Summer Lightning

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “I think you’ve both done a wonderful job. They are sweet, loving little girls and, after all, that is what a parent strives for, isn’t it?”

  “You seem to know a lot about children.”

  Edith gave him a warm smile. “I was a child myself, once. For a while, anyway.”

  They drove past the church and many neat homes. Soon they entered the main business district. Richey, Edith was learning, was more than a single-street town. As the county seat, it had an imposing city hall, a round pocket-sized park with a military statue standing strictly to attention, and at least three rival general stores. As Sam drove by, several ladies waved and most of the gentlemen tipped their hats.

  “Some people,” Sam said, lowering his voice, “think Jeff ought to run for mayor. But I think an older, wiser head should run things right now.”

  “Oh, yes. A mayor must be a man of distinguished record and mature judgment.” Edith didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that Sam wanted to be asked to run. She only hoped father and son would not be competing against each other.

  “That’s Miss Albans’ shop down there,” Sam said, nudging her elbow. “Be careful with her. She’s an unusual girl. Bright and cheerful on the outside, but I think she has a tender heart.”

  When Edith got down, however, she did not march immediately into Miss Albans’ hat shop. She’d been so interested in talking to Sam that she hadn’t had the chance to work out what she was going to say. After all, she couldn’t possibly walk up to a pleasant, cheerful girl and say, “Marry Jeff Dane, yes or no?”

  Remembering a bench in the tiny park, Edith walked back to where the green grass glowed in the summer sunshine. As she sat on the bench, she closed her eyes to think.

  Obstinately, however, her thoughts centered around one subject only. Why had Jeff kissed her? And what a kiss! Her toes curled and she found gooseflesh rising on her arms from just remembering the way his mouth had felt on hers.

  She blushed to recall her own behavior. Did it take so little to overthrow the constraints of lifetime? Just the slow slide of a man’s hands, or the mere velvet touch of his lips?

  Edith rubbed down the renewed gooseflesh. She tried to concentrate on how to approach Miss Albans. Perhaps she could lead up to the subject by mentioning how Jeff was so attractive. If Miss Albans agreed that a man should be tall and strong, that his hair should be so thick that it looked like an animal’s pelt, or that there was something pleasant about the soft abrasion against her cheek where his beard . . .

  Closing her eyes again, Edith put her hand to her throbbing temple and tried almost desperately to think of something besides Jeff Dane.

  She’d awakened at dawn with the sunlight dazzling across her pillow with shifting beams. She had stumbled up and tossed her dressing gown over the shade, which was too narrow for the window. For a moment, she had peered out at the golden light of the rising sun, but it had been too brilliant for her bleary morning eyes.

  She had found it easy to fall back asleep—only to be awakened half an hour later by Sam, whistling a merry air as he made breakfast. Giving up in defeat, Edith had stepped out of bed, and uncovered Orpheus. The little bird sang out at once.

  Now, her tiredness caught up with her. Keeping perfectly upright, her head sagged onto her shoulder. Between one blink and the next, she went from sitting in a pleasant park to talking with some aggrieved insects. Fairy laughter gathered around her, and then, breaking her dream, a desolate sob.

  Waking up at once, Edith was instantly ashamed. Sleeping in public? Her aunt would have pressed a hand to a palpitating heart and ordered an explanation. How Edith hated explaining herself! She would stumble over the words, wishing that her aunt would punish her severely rather than insist on knowing why she had been guilty of some unforgivable lapse.

  Edith glanced around to be certain no one had observed her lack of moral fiber. The only person nearby was a very little boy. He stood a short distance away from the park bench, obviously trying not to cry.

  Every other breath would catch in his chest and be exhaled raggedly. He stuck a grubby fist in his eye, rubbing tears away, but a few escaped to mark his cheeks.

  “Are you all right?” Edith asked. “Can I help you?”

  His babyish blue eyes met hers in a look of mute misery. The round chin quivered. In a rush, his fat little legs pumping, he ran over to her and buried his head, still wispy with baby curls, in her lap.

  Taken aback, Edith hardly had enough presence of mind to pat the boy’s shaking shoulder. She noticed a large, uneven darn in the yoke of his shirt. His hair had not been brushed for some time, as it was terribly tangled in the back.

