He swallowed his pride, crossed the half-scrubbed floor and squatted beside her, resting both elbows on his knees. "I don’t want to go… but I didn’t hire on here to deliver babies," he argued quietly, reasonably. "I mean, it’s"-he swallowed-"it’s a little personal, wouldn’t you say?"
"I guess that would bother you," she returned tightly, continuing to scrub, moving to a new patch of floor to avoid his eyes.
He considered long and hard, fixing his attention on the top of her head. "Yes… yes it would."
"Glendon did it… twice."
"That was different. He was your husband."
Still scrubbing, she said, "You could be, too."
A shaft of hot surprise sizzled through his veins. But what if he’d misunderstood? Weighing her words, he balanced on the balls of his feet, watching her rock above the scrub rag as the wet spot spread. Her cheeks grew flushed as she clarified, "I mean, I’ve been thinking, and it’s okay with me if we went ahead and got married now. I think we’d get along all right, and the boys like you a lot and you’re real good with them, and… and I really don’t throw eggs very often." Still she wouldn’t look up.
He contained a smile while his heartbeat clattered. "Is that what you want?"
"I guess."
Then look at me. Let me see it in your eyes.
But when she finally glanced up he saw only embarrassment at having asked. So… she was not in love, only in a bind… and he was convenient. But, after all, he’d known that from the first time he’d walked in here, hadn’t he?
The silence remained tense. He stretched to his feet and crossed to a window, looked out at the backyard he’d cleaned, the clothespoles he’d sturdied, thinking of how much more he wanted to do for her. "You know, Eleanor, it’s silly for us to do this just because you put up some ad in the sawmill and just because I answered it. That isn’t reason enough for two people to tie up for life, is it?"
"Don’t you want to?"
He glanced over his shoulder to find her watching him with face ablaze.
"Do you?"
I’m pregnant and unbright and unpretty, she thought.
I’m an ex-con woman-killer, he thought.
And neither of them spoke what was in their hearts.
At length, he glanced out at the yard again. "It seems to me there should be some… some feeling between people or something." It was his turn to flush, but he kept it hidden from her.
"I like you fine, Will. Don’t you like me?"
She might have been discussing which new rake to select, so emotionless was her tone.
"Yeah," he said throatily, after a moment. "I like you fine."
"Then I think we ought to do it."
Just like that-no harp music swelling out of the heavens, no kissing beneath the stars. Only Elly, seven months pregnant, struggling to her feet and drying her hands on her apron. And Will standing six feet clear of her, staring in the opposite direction. The way they’d laid it out made it sound as exciting as President Roosevelt’s Lend-Lease Program. Well, enough was enough. Before Will agreed, he was going to know exactly what he was getting into here. Resolutely he turned to face her.
"You mind my asking something?"
"Ask."
"Where would I sleep?"
"Where would you want to sleep?"
He really wasn’t sure. Sleeping with her would be tough, lying beside her pregnant body and not touching it. But sleeping in the barn was mighty lonely. He decided to give away no more or less than necessary. "The nights are getting pretty cool out in that barn."
"The only place in here is where Glendon slept, you know."
"I know." After an extended silence, "So?"
"You’d be my husband."
"Yeah," he said expressionlessly, realizing she wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect.
"I… I sleep with the light on."
"I know."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You do?"
"I’ve been up at night and seen it."
"It’d probably keep you awake."
What was she doing arguing against it when the idea made her have to fight for breath?
He thought long and hard before trusting her enough to reveal a crack in his defenses. "In prison it was never completely dark either."
He noted a softening in her expression and wondered if someday he could trust her with the rest of his vulnerabilities.
"Well, in that case…" The silence welled around them while they tried to think of what to say or do next. Had this been a regular proposal with the expected emotions on both sides, the moment would undoubtedly have been intimate. Because it wasn’t, the strain multiplied.
"Well…" He rubbed his nose and chuckled nervously.
"Yes… well." She spread her hands, then linked them beneath her swollen belly.
"I don’t know how a person goes about getting married."
"We do it at the courthouse in Calhoun. We can get the license right there, too."
"You want to drive in tomorrow, then?"
"Tomorrow’d be fine."
"What time?"
"We’d better start early. We’ll have to take a wagon, ’cause the boys’ll be with us. And as you know, Madam’s pretty slow."
"Nine o’clock then?"
"Nine should be fine."
For a moment they studied each other, realizing to what they’d just agreed. How awkward. How incredible. Self-consciousness struck them simultaneously. He reached up to pull his hat brim down, only to discover he’d left his hat hanging on the fencepost. So he hooked a thumb in his hind pocket and backed up a step.
"Well… I got work to finish." His thumb jabbed the air above his shoulder.
"So do I."
He backed up two more steps, wondering what she’d do if he switched directions and kissed her. But in the end he followed his own advice and left without trying.
Chapter 8
Falling into bed that night, Eleanor lay wide-awake, thinking of the day past, the day to come, the years ahead. Would she and Will live peaceably or fight often? Fighting was something new to her. In the years she’d been married to Glendon, they’d never fought-perhaps because Glendon was just too lazy.
In the place where she’d grown up there was no fighting either. And no laughter. Instead, there had been tension, never-ending tension. From her earliest memories it was there, always hovering like a monster threatening to swoop down and scoop her up with its black wings. It was there in the way Grandmother carried herself, as if to let her shoulders wilt would displease the Lord. It was there in her mother’s careful attempts to walk quietly, carry out orders without complaint, and never meet Grandmother’s eyes. But it was greatest when Grandfather came home. Then the praying would intensify. Then the "purifying" would begin.
Eleanor would kneel on the hard parlor floor, as ordered, while Grandfather raised his hands toward the ceiling and, with his scraggly gray beard trembling and his eyes rolled back in his head, would call down forgiveness from God. Beside her, Grandmother would moan and carry on like a dog having fits, then start talking gibberish as her body trembled. And Mother-the sinner-would squeeze her eyes shut and interlace her fingers so tightly the knuckles turned white, and rock pitifully on her knees while her lips moved silently. And she, Eleanor-the child of shame-would lower her forehead to her folded hands and peek out with one eye at the spectacle, wondering what it was she and her mother had done.
It seemed impossible that Mother could have done anything bad. Mother was meek as a violet, hardly ever spoke at all, except when Grandfather demanded that she pray aloud and ask forgiveness for her depravity. What was depravity? the child, Eleanor, wondered. And why was she a child of shame?
While Eleanor was small Mother sometimes talked to her, quietly, in the privacy of the bedroom they shared. But as time went on, Mother grew more tacit and withdrawn. She worked hard-Grandmother saw to that. She did all the gardening, while Grandmother pulled back the edge of the shade and stood sentinel. If anyone passed on the road, Grandmother would hasten to the back door and hiss through a crack, "Ssst! Get in here, Chloe!" until in time, Chloe no longer waited for the order, but scuttled inside at the first glimpse of anyone approaching.