Livvie's Song

by Sharlene MacLaren

  Livvie bent at the waist and touched the tip of Andy’s nose. “My goodness, you’re growing tall, young man. How old are you now?”

  “S-s-seven.”

  “Right between the ages of my sons, Alex and Nathan!” she said, ignoring his stutter. “You ought to come over and play with them sometime this summer. How would that be?” The boys didn’t know each other, since hers attended Miami Grade School, while Andy had class in a one-room schoolhouse in the country. But she knew how easily her boys made new friends.

  Talking was clearly painful for Andy, who merely nodded and gave a timid smile. Sofia laid a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “That would be mighty nice sometime. Thank you for the offer, ma’am. We’re heading over to the barbershop right now. Can you tell this little rascal needs a haircut?”

  True enough, the boy’s brown hair fell haphazardly across his forehead and covered his collar at the nape. Livvie reached out and gave his hair a tousle. “My boys could use a trim, as well. Their hair grows faster than butter melts on a hot skillet!”

  After chatting with her a bit longer, the pair headed up the street hand in hand toward Bill’s Barbershop. Such an amazing young woman, she mused. And how quickly she’s had to grow up.

  A bell jingled as Livvie pushed open the door to McNarney Brothers Meat Market. Behind the counter stood George and Ralph McNarney, both wearing long, white aprons, permanently stained with blood and who knows what else. They were helping customers, but they raised their heads and acknowledged her. “’Mornin’, Miss Livvie,” George said. His friendly demeanor was one reason Livvie gave his store her business. “You come in to place your weekly order?”

  “I did, but please take your time. I’m in no particular hurry.”

  A woman Livvie recognized as Rosalind Leonard reached across the glass case and accepted two wrapped packages from George, then stepped aside to the cash register. While Ralph rang up her order, she turned to Livvie, who had moved to the back of the line.

  “That new cook of yours sure has a knack for fixing fine food,” Rosalind said. “I hear you’ve been doing a good business, especially since you started those Tuesday and Thursday night specials. Thomas and I plan to come next week. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a recipe to enter. Came from my great-aunt. Maybe you’ll choose it!”

  “It certainly can’t hurt to enter, Mrs. Leonard,” Livvie said with a smile. “I will warn you, our box is chock-full with everybody’s best recipes. We’ll look forward to seeing you, though. And, you’re right; Mr. Taylor is talented in the kitchen.” And talented at kissing, too, though she would keep that information carefully concealed.

  “He plays that there mouth harp like nobody’s business, too,” said Steven Bronson, owner of Bronson Hardware on North Cass Street, who was several spots ahead of her in line.

  Behind him, Alvin Hardy, the town’s mortician, shifted the weight of his scrawny body to the other foot, obviously not caring one hoot about the discussion.

  “I heard him play at the community dance above your restaurant a couple weeks back,” Steven added. He took his package from George and moved toward the cash register as Alvin Hardy stepped up to the counter.

  With a wave good-bye to Livvie, Rosalind Leonard headed out the door past the incoming customer, Minerva Washington, who was accompanied by her young son, Kenneth. My, but the McNarneys ran a busy store.

  “Wished he would’ve hung around to play a few more tunes,” Steven continued. “I saw you there, too, Mrs. Beckman. Don’t think I’ve ever known you to go up there before.”

  “No, that was my first time, Mr. Bronson,” she admitted.

  Just then, an incoming train sounded its whistle, but that didn’t muffle the sniff of indignation that came from the elderly Josephine Harper, who stood three spaces ahead of Livvie. “A den of iniquity, that place,” she muttered. Livvie couldn’t see her bony, weathered face, but she could imagine her pinched expression of disapproval, with those beady eyes narrowed behind her dark-rimmed glasses. Heat traveled up Livvie’s neck and trickled out into her cheeks.

  Steven turned around with a gleam in his eye. “Why, Mrs. Harper, are you calling me an iniquitous individual?” He then turned back around, extended his upturned palm to Ralph McNarney, and accepted his change. After dropping the coins into his hip pocket, he tucked his package of meat under his arm and looked at Mrs. Harper again. “All folks do up there is listen to music, enjoy good conversation, and dance a few jigs. It’s pretty harmless, actually. You want me to pick you up next Saturday night?”

