Maud's Line (3 page)

He smiled, leaned against the side of the wagon, and said, “Let me know if you see anything you can't live without.”

More than anything else displayed, Maud desired the Woodbury soap. She'd gotten a bar for Christmas a couple of years back and was convinced it really did produce skin anyone would love to touch. She also liked the smell, which was, in her mind, as fresh as spring air or an open rose. So she shied away from the Woodbury bars and went to the crystal radio sets. She put her finger on top of a brown cardboard box labeled
CRYSTAL EXTRAORDINAIRE
, and said, “Do these pick up pretty well?”

“The best in the business. They've got these little earpieces that bring music straight into your head and make you tap your toes a mile a minute.” He reached for a box, opened the lid, and held it below Maud's nose.

She peered in. She had a crystal set and so did Lovely. The static they pulled in was more irritating than pleasing, and the earpieces didn't rest comfortably in her ears. She said, “I've got one that doesn't pick up very well.”

“You might try one of these. I've got one all put together that I use myself.” He closed the lid, replaced the box, and turned to the seat of the wagon. When he did, Maud picked up a bar of Woodbury soap and sniffed it quickly. She'd replaced it by the time he turned back around.

They were far away from any town with a powerful station, but the closeness required for him to hand her the set and give her instructions about how to fit the earpieces in her ears would have overwhelmed a radio signal, even if WLS or WSM had been just one county over. He didn't smell like a white man at all. Or not like the white men Maud was used to smelling. He smelled more like aftershave lotion and leather. The smell made Maud's eyes lose focus.

He said, “Hear anything?”

She regathered her thoughts. “Two or three different stations, all at the same time.”

He pointed northeast. “Turn and face that way.”

She did, and the sound settled on one station, but she couldn't smell him anymore. She turned back around, took the plugs out of her ears, and said, “I'm really more of a reader, anyway.” She handed him the receiver.

His eyelids drooped. He smiled. “In that case, I may be able to tickle your fancy.” He put the receiver on the seat of the wagon. “Follow me.”

They went to the other side of the pyramid. There, as before, he rolled up the canvas and netting, only this time the steps were filled with books. More books than Maud had ever seen outside of a library. She gasped and took a step back to take them all in. He said, “I'm a reader, too. At night, if I don't have a place inside to sleep, I bunk on my wagon seat, light a lamp, and read longer than I should.” He picked out a book and handed it to her. “Ever read this? He may be my favorite.”

The book was
A Tale of Two Cities
. Maud had read it, and all of Dickens she could get her hands on. She'd also read Hawthorne, Melville, Cooper, Poe, Irving, Howells, Twain, Hardy, and Austen. She replied, “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom . . .' I can't remember beyond that.” She opened the book and read out the rest of the sentence.

“You have a mighty fine reading voice. Do you practice it?”

“Not much. I'm the baby of the family. I got read to.”

“How many people in your family?”

“I've got two sisters, a brother, and a daddy. My sisters are married and away; my brother's just in the field over there.” Maud had forgotten about fearing the stranger, but the reference to Lovely brought that uneasiness back, and she momentarily wondered again if she'd be wise to be afraid. But the lure of the books drew her away from her skittishness, and she set to running her fingers over their covers, pulling out this one and that, and conversing with the peddler in a casual way, as though the books' characters were friends mutually known for the strengths and flaws of their personalities.

Finally, the peddler pulled a book from the lot. “Have you read this? It's a little more modern.”

She took it from his hand, opened it, and read the title page. “No. Is it any good?”

“I liked it. I think the author may be a genius. But not everybody agrees with me. His other two books are more famous. I think this is his best.”

“What's so great about Gatsby?”

“Well, he dreams who he wants to be and then makes something of himself.”

Maud decided right there she needed to read that book. She was thinking about how to get it without spending any money when the peddler said, “Like I say, a lot of people don't take to this book. But I did. Makes you want to go east in the worst way.”

