Love on the Line

by Deeanne Gist

  Squaring his hat, he let himself through the gate. The closer he came to the porch, the quieter he moved, one ear cocked. No sound came from within. So either no one was on the phone or she was out back whacking cats.

  Easing up the steps, he crossed the veranda and peeked inside. She sat at the switchboard, her back to the door, her earpiece tethering her to the machine. The brown of her skirt was lost against the oak switchboard, but her crisp white shirtwaist clearly outlined petite shoulders and tiny waist.

  She slowly fanned herself with a large straw fan, her attention fixed on something outside. She’d repaired her hair. He wondered when she realized it was all askew from cat whacking. She’d certainly been unaware of it while he’d been there.

  Unusual for a female. All the women he knew had a sixth sense if something about their person was amiss. Not Miss Gail. She’d had no idea.

  Even now he could see she’d missed a few wispys. They lifted and fell with each wave of her fan. He took another moment to enjoy the view, because that’s all it was. Once he made his presence known, Jekyll would vanish and Hyde would appear.

  He moved his attention to the desk, but the mesh screen kept him from seeing whether a key lay on top of it. Miss Gail pulled a lever on the board, then unplugged two cables. She pulled another lever but left those cables in.

  He tapped the doorframe. Glancing over her shoulder, she tensed, then turned back around. No invitation inside, but no command to go away, either.

  Opening the screen, he hooked his hat on the stand and crossed to the desk. A key lay smack in the middle of it. He let out a silent breath.

  She picked up a pair of binoculars and pointed them in the opposite direction from where he stood. He followed her line of vision out the window. There was nothing to see. Yet she kept them against her eyes, pretending fascination with . . . a leaf?

  He rubbed his mouth. Should he thank her? Probably not. Apologize? Absolutely not. So he pulled out a chair, sat down, and unlocked the top drawer.

  Ding.

  She set down the binoculars. “Hello, Central.”

  He tuned her out and went through every file, every document, every ledger. She kept excellent records. Her penmanship was first-rate. Her math flawless.

  He began memorizing the names and locations of those receiving service outside of town. When his eyes began to cross, he stretched, linking his hands behind his head and twisting to the left. He twisted to the right and froze. She was staring at him, only she wasn’t taking in the view the way he’d done earlier. No, she was looking at him as if he was a polecat at a picnic.

  He lowered his arms.

  “How does everything look?” she asked.

  It was the best record keeping he’d ever seen. And he’d seen plenty. “It’ll do.”

  Her lips thinned. The little mole beneath them shifted. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “How long are you going to sit there?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Am I bothering you?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t try to hide his amusement.

  “Gloating?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  She crossed her arms. “How long are you going to sit there?”

  “Miss Georgie, Miss Georgie!”

  The two of them turned. The little gal from the depot scurried across the veranda, hunching over something in her hands. He stood, but before he could open the screen, she one-handed it. Her overalls had taken a turn for the worse, dirt marring their knees and seat.

  “Sorry that last message took me so long to deliver,” the girl said. “But lookit what I found. You’ll never believe it.” She stopped short, gaping at him. “What’re you doin’ here?”

  “I work here,” he said.

  “No foolin’?”

  “No fooling.”

  She accepted his claim with the unquestioning faith of youth, continued to Miss Gail’s side, then held out her prize.

  Miss Gail lurched back in her chair. Was it something poisonous? He was there in two strides, but it was only a bird’s nest with three tiny eggs inside.

  “Oh, Bettina.” Miss Gail pressed her knuckles against her mouth. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the big ol’ pecan tree over there in Germania Park. Some fellers were throwing rocks at it, but I chased ’em off. Then I got to thinking, they’d fer sure come back later, you know, on account o’ Ottfried’s offer? So I done climbed up that tree and rescued it. Wanna help me put it in yer birdhouse?” She headed toward the kitchen.

  “Bettina.” A sadness edged Miss Gail’s tone.

  The girl stopped.

  “We can’t put that nest in the birdhouse, I’m afraid.”