  Quiet laughter could be heard around the room. “What? Well, I never!” Mrs. Harper exclaimed, obviously failing to see the humor.

  Livvie stifled a giggle. She doubted Mrs. Harper had ever seen the inside of a dance hall. Ducking her head, she covered her grin with three fingers.

  “I’m just joshing you, ma’am,” Steven said with a wink. Then, tipping the bill of his cap at Livvie, he headed for the door. The train’s screeching brakes and final whistle nearly drowned out the lingering chuckles.

  ***

  Shaded by its branches, Clem Dodd leaned against the thick trunk of an old elm tree and puffed on his cigarette, his eyes fixed across the street on the meat market Olivia Beckman had entered just moments ago. He’d followed her there, walking a distance behind her on the opposite side of the street. Little did she know how fond he’d grown of watching her jaunt about town when she wasn’t busy waiting tables, her knee-high skirt flaring with every step, and that reddish-blonde hair of hers bouncing off those pretty shoulders. He finally admitted it: he’d become more interested in her whereabouts than in Will Taylor’s comings and goings.

  But he hadn’t forgotten about Will. The more he mulled over the guy’s claim that he’d thrown the jewels in a sewer drain, the more inclined he became to believe it, especially with the corroborating details Rudy and Hank had dug up in the city library when they’d gotten back to New York. It turned out that the New York Times had run an article some seven years ago about a young boy who’d discovered a leather drawstring bag bearing the initials C.B.D. and containing fine jewels. The boy had turned the bag in to the New York City Police Department, and the article was more of a human-interest story than an investigative piece, with a headline that read, “Young Boy Chooses Honesty over Jewels.” Whether the police had ever matched those jewels with the burglary four years prior was not clear from the article. This made Clem wonder if Will even knew about the bag’s recovery. Something told him he didn’t.

  One thing stood out above all else, though: Clem remembered that bag. It had belonged to his father, Charles Benton Dodd, who had passed it down to him. When he’d been planning the robbery, it’d seemed like the perfect place to stash the gems—lightweight, yet strong and sturdy. Of course, he hadn’t counted on Will Taylor throwing it down a sewer drain and having the thing wind up in a ditch in a neighborhood some five miles outside the city.

  Keeping his gaze locked on the meat market, he took another long drag off his cigarette and mentally counted the money he had left in his billfold. It was enough for a few more nights at the old hotel, the Western House, before he robbed another unsuspecting soul. The Western House wasn’t Wabash’s fine Hotel Indiana, by any means, but it sure beat his pad in New York, which was nothing but a filthy hole in the wall, thanks to Flo’s lack of housekeeping abilities. If he’d learned one thing about the little town of Wabash, it was that folks were trusting—too trusting for their own good. Just last week, he’d managed to pull off a pickpocket’s trick on three unsuspecting targets: first, a fellow sorting through his mail in the post office; second, a lady who’d left her purse wide open while she tended to her cranky child in the grocery store; and, third, a fellow dressed in a dapper suit and bowler hat, with whom Clem had “accidentally” collided on a busy sidewalk. A hastily muttered “pardon me” was all it had taken to walk away several dollars richer.

  The lovely Olivia Beckman emerged from the market empty-handed, save for that
long-strapped shoulder bag she never went anywhere without. Maybe he ought to rob her. Of course, if he did, he’d want more than just her money. Yessir, a fine specimen like her had much more to offer than mere cash. He’d watched her long enough to know her routine. Every Thursday, she went to McNarney Brothers Meat Market to place her order for the following week’s meals, and then, like clockwork, a delivery boy pulling a wagon behind his three-wheeled bicycle left the market at five o’clock to deliver orders to her and to others. Some days, Clem had half a mind to rob the kid, but he figured most of his deliveries were prepaid, so he probably had little to no cash on hand. Besides, robbing a kid would draw too much attention. As it was, he had to watch his step and steal just enough to make people wonder where they’d spent their last dime. So far, his scheme appeared to be working fine, and he had yet to run out of money.

