleared his throat.

Joe spun around. “Well, hello again,” he said with a friendly grin. He reminded Will a little of Harry, ever genial. “You come back for some o’ them mashed potatoes, did you? Sorry to have to tell you, I fried up the last of ’em in potato pies for breakfast.”

The mere mention of food made his stomach grumble. “Anything sounds good about now. What do you recommend?” He couldn’t help it; he took another quick look around in search of one slim strawberry blonde with shapely calves when Joe wasn’t looking.

“Got some fresh-caught bass today, straight out of the Wabash River, and mighty tasty, to boot. How’s that sound?”

“Expensive.”

“Nah!” Joe flicked a thick wrist. “Won’t cost you any more than the meat loaf.”

His mouth watered. “They both sound good.”

“A little of each, then,” Joe said. At the counter, which was slightly lower than the bar but still in view, he sliced the heels off a loaf of bread, tossed them aside, and cut the rest of the loaf into thin, even-sized pieces. He stuck two slices on a plate, and then, with a dinner knife, spread a slab of butter on each one before setting the plate in front of Will. “This should tide you over while I fix your meal. Fresh outta the oven.”

The aroma of the buttered bread made him groan with pleasure. If he’d been alone in the place, he would have finished off each piece in a single bite, but he exercised self-control, not wanting to let on that he hadn’t eaten since the night before.

“So, how’d you spend your morning?” Joe asked.

“Oh, walking from one place to another, looking for work. I’m afraid I don’t look too appealing, though.”

The cook angled him a pensive gaze. “You needin’ some clothes? There’s a store for the…um, needy…up the way. Believe it’s on Main Street, somewheres between Wabash and Carroll streets. Salvation Army runs the place, far as I know. Bet you could find some extra clothes ’n’ things in there.”

“I might try that.” Strange how Joe’s suggestion hadn’t put him off. Truth was, he was on the desperate side, and, apparently, it showed plenty.

“Here’s today’s copy of the
Plain Dealer
,” Joe said, sliding a newspaper toward him. “You should check the classified ads.”

“Thanks.” Will took the paper and started scanning the “Help Wanted” column. When he heard Joe fire up the gas stove, though, he glanced up and watched him drop a big dollop of butter into a cast-iron pan, where it sizzled. Then, he opened the icebox and leaned inside, emerging seconds later with two eggs, two fish fillets, and a jug of milk.

“I saw that the Service Motor Truck Company had some openings in the production line.” Will turned to the speaker, a casually dressed man who looked to be forty or so, sitting at a table against the wall behind him. “I read a sign that was nailed to a lamppost up on Canal Street last week. ’Course, they’re probably filled by now, but you could give it a try.”