Morning Glory (36 page)

“Her mother was a local girl who became pregnant out of wedlock and was sent away by her parents to have the child. Eleanor was the result of that pregnancy. When she was born, Chloe See—that was her mother—brought her back here to Whitney. On the train, the story goes. They were picked up at the depot by Eleanor’s grandparents and whisked off in a carriage with the black shades securely drawn, and taken to their house—the same one that still stands on the outskirts of town. Lottie See, Eleanor’s grandmother, pulled down the shades and never pulled them up again.

“Albert See and his wife were queer people, to say the least. He was a circuit preacher, so it was understandably difficult for them to accept Chloe’s illegitimate child. But they went beyond the bounds of reason by keeping their daughter a virtual prisoner in that house until the day she died. People say she went crazy in there and Eleanor watched it happen. Naturally, they thought the same thing of poor Eleanor, living all those years with the rest of that eccentric bunch.

“They might have kept Eleanor locked up forever, but the law forced them to let her out to go to school. That’s of
course when I first met her, when she came here to the library with her classes.

“The children were merciless to Eleanor, you yourself know
how
cruel after what that—that painted hussy Lula Peak spewed out to you in this very building.” Miss Beasley tucked her chin back severely, creating bifolds beneath it. “With little more provocation I would have slapped that woman’s face that day. She’s a—a—” Miss Beasley puffed up and turned red, then forcibly squelched her choler. “If I were to express my true feeling for Lula Peak it would make me a twattler no better than she, so I’ll restrain myself. Now where was I?

“Oh, yes—Eleanor. She wasn’t gregarious like the rest of the children. She didn’t know how to blend, having come out of the home life she did. She was dreamy and stared a lot. So the children called her crazy. How she endured those days I don’t know. But she was—underneath her dreaminess—intelligent and resilient, apparently. She made out all right.

“This is all heresay, mind you, but the story goes that Albert See had a mistress somewhere. A black mistress in whose bed he died. The shame of it finally tipped his wife over the edge, and she became as tetched as her own daughter, hiding in that house, speaking to no one, mumbling prayers. All of Eleanor’s family died within three years, but it was their deaths that finally freed her.

“How she knew Glendon Dinsmore, I can only guess. He delivered ice, you know, so I suppose he was one of the few people ever allowed into that house. Albert See died in 1933, his wife in ‘34 and his daughter in ‘35. The women died right in that house that had become their prison. It wasn’t a week after Chloe’s death that Eleanor married Glendon and moved to the place where you live now. Her grandparents’ house has sat vacant all these years. Unfortunately, it keeps people’s memories alive. I sometimes think it would be better for Eleanor if it had been torn down.”

So now he knew. He sat digesting it, damning people he’d never known, wondering at cruelties too bizarre to comprehend.

“Thank you for telling me, Miss Beasley.”

“Understand, I would not have if it weren’t for this... this damned war.”

In all the time he’d known her she’d never spoken an unladylike word. Her doing so now created an intimacy of sorts, an unspoken understanding that his leaving would break not one but two hearts. He reached across the table and took her hands, squeezing hard.

“You’ve been good to us. I’ll never forget that.”

She allowed her hands to be held for several wrenching seconds, then withdrew them and rose staunchly, affecting a stern voice to cover her emotionalism.

“Now get out of here. Go home to your wife. A library’s no place to be spending your last night at home.”

“But, my check... I mean, you paid me for today and I didn’t do my work.”

“Haven’t you learned after all this time that I don’t like to be crossed, Mr. Parker? When I say get, I mean get.”

He let a grin climb his cheek, tugged at the brim of his hat and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

He reached home in time to help Elly put the boys to bed. Last times. Last times.
I’m comin’ home, boys, I’m by-God comin’ back home ‘cause you need me and I need you and I love doin’ this too much to give it up forever.

Without discussing it, Will and Elly closed the boys’ bedroom door for the first time ever. They stood in the front room much as they had on their wedding night, tense and uncertain because she had been remote and cool toward him throughout their last precious days together and now their final night had come and they’d never made love.

Sand seemed to be falling through an hourglass.