  ‘There, now,” she said, the comforting sounds limping off her tongue. “There, now. Don’t cry. Are you hurt?”

  Though still hidden in her lap, the little head shook.

  “No,” Edith answered for him. “You’re not hurt. Are you hungry?”

  He looked up, his face all slobbered with tears. Edith reached for her bag and took out a clean handkerchief. With a silent gulp, she gingerly wiped his running nose and eyes. “You are hungry.”

  Nodding, he said, “An’ losted.”

  “Losted?”

  Once again his chin started to quiver. “Sister’ll be mad.”

  “Now, don’t cry. I’m sure no one will be mad at you.”

  She held out her hand for her handkerchief but the little boy held on to it. Rubbing the white square of cotton against his cheek, to the ruin of its whiteness, he said, “Smells . . .”

  Edith didn’t know what to do. He was lost and hungry and so very small.

  Sam wouldn’t be back for some time, he had said, so he was no help. Miss Albans’ shop was just down the way. She might know who the boy belonged to. But on the other hand, Edith didn’t think Miss Albans would know any more about comforting a small lost boy than she did herself. And he was in need of a kind of motherly comfort no maiden lady could give.

  He was rocking back and forth, the handkerchief wadded up in his cupped hand, as he pressed his cheek into it. His eyes were closing. “Mama?”

  That decided her. There was one person in Richey who not only could but undoubtedly would take care of this child.

  “Come along, little boy,” she said. He clutched her hand with all the trust in the world, even smiling as she towed him along. The little nails were too long, and black. Edith only hoped he wasn’t carrying anything alive on his person.

  A few minutes later, Edith knocked at a house she’d visited before. She knocked twice more before she heard Mrs. Green yodel, “Come in!”

  Feeling like an intruder, Edith pushed open the door and went in, the little boy still in tow.

  “Why, Miss Parker. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon! Not that you aren’t . . . who’s that?”

  “I found him in the park.”

  “Park? Oh, the square.”

  “He says he’s lost.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can’t be.” Mrs. Green knelt down and looked the little boy in the eyes. Her smile was motherly. “You’re not lost at all. You’re here, with me.”

  The little boy didn’t even glance at Edith. He jerked his hand out of hers and barreled into Mrs. Green’s arms. Talking rapidly, he seemed to be telling her about an open gate and a dog he had followed. Edith hardly understood one word in ten, but Mrs. Green didn’t seem to have any trouble.

  “Then I got losted.” He heaved a big sigh, as though he’d dropped all his fears and worries onto this comfortable woman’s shoulders. Edith tried not to feel envious of the boy’s instant faith in Mrs. Green. He’d even dropped her handkerchief. Yet a certain yearning had been born when she’d felt his little fingers clasped in her own.

  It was similar to the feeling she’d had when Jeff had kissed her, as if the two were related. Her lips tingled at the memory of the way his mouth had felt, moving eagerly over hers. She’d wanted more, just as she wanted a deeper joy than holding the child of a stranger. But what did kissin
g a man and holding a baby have in common? Except that they were things she’d never before imagined herself doing.

  Edith said, “I think he’s hungry.”

  “That at least we can mend. Right now!” Lifting the boy up into her arms as she stood, Mrs. Green stepped into her pantry. A moment later, she came out, the little boy still in her arms. In each of his hands, however, was a doughnut, with one already missing half of its circumference.

  Mrs. Green, smiling maternally down at the tousled head, glanced up when Edith said, “I didn’t know who to bring him to. I thought as you have boys of your own . . .”

  “My boys! They’ll be sure to know who he is. As it’s almost dinnertime, they’ll be back soon.” She hefted the boy in her arms into a more comfortable position. “Woof, you’re heavy.”

  “I’m a big boy,” he said, stretching his mouth around the second doughnut.

  “Yes, you are. What’s your name?” He mumbled something that Edith couldn’t catch. “Well, Rudy,” Mrs. Green said, “do you know where you live? Who’s your momma?”

  “Ain’t got a momma.”

