“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is. You tried to talk me out of becoming involved. You said—”
“I remember clearly what I said, Mr. Rainwater. But my quarrel with Conrad didn’t start with you, with this situation. I’ve always been afraid of him.”
He held her gaze until she could bear it no longer. Turning her attention to the sink, she began washing the dishes immersed in the sudsy water. “He pursued me through high school. My mother was thrilled to think of us as sweethearts. Conrad was the richest boy around. She thought he would make an ideal husband. I didn’t.”
In a separate basin, she rinsed the dishes she had washed. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Rainwater take off his suit jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. She stopped what she was doing to watch as he undid his cuff links and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then he picked up a towel and reached for one of the rinsed dishes.
She put out a hand. “Don’t do this.”
Gently he moved her hand aside. “Wash.”
How could she argue with him without admitting that the mundane chore had suddenly taken on an intimacy that panicked her? It would be far better to assume a neutrality she didn’t feel. And when you boiled it down, what harm could come from him drying the dishes?
“You weren’t swayed by the Ellises’ affluence?” he asked.
She resumed washing dishes. “Hardly. I’d known Conrad since grade school. He was a terror in the classroom but got away with all his antics. He was spoiled and ornery. I don’t believe his parents ever said no to him. They indulged him, gave him everything he wanted.”
“He wanted you.”
She shrugged self-consciously. “He gave every indication that he did. At Mother’s urging, I attended a few dances and parties with him. He managed to get close to me at every social, and in that smart-alecky way of his made it understood to everyone that we were a pair. But I didn’t like him and was always uneasy whenever we were alone. I think he knew that. I think he enjoyed my unease.”
“He still does.”
“I’m sure,” she murmured. “Anyway, when he failed to woo me, he turned his charm on my mother and formally asked her for my hand. She had dollar signs in her eyes and couldn’t see through him. Margaret did. She tried to tell Mother to wake up to his true nature, but she wouldn’t listen. When I rejected his proposal, Mother told me that I was a fool and that I would regret my decision.”
She rinsed the meat platter and passed it to Mr. Rainwater. Reading the silent question in his expression, she added, “The only thing I regret is that, when she died, she still hadn’t forgiven me. She told me I had denied her the one thing that might have made her happy again. She died disappointed and angry with me.”
He carried a stack of clean plates to the cabinet and placed them on the shelf. “When did you marry Mr. Barron?”
“Shortly after Mother died. I was running the house then. I’d placed an ad on the bulletin board in the train depot. He worked for the railroad. He saw the ad and came to look at the room. He didn’t rent it.”
Mr. Rainwater thought that through, then said, “He saw something here he liked better than the room.”
“If he’d been living in the house, he couldn’t have courted me.”
“Did he court you?”
“Quite effectively. He was soft-spoken and polite. I was taken by his manner, which was so different from Conrad’s boasting and bullying.” Softly she added, “But we both made vows we were unable to keep.”
They worked in silence until the last pan was dried and put away. He draped the damp towel over the counter. She drained the sink and the rinse basin. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and fastened his cuff links. She removed her apron and hung it on a hook. He retrieved his jacket and folded it over his arm.
And then both went still.
“Long day,” he said.
“Yes. Exhausting.”
“As most of your days are.”
“I’m used to being tired.”
Reluctant to look at him, she leaned across the table and repositioned the salt and pepper shakers in the center of it. The saltshaker tipped over. She righted it. After that, she didn’t know what to do with her hands, so after briefly clasping them at her waist, she lowered them to her sides.
“Ella?”
She stared at the floral pattern on the oilcloth covering the table. Grains of salt had spilled onto it, but they blended into the swirl of blue morning glories and red geraniums, so they were almost invisible. Ordinarily she would have swept them into her hand. But now she was afraid to move.
“Ella.”
Hearing him speak her given name had made her breath catch, and she was still holding it. She closed her eyes as she exhaled slowly, then raised her head and looked at him.
He said, “I owe you an apology for speaking to you so brusquely this morning.”
This morning seemed like a very long time ago. Several moments passed before she recalled the harsh words to which he was referring. I’m fine. Spoken in anger from the staircase. “It was nothing.”
