by Donis Casey
Now Susan was blushing. So that was it, Alafair decided. Wanda Grant had her eye on the barber for her daughter. And Susan may have looked embarrassed at her mother’s indiscretion, but her little smile said she wasn’t displeased by the implication that Walter would benefit from her company.
“I expect I’m keeping you,” Alafair said. “I’ll be on my way so you can get to wherever you’re going. I apologize for my curiosity. Sure was nice to meet y’all.”
The Grants continued down the street and Alafair swung herself up into the saddle and headed out of town. “Well, Horse,” she mused. “I don’t know if I just found out anything helpful or not. Maybe Louise had her a boyfriend. Maybe a jealous boyfriend who saw her with the fellow at the roadhouse? Surely Scott has looked into all of Louise’s social contacts, respectable and otherwise. Miz Grant, who doesn’t have a lick of sense, wants Walter for her girl. Well, I hope she gets him, and they have joy of each other, and Alice never speaks to the man again.”
Chapter Six
Alafair leaned back against the headboard of the tall four-poster bed she shared with Shaw, and propped herself up with a pillow as she watched him getting ready for bed. She found herself staring at his sinewy, brown back as he hung his work shirt on a peg on the wall. It’s no wonder we have so many children, she thought, then smiled at her own brazenness. Her mother would faint dead away if she knew.
“I rode into town today and had a little talk with Scott about the murder of Louise Kelley,” she opened.
In the dim light of the coal oil lamp on the bedside table, she could see his honey-hazel eyes skew an ironic look over his arm as he reached for his nightshirt in the wardrobe. “Still worried about that, are you?”
She sat up straighter and folded her hands primly in her lap. “I told you that Alice has got her eye on that barber, and I’ll be switched if I’m going to let her get involved with a murderer.”
Shaw sat down in the rocker and pulled off his boots. “Walter ain’t no murderer.”
Alafair sighed. “Maybe not,” she admitted. “But I fear he was no prize as a husband, either. Your ma told you the story about him and the Crocker girl, didn’t she? I’m pretty sure she’s the one I saw at Louise’s funeral, standing outside the fence, still hoping to catch his eye.”
Shaw leaned forward with one sock dangling in his hand and placed his elbows on his knees. He regarded her for a moment before he replied. “Yes, I know about that, and it troubles me. But if he was still interested in her he’s had plenty of time to do something about it. Now, I know that Alice may have told you that she’s set her cap for this fellow, but I haven’t seen no sign that he returns the sentiment. I know they were chatting it up at Ma’s Easter dinner, but it could be that he was just being friendly and enjoying the attentions of the pretty girls. He’s a good ten or twelve years older than she is, I’m thinking.”
Alafair gave him a brief wag of her index finger. “There’s another problem.”
“I’ve known plenty of happy marriages with more than fifteen years between husband and wife,” Shaw noted.
“Still…if that were just the only problem.”
Shaw leaned back in the rocker and smiled. “Yes, if only…” he conceded.
A moment of silence fell as they regarded each other across the dim room.
“So what are we going to do?” Alafair said, at length.
Shaw shrugged. “What do you suggest, hon? Alice is eighteen years old. She’s of age. If she’s of a mind to marry the barber then she’s got a right to do it. He’s good-natured and well to do. He’d be a good provider. Maybe that’s what’s most important to her. I can lock her up, I reckon, but I expect that would just make her more determined to do it. I’m thinking that if we don’t push her one way or the other, she may decide herself that she could do better.”
“Alice may be of age,” Alafair said, “but that don’t mean we can’t try to talk some sense into her.”
“Now, Alafair,” Shaw warned, “you know how contrary Alice is. You start arguing with her and she’ll have him just to spite you.”
Alafair leaned forward in the bed, anxious and suddenly on the verge of tears. “Shaw, I’m not worried about the idea that they might get married. I’m worried that…well, what if they don’t get married? She’s young and thinks she’s smart, but she’s just innocent. I mean, I don’t want her to marry somebody who would make her unhappy, and I think Kelley might. But I’d much rather that than…oh, Shaw, what if he ruins her?”