  Mrs. Green sighed. “No? Then what’s your daddy’s name?”

  “Daddy.”

  “I think,” Edith said, “that’s he’s too little to know.”

  “He’s old enough to have learned things like that, if anybody ever took the time to teach him. Somebody’s not taking proper care of this child,” Mrs. Green said, her full mouth becoming tight. A fire blazed in her green eyes. Edith realized that whoever was responsible for little Rudy wasn’t going to enjoy meeting Mrs. Green!

  Edith wanted to be there when they did meet. Looking at the boy, who was falling asleep on the shoulder of Mrs. Green’s print wrapper, his lower lip pouting out, she also wanted to give someone a piece of her mind. She only hoped Mrs. Green would give her a chance.

  “Where are my manners?” Mrs. Green asked. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade, Miss Parker?”

  “Never mind about me. Why don’t you sit down? I’m sure Rudy must be heavy.”

  “Lord, I’m used to it. One of my boys wouldn’t go to sleep ‘less I walked him for an hour by the clock.”

  “But your sons are grown, now, aren’t they?”

  “Not yet. But it won’t be long now,” she said wistfully. “They’re thirteen and near twelve. Seems like yesterday they were no bigger than this.” She cuddled the sleeping boy more closely against her body. Very carefully, she lowered herself into a well-worn, much loved rocking chair.

  “Help yourself to lemonade, if you want any. Once those boys are home, that’ll be the first thing they’ll clamor for. ‘I’m dry as a bone, ma.’ ‘I’m plumb thirsty, ma.’ It’s the same story every day. Just as if there wasn’t a pump in the yard.”

  Edith filled two glasses. As she brought them into the parlor, she heard Mrs. Green singing “Lorena,” the unforgettably sweet and sad song of the Civil War soldiers. Her memory turned back to long ago, when a dimly recollected figure, whose presence meant enfolding love, had sung that song to her.

  Shouts, whoops and a shriek that struck terror into her soul caused Edith to look toward the open door. Were Indians attacking? She saw two savages leap the closed gate. Finding some cause for argument, they fell to the ground, pummeling one another.

  “That’ll be them,” said their complacent mother, without turning around.

  “Should I separate them?”

  “You just try. They’ll stop in a minute.”

  Each seemed to pull the other up. As though they were being assaulted by every fly known to man, they ran wildly about the yard, now tumbling, now leaping in the air. At last, they ran up the steps as though they would raid the house, sparing neither woman nor child in their recklessness.

  “Are they always like this?” Edith asked, in the seconds before the hellions entered.

  “Oh, no. They seem kind of peaceful today.”

  The last boy slammed the door. Little Rudy never stirred, not even when they hollered, “Hey, ma! Got anything to drink?”

  Though she was sitting only a yard away, they repeated their demand, even more loudly. Edith, not used to the noise, hastily handed them each a glass of lemonade. Giving her surprisingly friendly smiles, with a variety of missing teeth, the two boys drained the glasses in a few seconds. One uttered a loud burp.

  “‘Polergize, Hank.” The slightly bigger one cuffed his brother’s head.

  “Cut it out! Sorry, lady.”

  “Boys . . .” said their mother.

  They clumped over to her. “Hey,” Hank said. “That’s the kid everybody’s been looking for.”

  “Yeah,” his brother added. “He’s got some dumb name . . . Rhubarb or Randolph . . .”

  “Rudy,” his mother said. “And those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, Aloysius.”

  Hank looked at the ceiling and began to whistle idly. His brother tried to dig a hole in the carpet with his big toe. “Yes’m,” he muttered.

  Edith, embarrassed, asked, “Who does this boy belong to, Hank? Aloysius?”

  “He’s one of the butcher’s kids, and, if you don’t mind, ma’am, it’s Al.”

  “Excuse me, Al.”

  “Pleasure, I’m sure.” His round green eyes were grateful.

  “Well!” Mrs. Green said with decision. “Mr. Huneker’s going to have me to deal with before he’s an hour older.”

  Carrying the boy to Edith, she laid him down gently on her lap. The sleeping boy sagged into a comfortable new position, instantly numbing Edith’s arm.

