Waiting For Lily Bloom

by Jericha Kingston

As he walked to church, he prayed for his neighbors. So many were struggling. Families were going hungry. Fathers were leaving the state, looking for work. Other families abandoned their farms. Surely with so many praying, the Lord would send rain.

  But today was Palm Sunday. His focus should be on the Lord, not the weather.

  ****

  “Lily, I need you to do somethin’.” Aunt Charity’s forehead wrinkled as she came inside. How did she move so quickly? Not a step was wasted as she gathered bottles from her pantry and set them on the table. After service, she’d taken some biscuits and eggs to a friend with seven children. Her friend was currently in labor with the eighth. They could use all the help they could get. “Remember when we prayed for Anya at church? The baby’s not comin’.”

  Oh dear. Lily’s chest tightened as she remembered her own mother…

  “After I heard about Anya, I forgot all about Bloom’s clothes. I need you to take his mendin’ back for me.”

  Lily gasped. Go all alone, in this wasteland, to a stranger’s house?

  Aunt Charity touched Lily’s cheek and frowned. “Now you just take that look off of your face. You’ll be fine. Listen close. Bloom lives right next door. It’s only a mile away, and our fields join. You travel straight down the road and his is the first house you come to. We passed it when we brought you from the train depot and I told you to look at the cow, remember?”

  She remembered. It wasn’t far at all.

  “That was Bloom’s cow. He won’t be there now. He’s havin’ lunch with the Floyds, like he always does on Sundays.”

  Good. She didn’t like meeting people. After church, she’d tugged on Aunt Charity’s sleeve and they’d walked straight back to the Model A. The only person she’d met was Reverend Cox, and after a brief shake of his hand, she pinned a smile on her face and exited.

  “You can go right in and set the mendin’ on his table. I do it all the time. Just drop it off and come right back. You’ll do fine. I’ve got to help Anya. Poor woman. I don’t know why Henry can’t…” Aunt Charity trailed off, mumbling something about selfish men and hungry children as she wrapped the clothes in a burlap sack and handed them to Lily. Then she placed her warm hands on Lily’s face. “I’m proud of you. Just you mind that.” Aunt Charity patted Lily’s cheeks, and then took the bottles off of the table. “I have no idea how long I’ll be, but if I’m not back by dark, just set out the cornbread and pour your uncle some milk, OK? Wash up his cup when he’s done.”

  Lily nodded.

  And then Aunt Charity was gone.

  Lily fingered the rough material in her hands. All she had to do was return some clothes. It was a simple task. What could go wrong?

  ****

  What a barren sight.

  Lily held a piece of cloth over her nose and mouth with one hand, and with the other she clutched the sack that held Bloom’s clothes. The soil under her feet was more compact than the fields to her right and left. Was this what the desert looked like? Some places were flat and some were raised, but dust was everywhere, blowing and swirling into fascinating little tunnels. Dirt devils, Uncle Ned called them.

  Such a strange place. Not sandy soil, but powdery-fine instead, clinging to one’s clothes and skin. Broken fence posts and barbed wire littered fields where nothing grew. Uncle Ned toiled in this? Why continue, if this was the result? Was he discouraged?

  She would be, if her work produced nothing.

  But he seemed calm and had a pleasant enough disposition. Much like Papa’s.

  Lily saw Bloom’s house in the distance. A windmill stood in the front yard, its blades spinning. A corral adjoined the farmhouse. The closer she got, the more it drew her. Heavens, there was a porch. Porches were so welcoming, even dusty ones. The roof was very steep, as if it boasted a loft. Bloom’s house had more windows than Uncle Ned’s. The paint looked fresh, if somewhat dusty, and all of the porch floorboards were intact.

  A rusted automobile languished beside the corral, its windows gone, the driver side door swinging on its hinge. Two large trees sheltered the house, casting it in shadow. A solitary cow watched her approach. It released a mournful bellow that caused Lily to smile.

  The unmistakable sound of a tinkling brook reached her ears. She walked past the corral and discovered a small stream. Water flowed as birds chirped, hopping and fluttering their wings.

