Why did the confirmation have to hurt so much?
She scrambled her egg with a fork, barely aware of her efforts. It would have been another thing if he’d been marriage-inclined—but toward someone else.
“That’s something to feel better about. Isn’t it, Maynard?”
The parakeet dug into his seed, flinging hulls as he ate.
Truvy watched as the lard melted into a hot and smoky puddle. Mrs. Plunkett’s lard had never smoked, but she was an expert and Truvy was a novice. She made an adjustment to the flame. Two biscuits she’d bought from the restaurant yesterday warmed on top of the heater. She’d wrapped them in a gingham cloth.
“I can do for myself, can’t I, Maynard?” Truvy said to the parakeet.
This hot meal was a testing ground. It was the first meal she’d ever made for herself—entirely on her own.
Ever since she’d moved into the apartment, she’d brought in goods from the mercantile that didn’t require cooking on the burner. Sometimes she had splurged and eaten at Nannie’s. The other times, she took her meals at Tom and Edwina’s house.
The lard smoke grew odious, and she fanned her hand over the griddle. If she put the ham in, that should cool down the pan. So she did. The meat seared and spit as soon as it touched the heavy cast iron black bottom.
Maynard flapped and flew from the feeder to the swing, bobbing his head and squawking.
“Yes, I know it smells smoky in here. But there’s no help for it.”
Truvy was rushing a bit because she had to be at the studio to teach an early class, and then she’d be off to meet Edwina at the Harmony church to go over instructions for Elizabeth’s baptism. Crescencia Dufresne was sponsoring the baby and Truvy was the second-in-line godmother. Then later today, she was supposed to have a dancing lesson of her own.
The schottische. With Jake.
She didn’t know how she’d get through it. How could she face him after yesterday? He’d saved her from sure and complete mortification with the fire department—only for her to show Jake sure and complete mortification when she disgraced herself in his water closet. She’d been ridiculously naïve to think she could smoke that dreaded cigar without it affecting her. Women weren’t made to endure such things. Their sensibilities were too—well, sensitive.
Poking the ham with her fork, she found it wouldn’t move. The bottom was stuck to the pan. She had to grasp the pan’s handle with a towel to get the needed leverage for another try. This time, she was met with success.
And a charcoal-covered side of meat.
Smoke swirled up from beneath the ham, the lard sizzling away.
Maynard screeched.
“I know!” she snapped while giving the egg one last stir in its bowl before spilling it in over the ham. The moisture from the egg should ease the burning of the meat.
The odor of smoke reminded Truvy to put the fire department’s note in her handbag. They’d pinned a call letter on the door of the studio, notifying Edwina of a potential fire problem the source of which they were uncertain.
Truvy knew. And she had to confess to Edwina today.
Jake had been kind enough to walk her over to the dance academy after the fire wagons left. He’d helped her lift the windows and air the room out. A short while later, her students had begun to arrive and he left discreetly out the back door—the same door through which he’d come to save her.
She hadn’t slept last night for thinking about him. About his bedroom and its deep, dark colors. And about lying on his bed, which was soft and large with plenty of pillows. He’d taken care of her, brought her something to settle her stomach. They’d talked about books. She’d never thought he’d really read that stale old tome of Edwina’s. And she’d certainly never thought she’d reveal she had an affinity for a story based on immorality. For surely Madame Bovary was immoral with her many love affairs, and yet, Flaubert painted Emma in a way that drew Truvy to the story in wistful longing.
What would it be like to know a lover’s touch?
With a hand that slightly trembled, Truvy folded the fire note and put it in her purse, then closed the clasp. She stuck a forefinger in Maynard’s cage. He didn’t come anywhere near her offering of a perch. He merely stared—two beady black eyes. Then after a long moment, he preened his feathers as if she weren’t there.
Sighing, Truvy turned back to her ham and egg.
She stabbed at them with her fork. They were inedible. Why bother to try to fix things when she could never eat such a mess? So she took the griddle off the burner, careful of the lard still hissing, and went toward the heater and her biscuits. The thought of butter and jam on them, a small salvation, made her mouth water.