  Bettina’s eyes widened. “You done got somebody in there already?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Then how come I can’t put it in there?”

  Miss Gail clasped her hands in her lap. “The mother and father bird won’t be able to find it.”

  “Why, sure they will. All them birds round here come to yer place. It’s the best spot in town.”

  “All the same, this nest has to stay right where the parents put it.”

  The girl looked at the nest, clearly unconvinced. “I can’t put it back. Them boys’ll get it. How ’bout I put it in yer mulberry tree? Why, that tree’s as busy as Charlie’s place on a Saturdee night.”

  Luke lifted his brows.

  Bright spots of pink colored Miss Gail’s cheeks. “You mustn’t say things like that,” she whispered.

  “I ain’t lying.” Bettina whipped herself up.

  “Of course not. I meant . . .” She sighed. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later. For now, tell me what you mean about Mr. Ottfried’s offer.”

  “You know, the cash money offer.”

  “For his millinery? I haven’t heard anything about it.”

  Bettina clucked her tongue. “You’re the town operator, Miss Georgie. You’re supposed to know about this kinda stuff.”

  The pink in Miss Gail’s cheeks flushed bright red and filled her entire face. He slid his hands in his pockets and leaned against the desk.

  “Perhaps you’d best tell me,” she said.

  Ding. She handled the call, then turned back to Bettina.

  “Mr. Ottfried’s givin’ out money fer any kind o’ bird stuff you bring in.”

  Miss Gail frowned. “What kind of bird stuff?”

  “You know, feathers, nests, eggs, even whole birds—dead or alive.”

  With each item listed, Miss Gail’s posture straightened a bit more, as if a pulley stretched her one crank at a time. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I ain’t lying.” Bettina’s face crumpled. “That’s twice now you haven’t believed me.”

  Miss Gail held out a hand, but the girl didn’t take it, so she let it drop.

  “I believe you, Bettina. It’s Mr. Ottfried I can’t believe.”

  “Well, he ain’t lying, neither. There’s a big ol’ sign in his window.”

  She removed her earpiece, careful not to muss her hair, and rose to her feet. “Can you do me a favor, Mr. Palmer?”

  He crossed his ankles. “Depends on what it is.”

  “Will you watch the switchboard for me? I need to run to town for a few minutes.”

  The switchboard? She wanted him to work the switchboard? But that was a woman’s job.

  He couldn’t say that, of course. Not after the big stink he’d made about women working. Still, he didn’t fancy himself sitting there answering the phone. However . . .

  He looked at the toes of his boots, then back up at her. “I do my job my way, on my time frame. No questions asked.”

  “Deal.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  She gripped the back of her chair. “Well, hurry up. What else?”

  “The desk is mine. The key is mine.”

  Her lips fell open. “That’s not fair.”

  “I
t’s mine anyway and we both know it.”

  She drummed her fingernail on the seatback. “Can we share it?”

  He pursed his lips. “We might could work something out.”

  “Good.” She yanked her chair back. “Sit down and let me show you how to use this thing.”

  Chapter Six

  Georgie hurried down Market Street. She’d never missed a moment of work since arriving in Brenham. Too many people depended on her. She wasn’t at all comfortable leaving them in Mr. Palmer’s hands, but he’d caught on fast, this was an emergency, and he was, after all, an employee of SWT&T.

  Bettina did her best to keep up, but her oversized boots slowed her down and she was still trying to preserve the nest of eggs. “I’m tellin’ ya, if I put ’em back, them boys will get ’em.”

  The little eggs were doomed no matter what. Georgie had seen birds take on snakes to protect their young. If boys had thrown rocks and Bettina had stolen the nest—all without repercussions—then the parents had long since abandoned their babies.

  Still, if there was any chance . . . “I want you to put it back just the same. Perhaps the mama and daddy birds will return.”

  “What if they don’t?” The girl looked at her treasure. “No tellin’ what Mr. Ottfried would pay for a nest and three whole eggs.”

  Georgie pulled up short. “You may not sell those to Mr. Ottfried.”

  “But what if he pays me a nickel? I’d be rich as Will Cummings if I had me a whole nickel.”

