Mittman, Stephanie (10 page)

Bart
called for an answer, and Annie, trying to hide her confusion, came into the
dining room, Bart's glass of lemonade in her hand.

"What?"
she asked, taking a seat across from him. She looked around her. "Isn't it
getting dark in here?"

Bart
looked toward the window and sighed. "Saw some clouds this morning. Sure
hope we get some rain."

"Reverend
Winestock's is gonna be one of those houses with electricity, you know,"
Annie told Bart. "He'll just be able to press a button and lights'll come
on all over his place."

"Mmm,"
Bart responded. He seemed overly interested in his meal, and Annie went on.

"Imagine!
Electricity. I wonder how long it'll be before the whole world has it. Probably
years and years. They'll be livin' in one century in town and it'll be another
century on the farm." She knew clearly which century she longed to be in.
It might not make any difference to her brother, but it sure did to her.
"Bart?"

He
pushed a large piece of sausage into his mouth and followed it with some
potato. There was a long pause; then, without looking up, he said, "We're
gettin' married on Saturday."

Annie
swallowed hard. It wasn't as if the news was a surprise, though he could have
told her a little sooner. He'd spent the morning in the fields, so the
arrangements must have been made well before this moment. And without so much
as a by-your-leave to her, either. Well, Bart had pretty much taken things for
granted all his life, and while Annie felt she did the lion's share of running
the household, Bart fancied himself the head of the house.

"Saturday,"
she said, nodding. "That ain't much notice. You gonna be able to spare me
with the harvesting? There'll be an awful lot of bakin' and cookin' to do to
prepare. Not to mention the cleanin'."

Bart
kept his eyes on his plate, a habit he'd developed as a little boy when he knew
his words weren't going to please whoever it was he was talking to.
"Wedding party's at the Leemans. Willa's ma will take care of it
all." He finally met her gaze and smiled halfheartedly. "You won't
have to do nothin', Sissy. Just be a guest for a change."

"That's
nice, Bart," she said, swallowing her hurt. Already things were out of her
control. "Real nice. Martha Leeman is a good woman, and I'm sure she'll
put out a fine spread. You tell her I'll be happy to help."

Bart
stuffed more sausage in his mouth before speaking. "No need," he
said.

There
was only the sound of Bart eating, his fork scraping the plate, the gulp of
food going down his throat, the clink of the glass of lemonade against his
teeth. With just the three of them in the house, Annie would hear everything
that went on between Willa and Bart.

"You
smell somethin'?" Bart asked.

Annie
lifted her head and sniffed. The last batch of cookies was burning.

"Oh,
no!" she said, rushing from the table and into the kitchen. A thin stream
of smoke rose from the oven. Grabbing a towel she eased the door open. A half
dozen cowboys and three Indians had been reduced to charred scraps. The
remaining three Indians had survived with mild burns that could be hidden with
icing if she got them out of the oven soon enough. She reached for the cookie sheet
and pulled it out, hitting the side of the oven with her hand.

The
tray clattered to the floor as she yelped and put the heel of her hand in her
mouth.

"What
the devil?" Bart said from the doorway and crossed the room in two strides.
"Let me see it," he ordered, pulling her hand out of her mouth to see
the reddened patch of skin.

"I'm
all right," Annie said, despite the tears coursing down her cheeks. The
burn wasn't serious. She could always make more cookies.

"It
don't look too bad. Put some petroleum jelly on it and I'll wrap a hankie
around it for you." He looked at her face and was clearly surprised by her
tears. "Does it hurt so much?"

Unsure
how her voice would come out, she just shook her head, opened the cabinet door,
and reached in for the jar of ointment. Gingerly she dabbed it against the bum
as the tears came faster and faster, now punctuated with sobs.

"Sissy,
it ain't that bad. You ain't even got a blister." Bart pulled his hanky
out of his back pocket and tied it around her hand. He sighed heavily and shook
his head. "Two women in the same house. How am I gonna stand that?"