Only . . . when she glanced at the heater, she saw the gingham napkin on fire.
“Oh my!” she screamed.
Maynard screamed with her.
With nothing to use for picking up the flaming cloth, she quickly went for her wash pitcher to douse the fire. The water put out the napkin and biscuits, but it also trickled down the heater collar sleeves and into the embers of wood. A mighty burst of blue-gray smoke erupted and Truvy flailed her arms as if she could dissipate its potency. But there was no help for the rolling cloud. It grew larger and stronger until the smell was all but overpowering.
There was no fire, but the smoke was enough to choke and make her gasp for air. Fumbling her way toward the window, she unlocked the latch and lifted the sash all the way up. A sharp gust of cold hit her, sucking the warm smoke outside.
Flying around in his birdcage by the window, Maynard grew more and more excited.
“Don’t worry, Maynard. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”
This time, she’d keep the window open to get rid of the smoke. If she’d done that in the studio, the fire department wouldn’t have been called. She picked up the towel and fanned the grayish haze out the open window in large drafts. Maynard continued his hollering, spraying seeds and tinkling his bell with the tip of his beak.
“Yes, I know.”
The apartment smelled horribly.
She ventilated the room as much as possible. Maynard began to quiet down, but the odor remained heavy. Truvy took a quick glance at her watch. She had to leave right now or she’d be late.
Lowering the window, she stopped the bottom sill four inches up so that Maynard would have fresh air in her absence.
“There you go, Maynard.” She put her forefinger in the cage once more to reassure him. This time, the most amazing thing happened.
He lit on her finger.
“Why . . . Maynard.” She put her nose up to the cage and looked at him. “You do like me.”
Smiling, Truvy stood there and enjoyed the feeling of being wanted by a tiny creature. She vowed she would always take care of him and see him live a long and happy life.
Maynard flew off and Truvy collected her cape and handbag.
“I’ll be back, Maynard.”
Then she opened the door and took a last glance over her shoulder. The room was a disaster, but she’d just have to clean it up later when she returned.
Jake stood in Wolcott’s Sporting Goods and Excursions talking with Tom and pitching rubber balls at Buttkiss, a humpty-dumpty target with hat, ears, mouth, and tongue. Points were given for each direct shot to the clownlike face, the hat coming in highest at twenty. But it was better to strike Buttkiss’s teeth down; they were held in place by hinges, and as soon as a ball knocked them all in, a tongue shot out.
Taking a turn, Tom coiled back his arm and let the ball fly. He clipped the target on the nose.
“Nice,” Jake commented, standing in the aisle of camouflage gear. “Bet Cordova would knock Buttkiss off the wall.”
Tom shrugged. “Hell, I don’t let Alex Cordova anywhere near Buttkiss. He’d blast a hole through my wall.” Handing over a ball to Jake, he went on to add, “Alex said he was over at your place the other day fixing your floor.”
“Yeah, he was over. Damn talented on many acc
ounts. You can’t even see where the damage was.”
Not only was Alex a woodworker and carpenter but he was also the star pitcher on the Harmony Keystones’ baseball team. Recently married, he’d spoken a lot about his wife while he’d been working on Jake’s floor. Tom talked a lot about his wife, too. Come to think of it, Shay Dufresne always had a word or two about Crescencia to share. None of these men had been running away from marriage. They seemed to have walked into it with eyes wide open. And the end results were obvious.
Happiness.
Jake rolled the ball in his hand a minute, looking at Tom and then about the store for a few seconds. It was a nice place to come when a man felt like being around nothing soft or frilly or remotely reminding him of women. Except for the long since dried bouquet of flowers in the stuffed grizzly bear’s grasp, Tom ran a purely masculine place. A retreat. Every time he came by, it made Jake think about taking up duck hunting. And he didn’t much care for duck.
“What’s on your mind, Jake?” Tom’s question invaded Jake’s thoughts. “You’ve been quiet since you got here and you keep drifting off on me. I know it’s not because you like the look of my deer scent display,” Tom joked.
