Ten Thousand Charms

by Allison Pittman

  And the conversations, the stories. The little parlor brimmed with laughter and thoughtful silences as, hour by hour, Maureen and Gloria and John William shared their lives with each other. This is where Gloria learned that John William grew up in Illinois. His father, an immigrant from Scotland, married a lovely Irish girl who died when John William was just five years old. He was a hired field hand who never owned his own farm. He drank heavily, much to the shame of his family, and John William’s first fights were an attempt to defend his family’s honor.

  He told Maureen about his days as a boxer, about the death of two men at his hands, about prison. Gloria sensed his acute shame as he told the story, and she longed to reach out and comfort him. But as he told of his “salvation,” his voice took on a tone of triumphant joy, and Maureen muttered a tearful, “Praise God.” Gloria felt a little like an outsider, like someone who didn’t quite understand the language of the room.

  At some point, after the babies were fed for the final time and sleepy, the long day’s work wore on everyone. There were yawns and stretches and declarations of being asleep before the head hit the pillow. Every night, starting that first night, John William bent low to kiss Maureen’s soft cheek, then stood and nodded good night to Gloria before going outside to check on the livestock one last time. Gloria and Maureen went into their room where, over the course of changing into nightgowns and brushing and braiding hair, the conversation continued to flow.

  When Gloria finally sank into the softness of Maureen’s feathered pillow, she lingered awake but silent, respectful of the prayers of the friend beside her. She listened until she heard John William come back in and latch the door. She waited for the soft thump of the second boot, the rustle of straw. She tried to wait for the familiar buzz of his snore, but often fell asleep before she heard it, wondering if he were praying, too.

  One evening there was a dazzling sunset that washed the farm in brilliant color. Gloria stood at the kitchen window, mesmerized, her hands wiping dishes. Behind her, John William sat at the table, jotting down rows of numbers that had something to do with the amount of seed needed to expand next year’s crop. Maureen was out in the yard keeping the babies amused until Gloria was finished tidying up.

  “She really loves the children,” Gloria said, looking over her shoulder at John William.

  “Mm hmm.”

  “You shouldn’t tip that chair back like that, you know. You’ll crack your skull.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  Gloria sighed and returned to the task at hand. She remembered a conversation with the girls back at Jewell’s, about the deep satisfaction of doing dishes. Right now, she thought she’d really rather be outside playing with the babies, but that stemmed more from the frustration of being ignored.

  “You know,” she said, amused with the prospect of annoying John William with her talk, “when I was at Jewell’s, we had a thought about doing dishes. I said that I actually liked doing them because it was like getting a fresh start to the day. Then Biddy—I’m not sure you remember her; she was so young and so … sad.”

  Gloria allowed her voice to trail, wondering if John William would follow it. When he didn’t, she simply picked up a cup and resumed.

  “Well, Biddy said that she thought what would be even better than that would be having your own home and doing your own dishes.” She smiled a little at the memory, and sent a wish that Biddy was sharing some of the happiness that she was now. “Then Sadie—I know you remember Sadie—she said …”

  Again she left a silent little trail, but this time she simply remembered what Sadie had said, and decided she didn’t want to share after all. She set the cup to drain on the countertop and rummaged through the soapy water in search of another.

  “What did Sadie say?” His voice was quiet, distracted.

  “It’s not important. You know Sadie.”

  “No, tell me.” She could tell he was looking up from his papers. Looking at her.

  “Well, she said …” Gloria straightened her shoulders and assumed the tall woman’s posture and worked her voice around an exaggerated German accent. “Washing in your own home would be gut, but what would be best would be to have the man of the house …”

  “Yes?”

  She dropped the accent. “To have the man of the house come up behind you—now remember, this was Sadie talking—come up behind you, give you a little nuzzle on your neck and say, ‘Tut, tut love, you look tired. Why don’t you go lie down and let me finish up?’ ”

  She’d stayed true to Sadie’s words and immediately felt stupid for it. She could have said anything, made up any clever quip, but her mind was not as sharp and witty as her old friend’s was, and the silence that followed was unbearable.

  Then she heard the sound of two chair legs landing on the smooth wood floor and the scrape of them as he backed the chair away. She sensed rather than heard him unfold his long body from behind the table, felt the footsteps that brought him up behind her.

  His breath was warm on the back of her neck, but perhaps she felt it only because her own had stopped. He was leaning in closer, so close that if she were to turn her head, his whiskers would graze her face.

  She didn’t turn her head. He turned it for her. He brought his hand around her to rest on her chin and turned her face to look straight into his.

  “Well now, darlin’,” he said, that warm smile on his face. “I don’t think you look a bit tired.” He brought the tip of his nose to briefly nuzzle the tip of hers, then took the last corn muffin from the platter about to be washed and went outside to play.

  18

  You can’t make me go,” she said that morning even as she carried the blanket and food for the church dinner out to the wagon.

  “You’re going,” he said, amused by her protest.