  Olivia strolled along, every so often stopping to speak with passersby. He, in turn, paused to watch her reflection in store windows, enraptured by her every move. Outside J. C. Penney, she stopped for a moment to gaze at a blue floral dress on a skinny mannequin, and he pictured her wearing it. She leaned forward, evidently to check the price tag, which hung from the sleeve. Then, she shook her head and walked on.

  Outside Oh Boy! Produce, she stopped beside a display of watermelons, over which hung a big sign indicating that they were fifty cents apiece. When a fellow in an apron stepped outside and began to chat with her, she pointed at the fruit stand, and he nodded, no doubt confirming an order.

  On she went, past Bradley Drugstore and Kramer Cleaners, to the Crystal-Renee Beauty Shop, where she paused and studied the posters of women with short bobs and straight bangs. He surely hoped she wasn’t considering cutting her beautiful mane.

  A few drops of rain fell, and she stepped up her pace. Clem did, as well, yet still managed to keep his distance. The clock tower bell sounded three gongs, marking the hour. One of those newfangled European-looking cars called a Whippet sped by, just missing a dog that darted across the street. By now, the rain came down in sheets, so Livvie disappeared inside Woolworth’s five-and-dime, just a block away from her restaurant, to wait out the storm, no doubt. Thunder clapped in the distance, so he made an about-turn and headed for the nearest cover: Ruby’s Café. Might as well grab a cup of coffee and smoke another cigarette. Then, he could make his way across the street to J. C. Penney.

  Man alive, wouldn’t Olivia Beckman be surprised to open a package containing that blue dress she’d admired in the window?

  Chapter Eighteen

  “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”—Psalm 27:1

  Livvie couldn’t imagine what was contained in the package she received the next day, addressed in sloppy writing to:

  Livvie's Kitchen

  Attn: Olivia Beckman

  Market Street

  Wabash, Ind

  “Surprised”—“flabbergasted,” more like it—described her emotions upon opening the box and seeing the familiar cap-sleeved dress of robin’s-egg-blue cotton flocked with ivory motes—dotted Swiss, the fabric was called. And then, she had to tack on “puzzled” and “slightly alarmed.” She held it up to herself, gathering it at the waist, and twirled around, loving the way the full skirt flared and feeling certain it would be a near perfect fit. Who could have had so much as a clue that she’d been admiring this very dress in the window of J. C. Penney ever since it had appeared on the mannequin? Her sister, maybe, but she doubted even Margie knew her that well. And, if she did, would she have made such a spendthrift purchase? Hardly. Margie didn’t abide wasting money on such frivolities as store-bought dresses. No, for her, such purchases as chocolates and fresh strawberries were the height of extravagance.

  Plainly put, the whole thing was rather eerie. Still, the dress was lovely, and the anonymous note, scrawled in the same, sloppy handwriting as the address, seemed innocent enough:

  Thought you'd look nice in this.

  Wear it soon.

  How peculiar that the giver had decided to remain anonymous! Perhaps, someone had taken pity on her sorely lacking wardrobe and decided that, with the Family Feasts occurring twice a week, she ought to at least look the part of successful proprietress.

  “What’ve we got here, missy?” asked Coot, seated at his usual table. All his cronies had left after a long, drawn-out breakfast, and he had started to stand, himself, albeit slowly. Outside, Reggie, his faithful canine, got to all fours and stretched, then gazed through the screen door, awaiting a snack of leftover bacon and eggs. “I saw the package Bud delivered to you. Looks like you got yourself a purty dress.”

  “Yes! Isn’t it the loveliest thing you ever saw?”

  “Mighty fine, indeed.” He looked it up and down. “Where’d you order it from?”

  “I didn’t order it. That’s the strange part.”

  “Oh?” He hobbled closer.

  “Coot.” For just an instant, she hoped it had come from him.

  Apparently, he’d sensed her suspicion. “Don’t go lookin’ at me like that. You know I don’t have the slightest inklin’ ’bout women’s stuff. Now, if you’d told me you wanted a fishin’ pole, I could have accommodated you.”