Reeling his arm back, Jake released the ball and whacked the target in the mouth, knocking teeth down and making Buttkiss’s tongue appear. “I’ve been wondering about something.”
“What?”
“How do you like being married to Edwina?”
“No complaints.” The answer was quick and forthright.
“Not a one?”
“Not a one,” Tom replied.
Jake nodded, walking behind the counter to sit on a stool. This kind of domestic conversation was one he’d never had with a man before. Flo Ziegfeld had doled out two words over his wedding to Laurette Everleigh: big mistake. But they’d come after the certificate of marriage had been signed by the judge. Jake had married Laurette without a plan.
From the childhood he’d had, Jake didn’t know how he would feel about being a father. His father had been a piss-poor parent, and even now, Jake hadn’t heard from him in over ten months. His mother—gone. How could Jake ever be a parent when he had nobody to show him the way of it?
“How do you like being a father?” Jake asked, gazing at a box of colorful fishing lures.
“I love my daughter more than anything,” Tom said, joining Jake at the counter. It was nearing time to close the store and the place was void of customers. “There’ve been rough spots. Edwina’s emotional right now, but she’s a strong woman. When you own your own business, you have to be running it. We’re damn lucky to have Marvel-Anne and Truvy for the times I can’t be with Edwina. I take care of the baby when I’m home.”
“How do you know what to do? You didn’t have a father around.”
“You just know, Jake. I can’t explain it.” Tom fiddled with a pencil and tablet. “When I first held Elizabeth in my arms, I became her daddy. There’s no describing that feeling.”
Jake rested his elbows on the counter. “You had a brother, growing up, so I imagine that’s part of where the feeling comes from.”
“Maybe. But we weren’t close. We patched things up only recently. It was good to have him up here for Christmas.” Tom opened a can of Powell’s candied nuts and passed them over to Jake. “You hear anything from your dad lately?”
“Naw.”
They ate walnuts, each in thought. Then after a while, Tom turned to Jake. “Are you thinking about getting married again?”
Jake didn’t have an immediate answer. He’d spoken too quickly with Truvy. He wouldn’t do that again—even though his feelings hadn’t changed to make him say otherwise. “I wonder about it, that’s all.”
“I think you ought to wonder hard,” Tom advised, dropping several nuts into his mouth; chewing around them, he added,“And if my wife has anything to do with it, you’ll be wondering about it over Miss Valentine.”
* * *
Truvy didn’t show up for her lesson.
Dusk fell and Jake waited an hour for her. He gave up and went to the gymnasium, thinking she must have been detained with Edwina. After being in the gym five minutes, he disregarded that thought, locked up, and walked to Truvy’s apartment.
The night was pleasantly cold—not frigid, not snowing. But snow was on the ground, banked and soft from the afternoon brilliance of sun melting into the mounds. The steps to Truvy’s place were cleared of ice. He glanced at the window upstairs; the interior was dark. She probably wasn’t there, but he’d try anyway.
He kept his disappointment from showing. He’d watched the clock all day, waiting to see her, anticipating when he could enfold her in his arms, if only to show her how to dance. That she hadn’t shown up had caused loneliness to seep into his soul, only confirming that he was feeling more for her than he’d previously acknowledged.
He climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, and waited.
No answer.
He hadn’t thought there would be. But something compelled him to twist the knob and see if the door was locked. It wasn’t. The brass doorknob turned in his grasp and he pushed the door inward.
The first thing he noticed was the stale odor of smoke.
“Truvy?”
The inside of the apartment was so dark, he couldn’t adjust his eyes enough to see a shape or form that was recognizable. Barely discernible in the corner was a glow from the heater. The coals had long gone beyond being ignited. His foot hit an object—the leg of the table, if recollection served him.
Swearing, he reached into his coat pocket and brought his match case out. He fumbled for a stick, then struck the tip; a tiny flame erupted into a wavering light. Extending his arm, he dragged the illumination from the bed to the table. The table was a mess. Eggshells, greasy fork, and griddle with charred remains. He moved forward and passed the match by the heater to the other corner by the window. There on the floor, Truvy sat with a blank expression on her face.