  She returned to the farmhouse and stepped onto the porch. The wood beneath her feet protested as she crept to the front door. She placed her hand on the door knob and paused. Aunt Charity said he was gone, but what if he wasn’t? She breathed deeply, instantly regretting it. A sneeze accompanied her timid knock on the door.

  No one answered.

  She knocked harder and waited. Still, no reply. She opened the door and looked inside.

  A gust of wind blew her forward as a cloud of dust rolled into the farmer’s home. Merciful stars. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, lamenting the lingering, smoky haze.

  Blast her timidity! Why couldn’t she move like Aunt Charity? Now what? Should she sweep it out? Wouldn’t that just bring in more dust?

  Good grief. Bloom was an old farmer. He probably brought that much dust in himself.

  If that were the case, why was his home so well-kept?

  Silly Lily. She chastised herself, using Papa’s pet name. What was done was done. Besides, she’d been doing a good deed, returning his mending and all. Still, she hated to see the dust coating his kitchen table. Dust on the floor she could abide, but there was something unnatural about dust on a kitchen table.

  She set the sack of clothes in a chair and looked around. Where would he keep a cloth?

  A porcelain sink abutted the kitchen wall. There, a rag draped the pump handle. She walked to the sink, worked the pump, and rinsed the rag. With broad strokes, she wiped the table, and then wiped the windowsill and the mantel. When she came to a photograph, she stopped.

  Placing the rag on the table, she lifted the frame and inspected the photo. A serious face stared back at her. The old woman’s hair was braided and pinned atop her head. She wore a black dress, buttoned high on her neck.

  Lily rubbed her thumb against the glass, as if to smooth away the woman’s wrinkles. Bloom’s wife? She placed the frame back on the mantel and scowled. For shame, Lily Driggers. A snoop was akin to the drunkard.

  She took Bloom’s cloth back to the sink, rinsed it, and draped it back on the pump handle. She trailed her wet hands down the length of her dress, and powdery dust coated her palms. She frowned and rinsed her hands again. She’d lingered long enough.

  It would soon be suppertime. With purposeful stride, she walked to the door and placed her hand on the knob. She turned it, but the door didn’t open. She tried again, and it still didn’t budge. Frustrated, she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot on the floor.

  The door flung open.

  Broad shoulders blocked much of the sun’s light. A man placed his hands on his trim waist.

  2

  A gust of wind blew into the house. The man stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. So much for wiping off the table. Dust particles encased him, outlining his tall, lean frame.

  Why? Why hadn’t she put the clothes on the table and left? She grabbed her collar, drawing the material tight.

  “Who are you?”

  She flinched, his booming voice making her insides tighten.

  The sunlight filtered through the window, emphasizing his profile. The harsh planes of his forehead and cheekbones might soften if he smiled.

  “I asked you a question.” He stepped closer, the wrinkle between his brows deepening. Dark eyes flashed, the color of brown sugar boiling at the Bay Street Confectionary.

  Her cheeks warmed. What could she do? She lowered her hand to her chest. Maybe he would understand—

  “All right.” He crossed his arms. “No answer? Perhaps you’d like to talk to the sheriff?”

  This was the man who’d sat on the thi
rd pew at Trinity Baptist church. He wasn’t some old farmer. However, at the moment, he bore no resemblance to the serene gentleman she’d spied from the back row. Of course, he hadn’t seen her sitting with Uncle Ned and Aunt Charity. No matter. She would show him the clothes, and then he’d understand. She sidestepped him to retrieve them, but he blocked her path.

  “No ma’am. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Oh, brother. She stepped to the left this time, but he followed.

  “I’m losing patience.”

  This was silly. She stepped right again, and this time he grabbed her wrist. Of all the nerve. The cretin! She tugged, but his grip on her hand tightened.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself. Stop pulling, and tell me why you’re here.”

