The Storm (25 page)

Her lips were probably as crimson as a fancy woman's. Why didn't everybody stare at her and point? Then the light shone through one of the clear glass windows and illuminated the red canna lilies on the altar. What was wrong with what Jaq and she felt for each other?

She missed another note, but she didn't care. She wanted to be in the clearing with Jaq so she could get to the bottom of all this. But maybe she should spend some time alone and let these confused longings sort themselves out. Then she and Jaq could have a nice long talk, and maybe she could understand what was happening.

*

Jaq trudged up the hill after the singing finally ended. Passing the spring, she thought about Molly for the hundredth time.

Bloody hell. She shouldn't have lost control. She shouldn't have told her so much. And she sure shouldn't have kissed her. Molly probably thought she was horrible and would never speak to her again. But wouldn't that be for the best?

Why hadn't she kept her mouth shut and her lips to herself? She'd probably just stirred Molly up. Damn. What good would that do? She would be leaving soon…and Molly would be staying. Period. They couldn't do anything.

Better not telephone her for a while.
Maybe she'll forget what I said—and what I did.

But Molly wouldn't forget a word. And she definitely wouldn't forget their kiss.

Jaq wouldn't either. It had flattened her like a Zeppelin raid.

*

The next Sunday afternoon, Molly and Patrick wandered down to the pond and stopped to pick some honeysuckle that covered the nearby bushes. She sucked the nectar from several of the tiny pink-and-white blooms, and Patrick said, “They sure are sweet, aren't they? Almost like candy.” She thought they tasted like Jaq's lips.

The pine trees in the forest near the pond, so dense its interior was almost black, barely moved in the soft breeze. She and Patrick lay down side by side on the mattress-thick pine straw under the trees that circled the pond and gazed up at them.

“Look at that mourning dove way up on that branch.” She pointed it out to him. He could already identify almost all the birds native to East Texas, especially blue jays, mockingbirds, and redbirds.

“Listen to that old crow cawing,” he said. “He's sure upset about something. And look at those buzzards circling over there. Must be something dead. I like the way they float around. Wouldn't it be fun to do that?”

“Did you know Miss Jacqueline's husband, Mr. Eric, used to fly aeroplanes in the war overseas? I bet he could tell you all about floating around in the sky.”

“Wow. Can we go talk to him sometime?”

“I'm sure we can. He wasn't feeling well when he got home, but I bet he's better now. The next time I talk to Miss Jacqueline I'll ask her about it.”

Suddenly, a squawking mockingbird dove down at one of their barn cats, who'd followed them. “It must have wandered too close to the bird's nest,” she said. It kept diving at the poor cat, who tried to get away, and Patrick pointed at them and giggled.

“What if that bird was after you, son? How would you feel? The cat's just trying to get away.”

“I wouldn't like it, Mama. It'd hurt if it pecked me on the head. Why's it acting like that?”

“It's just protecting its babies, so I guess I'd do the same if something was sneaking around our house looking for you. But it needs to stop now and let the poor cat alone. It's probably learned its lesson.”

Patrick looked thoughtful and Molly stayed silent to let him ponder their conversation. She wanted him to realize that life wasn't black and white.

She was almost dozing when Patrick shook her arm. “What does that cloud look like, Mama?”

“A pig wearing a pink dress and high-heel shoes.”

He laughed. “It looks like an Easter egg with legs to me. Oh, goody. Here comes Pa.”

Mr. James ambled over and sat down between them.

“Will you tell me a story about the Trojan War, Pa? Please. You tell the best stories.”

Mr. James acted like he was thinking hard, then said, “Well, you know how brave Hector was, don't you?”

“Yes, sir. He was the Trojans' best, bravest warrior.”

“But when he was supposed to fight Achilles, what did he do?”

“He got scared and ran around the city three times, with Achilles right behind him.”

“And why did he finally stop and fight, son?”

“One of the gods disguised himself as his best friend, but then he disappeared when Hector needed him, and Achilles slaughtered him.”

