The Storm (11 page)

He seemed to want to be left alone almost all the time. And she had no idea how to help him open up like he just had. She really didn't know him very well. Most men, except her brothers, were as foreign to her as the Boches—and just as much of a nuisance.

She didn't know what to say or do, so she just sat here. Eric ran his fingers through his shaggy blond hair and looked like he was about to say something else. Then he pushed back his chair, tightened the laces on his heavy work boots, and headed for the door. He paused.

“I got a letter from my pal Dick the other day. If you want to read it, it's on the counter. I glanced at it yesterday. I don't want any reminders of the War, but I want to keep in touch with him.” Again, he started to leave, but turned around.

“By the way, why have you been staying here so much lately? Cleaning out my mother's closets, scrubbing the floors. I appreciate all you're doing, but you don't have to isolate yourself just because I don't feel sociable. You haven't even gone back to the church for three weeks.”

Then he was gone.

He could be so sweet. That's one reason she hated whatever was happening. Yet he'd been so irritable lately. She didn't know how much more she could stand.

She
had
to stick by him until he and Angus straightened out their lives. He just needed to readjust after all those years of fighting and now losing his mother. She could spend a while supporting him, even if she couldn't be his wife in the bedroom.

She scanned the letter that described some of the adventures Eric's friend had been having. Sounded exciting, if you were several thousand miles away from the action.

Being in the air was a whole different thing from fighting on the ground. Eric probably missed being a pilot a lot, though he wouldn't talk about it anymore. When they'd first met, he'd described one close call after another.

In closing, Dick wrote, “I'll always appreciate you taking time out from flying with the Frenchies to teach me how. You gave me the chance of a lifetime. Every time the boys and I score a round of drinks, I hold up my cup to you.” He talked about the other fliers as if they were his brothers. Eric had to be longing for that type of companionship.

She and Eric were both alone now, but living around people she had so little in common with bothered her. It was like being in a foreign country and not understanding a word of the language. If Molly wasn't here, she might break her promise and drive back to New Orleans or head straight to Washington and join the suffragists.

She noticed more than several dirty glasses on the countertop. Eric had evidently brought them downstairs from his room earlier this morning. My God, he'd been drinking more than she'd realized.

In New Orleans, he'd visited the liquor store every day. And he'd spent most of his time in a bar near her parents' house. On the drive up, she hadn't had much room for luggage because of his stash.

Eric had held his liquor well while he'd stayed those few days with her and her parents. When they'd introduced him to their friends, they'd stressed his wartime service but didn't mention hers. It evidently embarrassed her mother. And she'd never even mentioned Jaq's brief suffragist activities.

She lifted the heavy kettle from the wood-burning stove, poured hot water into the dishpan, and sprinkled in some Ivory Flakes. Eric had bought a box for her when she'd asked and seemed glad to do so. They were a lot easier on her hands than the farmwomen's harsh lye soap.

As she swished through the warm soapy water, her shoulders loosened. She'd wanted to go to the church the past three Sundays, but she refused to spend more time with Molly. Molly was so damn innocent, like she'd been before Sister Mary. Hell. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she took advantage of her. Since their shared revelations about the Storm, she just wanted to know Molly at a distance, to remind herself the world wasn't completely ugly.

Helen had been different—friendly to everyone but singling out no favorites. And Helen always kept her in check. It didn't matter that she was in love with Helen. Actually, being able to put Helen on a pedestal had made her comfortable. She could feel as infatuated as she wanted and not worry Helen would take her seriously, like Sister Mary seemed to—that one time. But if Helen had responded at all…

Molly, though, had practically stood on the running board of her Model T and ridden away with her that Sunday night. Molly seemed to need someone to share confidences with, but damn it—she couldn't be that person.

Her life was too complicated, and she was too susceptible to women like Molly, who'd seemed to understand her feelings about the Storm, played a handful of songs, spent ten minutes saying good night—and penetrated her defenses.