“I was abrupt and rude. I’m sorry.”
“I made a pest of myself.”
“You were asking about my health out of genuine concern. That’s why I got angry.”
She gave her head a slight shake of incomprehension. “Why would my concern make you angry?”
His eyes took on a deeper intensity. “Because you’re the last beautiful woman I’ll know. When you look at me, I don’t want you seeing an invalid.”
FOURTEEN
Ella spent a restless night.
Mr. Rainwater didn’t come down for breakfast, sending word by Margaret, who’d been upstairs gathering laundry, that he wanted only coffee. Ella sent Margaret back to his room with a tray. When she came downstairs, Ella expected a report on his condition. But Margaret said nothing until she asked.
“He seemed all right to me, Miss Ella.”
Ella didn’t fish for more, and she resisted the impulse to go and check on him herself. Yesterday she’d pestered him with questions until he’d lost patience with her. She wouldn’t make that mistake again, because she didn’t want to spark his temper. Nor did she want any more talk of her being beautiful, which she wasn’t, or of his wish not to be regarded by her as an invalid. The impropriety of such personal dialogue made her uncomfortable.
Besides, neither her appearance nor how she regarded him had any relevance to their particular situation, which was that he was a resident in her boardinghouse. Only that. Nothing more.
Nevertheless, she hoped that, if his pain became unbearable, he wouldn’t let his masculine pride prevent him from alerting her to it.
After lunch a soft rain began to fall, causing steam to rise off hot surfaces—rooftops, automobiles, railroad tracks. It made the air even heavier with humidity. But the summer shower was a novelty, a rare and wonderful blessing that Ella wanted to enjoy, so she took a sack of string beans with her onto the front porch. She sat in the rocker with the sack of beans and a ceramic bowl in her lap. Solly was beside her on the floor with his bag of empty spools and the box of dominoes.
It was mindless work, breaking the end off the bean pod and pulling away the string that sealed it, then snapping the pod in half or thirds and placing the sections in the bowl. She would cook the beans tomorrow. Maybe she’d toss in some new potatoes with the red jackets still on. It would make a good side dish with baked ham.
Her mind wandered from tomorrow’s menu to yesterday’s unsettling confrontation with Conrad, to the menace he’d wreaked at the Thompsons’ farm last night, and then to the late interlude in the kitchen, where she had barely avoided breaking dishes she’d been washing for watching Mr. Rainwater’s hands as he’d dried them.
Ella, he’d said. Twice.
She hadn’t acknowledged his addressing her by her first name, because it had been inappropriate, and she hadn’t wanted to emphasize the inappropriateness by making it an issue that required further discussion. After his saying what he had about her being beautiful, she’d asked him to excuse her and had beat a hasty retreat to her room.
Still, she had the memory of his speaking her name. Secretly she was glad to have heard the special resonance his voice had lent those two ordinary syllables. Somehow she knew it was a memory she would hold on to for a long time. Possibly forever.
She was so lost in thought that at first she didn’t realize Solly was no longer sitting on the painted planks of the porch floor but had got up and moved to the railing.
“Solly?”
He didn’t respond, of course. He was intent on standing a domino on its end, directly in line with the post beneath it and squarely in the center of the board that formed the rail. While she’d been woolgathering, he’d been lining up the dominoes, so that now, a dozen formed a straight line along the railing.
She left the sack of beans and the bowl in the seat of her chair and moved closer to the railing, but not so close that she encroached on the boundaries which were invisible to her but crucial to her son. She didn’t want her nearness to distract him from what he was doing.
After watching him for several minutes, she saw that he was lining up the dominoes in ascending order. But, more important, he wasn’t picking them out of a scattered pile, as he’d done before. He was searching in the box for the next one in sequence before placing it at the end of the line.
This wasn’t the uncanny talent that idiot savants frequently displayed, as explained to her by Dr. Kincaid. Apparently Solly possessed that extraordinary trait, too, but today, with the dominoes, he was reasoning. He was thinking it through before choosing the next domino. Essentially, he was counting!
