Then silence crashed around them, and for one self-conscious moment they both felt foolish, glaring at each other that way.
He got his pork chops all right. And by that time, Miss Abigail was in a state! She admitted that it was a blame good thing tomorrow was Sunday. She was definitely in need of divine guidance after all the transgressions she'd been committing lately. Anger, spite, vengeance, lying, even promiscuity. Yes, she even admitted that what had happened during that kiss had been undeniably promiscuous—well, it had ended that way, anyway. But if she was guilty of all this, think of what he had to ask forgiveness for—not that he ever would. Besides his own, he'd caused every single one of her sins!
The pig's bladder had mysteriously disappeared. She didn't know where it had gone and didn't ask.
Being the goat that he is, she thought, he probably ate the thing and enjoyed every bite!
"I've brought you some bed clothes of my father's. Put them on and leave them on. I'm sick and tired of looking at your hairy legs and chest."
"So you say." He puffed out the chest in question and rubbed its furred surface as if it were spun gold.
She ignored his conceit, moving away, but then she spied the bladder soaking in the water bowl. She reached two fingers in to pick up the smelly thing and take it away, but he ordered, "Leave it where it is."
"What!"
"I said leave it where is it."
"But it stinks!" She made a face at the offensive innard which had left a residue of scum on the surface of the water.
"Leave it!" he repeated, "and leave the pajamas and get out."
She dropped the gut back in its swampy water and left, thankfully.
It was Saturday afternoon and she spent it cleaning the house for Sunday, as she'd done all her life. When she had cleaned everything else, she came near the door to his room, calling first, "Are you decent now, Mr. Cameron?"
"Does a snake have armpits?" came the reply.
She grabbed her cheeks to keep from laughing. How could that infernal man make her laugh so easily when she was thoroughly disgusted with him?
"I'm covered, if that's what you're asking, but I'll never be decent, hopefully."
She took one look at him and had to work diligently to prevent her face from smiling again. He looked utterly ridiculous. The pajama legs stopped halfway down his hairy calves.
"Well, what are you smirking at?" he grumbled.
"Nothing."
"The hell you say. Keep it up and I'll take these idiotic things off. I feel like a damn coolie in them anyway
… or at least I would if they were long enough. Your old man must've been a midget!"
"They'll just have to do. I have none that are longer " But in spite of herself she stood there smiling openly now at the hairy calves and feet sticking out of the drawers.
"All right! Get to your cleaning if that's what you came in here for because if you stand there smirking one minute longer I'll take these damn things off!"
"You have the vilest tongue of any man I've ever known. I'm tempted to fix it with the cattail again."
"Just get on with the cleaning and quit hassling me."
Their constant bickering had come to have a pattern. When they were angry their tongues cut sharp and deep with words they seldom meant. And when it went too far they reverted to sarcasm or teasing, scrimmaging verbally in a way which even Miss Abigail had come to enjoy. Cleaning the room, she felt his eyes on her all the while. He moved to the window seat while she changed his sheets and dustmopped under the bed. Kneeling, she saw his boots pushed deeply beneath it, and the lump of what must be his shirt with the gun wrapped in it, between the mattress and the open wire spring. The only way it could have gotten there was if Doc Dougherty had brought it to him, but she couldn't believe the man's idiocy to do such a thing. She didn't mention the gun again, but made as if she hadn't seen it there, then went on to her featherdusting, and finally to clean the tabletop where the pitcher and bowl sat.
"May I ask what you propose to keep this filthy thing for?" She looked distastefully at the bladder.
"Never mind," was all he'd say. "Just leave it."
Supper passed uneventfully, except that he let her know he hated those bloody-looking beets.
The bladder still lay in the bowl. And a plan was forming in Miss Abigail's head.
Evening came and Jesse grew bored and listless. It was funny how he'd grown used to her coming and going. The minute it grew quiet and he was left alone, he almost wished she'd come in, even if only to argue. Like a child who's fought with a playmate, he found he preferred her aggravation to her absence.