After that afternoon, she'd hummed the songs Molly played and felt warm inside. But the feeling faded in a few days. She didn't need to want what she'd never have. She wasn't a teener anymore.

Molly would always be faithful to her marriage vows, and Jaq refused to be a substitute for a man, a second choice, merely a dear friend. Besides, Molly would never leave her son and sometimes acted like a child herself. Jaq needed an equal, someone to share her adventures, not tie her down.

She couldn't be the kind of friend Molly wanted or needed. She'd eventually taint Molly, like she tainted everyone else she cared for.

No, she didn't want to hurt Molly. But most of all she didn't want to hurt herself.

She wanted the sexual excitement she'd enjoyed with Sister Mary. She craved it. But she wanted to enjoy it more than once, like she had with Willie. Maybe she should have stayed in New Orleans with her, but they were even more different than she and Molly were. Willie was much more independent than she was. She was definitely her own woman and had said something about going to France, alone, as soon as the War ended.

After breakfast, kneeling in the flower bed under the side windows, she watched the swollen white clouds that billowed like smoke. A faint breeze made the pines sway. Her mind went almost blank as she squeezed the moist loam—so soft, so sensual. The red earth, the color of Molly's hair, yielded when she touched it and moved where she urged it, responded to her caressing fingers—

The telephone sounded, three long peals, then a short one, their ring on the party line. Who could that be? She dashed into the house.

“Four-three-one. Mrs. McCade speaking.”

“Jacqueline. We've missed you at the church. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sure you have no idea who this is. It's Molly Russell.”

The speaker on the other end of the crackly line finally took a breath.

“Of course, Molly. I recognized your voice.” How could she forget it? “So kind of you to call.”

“I wanted to make sure you're not ill. And if you're not, would you like to come over tomorrow? The roses are blooming, and I plan to make rose water.”

She hesitated, but looked at the moist earth still on her hands…and gave in. “I'd be honored. What time?”

“How about one thirty tomorrow afternoon?”

“That's perfect. I look forward to it.”

She gently hung the receiver back into its hook on the side of the mounted box. When she flicked one of the metal bells at the top, its tinkle reverberated throughout her. She was going to visit Molly soon.

Then bells blared inside her head:
You're making a huge mistake.

Molly loved the earthy scent of the starter made from fermented potatoes that would make her dough rise gradually. After she moistened her mixture of flour, salt, oil, and starter with hot water, she rubbed a chunk of lard into her palms, moving her fingers back and forth together to coat them.

She kneaded the flesh-colored dough easily on the ceramic countertop. Usually the chore stultified her, but today she had her mind on Jacqueline's visit. She hoped her guest wouldn't find her too boring. Thrusting the heel of her hand into the elastic dough, she pushed several times, then folded the flattened material toward her and rammed it down and away from her body. What was it about Jacqueline that made her want to see her so much?

After she regreased her palms, she rotated the dough a quarter turn and concentrated on the way it molded to her fingers, stuck to them until she greased them again. The pliable dough gave repeatedly to her touch, flattened then swelled, and with each stroke of her hands it grew more ready to expand. What made Jacqueline so confident? Her beauty, of course. But something else, deep within, that Molly wanted to warm her hands by.

The minutes flew, and she kneaded the sticky substance much longer than necessary. She formed a ball, returned it to the bowl that she covered with a clean drying-cloth, and stuck it in a warm cupboard to rise.

Her lips suddenly dry, she had to drink some water before she spoke to Patrick. “Miss Jacqueline's coming to see me tomorrow.” He sat at the kitchen table and crumbled cornbread into a glass of buttermilk. “Maybe she'll still be here when you get home from school. She's a nice lady.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Patrick emptied the glass and shrugged.

She had fretted about Jacqueline for the past two weeks. When she wasn't at Sunday school the week after they met, she was disappointed but reasoned that Jacqueline was simply busy. After the second Sunday Jacqueline missed, she began to worry.