Annie
tried to smile as Bart bent over and picked up the dead cowboys and Indians.

"Sissy,"
he asked while he was still reaching down, "could me and Willa have your
room?"

***

The
Reverend Miller Winestock was going through his mail when he heard a knock at
the door. If there was one thing he disliked, it was the order of his day being
disrupted. But being a minister meant seeing to the needs of his congregation
at any hour, and—looking at his watch— two in the afternoon didn't seem
unreasonable. In fact, as he knew from Elvira's etiquette books, calling hours
were from two to five where lunch was served at one and dinner at six or seven.
Still, he imagined whoever it was at his door must be in great need of him. The
wind had picked up considerably over the course of the morning, so that now a
veritable sandstorm raged outside.

At
the second knock he called out that he was coming and hurried to the door. On
his steps stood Sissy Morrow, her hands protecting her face from the blowing
clouds of dust, her skirts buffeted around her. Blackie and the wagon were
outside. In all the months, the years, that she had seen to Elvira, she had
never once let the weather stop her from making the journey into town. Like the
old Greek writer said about messengers, "Not snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor
night," nothing ever stopped Sissy Morrow.

A
gust of wind tore at her dress as if to prove it, and he reached out his hand
and pulled her quickly into the house, shutting the door behind her. Her arm
was muscular, as he knew it would be. Despite her small size she was nearly as
strong as he, having proved it over and over when she'd aided, sometimes even
carried, his wife.

"What
a day!" she said as she untied her bonnet and tried to fan the dust from
her face. The loose hairs that surrounded her face lifted and then settled back
down and she pushed them back toward her bun. "I must be a sight,"
she added, looking uncomfortable.

"Yes,"
he agreed. "The wind has surely picked up." Powdery dirt fell from
her clothes onto his rug, leaving a small pile of light brown dust around her
as she shook herself off.

"Oh,
Miller! I'm sorry," she said when she followed the line of his eyes to the
floor. "I'll clean it up, of course."

"Don't
concern yourself," he said politely. One thing he had always appreciated
about Sissy was that she, too, seemed to treasure cleanliness and place it
right up there by godliness, as he did. A tidy house, he firmly believed, was
the sign of a civilized man. "Whatever brings you out on such a dreadful
day? Is something wrong?"

More
than the dry earth had put a pallor over her countenance. Her eyes were sad,
her usually smiling mouth turned down. His first thought was that she was ill,
a natural reflex, he supposed, spending so many years with Elvira. But she
didn't look unwell, merely unhappy. Whatever was bothering her, he hoped he
could rectify it simply. Having done it so often for his wife, it was something
he'd come to enjoy, solving the little problems women thought so grave.

"I
need to get married right away," the woman before him said. No preamble,
no easing into it. Well, every woman couldn't be his dear wife, and Sissy had
charms of her own, though they lay closer to the kitchen than the parlor.
Before he could find his voice, she continued. "It's because Bart and
Willa, as I'm sure you know, are gettin' married on Saturday."

"And?"

"And
they're going to live at the farm. Bart wants my room, the one that Papa lived
in before he died, and Willa will want to put her dishes in my kitchen and it
won't be my kitchen anymore and I can't stand the dirt and I want to be in town
for Risa's baby and—"

Thank
the good Lord, she took a breath. "Sit down," he instructed gently.
He supposed there was something to be said for Sissy's directness. Coming right
to the point might not be the genteel way of approaching a distressing
situation, but it did save the aggravation of imagining even more serious
problems than were actually at hand.

"Risa
has been blessed again?" he asked. Was this at the heart of her
unhappiness? Did she wish for a child of her own? It certainly wasn't out of
the question. In fact, the idea pleased him somewhat. "How wonderful. But
surely you don't need to be there so far in advance, unless ... is something
wrong with Mrs. Morrow?"