  I would if I could, you beast! Unhand me! She broke free of his grasp and ran toward the clothes. Her mouth fell open as she was lifted from behind, spun around, and hoisted onto his shoulder like a sack of wheat. Woosh. A faint, earthy scent permeated her nostrils as she bounced once, twice, and was finally plopped onto a chair.

  Was this truly happening? Her fingernails became talons, penetrating the sensitive flesh of her palms. Ohhh, if she could talk, she’d singe his ears! White-hot fire burned in her stomach as she stood, but he pressed her back onto the chair. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She slapped his hands away from her shoulders and glared up at him.

  He hesitated, concern flickering in his probing gaze. Then his jaw stiffened as he placed his hands on his waist. “I’ll ask one more time, and then we take a trip to the Sheriff. Who are you?”

  Never would she communicate with this oaf now. She could’ve written in the air with her index finger. She might’ve pointed to her mouth and shook her head. But she wouldn’t waste a single action on this buffoon. How on earth could this person be friends with Uncle Ned and Aunt Charity, the sweetest people she’d ever known? She glowered at him, lifted her chin, and folded her arms.

  ****

  James stared at the spitfire sitting in his chair. From the look on her face, she wasn’t going to answer. But those blazing hazel eyes, burning cheeks, and folded arms spoke volumes.

  A warm sensation poked his gut. The woman was livid, but she could hold her tongue. When he was that fired up, it was all he could do not to yell. He ignored the feeling and surveyed the room. Nothing appeared to be missing. He’d have to check the loft, but everything downstairs was in its place. Mrs. Driggers had come by. The burlap sack in his kitchen chair told him that. Thank the Lord she’d come and gone before this thief arrived.

  His gaze returned to the trespasser. Where had she come from? She wore no ring. An unmarried woman traveling alone wasn’t reputable. For that matter, an unmarried woman in an unmarried man’s house wasn’t reputable. He gulped.

  She didn’t look like a thief. In fact, she looked respectable. There was something foreign about her. Not in her features, but in her posture. She was refined. Not prissy, but…dignified. And she smelled pretty. Flowery. She didn’t belong in these parts. Could she have exited the train and gotten lost? That made no sense. If so, she would’ve told him. Instead, she sat there like a mute. She had to be up to no good. Still…

  Her eyes flashed, but her bottom lip quivered. She was mad, sure, but she was scared, too. And probably embarrassed.

  He’d been unkind to her. He tugged at his collar as heat crept up his neck.

  If Dad was alive, he’d put a knot on his head. Never mistreat a lady, son. Only cowards do that. Besides, they get even.

  He swallowed. “I, uh….sorry about that. If you’d just tell me—”

  She glared at him, and then turned to face the window.

  What could he do? The blasted woman left him no choice. “Do you know what happens to thieves?”

  Her head snapped back. Hazel eyes widened as her mouth fell open. Then her chin trembled. Finally, her brows drew together and the eyes underneath hardened. Before he could stop her, the intruder hopped up, dove for the sack, and shoved it at his chest. He clutched the sack of clothes. As close as she was, the gold of her eyes were distinct flecks of green and brown. A spoonful of freckles dusted the bridge of her upturned nose. She spun on her heel and marched to the door.

  What? Why did she give him his clothes? “Wait a minute.” He tossed the clothes onto the chair, dashed after her, and gripped her arm.

  She jerked away, hands clenched and lips pursed.

  He raised his hands, palms out. “OK, OK.” Warm air fled from his lungs in a huff. “I take it you’re not a thief.”

  Her chin rose and her eyes sparked.

  “You brought these clothes back?”

  She rolled her eyes and folded her arms once more before she nodded.

  He ground his teeth. Women. Who could understand them? “Then why didn’t you just say so?”

  Her back straightened and her arms fell to her sides. Nostrils flaring, she approached like a bull. She advanced until her forehead was level with his mouth. With a fleeting, heated glance at him, she walked to the table and wrote something in the dust with her index finger. Turning back to him, she lifted the same hand and motioned elegantly at the table. Finally, she smirked, folding her arms again.

  He stepped forward and read words that caused his chest to tighten.