She couldn’t see his expression very well in the darkness but he fell very still for a moment.
“Well, then I’ll just kill him,” he assured her quietly.
Alafair said nothing to this. She knew Shaw well enough to know that when he was serious, he never exaggerated, and he never lied. She snuggled down under the covers, satisfied.
***
The cock crowed at five o’clock the next morning, and Alafair and Shaw rolled out of bed in half-conscious silence. Pre-dawn in late March was a chilly time of day, and Shaw hustled into the parlor in his stocking feet and nightshirt to fire up the stove while Alafair lit a coal oil lamp and spread up the bed before changing and nursing her sleepy baby. She had buttoned her petticoat and was just pulling on her stockings when Shaw returned.
“Did you wake up the boys?” she whispered through chattering teeth.
He laughed. “Naw. They’re sleeping like a pair of logs. I don’t think they’d have been bothered if I had pounded on the stove with the tongs. I heard some girls stirring, though.”
“Martha, probably,” Alafair speculated. She drew on a long-sleeved shirt and pulled a dark skirt on over her head, sat on the side of the bed to put on her shoes, then ran her brush briskly through her long dark hair before twisting it up into a knot at the back of her head.
She left Shaw in his britches with his galluses hanging looped down his sides, standing in front of the mirror over the dresser, mixing up his shaving soap in a ceramic mug with a boar bristle brush. With Grace on her hip and the diaper pail in her hand, she passed through the parlor where her sons lay sleeping on their cots and into the kitchen to make up the fire in the enormous old iron cookstove. She put the diaper pail on the back porch, then sat the baby in her highchair and gave her a cracker before she checked her supply of wood and kindling—enough for today, but she made a mental note to tell Gee Dub to split some more and fill her fire box before the day was out.
She raked out the ashes from the fire box into a bucket, laid her kindling and starter, and lit it with a long match. After the kindling was well alight, she began feeding the fire with larger pieces of wood, until her practised eye told her it was big enough and the stove hot enough to cook breakfast. Before she had the burner covers adjusted, Martha padded into the kitchen, still tucking her calico shirt into her skirt.
“Aren’t you going in to work this morning?” Alafair asked, eyeing her daughter’s casual outfit.
“I have the day off,” Martha told her, chucking the giggling baby under the chin. “Mr. Bushyhead said he’ll be making some calls out of town today and won’t be needing me.”
“Are the other girls awake?”
“I am,” Mary said, appearing in the kitchen door out of the dawn gloom, still braiding her honey-colored hair. “Ruth is getting around, but Alice and the little girls are still asleep.”
Alafair nodded. “Mary, honey, start some biscuits, and that pot of oats I’ve been soaking. Martha, wake up them boys. They need to get to milking before the day gets too much further along. I’ll get the girls.”
Fifteen minutes later Alafair and Shaw were directing their army of frowzy-headed, mostly dressed children in the tasks of starting the day. Mary and Alice were cooking, Sophronia setting the table and entertaining Grace, Ruth and Blanche were drawing water. Charlie and Gee Dub were making a chilly dash across the dew-covered yard with buckets in hand, just ahead of their father, heading for the barn and the animals to be fed and milked.
“Martha, come with me to the hen house,” Alafair asked. Martha looked at her askance, since her mother rarely asked for help gathering eggs in the morning, but she complied quietly, grabbing an egg basket and shrugging into her jacket.
“Bring me another slab of bacon from the smokehouse on your way back,” Mary called to them, as they walked out the back door.
***
Alafair liked the hen house. It was always warm, even on nippy mornings like this one, and she enjoyed the soothing clucking music of the chickens. She was fastidious about keeping the hen house and the chicken yard clean, and the smell of corn and chicken feathers was rather homey. She and Martha worked in silence for a few minutes.
“I always liked gathering eggs,” Martha said out of the quiet. “Don’t get to do it much anymore since I went to Tulsa for my typewriting course and then started working at the bank.”