He heard her making a lot of watery noises and got up with the crutches and came to find her leaning over the back step, washing her hair. He opened the screen door and tapped it against her head twice, softly, just enough to vex her "This is a hell of a place to wash your hair. You're directly in the path between bedroom and outhouse."
"Get that screen door off my head!" she exclaimed from under her sopping hair. "I'll wash my hair anywhere I like. It just so happens I do it here because it makes less mess to clean up than in the kitchen."
He stood looking down at her, kneeling on the earth with her head over the basin. The hollow at the nape of her neck held some soap suds, and he found it hard to take his eyes off it. He opened the screen door enough to get out, causing her to sidestep on her knees. She felt vulnerable, knowing he stood above her, watching her.
The way he stood, right foot hanging conveniently before him, it was easy to reach out and put his big toe right there in that little hollow that held the shampoo captive at the back of her neck.
"Getting rid of all the nasty
effluvia
so you're all polished and shined for church tomorrow?" he teased, using the pretentious word she'd once used on him. She swatted blindly at the foot, but he'd swung on down the yard, wearing only those short pajama pants, calling back, "Whose redemption are you going to pray for, Miss Abigail, yours or mine?"
And from the yard next door Rob Nelson heard and saw it all and ran into his house, hollering, "Maw!
Maw! Guess what I just seen!"
She was gone, pan and all, when he came back to the house. He felt weak again and went straight to his bed, making up his mind that he must continue to work up his strength by staying up longer each time with the crutches. He sank down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. It itched. In spite of his teasing, that shampoo had looked mighty inviting.
"Miss Abigail?" he called, but the house was quiet. "Can you hear me?"
No answer.
"Don't I get a shampoo?"
There still was no answer but he heard a floorboard creak above him.
"Hey, I could use one myself, you know." He didn't really expect an answer, neither was she about to give one. To himself, he said, "She keeps typical old maid's hours. Closeted in her bedroom before eight o'clock on a Saturday night." He was bored to death and wished she'd come down and keep him company. If she could just hold that sharp tongue of hers, he'd try to do the same, just for somebody to talk to for a while. The sounds of light revelry drifted from the direction of town, and he longed for a beer and a little company, maybe even a woman on his knee.
Miss Abigail was drying her hair at an open upstairs window, fluffing it with a thick towel, wondering when she would find her first gray hair He called something again, but she ignored him, thinking of how he'd touched the back of her neck with his toe, secretly smiling. He could be so exasperating and so funny at the same time. She thought of what she'd wear for church in the morning; this time she'd gathered all her things from his room. She thought of the gun beneath his bed. She thought of his kiss, but pushed the thought aside because it did funny things to her stomach. The air was so still you could hear every sound from the saloon, but then it was nearly July and the summer heat did that. How many Saturday nights had she washed her hair and combed it dry, gone to bed early, and wished to be doing something else? Something with a man. Now she was thrown together with a man who might have been company had he not turned out to be the height of loathsomeness. How much longer would she be stuck with him?
She heard him call, saying he wanted a shampoo too. Nonsense! He couldn't stand up long enough to have his hair washed. How many days had it been since he'd had his hair washed? Nine? Ten? She remembered how she'd promised when he was unconscious that she'd wash it for him. She was stuck with him until the railroad took him off her hands. At least if he was clean he would be that much less offensive, she told herself, not wanting to admit that she was lonely, that even his company was preferable to none.
When she stepped into his room and saw what he held, she asked in disgust, "Whatever are you doing with that vile thing?"
The pig bladder was scraped clean, blown up, and tied with yarn from her sewing basket. He clenched it in his right hand, squeezing repeatedly, then relaxing time and again. The action was as suggestive as the licking of lips, and he smiled as he drawled, "Exercising my
gun
hand."
Mortified, her eyes could not seem to leave the dark, supple fingers as they squeezed, squeezed, squeezed. Her lips fell open and her stomach went light and fluttery. Should she turn and escape? And let him have the satisfaction of humiliating her once again? Though her cheeks blazed, she ordered, "Put that horrible thing away if you want me to help you with your hair."
He gave it several more slow, suggestive squeezes before tossing it aside negligently, with that same knowing smile on his lips. Well, well, he thought, the queen descendeth! And in her nightie and wrapper, no less!