Mr. James shook Patrick's shoulder affectionately, with an expression of pride. “You know
The
Iliad
as well as I do. You'll have to start telling me stories about it and other books now. You're not gonna have to quit school after the third grade, like I did.”

Molly shook her head. “Now, Mr. James. Why do you have to dwell on the war part of
The
Iliad
? There's a lot more to it than that. What about the way Hector's wife and parents grieved when they learned that Achilles had killed their son? Patrick needs to realize that war brings more death and sorrow than pride and glory.”

“Ah, Mama. That's woman talk. Pa and I need to know about fighting.”

But Mr. James laid one large hand on Patrick's small one and wrapped his other arm around her waist. “You need to know about fighting, son, but you need to remember that war brings a heap of grief too. Look at how much sorrow it's brought Mr. Eric. It takes a real man to suffer through that type of pain and come out on the other side even stronger. And I think Mr. Eric's that kind of person. I want you to be like that too.”

She had to fight back a tear. What a good man she'd married. If only she could love him the same way she loved Jaq.

Molly didn't visit or telephone Jaq for more than a month. She wanted to give herself time to get used to the new name—
Jaq
—and the strange feelings it aroused in her. Though she wasn't nearly as exciting as the women Jaq had associated with overseas or in Washington or New Orleans, she was pretty sure Jaq really liked her. But what she'd said about being an invert still confused her.

Plus, she was scared. Their kiss had shown her in thirty seconds what Jaq's thousands of words had tried to communicate. She might be more like Jaq than either of them suspected. And then what would she do? She craved to see Jaq, touch her. Would she be able to contain herself the next time they met, or would she take her in her arms and…?

Familiar things comforted her. Walking by the pond under the pines alone, she talked to the snapping turtle on the log about her longings. She discussed them with Nellie every morning and evening as she squeezed her warm, elastic tits and listened to the milk ping the sides of the bucket. She strolled through the rose garden and tried to inhale the essence of Jaq along with the fragrance of the roses.

When she finally stood on firm ground again, she cranked the handle on the telephone. Ethel's
Number, please
sounded joyful. And when Jaq finally answered, she sounded joyful too. Molly bit her lip so she wouldn't say anything unseemly for Ethel to hear.

“Molly! I wondered if you'd fallen down the well. It's been too long.”

Jaq
sounded
glad to hear from her. Maybe she actually did like her. Or perhaps she was playing with her, kissing her to add excitement to her own life. Jaq probably didn't even think about her when they were apart—considered her a naive countrywoman dying for attention from a woman of the world.

“I've been so busy. I'm sorry for not getting in touch sooner, but you know how it is.” There. She didn't seem too eager to talk to Jaq—did she?

After they chatted, she asked, “Would you teach me how to drive your Model T? Mr. James and his brother Clyde tried to give me lessons, a few years after we got married, but I didn't do very well. Maybe you could be a little more patient—”

“Of course. That sounds fine. How about Wednesday at ten o'clock? And, Molly, I look forward to it.”

“So do I, Jaq, so do I.” There. She'd finally said the new name aloud. Did Jaq mean what she said? Could she trust her? What about the woman back in New Orleans?

She finally forced herself to quit doubting Jaq's words. Afterward, she felt like she'd played a Chopin mazurka with the same passion Chopin must have experienced when he composed it. She danced down the hall and back into the kitchen. She was going to see Jaq again. And Jaq said she was looking forward to seeing her. Jaq didn't sound angry or indifferent that she hadn't called in so long. She really did sound like she wanted to see her and teach her to drive. Molly couldn't wait.

*

“Humph. Wonder what's going on now, Miss Biddy?” Mrs. Russell slid her hand under her favorite black-and-white speckled laying hen and felt for eggs. The straw nest was like an oven. “You need to get busy if you plan to best the record that hen up in Oklahoma set a few years ago. Three hundred eggs in one year! Great Scott. Didn't that beat the band?”