It had never occurred to Maud to go farther east than St. Louis or Kansas City, but she could tell the peddler—Booker, as she was beginning to call him in her mind—was thinking about an east that was different from either of those two towns and far out of her reach, even in her wildest imaginings. She felt, at that moment, insignificant under the wide sky, and she was glad they were on the side of the wagon where their backs were to the house. She was suddenly embarrassed by living there. She closed the book and said, “Well, then, maybe I should get it from the library rather than invest in it.”

“Tell you what. I'll trade you. If you have a book inside you want to get rid of, I'll exchange it for this one. Even trade.”

Maud looked up at him. Those gold flecks in his eyes glittered. Did he know she didn't have any money? Or did he want her to read the book because he liked it? She couldn't tell. “Wait here. I'll see what I have to spare.”

Maud had a stack of books under her cot that she'd gathered over time and hoarded. Each one was a favorite she'd read again and again. She pulled from that stack
Moby-Dick
, and she picked it because, it being so thick, she'd read it fewer times than she had the rest and it was less worn. She walked back to the wagon with the big blue book in hand and exchanged it for the slimmer volume and a copy of
Arrowsmith
, which she angled for on the grounds that the Gatsby book was so thin compared to what she was giving up.

The transaction completed, and without much else to say, Maud and Booker fell into an awkward silence that Booker broke by asking for information about who lived around. Maud pointed to the northeast and the west, named aunts and uncles and cousins, and pointed due north and named the Singers. “They have the most folks on that farm and the most money for extras. The man who owns it is Mr. Connell Singer. He likes to read. He has a library and lends me his books.”

“Mr. Singer thinks highly of you then.”

Maud couldn't tell if that was a statement or a question, but she hoped that either way it indicated the peddler was looking for information about her possible suitors. “He's nice. And generous.” She tucked her head and smiled to convey the notion that Mr. Singer was particularly generous to her.

“I see. Those are good qualities in a neighbor.”

“Yes, they are. Mr. Singer is the richest person around here. He supplies potatoes to the entire East Coast. Ships them by railroad all the way to New York City and Philadelphia.” Maud checked herself after that. She wasn't exactly sure where her neighbor's potatoes went; she just wanted to make it clear that she was familiar with rich people and cities in the East.

“I see. Well, this Mr. Singer, then, probably buys his wares from catalogues and has his books shipped in. Is he a married man?”

“He was. Widowed now.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Booker bit his lower lip. Then he looked to the sky, took a handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped his brow. “I guess I better move on before the sun gets higher.” He looked to Maud. “It's been nice visiting with you.”

“Stop by when you're this way again. Next time, I might not have just been into town.”

Their parting was marked by niceties that didn't add to Maud's store of knowledge about the peddler, and by the time his bright blue canvas was rocking away down the ruts of the lane, she was reckoning up all the things about him she wished she'd found out. Was he married (she thought maybe not, he didn't mention any family beyond aunts), what did he do when he wasn't peddling (he'd said he only peddled in the summertime), was he from Fayetteville, Arkansas, or some other Fayetteville (were there other Fayettevilles?), and how did he keep that blue canvas from fading in the sun (that was a complete mystery)? She might have thought about his marital status more than once.

When Lovely came in for his midday meal, Maud had been reading and had forgotten to warm up the beans.

He picked up her book. “Where'd you get this?”

“Peddler came by. Got it off of him.”

“Was he driving a wagon with a bright blue canvas?”

“Yes. Did you see him?”

“Didn't see him to talk, but you can't miss that blue.”

“Did he go to Mr. Singer's house?”

“Probably. He went back up the line to the highway.” Lovely sat down at the table, picked up
Arrowsmith
, and started reading.