He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets and stared at the back of Elly’s head, at the nape of her neck bisected by one thick braid, fuzzy at the edges. He wanted so badly to do this right, the way this woman deserved.

“I like your hair in a braid,” he began uncertainly, lifting it, feeling inept at this business of courting a wife. Had she been some harlot he’d have known the procedure, but he supposed it must be different when you cared this much.

Abruptly she spun and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Will, I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you.”

“You haven’t been mean.”

“Yes, I have, but I’ve been so scared.”

“I know. So have I.” He rocked her, arms doubled around her back, and dropped his nose to her neck. She smelled of homey things—supper and starched cotton and milk and babies. Ah, how he loved the smell of this woman. He straightened and held her cheeks, the drawn hair at her temples. “What do you say we take a bath together? I always wanted to do that.”

“I have too.”

“Why didn’t you ever say so before?”

“I didn’t know if people did that.”

He catalogued her features, branding each in his memory, then replied softly, “I reckon they do, Elly.”

“All right, Will.” Her hands trailed down, catching one of his as she turned and led the way to the bathroom. Inside, he lit a lantern on a shoulder-high shelf while she knelt to place the plug in the tub and turn on the taps. He closed and locked the door, then leaned against it, watching her.

“Put in some Dreft,” he said. “I never took a bath in bubbles.”

Her head lifted sharply. He leaned against the door, freeing his cuff buttons, marveling that they could be shy after he had delivered her baby, washed her, cared for her. But sex was different.

She reached for the cardboard box which was wedged between the copper pipes and the end of the clawfoot tub. When the bubbles were rising, she stood, turned her back to Will and began unbuttoning her dress. He pushed away from the door and captured her shoulders, swinging her to face him.

“Let me, Elly. I never have before, but I’m gonna have the memory—just one time.” Her dress was faded green, a housedress as ordinary as quack grass, with buttons running from throat to belly. He took over the task of freeing them, then pushed the garment off and let it fall to the floor. Without hesitation he lowered her half-slip, then held her hand and ordered, “Sit down.” While she perched on the closed lid of
the stool, he went down on his knee, removed her scuffed brown oxfords, her anklets, then stood and drew her to her feet, reached beneath her arms and unclasped her bra. Before it hit the floor he was skinning her last remaining garment down her legs.

He stood for a long moment, holding both her hands, letting his eyes drift over her—weighty breasts, enlarged nipples, rounded stomach and pale skin. Had he the power, he would not have changed one inch of her contour. It spoke of motherhood, the babies she’d had, the one she was nursing. He wished it had been his babies that had shaped her this way, but had it been so, he couldn’t have loved her more. “I want to remember you this way.”

“You’re a sentimental fool, Will. I’m—”

“Shh. You’re perfect, Elly... perfect.”

She would never get used to his adoring her. Her eyes dropped shyly while beside them the water rumbled and the bubbles rose in a fragrant white cloud.

“Who’s going to undress me?” he teased, wanting other memories to carry away. He tipped up her chin. “Elly?”

“Your wife,” she answered quietly and did what she’d never done with Glendon, what Will had to teach her a man liked. Shirt, T-shirt, boots, socks and jeans. And the last piece of clothing, which hooked on something on its way down.

They stood a foot apart, heartbeats falling like hammer-blows in the steamy room, studying each other’s eyes while anticipation painted their cheeks shining pink. His head dipped, her face lifted and they kissed lingeringly, letting their bodies brush, swaying left and right, experiencing a hint of textures. Straightening, he slid his hands to her armpits, ordering, “Hang on,” as he boosted her up. With her legs and arms wrapped around him, Will stepped into the tub. When he sat, the water rose to their elbows. She reached beneath his arms to turn off the taps, and when she would have backed up he clamped and held her there.

“Where you goin’?” he whispered near her lips.

“No place...” she breathed, closing the distance.

The first was a soft kiss—suspended anticipation. Two mouths, two tongues, sampling before the glut. With
Eleanor’s legs still looped about Will’s waist, their intimacy below the water made mockery of their guardedness above. Still they played at the kiss, letting it laze as it would—crossed mouths, brushing lips, teasing tongues, then a lackadaisical repeat at a new angle. A nudge, a parting, a search of eyes, a sinking together once more.