Alafair was not surprised that Martha was verbalizing the same thoughts that Alafair herself was having. She and her eldest were, to all intents, not that far apart in age, and she had always felt a special bond with her dark-eyed, dark-haired Martha. Even though their lives and desires were quite different, Martha resembled her mother more than any of the other children, both in looks and in nature.
“You haven’t been talking much about work for the last few weeks,” Alafair observed. “Are you still enjoying yourself at the bank?”
“Oh, yes. It’s just been very busy lately. Lots of new people moving in around here, you know. Lots of new accounts and loans. Lots of papers to type and file. Mr. Bushyhead is teaching me about how the bank makes loans, about interest, and what they do with the money they get, about investing.”
“Mercy,” Alafair said. “It sounds too complicated for me.”
Martha chuckled. “I like it.”
“Must be nice to feel so independent, make your own money and all.” Alafair wasn’t being insincere. Options for women had always been few, especially on the frontier, but times were changing, and Martha was one of a new breed of woman. Alafair genuinely admired her daughter for taking her own fate in her hands. Not every one of their neighbors and relatives were quite so tolerant of Martha’s unconventionality, but if disapproving looks bothered Martha, she never gave any indication of it. “Tell me, honey,” Alafair continued. “Do you ever see much of Walter Kelley there in the bank?”
In the gloom, Alafair couldn’t see Martha slide a glance at her. “Yes, quite often,” Martha answered. “He does a lot of business with Mr. Bushyhead. Besides that barbering business he has, he owns a bunch of property around the county, including the building on Main Street that his shop is in, I think. Some oil wells, too.”
“Is that so?” Alafair exclaimed. “So he would be pretty well-to-do.”
“I expect everybody knows that already,” Martha said. She straightened up from bending over the nest boxes. “Now, Ma, don’t go telling anybody I was blabbing to you about bank customers,” she admonished. “Mr. Bushyhead would not be pleased.”
“I won’t,” Alafair said. “I was just interested in Kelley because Alice told me she likes him.”
Martha bent back over the nest. “I figured.”
“So has Alice said anything to you about this?”
“Oh, she’s set her cap for him, all right,” Martha confirmed. “Trouble is, she hasn’t bothered to tell Mr. Kelley about it yet.”
“Well, I’m glad of that, at least. But why this Kelley man, Martha? With all the trouble around him, what does she possibly see in him?”
“It’s like you said, Ma. He’s got money, and Alice is determined not to marry a farmer.”
“What’s wrong with a farmer?” Alafair wondered, stung.
“Too much work,” Martha said. “Alice wants nice clothes and a house in town and trips to St. Louis and Kansas City and who knows where. Besides, Mr. Kelley is right good looking, and charming as all get-out.”
“But a womanizer!”
“Alice is sure she can tame him, Ma,” Martha informed her with amusement. “Alice has always had a good opinion of herself.”
Indeed, Alafair thought. Alice was the beauty of the family, tall and imposing, with wheaten blond hair and sky blue eyes and a complexion like milk, and such personality that she could charm the birds out of the trees if she was of a mind to. Alafair paused with her hand over her egg basket, remembering her dancing little Alice, always laughing and singing. She had been the wittiest child Alafair had ever seen. She was too smart, Alafair thought, too easily bored and into mischief if she wasn’t constantly busy and amused. As sassy and troublesome as she had always been, none of her children could make Alafair laugh like Alice could. Yes, if she were hard pressed, she might say that Alice was her favorite. Alafair felt tears start to her eyes, and she blinked them back fiercely. Alice was a grown woman, now, and a willful one at that. If she was determined to marry, she would do it whether her mother approved or not. But this man! If there was anything that Alafair could do to forestall grief for her daughter, she would, come the Devil. Even if Alice was a grown woman.
“Well, I’m thinking we’ve got enough eggs,” she said to Martha. “We’d better get back to the house and get this day to going.”