"Oh,
no," she said, as if he had missed the point. "Risa's fine and the
baby ain't due until spring. It's Bart and Willa that's the problem."

"Yes,"
he said solemnly. Bart had made it clear that the rush to marry Willa Leeman
was not frivolous. All the Morrows were ingenuous people, with the possible
exception of Della. Bart had been ready to spell it out for him when Miller had
put up his hand and nodded. "I know about Bart and Willa's problem, and
Saturday that will all be taken care of. A blessing is a blessing whenever God
sees fit to—"

"No,"
she said again, this time impatiently. Her shoulders fell in what looked to him
like desperation. "It's not their problem, it's mine."

Miller
tried to keep his face devoid of emotion. In his mind he backtracked over the
conversation, and it seemed to him that all she'd mentioned was babies. What in
the world was she trying to tell him? That she wanted a child? But why was that
a problem? And what was her sudden rush? Unless ...

"Miller?"
Despite her words she was the one looking oddly at him. "Are you all
right?"

"What
is it you're trying to tell me?" he asked. "Don't be coy. It doesn't
suit you."

"Coy?"

He
sighed. She didn't know what it meant. Well, he had years to work on her
education. Or he thought he did before this ridiculous conversation had
started.

"Out
with it, Sissy. If you've a 'problem,' it's best I know it now." He
couldn't believe what he was saying. Sissy Morrow? No one was interested in
Sissy Morrow but him. The whole town knew she would someday be his wife.

"Willa
will be the woman of the house, Miller. Don't you see? It will be her house
now, not mine. I'll be the old maid aunt and she'll move Mama's dishes; or
worse, she might break them, and—"

"That's
your problem?" he asked, amazed that he could have imagined anything else.
"You're upset because you will have to share your household with another
person? Sissy Morrow, you've had five children with you in that house and two
parents, God rest their souls. Now there isn't room for three of you?"

She
mumbled something he couldn't make out about her bedroom. Tears were collecting
in her eyes and he chided himself for making light of her problem, despite the
overwhelming relief.

"What?"

"They
want my bedroom."

"I'm
so sorry, dear." He was trying to sound sympathetic, as he had always done
with Elvira. "But surely there are other rooms you could use, with Francie
away at school and Della married."

That
should have solved it, but Sissy didn't let go as easily as his wife.

"Miller,"
she said, so sadly and quietly that he had to kneel beside the chair in which
she sat in order to hear her, "I don't want to wait. Can't you marry me
now?"

He
should have seen that this was the direction in which she was headed. He should
have steered the conversation toward something else. She was a good woman and
telling her
no
was something he could not do easily or without remorse.
But tell her he must, and ask her to understand.

"How
long has Elvira been gone?" he asked her, his eyes searching hers.

"But
Miller—"

"Eight
months, Sissy. Eight months." He hadn't realized how big her eyes were
before. Big sad eyes that begged him to change his mind. He tried another tack.
"If your father had remarried only eight months after your mother died,
what would you have thought? How would you have felt?"

"But
my mother was—" She stopped herself, much to Miller's relief. He would not
tolerate criticisms of Elvira, just as he would never tolerate criticisms of her.
Not that he had ever heard any, but he might. And he would say to her critics,
"Sissy Morrow is a fine upstanding woman, beyond reproach, beyond
correction." Though in Sissy's case, unlike Elvira's, a few refinements
wouldn't be totally out of order. Like her insensitivity, so obvious now.

"Is
it asking so much of a husband of eighteen years that he honor his wife's
memory with a year of mourning?"

"No,"
she said. Her mouth opened and closed again. She'd thought better of arguing
with him, thank the Lord.

"Is
it asking too much that we wait just a few more months before announcing our
intentions to the people who look to me for guidance and leadership?" He
made the question sound genuine, as if her answer mattered, when in fact on
this one point he would not be moved. Then he waited, the wind against his
windows the only sound in the room.