"You're too weak to stand or lean over long enough to shampoo your hair with water, so I'll give you the next best thing, an oatmeal shampoo. It's not as fragrant, but it works."
"No offense, Abbie, but do you know what you're doing?"
"Precisely, but you'll have to lie down."
"Oatmeal?" he asked skeptically, making no move to lie down yet.
"Exactly," she said crisply. "Do you want the dry treatment or none at all?" Too late she realized what she'd said. The smile was already sneaking around the outer edges of his eyes, and by the time it made it to his lips she was the color of cinnamon.
He stretched out full length and drawled, "By all means, give it to me dry."
Flustered beyond belief, she fussed with her bowl of dry oatmeal, a towel, and three clothespins while he eyed them inquisitively. "The towel goes
under
your head," she said testily, as if he were truly a dolt.
"Oh yes, how stupid of me." He grinned, lifting his head while she arranged the towel under it. Then, to his amazement, she dumped half of the bowl of oatmeal on his hair and started working it in as if it were soap and water.
"Serves double duty, huh?" he quipped. "Tomorrow you can cook it for my breakfast instead of cornmeal." She was caught unaware and let out a huff of laughter while he peeked up at her prankishly.
Finally he shut his eyes and let himself enjoy the feeling of her hands in his hair—a Saturday night feeling remembered from childhood. He believed he could nearly smell the fresh shoe blacking on all the shoes of his sisters and brothers, lined up at the bottom of the stairs awaiting Sunday morning. How long since he'd been in a house where Saturday was set aside for those get-ready things?
"Up!" she ordered, interrupting his reverie. "I must shake this. Hold still till I come back." She took the towel gingerly by its four corners and went away with the soiled oatmeal. She repeated the process once again, only this time when she had the clean oatmeal in his hair, she bound the towel up turban-style and secured it with the clothespins. "The oatmeal will absorb the oils. We'll leave it on for a while," she said, and went to the bowl to wash her own hands. But the water was still there from the pig bladder. With a grimace she took it away to dump.
When she returned, he was exercising his hand with that
thing
again, but he invited, "Stay while I soak."
She glanced at the flexing hand, back up at him skeptically.
"What can I do bound up like a sheik with the fleas?" he asked, rolling his eyes upward. Unconsciously she tightened the ends of her tie belt that held the wrapper. Finally, he tossed the thing aside and said cajolingly, "Hey, it's Saturday night, Abbie, the social hour… remember? I've been in this bed for almost two weeks now and, truthfully, I'm getting a little stir crazy. All I want is a little talk."
She sighed and perched on the trunk at the foot of the bed. "If you're growing restless you must be healing."
"I'm not used to sitting still for so long."
"What are you used to?" She wasn't really sure if she wanted any sordid details about his robber's life, yet the prospect of hearing about it was strangely alluring. He, meanwhile, was wondering whether she'd believe him if he told her the truth.
"I'm not used to a place like this, that's for sure, or spending time with a woman like you. I travel around a lot."
"Yes, I supposed you did, in your occupation. Doesn't it grow tiresome?"
"Sometimes, but I have to do it, so I do."
She looked him dead in the eye—Miss Goody Twoshoes giving her reformer's pitch. "Nobody has to live that kind of life. Why don't you give it up and find a wholesome occupation?"
"Believe it or not, being a photographer isn't far from wholesome."
"Oh, come now, you can't think I believed your story about the camera you left on the train?"
"No, a woman like you wouldn't believe it, I guess."
"What is it that you claim you photograph?" she asked, making it clear that this was all too farfetched.
"The building of the railroads," he said, with that half smile on his face. "The grandeur of history in the making," he emoted, raising his arms dramatically. "The spanning of our land by twin iron rails, capturing it forever for our posterity to share." But then he dropped his arms and his dramatizing and fell thoughtful, introspective. "You know, it'll never happen again just like it's happening now. It's been something to see, Abbie." He sighed, entwined his fingers behind his head, and studied the ceiling. And for a moment she almost believed him, he sounded so sincere.