***
Unlike dinner, the family didn’t sit down as one to eat breakfast. Instead, the first meal of the day was done more or less in shifts as groups of family members finished chores and made it to the table. Six-month-old Grace had already had her breakfast, but she sat at the end of the table, where she could see all the action, in the venerable highchair that Shaw had made by hand for Martha over twenty years before. She gnawed cheerfully on whatever her mother deemed appropriate for her that morning. The soda cracker she had started out with had long since been gummed into oblivion, and when Alafair came back into the house, she found that one of the older siblings had made the baby a “sugar tit” out of a spoonful of sugar knotted inside a clean dish towel. Since the baby had begun teething, she appreciated chewing on the hard knot. Martha picked up the baby and took her into the bedroom for a change while Alafair delivered the eggs and bacon to the girls and inspected the food preparation.
Mary and Alice had already taken the biscuits out of the oven and placed pitchers of sweet milk, Karo syrup, sorghum, and cream on the table, along with a couple of loaves of pale spring butter and two sugar bowls. An enormous pot of oatmeal was biding its time on a back burner. The girls had already fried up one slab of bacon, the still sizzling slices of which were on a towel-covered platter on the cabinet, and Alice was just making gravy from the pan drippings. Mary took the eggs from her mother, poured more bacon grease from the drippings jar into a second iron skillet, and began expertly cracking eggs into the hot grease to fry. As soon as one egg was done she scooped it out onto a plate and cracked another into its place in the skillet. She cooked the eggs to order. Ruth liked her fried eggs over hard, Sophronia and Blanche over easy. Shaw and both the boys liked to sop egg yolk with their biscuits, so Mary made their eggs sunny side up. Alafair liked to sop a little, too, but she was adamant that the whites of her eggs be well set, so Mary “blindfolded” her mother’s eggs by flipping hot grease over the tops with the turner. Martha’s taste agreed with her mother’s. Alice decided to forgo eggs altogether in favor of extra biscuits and gravy along with her oatmeal and bacon. Mary cracked a couple of eggs in a bowl and scrambled them up with fresh whole milk and a little butter for herself.
The younger girls had finished and gone off to get ready for school, and Shaw and the boys and the two chefs of the day, Mary and Alice, were sitting around the table, ravenous after their early morning tasks. Alafair prepared a bowl of oats for Charlie-boy with lots of cream and sugar and a pat of butter slowly melting in the middle. Charlie-dog was sitting on the floor next to his boy’s chair, watching with blazing attention as the people at the table ate their bacon.
“You know,” Alafair said to anyone who might be listening, as she sat the bowl down in front of the boy and gave the dog a
surreptitious pat, “my daddy always said that when he was growing up, his grandpa would never eat his oats but what he was standing up.”
“Now, why would that be, hon?” Shaw asked, always keen to encourage a tale.
Alafair sat down in her chair and reached for the platter of bacon. “I don’t rightly know. I reckon my daddy never knew, either. But he swears that his Grandpa Gunn took his oatmeal with cream and a pinch of salt, and always stood up when he was eating it.”
“Salt!” Gee Dub exclaimed. “Now, that don’t sound good at all.”
“Did he ever stand up to eat anything besides oats?” Alice asked, skeptical.
“Not that I heard of,” Alafair admitted. “But your grandpa swears it’s true, and you know your grandpa ain’t much of a one to make things up. His old grandpa was from the old country, and I expect they have different ways of doing things over there.”
“Was he from the same old country as Grandpapa McBride?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know, punkin’. Next time we’re over there you should ask Grandpapa if he ever heard such of a thing.”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it, whether he ever heard of it or not,” Shaw said, with a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes.
***
After breakfast, while Mary washed dishes, Martha made up five bacon sandwiches and wrapped them in clean sacking, then packed them along with a big square of dried-apple cake into a tin bucket for the kids to take to school. Gee Dub and Ruth, armed with books and lunch pail, then herded Charlie, Blanche and Sophronia out the door for the two-mile walk into town.
Alice was conscripted to baby-sit while Alafair went out on the back porch to wash diapers. The diaper pail was a tall, modified milk can with a tight-fitting lid. Alafair kept it partially filled with a mild lye-water solution, and every time she changed one of Grace’s cloth diapers, she threw it into the pail. Now that Grace was a little older, Alafair didn’t have to wash quite so many diapers, but she still had that task to look forward to at least a couple of times a day.