  “What about the babies?”

  “They’re fine with me,” said Maureen. “Kate oughtn’t go out with this sniffle anyway. Besides,” she added with a wink, “might be nice for the two of you to have a little time alone.”

  The morning crackled with the timid chill of early September, a chill that would disappear long before noon. The sun climbed higher with each turn of the wagon’s wheels, sending a golden light across acres and acres of ripened wheat ready for harvest. His wheat. His harvest. Or it would be some year. He had enough cash to meet half of Maureen’s asking price for the farm; the other half he would pay in labor—taking no share of the profits—until a fair price had been paid. He still wasn’t sure who profited from the deal more: Maureen for the opportunity to stay with the life she so dearly loved, or him for having a soft buffer to come between him and Gloria.

  “I won’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Land rolled all around them, soft sloping fields bordered by towering trees. They passed freshly cleared land of new homesteads, drove through cold gurgling streams. Morning dew muffled the horses’ hooves and discouraged dust.

  “I won’t know what to say.”

  “Say nothin’.”

  A series of structures dotted the horizon. Middleton. A new, limited general store. A livery stable. A post office. A church.

  It wasn’t until he reached up to help her down from the wagon that John William realized Gloria’s protests were born not of stubbornness but of fear. She was firmly on the ground, but she kept a grip on his arm as if to save her very life.

  “They won’t like me.”

  “They don’t know you.”

  “But I don’t belong—”

  “Everybody belongs in God’s house.” He tried to adjust his tone from one of chastisement to reassurance, but her frozen expression told him he hadn’t soothed her at all. One arm wanted to fold her to him and bring shelter from whatever unkindness she anticipated, the other wanted to yank her through the doorway. Luckily, the warm, welcoming voice of Josephine Logan kept him from doing either.

  “Gloria? Oh, Gloria, I’m so glad you could join us this morning.”

&
nbsp; “G’mornin’ Mrs. Logan,” John William said, touching his fingers to his hat.

  “Mr. MacGregan,” Josephine said. She gave an eager look around before asking, “Where are the babies?”

  “At home,” Gloria said, with more than a little resentment in her voice. “Mrs. Brewster is watching them this morning. Kate had a bit of a sniffle.”

  “So you are staying at the Brewster place,” Josephine said. “How kind of her to stay behind this morning.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gloria said, her voice dripping sweetness. “She is kindness itself.”

  Just then Reverend Thomas Fuller stood on the top step and called out, “Come and worship! Let us gather in worship!” and the crowd began to move toward the door.

  John William cradled Gloria’s elbow and steered her inside. He took them to the last row of seats, right up against the back wall, and settled in with Gloria sitting on the aisle.

  “You may leave any time you wish,” he whispered in her ear.

  Gloria turned and said, without whispering, “I know that.”

  “But I’d like you to stay.”

  When the congregation stood to sing, Gloria stood with them, stoic and silent by his side. John William always loved to sing; he rather vainly enjoyed the admiring looks given over the shoulders of the people in front of him. Gloria had told him once that he had a very nice voice, and when he asked her to sing, she’d laughed and said, “The only songs I know would make your ears turn to fire.” He’d caught her humming to the children and trilling nonsense verses countless times. But now she made no sound. He held the hymnbook between them, ran his finger along the lines of text, but she just stared at a point on the floor somewhere, and he remembered she couldn’t read.

  The songs were followed by a time of prayer. At Maureen’s, they’d developed the habit of joining hands, so John William reached for her, only to realize that both her hands were folded into her crossed arms. He brought his hand back, allowed one to clutch the other, and bowed his head.

  Reverend Fuller was five minutes into his sermon when Adele walked in.

  “I’m sorry, father,” she said quietly as she passed in front of the pulpit and made her way down the aisle. The smile on her face said she was completely aware of every eye on her. Her wide silk skirt brushed against the pews as she made her way to the back, to the very back where John William and Gloria sat.

  “May I sit here?” she said.

  John William nodded and slid down the bench.

  “I guess she didn’t hear me,” Adele whispered. At least that’s what John William thought she said, for she was sitting to his right, the side with his badly damaged ear. Soon the smell of Adele Fuller’s lavender water engulfed Gloria’s clean, soapy scent. Her silk-clad arm brushed against his as she opened her Bible. When he turned his good ear toward the pulpit in order to hear the sermon, his peripheral vision captured the lace ruffle that rose and fell with her breath. So he scooted over one more inch, faced straight ahead, and allowed the preacher’s words to disappear.

  It was a long ride home.

  “Can we go any faster? I’m starving,” Gloria said. They’d been riding for nearly thirty minutes, and these were the first words spoken.

  “We could have stayed for the dinner.”

  “I need to get home. I know you’re anxious for me to be on my way, but the babies—”

  “Who said I was anxious for you to leave?”

  “You did. If I remember correctly, we were sitting in the house of God when you reminded me that I was free to leave at any time.”

