“We're going out to the cabin today, Gloria and me,” she said. “Going to get the place cleaned up. There's no use you sleeping in a barn when there's a perfectly good home just waiting.”
“You don't need to bother with the cleanin',” he told her. How could he tell her that the layers of dust weren't the reason for his choice. He had actually walked back there the night Kate died, bedroll and blanket in hand, but the memories of those brief moments with Gloria brought home that the barn was where he belonged.
“Suit yourself,” Maureen said, stooping to put the plate of food by his side. “But eat up and get your strength. I want you to thresh enough of that wheat to get me some straw to stuff a tick. There's going to be a nice clean home with a good fresh bed for somebody”
Now he stood straight, watching them—watching Gloria— wondering if she would turn around and offer a smile, a wave, any acknowledgment. But even though she was well within earshot, he didn't call out.
“Wheat's not going to thresh itself, you know.”
The voice of Big Phil came from just behind him. The greeting was accompanied by a hearty clap on John William's shoulder, and then the big man sat on the ground and reclined against the barn wall.
“Good mornin’ to you, too, my friend,” John William said, forcing a good-natured tone to his voice. “What are you doin’ here?”
“Maureen asked Anne to come over this morning and watch the baby Seems she and Gloria have some work to do. Thought I'd come see what I could do for you.”
“You'll be sure to let me know if my labor interferes with your mid-mornin’ nap.”
“Don't worry about me,” Phil said, pulling the rim of his hat low on his face. “I could sleep next to one of those big steam machines.”
John William bent at his waist, held the flail above his head, and sent it crashing to the tarp. The highly satisfying thud! sent the grains of wheat flying from their hulls and sifting down through the straw Without hesitation, he hoisted the flail and brought it down again, repeating the process over and over, taking tiny steps around the circumference of the carpet of wheat. The pure physical exertion of it felt good, reawakening muscles in his back and shoulders he hadn't accessed since his work in the mines.
Thud!
Why would God test his strength with a woman like that?
Thud!
A woman who had seemed to be an answer to a prayer to save his daughter's life.
Thud!
And then take his baby girl away the minute he—
Thud!
“Remind me never to pick a fight with you, son.” Big Phil's voice sounded drowsy.
“Why's that?”
“Because I have a sneaking suspicion you're picturing some poor fellow's face hiding underneath all that straw”
“Just my own, Phil.” Thud! “I've got no quarrel with anybody else.”
John William continued to work; Big Phil continued to watch.
“You know," Phil said after several minutes, “there's a machine up in Centerville that can do all that. Get the whole crop done in just a few days.”
John William paused in his labor and stood straight. His hair had worked itself out of the tie at the back of his neck, and he brought his hand up to rake the loose strands off his face.
“Them machines,” he said, turning to face his friend, “don't do much more than save some time. They crunch up the straw, make it so it can't be used for no thin'.”
“Ah,” Phil said before he disappeared into the barn and came out with a pitchfork. Careful to keep himself clear of the working flail, he dug the fork under the wheat already threshed and lifted it several inches off the ground, shaking it a bit to separate the stalk from the grain. He then dumped the stalks in the soft green grass that grew in the barn's shadow “This for a new bed?”
John William did not reply.
“Yep,” Phil continued, “nothing makes a sweeter bed than a fresh straw ticking.”
John William thought of a reply, then thought better of it. Thud!
“Better than feathers, that's what Anne and 1 think. A man doesn't have a claim to feathers, but when you and the wife settle down in the straw, it's like falling asleep in the fruits of your labors.”
Thud!
“Don't know if I'm bound to settle down with no woman any time soon.”
“That so, MacGregan? Reverend Fuller seems to think you two will be showing up on Sunday for a wedding.”
“That was the plan at one time.” Thud!
“And plans changed?”
“Of course plans changed, Phil.” John William continued to circle the wheat, crashing the flail down in an irregular rhythm. “I buried my little girl yesterday How could I be thinkin’ of—"John William dropped his arm and closed his fingers in a fist around the wooden stick in his hand and turned to Phil. “Why was Fuller talkin’ about any of this?”
“Now, son—”
“Are you tellin’ me that while my baby girl was lyin’ in her grave, all of you were inside discussin whether or not that woman was my wife?”
“Of course not.” Phil lowered the pitchfork and eyed the heavy wooden stick in John William's hand. “Reverend Fuller would never allow that kind of gossip. Not even from the women.”
“I've been honorable to her, Phil,” John William said.
Big Phil chuckled and scooped up a forkful of straw. “Well, God bless you for that, son. Course I always figured you two had some unfinished business.”
“We were very happy here, you know,” Maureen said.
“From what you've told me,” Gloria said, “you two would have been happy anywhere.”
They stood in the middle of the little cabin's front room, armed with a broom, buckets, and rags. The door stood open, as did the window, filling the house with chilled fresh air.
“It seems a bit drab now,” Maureen said, smiling warmly at Gloria, “but you'd be amazed at what a good cleaning can do. Then, we'll get some curtains for the window, a cloth for the table, a bright quilt on the bed—sure as shootin’ thisll feel like a real home.”