Maud hoped that Booker hadn't gone to Mr. Singer's, or if he had, that he hadn't found him at home. Mr. Singer was over seventy, and it would be clear he wasn't a suitor. Maud gave that more worry during her chores, but by the time her father got home in the evening, she'd gotten far enough into her new book that she had taken to disliking most of the characters (except for Nick) and was wondering what Booker, who she now thought of entirely by name, found so wonderful about the novel. She hoped his enthusiasm didn't mean that he was only attracted to rich women and fast cars.

It wasn't until after the meal, when he'd finished reading his paper, that Mustard interrupted Maud's reading and musings. He was sitting in the only chair on the porch, and both she and Lovely had their backs propped against posts, their noses in books, and fans in their hands. He said, “Whatchya reading?”

Lovely spoke first. “
Arrowsmith
, by that Lewis fellow.”

“What's it about?”

“A doctor.”

“Quack?”

“Don't think so. But maybe.”

Mustard looked to Maud. “Mine's about a bunch of rich people,” she said. “They don't have much to do. They run up and down the road to parties.”

Mustard nodded and fell silent again. But even though he generally was good about letting them read, Maud could tell he wanted to talk. She said, “Anything in the paper?”

“Plans for the new Mississippi levees.” Mustard picked his Banjo and a store-bought cigarette package out of his pocket. He tapped the package on his lighter, knocked out a cigarette, and lit up. After a couple of puffs, he started talking about a man who'd come into the feed store trying to sell a litter of beagles.

Maud and Lovely closed their books. Not having a dog was a problem. They wanted one for the company and to warn them of snakes, and they agreed that any dog that could bark would do. But Mustard wanted a Labrador. He didn't have enough money for a purebred dog, but he liked to talk about shooting ducks down on the sandbar and eating dark duck meat all winter long. He mentioned the pros and cons of various kinds of dogs, described the markings of the beagle pups he'd seen, and told dog stories until dusk closed in and fireflies sprinkled the air with gold.

To Maud's disappointment, they went to bed without any more reading. But she consoled herself with ruminations on Booker until after the moon rose and she could see the front yard lit through the windows. She'd been asleep for several hours and was dreaming about hanging bright blue wallpaper when Lovely shook her by the shoulder. He whispered, “There's a peculiar light in the sky.”

She assumed he was talking about the yellow that comes before a tornado. She sat up in bed feeling some dread about having to go to the cellar. Then she saw it was dark outside the windows and the air was tinted only by moonlight. “What color?”

“Like city lights.”

“Where?”

“Northeast.”

“Above the trees?”

“Yeah. High. Come see.”

They tiptoed out to the porch. Maud followed Lovely to the east edge. “Look,” he said.

The sky was yellow. But not tornado yellow. Maud said, “Fire.”

“Yeah. We better see if it's coming toward us. And if anybody needs help.”

“You sure it's not somebody burning off stubble?”

“Could be. But it's got to be late. Maybe two in the morning.”

“What were you doing up?”

“Taking a pee.”

“Should we wake Daddy?”

“You do it. He'll take it better.”

Mustard agreed that fire was in the air, and the three of them threw on clothes and shoes and piled into Mustard's car, a 1919 retractable top Chevrolet that tilted and jiggled so badly that Maud, in the backseat, held on with both hands to the rods supporting the roof. When they turned off the lane onto the section line, she held on with one hand, and peered around her brother's head into the night and the light ahead. Fairly soon, she began to smell the fire in the air, and by the time they climbed the rise beyond a body of water they called a “snake lake,” she could see the flames beyond the hood of the car. Passing through the cross of the section lines, she tasted cinders in the air. Mustard yelled, “She's gone!” But neither of his children answered because they, too, could see that the schoolhouse that sat farther up the section line, the one they had both gone to, was completely engulfed in flames.

Mustard stopped the car in the middle of the road. They all jumped out and quickly passed a few other automobiles and trucks until they got to a cluster of people, one of several, watching the fire. Grandpa, Uncle Ame, and Aunt Viola were in that group. Maud touched her great-aunt on the shoulder and was quickly enfolded close to the older woman's hip. Viola said, “Poker woke us up barking like crazy.”