  She giggled. “Oh, Coot, you know I don’t fish.”

  “Fish? Who said that magic word?” Will said as the back door slammed shut behind him. “I’m going fishing this very afternoon. You want to tag along, Coot?” He set down the two large trashcans he’d emptied in the barrel out back to burn later. Then, brushing his hands on his pants’ legs, he approached them, pausing by the counter to pick up the plate of leftovers he’d set there earlier.

  “I ain’t been fishin’ in ten years,” Coot said. “Reached the point in my life where I’d rather just eat ’em without havin’ to catch ’em. Lookie here at what Bud just delivered to Miss Livvie.”

  Will gave the dress a hurried glance, and his eyes popped. “Mighty fine dress, Liv.” He tacked on a low whistle before moving to the door, where a drooling Reggie waited. He pulled open the door, lowered the plate onto the pavement in front of the black dog, and patted his head before rejoining them. “Your sister send that to you?”

  “This isn’t her handwriting, so, no, it couldn’t have been. The truth is, I don’t have a clue who did.”

  Will eyed the note she clutched in her hand. “May I have a look?”

  She handed it over, and Coot edged closer to get a glimpse of it, too. “That don’t look like a lady’s handwritin’,” he asserted.

  One of Will’s thick eyebrows rose a fraction, and he passed the note back to her with nary a glance in her direction. “Humph. Guess you got yourself a secret admirer.” In his tone, she detected the tiniest hint of something unusual. Surely, he wouldn’t have been so bold as to buy her a dress and then feign ignorance! True, he’d kissed her, but, in the weeks since, he’d managed to keep it out of their conversations and had shown no interest in repeating the act. The few times that he’d walked her upstairs at the end of the workday, he hadn’t lingered to chat; he’d simply tipped his chin at her and said a friendly good night. As for the dances on Saturday nights, he had not extended another invitation to her—not that she would have accepted, but the gesture would have been considerate. She knew he attended regularly, for she often overheard his harmonica serenades, followed by thundering rounds of applause and rousing whoops of appreciation from the audience. He’d certainly become popular on account of his bounteous talents, not to mention his good-humored personality. More than once, she’d recalled the way Marva Maxwell Dulane had hung on his every word, not to mention his arm! Had he taken a special interest in her? And, if he had, did he even know of her sordid past—the rumors of it, at least?

  “You wouldn’t happen to know who sent her that fine dress, now, would you, Will?” Coot asked with a devilish grin.

  Prickles of heat crept up Livvie’s neck and scuttled straight across her cheeks. To hide her embar
rassment, she lowered her gaze to the dress and found that the hem stopped at the knee, an inch or so shorter than the drab, gray dress she now wore.

  “Me?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Will shift his weight. “Sorry, I can’t take the credit. Maybe one of her girlfriends bought it for her.”

  Girlfriends? Livvie nearly laughed. The few female friends she had were married and had mostly fallen by the wayside since Frank’s death, either from not knowing how to act around her or from having less in common with her. All of them treated her kindly, no question there, but, one by one, they’d simply drifted away. Not that she blamed any of them. She was a hardworking widow with young children, and she couldn’t think of another woman who could relate to her situation. There were other widows in town, of course, but none as young as she. No matter; she’d come to accept her circumstances and was beginning to learn and grow from them. If anything, she’d developed an entirely new understanding of the grieving process. And, thanks to the sermons she’d been hearing every Sunday, the Bible reading she’d been doing to sate her recent thirst for the Word of God, and even Will’s Christian testimony, her bitterness and anger toward God had dissipated significantly.

  “No, none of them knows I’ve been admiring this dress for some time.”

  “Well, it must have been somebody who knows you awfully well,” Will said in a tone that she could have sworn held agitation. “Coot has a point. That looks like a man’s handwriting.”

  Feeling irritated herself, she crumpled the note and stuffed it inside her apron pocket, then went about folding the dress and laying it back in its box. “Well, I can’t express my gratitude until I figure out who sent it.”

  “How you plannin’ to do that?” Coot asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll walk over to J. C. Penney and see if they can tell me who purchased it.”