She pressed her warm, wet palms to his back and he settled her breasts against his chest. She was smooth, he rough. She soft, he hard. The difference intensified the kiss. Eagerness fired it and he clasped her close, running hands and arms over her soapy skin above and below the water—sleek, warm wife’s skin so different from his own. He acquainted himself with her flaring hips, narrowing waist, firm back and bulging breasts that ruched tightly at his touch.

The water lapped her breasts as she reached down to cup bubbles over his shoulders until his skin turned to satin beneath her hands. Her fingertips found the three moles on his back, three slick beads which she read as braille. Her palms skimmed his ribs, arms, shoulder blades, learning each dip and furl, each shift of muscle as his hands moved likewise over her.

With her legs she clung, compressing him, herself, so nearly joined that they could not tell her heat from his.

“It’ll be all right tonight, won’t it, Elly?”

“Yes... yes.”

“Will it hurt you?”

“Shh...” She muffled his question with her kiss.

He pulled back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then come back to me alive.”

Neither of them had voiced it before. Desperation now became part of their embrace while urgency moved their hands to fondle, explore, stroke. They drew deep breaths, holding momentarily still, the better to absorb the moment, the memory.

“... ohhh...” she breathed, and her head dropped back until her braid touched the water.

He uttered a throaty approval, licked the underside of her chin and kissed what he could reach of her breasts. She was limp with acquiescence and he bade his time, pleasuring her,
being pleasured, watching her eyelids flicker open, then close, her lips grow lax, her tongue tip appear as she drifted in a mindless torpor. In time she began moving, stirring the water until it lapped against his chest. Her caresses kept rhythm and he set his teeth, then arched like a strung bow.

The water became quicksilver. Tomorrow became an illusion. Here and now became the imperative.

“Oh, Elly, I wanted to do this so long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was waiting for you to say it was all right.”

“It would’ve been all right two weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I don’t know... I was scared. Shy.”

“Maybe I was, too. Let’s not be shy.”

“I never did things like this with Glendon.”

“I can show you more.”

She hid her face against his neck.

“Can I wash you?” he asked.

“You want to?”

“I want to be in you. That’s what I want.”

“That’s what I want, too, so hurry.”

They shared the soap. They shared each other. They got to their knees and forsook washcloths in favor of hands. They lathered and kissed, sleek as seals, and twined together and murmured sweet sentiments and adored with hands and tongues. And when the compulsion was magnified to a welcome ache, he grasped her wet arms and pushed her back, freeing his lips. “Let’s go to bed.”

They stood in the steamy bathroom, impatiently wielding towels, caring little about dry or wet, watching each other, grabbing a quick kiss, laughing excitedly—tense, aroused, ready. He plucked his jeans from the floor and found in a pocket a prophylactic.

“What’s that?”

He closed it in his palm and looked at her. “I don’t want to get you pregnant again. You got all you’ll be able to handle with no man around the place.”

“You won’t need that.”

“I don’t want to leave you with another one, Elly.”

She stepped across his wet towel, took the packet from his hand and laid it on the high shelf.

“Women don’t get pregnant when they’re nursing, didn’t you know that, Will?”

By an arm she tried to lead him from the room, but he balked. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Come.”

He took the lantern and they tiptoed into their own bedroom. In it she turned, placed a finger over her lips and mouthed, “Shh.” Each one taking an end of the basket, they moved Lizzy out into the front room for the night.

When their door was closed they turned to each other. Their pulses seemed to do a stutter step, but neither of them moved. Alone... suddenly hesitant. Until she took the first step and they came together swiftly, kissing and clinging, reminded again of the hourglass shifting its sand. So little time... so much love...

Impatiently he hooked her beneath her knees and carried her to the bed, whispering, “Pull down the covers.” Riding in his arms, she dragged the spread and blanket over the foot of the bed. On knee and elbows he took her down, dropping across her with their mouths already joined in a frenzied kiss, tongues reaching deep, arms and legs taking possession. It was untamed, that prelude, all lust and anticipation drawn to its maximum. Twist and roll, thrust and rut. Sexual greed such as neither had experienced until now.