“I wouldn't know,” Gloria said, tying a square of cloth over the top of her head. “I've never had a real home.”
“Then, missy it's high time you did.”
Maureen positioned herself in one corner of the room and began sweeping with grand strokes across the wooden floor. The clouds of dirt kicked up were enormous, and Gloria was glad to have left the baby back at Maureen's house under the careful supervision of Big Phil's wife. How suspiciously convenient it was, Gloria thought, that the elderly couple happened to show up for a visit this morning.
“Now don't you just stand there doin’ nothin',” Maureen said, her voice full of affection. “Go on down to the creek and fill up that bucket. We'll give this place a good scrubbing make it look like new.”
Gloria continued to stand listlessly in the middle of the room until Maureen took her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “Come child. There's nothing like hard work to help a heart to heal.”
For the entirety of the morning and into the afternoon, Gloria did nothing without Maureen's explicit instruction. She swept where and how Maureen told her to, shaved as much of the soap into the bucket as instructed, and emptied the wash water only when Maureen deemed it too filthy to be doing any good.
Slowly, the tiny house took on new life. Cobwebs were cleared from the highest and lowest corners. Every surface was swept, scrubbed, rinsed, and scrubbed again. When the initial layer of grime was removed from the window, Maureen used a mixture of water and vinegar to wash it again, bringing in the sunshine with gorgeous clarity.
Through it all, Maureen kept up constant chatter about the history of the little cabin. How Ed had made the table and benches a permanent fixture to the walls because he had an irrational fear that the Indians would steal their furniture. How she had lived there three years without any cookstove, preparing all their meals over the fire in the fireplace, just as they had on the trail. How the first r
oof on the house was the canvas from their wagon and how it kept them just as dry as any shingled roof ever had. How Ed's desire for privacy led to the construction of the wall dividing the one-windowed cabin, creating a bedroom that was in perpetual darkness.
“I know,” Gloria said absently
Maureen paused midscrub and looked over at her. “You do?”
Immediately, Gloria blushed—blushed!—and said, “Yes. John showed me the day—the day we came here.”
“Did he, now?”
“That's why he's so angry with me. He says that's why Kate— that if we hadn't been—”
Maureen dropped her cleaning rag and held her arms out to Gloria, who walked straight into them, bending to rest her head on the little woman's shoulder.<
“Child, child,” Maureen said, patting comfort onto Gloria's back. “Men can say truly awful things in the face of grief. They feel like sadness ain't enough. They got to be angry at something, too, and they'll just turn on whatever's closest.”
Gloria disengaged herself from Maureen's embrace and sat down at the table. “He blames me," she said, staring at the wrinkled fingers she clutched in her lap.
“He blames himself.”
“He doesn't need me anymore, Maureen. He doesn't want me. 1 have a feeling he's going to send me away. Or send me…here.”
Maureen propped her hands on her hips and assumed a posture of indignation. “Now what's wrong with here, might I ask?”
Gloria looked up and smiled at her friend. “Nothing. It's lovely. But 1 hoped to be here together. As a family. I don't think I could go back to being the woman stashed away at the back of the property.”
“Nonsense," Maureen said. “Besides, my first mind is to set John William up here. Get him out of my barn. What must people think of me?”
Gloria tucked a stray curl back under the kerchief on her head. “I can't stay where I'm not wanted.”
“I want you, child. I've grown so fond of you.”
“But he doesn't.”
“He does. I know it.”
“You didn't see the way he looked at me yesterday.”
“Maybe not, but I've seen the way he's looked at you every other day Just give him some time.”
John William scooped up the last of the grain in the wide shallow bowl and tossed it up into the air. The breeze caught it midair and blew the chaff away, the grain making soft little ticksas it fell back into the bowl. He repeated the process again and again until the grains were clean enough to suit him, then he poured them into the grain sack propped against the wall. He took the pitchfork from Phil, used it to pitch down more of the wheat piled high in his wagon, picked up a sheaf, loosened its bundling, and spread the stalks on the tarp, repeating the process until the canvas was once again covered.
He held the flail out to Big Phil and offered to trade jobs, but Phil declined.
“I don't have the right muscles for that job,” Phil said, running his hands across his ample belly. “You're the strong one.”
“Trust me, my friend, this flesh is weak.”
“All the more reason to have a wedding.” Phil picked up a piece of straw, placed it between his teeth, and leaned against the barn wall.
John William merely scowled and attacked the grain. “You know,” he said, speaking between blows, “I do care for her.”
“Of course you do, son. That's why you need to make an honest woman out of her.”
“It'll take more than marryin’ her to do that.”
“You do your part here,” Phil said, “and let God take care of the rest.”
“She has a past, and she's havin’ a hard time puttin’ it behind her.”
The leather thong joining the two sticks was threatening to come loose, and John William stopped to tighten the knot.
“How about you?" Phil said.
“I try not to let it bother me, but sometimes—”
“What 1 meant was your past. You got yourself quite a story, don't you?”
John William paused in his task and turned his better ear toward Phil. “What did you say?”