  John William sighed. “I meant church. That you could leave church. I saw how uncomfortable you were.”

  “So you don’t think I belong there either?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” John William slapped the reins causing the horses to lurch ahead. Gloria had to grab the seat in order to regain her balance.

  “You said you wanted to speed up,” John William said.

  A few moments passed before Gloria said, “What was her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman you were sitting with.”

  “I wasn’t sitting with her.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Adele Fuller. She’s the reverend’s daughter.”

  “Ah,” Gloria said.

  “You didn’t move with me,” John William said. “You just sat there.”

  “I didn’t know I could move.”

  John William laughed out loud. “Didn’t know—That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. When someone comes in you move down. Make room.”

  “And how was I supposed to know that?”

  “It’s common sense,” he said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Nothing about this was common to Gloria. He’d made her feel abandoned and alone—exactly what she had been afraid of all morning. Transferring the reins to one hand, he brought the other over to touch her arm, but she bristled and pulled away.

  “If you remember,” John William said after a while, “I also sat in the house of God and said that I’d like you to stay.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before she came in. Before she sat down.”

  Then it hit him, what this was all about. An intense, amused warmth spread through him, bringing with it a triumphant smile. He pulled the reins to bring the team to a halt and turned to face her.

  “Gloria,” he said, “don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

  She wrinkled her nose and scoffed. “I most certainly am not jealous. I am simply a practical woman—”

  He laughed out loud at that.

  “And as a practical woman, I realize that Adele Fuller is perfect for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. She’s pretty and clean. She’s the reverend’s daughter so she probably knows the Bible backwards and forwards …” Gloria gestured nervously as she spoke. “Can we keep driving, please?”

  John William clicked to the team and let the reins fall gently on the horses. Their pace was now a leisurely one, perfect for allowing thoughts to settle in.

  “Plus,” Gloria said, “it’s obvious that she wants you.”

  “Obvious, is it?”

  “There were other seats, but she headed right for you.”

  “I wonder why that is?” John William said, assuming a tone of true curiosity.

  “Well, she must think you’re handsome.”

  Handsome. He let the word sink in, enjoying the sound and thought of it.

  “You really think so?”

  “Well, I don’t think so, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean, your hair’s so long, makes you look like an Indian or a gypsy.”

  “Maybe I’ll ask Maureen to cut it.”

  “I know you’re concerned about your ears,” Gloria said, “but they’re really not horrible. Take off your hat.”

  For some reason, he complied.

  “Now, let’s see.” Gloria raked his hair behind his ear. “There, that’s not so bad. Maybe if we trimmed it just to here …” Her finger grazed just below the swollen mass. “And the beard covers up some of the scars, but maybe you could trim it just a bit so you don’t look like some wild mountain man.”

  “Maybe Adele Fuller likes wild mountain men,” John William said, plopping his hat back on his head. He turned to Gloria and grimaced and growled, getting close enough for the longest of his whiskers to graze her skin.

  “Stop making jokes,” Gloria said. “It’s been six months since your wife died. It’s time you start thinking about …”

  “Another woman?”

  “Not just a woman. A wife. And I just thought that since Adele—”

  “Stop,” John William said. “I don’t want to hear another word about her.”

  “But she’s—”

  “She’s nothing.”

  Over the course of their months together, John William had mastered the tone that would end an argument. He used i
t now, and the only sound was the clomp of the horses and the rattle of the harness. The occasional rut in the road urged a groan from the wheels, but other than that there was silence.

  Maureen’s property was in sight, the bright blue door beckoning. He tried to picture making this trip with Adele Fuller, tried to envision her riding beside him in this wagon, but as long as he’d owned this rig, Gloria was the only woman who had ever shared it with him. Somehow Adele’s silk and lace just wouldn’t seem right against the rough wood seat. She’d make them ride in some fancy black buggy.

  “I hate them things,” he said out loud.

  “What things?”

  “Nothin’.”

  He wondered if Adele Fuller had ever held a child. Would she laugh if Kate tugged at her perfect curls? Would she let Danny amuse himself by making paste with a bowl of flour and a spitty hand? Would she let them roll around, healthy and brown, wearing nothing but diapers? He pictured walking into the parlor, both children dressed in little white lace gowns, sitting perfectly still and straight, tied to the chairs.

  “They’re just babies.”

  “What about the babies?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Then, before he could stop himself, he was thinking about Adele herself. The woman. He conjured her face, but no matter how hard he tried to hold the image, Adele’s cat-like green eyes became soft and round and blue. Her cunning smile became one of openmouthed joy. Her complicated auburn coif softened, became the color of ripened wheat, and fell around her face, tumbled down her back. Soon, she wasn’t a pristine preacher’s daughter sitting beside him at church, but an earthy temptress, fresh from sleep, looking at him through a canvas flap, a blanket draped loosely about her bare shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he reached out, slipped one finger underneath the blanket, felt the glide of her skin as he—