She reviewed each topic that had passed between them, every nuance of every word. Perhaps she had offended Jacqueline by insisting that they lighten the mood with some music. Her love of music irritated Mother Russell, so maybe Jacqueline felt the same way. But she'd praised the little trio on Easter Sunday.

When Jacqueline didn't show up at the church for a third time, she had decided to take action. How could she entice Jacqueline to visit, and how could she entertain her, not merely sit in the parlor and chat? That Monday morning as she'd glanced out at the rose garden, she'd conceived her idea about making rose water.

It was a pleasant task, not very strenuous, and provided just enough activity to cover any lulls in the conversation. If Jacqueline had truly been offended, or simply didn't like her, she could refuse the invitation and Molly would try to forget her. But if she accepted…She vibrated in anticipation but had no idea why this newcomer affected her so dramatically.

She hadn't slept well, and after she finally dozed off she woke with a start at first light as the rooster crowed and Mother Russell stomped into the kitchen, then clanged pots and pans. She muttered her usual insults—
sluggards, lay-abeds
—and looked startled when Molly appeared much earlier than normal, dressed and offering to help.

The morning had passed as slowly as the ribbon-cane syrup she poured on her breakfast biscuits. Should she call Jacqueline? What if she pushed her even further away for being so forward? What if Jacqueline acted rude, heaven forbid, or insulting? She couldn't eat more than a bite of peas and drink a big glass of sweet milk for dinner, and by early afternoon she was frantic. She
had
to make the call, because she couldn't remain in suspense any longer.

She shifted from one foot to the other as the telephone rang. How long should she wait? Four rings. Where was Jacqueline? Five. Perhaps she was visiting someone else. Six rings. This was ridiculous.

She was about to hang up when Jacqueline answered, breathing hard as if she had run to catch the phone in time. She could barely extend her invitation and was so shaky when Jacqueline finally accepted that she had to sit down on the nearby bench.

Jacqueline would come tomorrow. Mr. James would be out working in the fields, and Mother Russell would be rolling bandages at the Red Cross meeting. They would have most of the afternoon together. What relief. Maybe she could eat a bite of supper and sleep tolerably well.

*

At supper, Mrs. Russell thought,
My stars. Molly's been moping around the past few weeks, and now she looks like the cat that ate the canary. Can't ever tell with that gal. It's a wonder James hasn't noticed anything. 'Course, he wouldn't see a log truck unless it hit him.

She spelled it all out for her favorite laying hen the next morning as she gathered the eggs in the hen house. “Molly's been in the parlor every afternoon for days, playing sad songs. You'd think she'd lost her last dollar. Then yesterday afternoon she up and starts banging out some silly tune by that Russian fellow Chikovski. She played it so cheerful-like, even made me feel like whirling 'round the room—if I was up to such tomfoolery.”

Easing her hand under the warm hen, she slid out a fine-looking brown egg. “Been noticing too, for the past few weeks she's been sneaking off down to the pond every chance she gets. Walks real slow under the pine trees and looks up like she's talking to 'em. I should've cut those pines down a long time ago, right after we cleared the fields and the home site. Trees like those made good straight logs for our old cabin, and the barn and such like. But let 'em grow and they just shed needles everywhere.”

She placed the egg carefully into her straw basket and scooted over to the next nest. “But I got off track. Just having Molly on the place makes me do that. I was afraid she was losing her mind, but just before I thought I'd better have a heart-to-heart with James about her, she perks right up and acts like her little cheerful self again. Sure glad I didn't say anything.”

She put another egg in her basket, then headed back to the kitchen, mumbling to herself. “Probably should have dosed Molly with more sassafras tonic. Nothing like a good spring tonic to purify the blood and help make the change from winter to summer. Come to think of it, that's probably what's been ailing her. The sassafras just worked slower than normal this year. I'll double up next year and make her eat plenty of poke salad for good measure. Put her out of her misery, and me too. Worrying about her has worn me out.”