  Georgie’s heart squeezed. Lifting one of the girl’s brown braids, she fanned a finger across its tail. It was time for a hair wash. “Is the money you’re earning as my errand girl running out too fast?”

  Bettina pulled back, breaking the connection between her braid and Georgie. “Me and Pa are getting by. But that don’t mean I wouldn’t like a sarsaparilla stick or one of them rock-and-rye drops. And sometimes, I get me a powerful thirst fer a Dr. Pepper. I could get all that fer a nickel and still have money left over.”

  Normally Bettina kept her vulnerabilities well hidden. That she would reveal such a wish list spoke volumes.

  “What if the mama and daddy birds are there right now?” Georgie asked. “Looking for their babies?”

  “What if they aren’t?”

  She took a deep breath. “If you sell those to Mr. Ottfried, they’ll end up on some lady’s hat. How would you feel if you ran into somebody wearing those poor baby eggs?”

  “I’d wanna know how much she paid fer her hat.”

  Georgie looked up the street toward the milliner’s. “More than a nickel, I can promise you that.”

  “How much more?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Bird hats are the most expensive ones. They run anywhere from five dollars on up.”

  “Five dollars!” Bettina’s eyes bugged. “He ought not offer a nickel for these, then. It ain’t right a’tall.”

  “No, using birds for fashion is criminal, I think.”

  “I think buying these fer a nickel, then selling the hat fer five dollars is crim’nal.” Her brows scrunched together in a fierce frown. “I can tell ya this, if he offers me anything less than fifty cents, I ain’t givin’ none of it to him. Not so much as a twig from the nest.”

  Georgie placed two fingers against her forehead. “You’re missing the point. You shouldn’t sell them to him at all. Don’t you see? He’s killing innocent creatures just so he can turn them into ornaments.”

  Bettina inched backward. “I know you love yer birds and all, Miss Georgie, but lots o’ folks kill ’em. Even you eat eggs.”

  She followed the girl step for step. “I’m not talking about hunting them for food or gathering eggs from a henhouse. I’m talking about killing birds for no other reason than to put them on a hat. If we keep it up, we’ll have no birds left.”

  Bettina gave her a skeptical look. “We ain’t likely to run outta birds.”

  “That’s what they said about passenger pigeons. We had millions of them, billions even. Their flocks were so dense they’d block the noonday sun clean out, and where are they now? Gone, or very nearly so. And for what purpose? To satisfy a bunch of trapshooting men and to trim the clothing of a bunch of fashion-conscious women.”

  Bettina scratched her hip. “I’m right sorry, Miss Georgie. I don’t wanna make ya mad. I mighta put it back if it meant a nickel, but fifty cents? Well, me and Pa could live a long time on fifty cents.” She whirled around and jogged down the boardwalk, boots clomping.

  Georgie watched her go, her throat swelling. Those eggs would never hatch whether Bettina sold them or not. But that wasn’t the point. The fifty cents she’d earn was as tainted as the thirty pieces of silver Judas earned. The difference was, Bettina didn’t understand what she was doing. But Judas and Mr. Ottfried did.

  Setting her jaw, she looked neither left nor right, but straight ahead. Marching down Market Street, she determined she would put a stop to his grotesque offer if it was the last thing she did.

  In her resolve to reach the millinery, she didn’t immediately hear her name being called. When it finally penetrated, she looked around, a bit dazed.

  Mrs. Ottfried, the milliner’s wife, stood in front of the curiosity shop, waving her over. “Georgie, dear. Whatever are you doing? Who’s working the switchboard? Has some calamity befallen? You look utterly pallid. I hope no one has . . .”

  The rest was lost on Georgie as her vision cleared and she had her first real glimpse at Mrs. Ottfried’s outfit. An owl’s head with blank staring eyes perched upon her hat. Swallows’ wings edged her cape. And heads of yellow finches hemmed her skirt.

  Georgie slammed her eyes shut, but the image remained stamped on her mind.