“Truvy . . .” Jake searched quickly for the lamp and lit it. Then he went toward her and dropped to his knees.
“Jake . . .?” she uttered.
Her hair had come down from its pins and she shivered from the cold in the room. How long had her heater been out? Had somebody been here? Had somebody—
“What happened?” he all but growled. If anyone had dared touch her, he would be going to prison for murder, because the culprit wouldn’t be alive in the morning. “Truvy? Did somebody come here?”
She didn’t answer.
“Truvy?”
“No . . .” she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“You have to tell me what happened so I can help you.” He touched her arm and she winced. “Are you hurt?”
No reply.
He looked her over, quickly. She sat with her knees bent and her hands in her lap—with something else. A floral-embroidered handkerchief with lace edges. Wrapped around a tiny lump in a neat little circle, the tails tied evenly, carefully, with a gentle hand.
“Truvy?” Jake reached out, wanting to take whatever it was she had.
She wouldn’t let him. Staring up through the fringe of tear-dampened lashes, she said in sheer despair, “I killed Maynard.”
On that, shuddering sobs shook her shoulders. She slumped forward, dropped her forehead to her knees, and cried like there was no tomorrow.
The news of her admission hit Jake and he didn’t know how to react to it. She’d killed the parakeet? Not on purpose. Not Truvy. She wouldn’t kill Maynard. Whatever misfortune had befallen the bird, it hadn’t been at Truvy’s hand.
Damn that salesman in Waverly! He’d sworn the bird was healthy.
“Ah, Truvy, don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” Jake laid a soothing hand on her shoulder, wanting to take Maynard from her. She didn’t need to be holding onto a dead bird. But the way she was hunched over and clinging to her legs, he couldn’t reach the hankie.
“I—it is my fault,” she cried. “All my fault . . . my M-Mayn
ard!”
“Truvy, give him to me.”
“N-no.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. You’re upset. I’ll take him and get rid of him.”
“No!”
Sweet Judas! He didn’t mean it to sound like that. “I mean I’ll make sure he’s resting comfortably.”
She looked up, searched his eyes, then asked, “Where?”
“I’ll—I’ll bury him for you.”
“You will?”
“Yes, Truvy, I will.”
“In a pretty little box?”
“Ah . . . okay. A nice box.”
“With his bell and his cuttlebone?”
“Yes.”
“And a colorful flower to keep him company?”
It was winter, there were no flowers in bloom. Jake racked his brain for a substitute. “How about a cigar band?” The band on his Ybor was red and gold with blue writing. And it was convenient. Right in his breast pocket.
“No.”
No. “All right. We don’t have to use that.”
“I want a flower. Use one from my hat. It’s hanging on the wall by the door.”
“I’ll get it. You give me Maynard first.”
“No.”
Jake gritted his teeth. The right words didn’t come to him; he fought to be tactful but gently persuasive. “Sweetheart, he’s diseased and it’s not good for you to be holding him.”
“He’s not diseased,” she replied sharply. “How can you say that?” A fat tear plopped onto her bodice front. “He was a charming little bird and I’ve . . . I’ve treated him deplorably. I should be arrested!”
A fresh crying jag started anew as she cradled the handkerchief next to her breasts.
He didn’t want to get forceful with her, but that bird had been doomed by a health malady and it was going to have to go. “Truvy—”
That was all he was able to say.
“I killed Maynard by leaving the window open! He froze to death and it’s my fault! I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I just didn’t . . . know. I’ve never had a bird before. I didn’t know!” The words came freely now, just as freely as the tears splashing the dark fabric covering her breasts. “I burned my breakfast and I thought I was doing the right thing for Maynard by leaving the window open four inches while I was out. I feared the smoke would harm him. Dammit,” she swore, her language taking him aback, “why can’t I cook without a fiasco?” She sucked in a shaky breath. “When I came back from the church, expecting my fluffy little green-and-blue sunshine to greet me, he wasn’t on his perch. He was on the bottom of his cage, his tiny feet stiff and his eyes . . . o-o-o-o-o-open.”
Hearts Page 26