  I CAN’T SPEAK.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled, then expelled a ragged breath through his teeth. He’d accused her of stealing, and she’d brought his mending back. He turned to face her. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared into his eyes, her own squinting, like she was trying to see inside of him. She shook her head and turned for the door, but not before a sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes. Surely she didn’t think…

  “I didn’t mean I’m sorry you can’t speak.”

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him.

  “I mean, of course I’m sorry about that, but…”

  She placed her hand on the doorknob.

  “I meant I’m sorry I accused you of stealing. I was wrong.” He touched her shoulder. Heat crawled up his neck again. “I—I’m sorry I grabbed you.”

  She shrugged off his hand.

  “And…thank you for bringing my clothes from Mrs. Driggers.”

  She raised wary eyes to his and nodded curtly. Then she twisted the doorknob.

  “Wait.” He raised the tip of his index finger, connected with the table, and wrote in the dust.

  ****

  “Would you tell me your name?”

  Was he mad? Did he think she would accept his apology? She’d never been so degraded. And still he stood there, mocking her with his ridiculous smile. She stiffened and turned the handle.

  “Please?”

  The warm, grainy pattern on the surface of the wooden door stretched its entire length, converging where her hand rested on the cold, black doorknob. She released it and turned to him.

  The bully. What did it matter what he wrote? As if she cared.

  “Would you like a cup of milk?”

  Oh, now he displayed manners? After he’d accused her of stealing? The only thing she was guilty of was doing a good deed. Well…that and…snooping. At best, undignified. Her swallow brought no relief. The inside of her mouth became as parched as the desolate fields.

  He uncovered a pot on the stove and ladled out a cupful of the creamy white liquid, which he set beside his handwritten message. “Please,” he repeated, “At least drink something before you go.”

  Her thirst increased at his words. She shouldn’t even accept a cup of water from him, much less a cup of milk.

  Forgiveness didn’t come easily. Especially when it concerned words. People were too careless with words. Words she wished she could speak. When people slandered, lied, criticized, or gossiped, didn’t they know what a shame that was?

  It was never good to second-guess one’s self. What about this man made her do so? Was it weakness or mercy that caused her to step away from the door and walk to his table?

  A cream-to
pped cup of milk awaited, its buttery goodness tempting her. She picked it up and sipped. At the refreshing taste, she drained it dry. Then she placed the empty cup back on the table, where five scrawled letters drew her gaze.

  J-A-m-e-s.

  Someone should’ve taught James better penmanship. He used a capital A when he should’ve used a lowercase.

  “Would you like another?”

  She shook her head. Her fingers fidgeted a moment, but a bellow from one of Bloom’s—one of James’s—cows reminded her she’d accomplished her task. It was time to go. With a final nod and what she hoped resembled a smile, she turned to go.

  “Wait. You didn’t tell me your name.”

  What was the point? With any luck, they’d never meet again. She rubbed her forehead and then scribbled in the film covering the table.

  He smiled. “And your last name?”

  She frowned. DRIGGERS.

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Ned’s niece. How could I have forgotten?”

  Forgotten what? Had Uncle Ned told James she was coming to Pauls Valley? It was more plausible that Aunt Charity would’ve mentioned it. Maybe she had. But Lily would never know. She hadn’t been privy to the discussion, and she couldn’t ask about it. She breathed deeply. Frustration and curiosity didn’t mix.

  She’d tried communicating with strangers before, but it had never worked. Any moment, polite, one-sided conversation would become strained, so she lifted the empty cup, nodded, and set it down again. Then she waved and backed toward the door.

  “No. Thank you, Lily. I appreciate you bringing my mending back.”

  She blinked.

  ****

  Did her slack jaw and wide eyes mean he’d interpreted her motions correctly? He walked past her and grabbed the doorknob. “Would you like a ride back to Ned’s?”

  Her mouth closed, and she shook her head.

  She stared at him a moment, lifted her chin, and turned for the door.

  “Lily.”

  Green-gold eyes peered at him through dark lashes. Hadn’t those same eyes been more gold than green moments ago?