She deposited two eggs into her basket and strolled to the next nest. “And you, Mrs. Dandy. You've been slacking off too. Best get to work. You're beginning to remind me of Molly, and you don't want that, do you? She's been moping around for ever so long, her mind somewhere else. Never knew her to be moody, but lately she's downright testy at times. Must have more starch in her backbone than I gave her credit for.”

*

Two minutes till ten.

Eric had showed Jaq a letter this morning from a fellow stationed on board the receiving ship at Commonwealth Pier in Boston.

Ten o'clock. Why the dickens wasn't Molly here yet?

He said a bunch of sailors had come down with the usual symptoms of the flu. But it was so bad some of the guys had to transfer from sickbay to the Chelsea Naval Hospital.

Two minutes after ten. She jumped out of the porch swing, rushed into the front yard, and looked down the road. Damn. Nobody in sight.

The sailors swore they felt like somebody had beaten them with a club. That's exactly how she'd ached during those two bouts of the flu in France last summer.

Five minutes after ten.

Last year the disease struck in the summer too. Usually everybody had it in the winter.

Six minutes after. Where was she? Blast it. Had Molly stood her up?

She paced from one end of the porch to the other. She'd never known Molly to be late. Maybe she'd changed her mind. Didn't want to associate with an invert. Maybe—

Gus and Kate finally shambled up the hard-packed driveway.

“Sorry.” Molly sounded breathless. She tied up the mules and dashed across the front yard. “Mother Russell was in a foul state of mind today. I had to help her and Patrick get ready. She wanted to know why I was coming over here, asked what we were up to. You'd have thought we were having an affair, the way she was carrying on—” Her face was shining as red as an autumn apple.

“Oh, you know how she is. She probably got up on the wrong side of the bed.” Jaq'd been afraid of that. Molly had been thinking that she was an invert, an unnatural creature who needed to be cured or—

“I'm excited about my driving lesson. I hope you're in a better mood than Mother Russell. If you don't feel like teaching me, I won't be able to drive myself around like I want. The War should be over soon. When we can buy gasoline and tires again, these old mules will probably retire from the transportation business.”

Molly sounded more self-confident than she'd ever heard her, even when she registered to vote. She'd known Molly had it in her, but it was just beginning to show up. She'd teach Molly how to drive. Then after she left Texas, Molly could go to town and visit. She'd have more in common with some of the women there than with the farm wives.

Molly had mentioned a woman named Tabitha Milner, whose father had been president of Texas A&M. After he retired, the family had moved back to Harrison and Tabitha had helped organize some discussion clubs for women. And when the War started, she'd gone all over the county selling war bonds. That's where Molly had heard her speak—eloquently, she said.

Maybe Molly could join one of those clubs, get to know her better. They'd confide in each other. Molly might even kiss her and—Hell, no!

Molly would never become Marguerite while she was married to Mr. James. And she'd
stay
married as long as Patrick tied them together. If she didn't teach her to drive, Molly couldn't meet anyone in town, she wouldn't secretly kiss anybody else…But did she have the right to hold Molly back?

She shook her head, trying to blow her worries away. She had to help Molly become independent. Damn the consequences.

“Let's go, Molly. First, you need to learn how to start this Model T. But be careful. A crank hit one man in the jaw and he died from complications. Stand close to me. I'll go through the motions without actually starting the engine.”

Molly stood so near she brushed her leg as she completed her circling motion.
Ohh.
Her skin was supple through her soft green cotton dress. And when she showed her again, Molly didn't back away.

She ached to cup Molly's leg—instead of the crank handle—in her palm. She wanted to encourage the spark between them, not regulate it with the nearby choke. But she caught herself in time.

Whew.
She said the first thing that entered her mind, hoping to cool the air. “Maybe soon we won't have to crank by hand. But for now that's the only way to make this horseless carriage run.” She backed away and motioned for Molly to try.

Molly'd paid close attention to her instructions and, after a few attempts, could start the vehicle. Molly looked at her and wiped a gleam of sweat from above her upper lip. “Gracious, that was harder than I thought, but it didn't take as long as hitching Kate and Gus. Now what do we do?”