“I saw you fight in Saint Louis,” Phil said, as calmly as if he were mentioning having seen him in the feed store last Tuesday. “Back in ‘59.”
John William felt his very breath slammed out of him, as if Big Phil had taken the flail and struck it square on his spine. He turned away and tried to absorb himself in repairing the flail.
“Beautiful match. Think you took him down in seven rounds. Long enough to make it worth watching, not so long to make it a bloodbath. You were like some sort of an artist in that ring.”
“If you're callin’ me an artist, you need to see more paintin's.” John William waited for Phil to join him in his nervous chuckle, but the older man was looking at him through narrowed eyes that seemed far from laughter.
“After that match,” Phil went on, “they offered twenty dollars to the man who would go just three rounds in the ring with you. Remember?”
He did.
“We was- all standing around, thinking that you had to be pretty tired out, and if you could have heard us all talking, wanting more than anything to get in that ring and take down Killer MacGregan. You recall what happened next?”
He didn't.
“Young kid came up. Couldn't have been more than twenty. Probably pretty drunk, too, from the looks of it. But strong. Been bragging all day about pulling stumps up bare-handed. Said he was going to use that twenty dollars to buy a ring for his girl.”
John William's memory came clearer with each detail, and when Phil once again asked if he remembered what happened, he had an answer.
“I dropped him with three punches.”
“Kid didn't know what hit him.” The tone of admiration was gone. “And the funny thing was that the same guys who was wanting to see you drop, cheered just as hard when that kid hit the canvas. Lust is lust, I guess.”
“I guess so,” John William said quietly.
“Know what 1 remember next?” Phil stood up and began to take steps toward John William. “I was at Boyd's Saloon—the missus never liked me drinking, but 1 never found much in the Bible to say a man couldn't toss back a few with his friends—and they brought you in. A crowd of men—and quite a few, er, ladies— brought you up to the bar like you was some kind of a hero. Some fancy fellow was with you—”
“My manager.”
“—and he said A round of drinks on the Killer!’ And we all started cheering again, never mind that he was buying drinks with our money lost betting against you.”
“Shoulda known not to bet against me.” John William offered a feeble smile, then turned to raise the newly repaired flail high and resume threshing the wheat. When he tried to bring it down, however, he could not. Big Phil stood behind him, his hand gripping the handle. John William released his own grip, and Phil held on to the stick, holding it close to John William's face in a manner that, had Phil not shown himself to be a friend, could have been seen as a threat.
“I was standing,” Phil said, “right at your elbow when you lifted that drink. You had money pouring out of your pockets. And blood crusted in your knuckles.”
“Why didn't you mention this when I first met you here?”
“Because," Phil said, taking a few steps back, “you didn't introduce yourself to me as Killer MacGregan. I looked at you, your family, and decided it was something you'd put behind you. You seemed happy—more than I can say about you when I saw you drinking that night.”
“Why are you tellin’ me all of this now?”
“Let me ask you a question. What would it take to get you back in that ring?”
The memory of what he used to do—what he used to be— filled him with such distaste that he hearkened back to the taste of his own blood in his mouth and was overcome with the desire to spit it out, which he did, causing Phil to take yet another step backward.
“I could never go back,” he said, staring at his boots. “I made a promise to myself. To God. 1 paid my pr
ice for what I did. For the men 1 hurt. Killed.”
“Maybe so,” Phil said, holding the flail out to John William, “but you got to remember that you didn't kill that little girl of yours. And neither did Gloria. You don't have to pay any price for that.”
John William looked into Big Phil's bright blue eyes and realized he'd never seen such wisdom and compassion in a man.
“Now I don't claim to know the details of Gloria's past,” Phil continued, “but I can make a pretty good guess at it. And don't you think she's made a few promises of her own?”
“I don't know. I suppose she has.”
“Sending her away'd be like putting yourself back in that ring,” Phil said, picking up the pitchfork and preparing to sift the straw on the canvas. “And it won't bring your baby girl back.”
Gloria threw out the last of the wash water and dropped the soiled rags inside.
“Neat as a pin, now, isn't it?” Maureen's cheerful voice hadn't lost its spirit or cadence despite the long afternoon's work.
“It's perfect.” Gloria set down the bucket and, with her hands pressed to the small of her back, stretched back.
The handcart Maureen had brought from the house held a wealth of treasures beyond the cleaning supplies, including a bright blue cloth for the table.
“When John William goes to Centerville for the milling, he can look for some matching fabric to make cushions for the benches,” Maureen said as she lofted the tablecloth over the slab of wood. From her own home she donated a matching butter dish, creamer, and sugar bowl to sit in the middle of the table.
The shelves above the little workspace held the few dishes Gloria and John William had in their wagon. The frying pan hung on a hook in the wall; the cooking pot stood ready in the fireplace.
“And of course,” Maureen said, “you can borrow from me anything that you need.”
Crisp, starched white curtains hung at the newly clean window, and the narrow shelf below it housed a pretty collection of glass jars.
“For herbs,” she'd said. “The light here is perfect for them.”
Gloria had simply followed behind her, running her fingers over each item.
Ten Thousand Charms Page 26