  Mrs. Ottfried slipped her arm around Georgie’s waist. “My dear, you look ready to faint. Quick, come inside Ernst’s shop and catch your breath.”

  A swallow’s wing brushed against Georgie’s arm. Yelping, she jumped out of reach, bile quickly rising. Pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she looked for an alley or someplace she could go, but there was nothing.

  Instead, she ran. Back down Market Street, right on Sycamore, and left on Cottonwood, no longer able to hold her tears or distress at bay.

  Adjusting the earpiece, Luke stretched his legs in front of him and crossed his feet. “Well, thank you for asking, Miss Honnkernamp. I reckon my favorite is pork belly. I don’t suppose there’s any place in town you might recommend, is there?”

  “Oh my. It takes a person who knows what she’s doing to rub, brine, and braise a belly, Mr. Palmer.”

  He allowed himself a smile. “That so?”

  “Yes, indeed. And I can’t think of anyone in town who does it up right.”

  “That’s some mighty sorry news you’re giving me, ma’am.” Picking up the pencil he’d been keeping notes with, he scribbled fast or naïve? beside Mattieleene Honnkernamp’s name. “Just how do the fellas round here survive without pork belly?”

  She made him wait a few seconds before answering. “I guess they get themselves invited to dinner by someone who has experience.”

  He stilled. Her voice was low and full of suggestion. He crossed out naïve. “I reckon you’re right about that.” Sitting up, he tucked his legs beneath the chair. “Well, I better—”

  The gate out front slammed, rapid footfalls in its wake.

  Frowning, he looked over his shoulder. “I better let you go, Miss Honnkernamp, and free up some of these other lines. It was a pleasure—”

  Miss Gail yanked open the screen door and charged straight into her room, immediately to the left of the front entrance. He jumped to his feet, the cord of the earpiece pulling him up short like a dog on a leash.

  She slapped the door shut behind her. In the brief seconds he had, he catalogued mussed hair, pale face, red nose, and fresh tears.

  “Would you like to join my family for supper, Mr. Palmer?” Miss Honnkernamp asked. “Now that we know what your favorite is, I’m sure—”

  Thro
wing off the earpiece, he yanked the cable from the jack and rushed to her bedroom door. “Miss Gail? Are you all right? Are you hurt? What’s happened?”

  No answer. He cocked his ear and held himself still. The sound of suppressed sobs came from the direction of the veranda. Pushing open the screen, he stuck his head out.

  The crying was louder. He looked toward the swing, then remembered. Her window. It was open. Easing onto the porch, he stood and listened.

  Whatever happened had been catastrophic. She took deep, broken breaths, followed by a long series of quiet, staccato sobs. He rubbed his mouth. What in tarnation?

  Ding.

  He pictured her prone on the bed, face cradled in the crook of her arm. Closing his eyes, he called to mind as much of her room as he could. The bed had been shoved against the window. Its quilt reminded him of a little girl’s, all pinks, yellows, and blues with large squares patched together. A washstand had been on the opposite wall, a wardrobe against the right, a fireplace in the mix. That was all he could remember.

  Ding.

  His mother had spent a good portion of her life crying, but she never troubled to hide it. It had been so much a part of his childhood, he was buying his first shaving mug before he realized all women weren’t like that.

  Still, it had been a long time. And it was the last thing he’d expected from Miss Gail.

  Ding.

  She started to wind down, taking deep breaths, then releasing them in exhausted exhales. After a moment, all was still and quiet.

  Ding.

  He scowled, wishing he knew how to disconnect the stupid bell, but that hadn’t been covered in his manual. As hushed as it was, he knew she was waiting for him to answer it. If he went in there now, she’d hear the screen door and realize he was eavesdropping. He rubbed his eyes. What was he doing out here?

  Ding.

  Her bed creaked; then she blew her nose. He quickly slipped inside. Several drop lines had fallen. Settling into the chair, he started answering.

  “Central.”

  “Who’s this? Where’s Georgie?”

  “This is Luke Palmer. I’m the new troubleman. Miss Gail ran to town. She’ll be back any minute. Who can I get for you?”