  “I won’t be a minute,” Mrs. Green said. “I’ll change into my dress. Boys, wash up. Soap!” she added as they tore out of the room, shouting, “Heap Big Mother Squaw on warpath! Ugh!”

  “Make’um stew from Butcher,” Al said, poking his face back into the room. He winked hugely before running off again.

  A few minutes later, a questionably clean pair of boys with slicked-down hair, followed two impeccably dressed ladies. The boys kept themselves from the temptations of rain barrels, cooling pies on windowsills, and a dead blackbird. They knew that bigger fireworks than the Fourth of July were bound to explode when their mother met the butcher. Also, they were determined to defend their mother’s honor, if any of the Huneker clan looked like they might start trouble.

  Edith trailed slightly behind Mrs. Green who, despite her clean dress and large hat, insisted on carrying the still sleeping child. Edith had never seen anger before, at least not as a manifestation, but she could almost see it flickering around the edges of Mrs. Green’s attractively full figure. As they stopped before a gate, Edith began to feel distinctly apprehensive.

  “Hmph, he’s having trouble keeping his yard neat, too. Nothing but dirt. Look at those flowers—haven’t been watered since the Flood. And that swing is broken right across.” She clicked her tongue. “It’s a shame to give a baby like this back to a father who takes so little care of him.”

  Hank said, “Want me to roust ‘em out, Ma?”

  “Certainly not. We’ll knock like Christian folk.”

  As the party stepped up the warping steps and onto the peeling porch, Edith heard the murmur of a voice. Mrs. Green raised her hand to knock at the unpainted front door when she paused. The voice had gotten louder. Accented with a slight German flavor, the man prayed aloud.

  “. . . Thee to return our wandering son, to guide his steps homeward to his family. He is just a small boy, Heavenly Father, and must rely on Thee to see him safe home, as Thou guidest all the lost to their rest.”

  An amen sounded from half a dozen voices. Edith sniffed, choked by tears. Mrs. Green echoed the sound, her fine jade-colored eyes were sparkling now with moisture rather than anger.

  Without knocking Mrs. Green stepped into the threadbare, but scrupulously clean front room. A large family of children, hands clasped, stood around a mild-looking gray-haired man, who was just folding up his spectacles. He looked nothing like Edith’s conception of a butcher.
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  “Mein Gott,” the man said, rising. Holding out trembling hands, he hurried around the table, stepping around children ranging in age from adolescence to a baby crawling on the floor.

  “Rudy. My Rudy.” Mr. Huneker took his son from Mrs. Green’s arms as though the boy had floated in under his own power. The small blond head lifted. “Papa?”

  The man rocked back and forth, clutching the child tightly, while his other children clustered around. There were two boys and two girls, and the infant, whose sex was not clear. All were handsome children who looked to be wearing each other’s clothes. By the time the shirts had reached the youngest child, they were nowhere near flawless.

  Tears shone in the gray eyes of the butcher as he kissed his son’s head. Rudy had gone to sleep again.

  “Poor thing’s worn out,” Mrs. Green whispered to Edith.

  She was about to agree when she was struck into silence by Mr. Huneker’s expression. He had looked up when Mrs. Green had spoken, but whatever he’d meant to say never passed his lips. As though he’d been turned to stone, he stared at the red-haired woman, his jaw slightly open.

  Edith had read about love at first sight. She had never thought she would actually see it.

  As though the sun had sent its first rays straight into a crystal chandelier, Mr. Huneker threw off beams that bounced and sparkled, not only about his person, but about the rest of the room. Like a prism, he transformed the white fire of true love into dancing rainbows. Every one of his facets reflected back a portion of his heart to make a whole too dazzling to look at with the naked eye.

  “I’ll put him in his bed.” Mr. Huneker said, stuttering a little, his accent becoming more pronounced. “Please stay. . . .” He added something in German. To Edith’s surprise, she saw Mrs. Green blush as though she’d understood what he’d said.

  She turned to Edith and said softly, “I worked for a German family before I married Mr. Green. They’re very . . . poetical.”

  As if compelled, Mr. Huneker glanced back as he carried his son out. He repeated, “Please stay. . . .”