Tears came to her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to contain a sob of joy.
“Margaret said you didn’t have the good sense to come in out of the rain.”
She whirled around as Mr. Rainwater pushed open the screened door and stepped onto the porch.
“Look.” She pointed at the dominoes on the railing. “He took it upon himself to do this. I didn’t begin the project for him. And watch.”
Mr. Rainwater came and stood by her side. Solly had added only two dominoes to the row before Mr. Rainwater realized what had caused her excitement. “He’s sorting through those in the box until he finds the next one in sequence.”
“Don’t you think that’s significant?”
“Absolutely.”
“Sunday, in the cemetery, I remember him gazing at the iron pickets of the gate. Obviously he’s intrigued by the ordered and precise placement of things. Couldn’t that fascination be fed and nurtured? It could even be developed into a skill, don’t you think?”
“I certainly do. He could be building bridges one of these days.”
She smiled at his optimism. “I’d be satisfied with much less than that.”
Mr. Rainwater reached out and touched Solly’s shoulder. The boy flinched, but he didn’t stop what he was doing. “Good job, Solly.”
“Very good job, Solly,” she repeated.
Mr. Rainwater said, “I think this calls for a celebration. An ice cream cone at the very least. Would you let me treat you and Solly?”
“Before dinner?”
“Celebrations should be spontaneous. Rules can be broken—”
“Mr. Rainwater!” Margaret burst through the screened door. Her eyes were wide; she was breathless with alarm. “My boy Jimmy just called from the store, said there’s gonna be trouble out the Hatchers’ place. Said you need to get there fast. Conrad Ellis and his bunch were in the store talkin’ ’bout what they was gonna do to any riffraff that showed up out there tryin’ to interfere with gov’ment business.”
“I’m leaving now.” He brushed past the maid and went inside only long enough to snatch his hat from the hall tree. “Where is the Hatcher place?”
“I’ll go with you.” Ella took off her apron and tossed it onto the chair.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “It could be dangerous.”
“It’s easier for me to show you to their place than to give directions.” Sensing his hesitation, she added, “We’re wasting time.”
He nodded and charged down the front steps, Ella following.
“Watch Solly, Margaret,” she called over her shoulder.
“Don’t you worry none ’bout him. You and Mr. Rainwater take care of your ownselves. Jimmy said those peckerwoods was drunk and actin’ wild.”
By the time they arrived at the beef cattle ranch located several miles west of Gilead, the situation was already tense. Assembled there were Ollie Thompson, Mr. Pritchett, the postmaster, a minister, the shop teacher at the high school, the man who ran the salvage yard, and so many others whom Ella recognized.
They nodded somberly when Mr. Rainwater parked his car and joined them just outside the barbed-wire fence that delineated the pasture. He was the only one of them unarmed.
Standing apart from them was another group, mostly Negroes but some whites. By their gaunt faces and shabby clothing, Ella knew they must have come from shantytown. She recognized the recent widower with the three children, whom Mr. Rainwater had befriended. Standing a full head taller than the others was Brother Calvin, looking grim but calm.
Mr. Rainwater had advised Ella to remain in the car, when actually she had no intention of getting out. The only other woman in sight was Mrs. Hatcher, who was standing in the hardscrabble patch of yard in front of her house, holding on to her husband’s arm as though trying to restrain him from doing something reckless.
The rain shower had been short-lived but the cloud cover was thick and oppressive. The air seemed too dense to inhale, made no easier to breathe by the stench of manure from the loaded cattle truck that rumbled through the pasture gate and then down the dirt road in the direction of the main highway.
A wide, deep pit, larger even than the one at the Thompsons’ farm, had been gouged out of the pasture. Possibly a hundred head of bawling Angus cattle had been herded into it. Around it, men, with their hats pulled low and rifles aimed, stood awaiting the signal from their leader to start firing.
When they did, Ella jumped.
Even though she was prepared for the barrage, the racket was deafening, assaulting more than the ears. Ella covered hers with her hands, but that only dulled the sound, it didn’t mute it. She felt the concussion of each shot against her chest, against her eyelids when she closed her eyes.