Cinderfella

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “I do.”

  The right man.

  * * *

  Ash sat by the fire, his back to Verna and the boys. A dinner of burnt steak and nearly raw potatoes sat heavy in his stomach, and his muscles — every muscle in his body — ached. It was a good ache, one that confirmed a hard day’s work.

  Elmo was complaining about his neurasthenia, an invisible ailment he blamed for everything from exhaustion and headaches to bad dreams, regaling his mother with the details of his aches and pains. Truth of the matter was, Elmo March was a lazy bum, a big baby, and the king of whiners. If he’d move that fat behind of his a little more often, he’d likely not be so troubled by this malady. He was telling Verna about some electric treatments he’d read about, and he was just sure that if he had sufficient funds, those treatments would cure him.

  There was a moment of silence as they waited — Ash was certain — for him to offer to raise the cash to send Elmo to Kansas City.

  Only if he’d stay there.

  Ash said nothing, and eventually the conversation resumed.

  Oswald had his nose in a book, as usual, there in a rocking chair very near the brightest kerosene lantern in the room. At least Oswald was quiet, when he was reading. He lived in his own world, a world of fiction that didn’t include anything so common as milking cows or feeding chickens or working in the fields.

  Why didn’t they just leave? Oswald and Elmo didn’t want to be farmers, why the hell were they still here? There was an entire world out there, full of possibilities. Didn’t they want lives of their own? Were they truly so lazy that they wanted nothing more than to be taken care of? Ash shook his head. He didn’t understand these stepbrothers of his at all.

  Ash wondered if he’d rest tonight. He should sleep like the dead every night the way he worked, but he usually slept only a few hours, and that came in bits and pieces. He closed his eyes at night but his mind wouldn’t be still. Even in the softest bed he couldn’t quite get comfortable; the dreams that came were usually unremembered and never restful.

  “You know her, don’t you, Ash?”

  It was the sound of his name that grabbed his attention. Verna chose to ignore him, whenever possible, especially in the evenings. Ash was never a part of the conversation, and didn’t want to be.

  “I know who?” He twisted to face his stepmother.

  “Charmaine Haley,” Verna snapped. “Haven’t you been paying attention to a word I say?”

  “What about her?”

  Verna rolled her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap. “I saw her in town today. Eula Markam at the mercantile pointed her out to me, but she was headed home and we weren’t introduced.”

  The Runt was home. Charmaine Haley had always been a little bundle of energy, a nervy kid who had said exactly what was on her mind. He’d watched Mrs. Haley cringe when Charmaine, all of six years old, had asked the preacher how he knew God was real. He’d been there a year or so later, in the old general store with his father, when she’d told old Mr. Whitman that he needed a bath. It was the truth, but everyone else had simply turned their heads or held their breath. She’d eventually learned to be more tactful, but she had always been an insistent and frequent voice in school, questioning everything from literature to history, and asking aloud what every other kid wanted to know. Exactly why did they need to be proficient in arithmetic?

  “When did she get back?”

  “Last week, but that’s not important.” Verna obviously had something on her mind, but she was having a difficult time getting it out. “Do you think she’ll remember you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

  Verna squirmed in her chair, and Ash noticed that Elmo and Oswald were both staring at him; Elmo with his hands settled over a rounded stomach, Oswald with his book cradled in his lap. They knew what was on Verna’s mind.

  “What’s going on here?” It was bad enough when they ignored him. The three of them staring at him as if they expected something was much worse.

  “Stuart Haley is giving a party,” Verna said quickly. “A masked ball, to be precise.”

  “A what?”

  “A masked ball,” she repeated slowly. “It’s to be very fancy, elegant, the finest party ever thrown in Salley Creek, and perhaps in the entire state of Kansas. Word is, he’s looking for a husband for his daughter.”

  Little Charmaine Haley? In his mind she was still a kid, the little girl who’d followed him around town every chance she got. It was hard to believe she was all grown up and looking for a husband. But years had passed since he’d seen or thought of her. “She would be about that age.”

  Verna leaned forward in her chair, and the firelight on her normally even features gave her face an evil cast. “I want to go, and I want Elmo and Oswald to go. Why, either of my boys would make a fine husband for Miss Haley.”

  Ash almost laughed, but he didn’t. It was a ridiculous thought — but a fine one. If Charmaine were to marry Elmo or Oswald they’d surely move out, probably to Haley’s ranch. Maybe the whole bunch of them would go. It was a heavenly prospect

  “I’m sure you’ll all be invited,” he assured her.

  Verna was not convinced. “That Maureen Haley doesn’t like me, I just know it. She’s never said anything, but the way she looks at me I can tell.”

  Ash refrained from saying that Maureen Haley had too much class to convey in any way her dislike for another human being. Even Verna. “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  “Next time you go to town, drop by the Haley house and say hello, and I’m sure she’ll invite the entire family.”

  This time Ash did laugh. It had been so long since he’d actually smiled that his face almost hurt with the effort. “I’d more likely get shot. The Haleys and the Colemans haven’t gotten along since Dad put barbed wire up to keep Haley’s cattle out of his wheat, and that was some twenty years ago.”

  Verna harrumphed and leaned back in her chair, Oswald returned to his reading, and Elmo headed for the kitchen and a bit of bread and milk to ease his stomachache.

  Ash turned his back on the lot of them, and a smile crept across his face. He couldn’t imagine any sane woman willingly marrying Elmo, but Oswald had potential — for a city girl. He’d never make a farmhand or a rancher, that’s for sure, but Haley didn’t have to know that until after the wedding.

  He remembered, in a flash of deeply buried memory, that as a child Charmaine had declared that one day they would marry. She’d been a little thing, a kid who was mad at her sisters over some slight, and he’d told her they were just jealous because she was the pretty one, and then he’d wiped the tears from her eyes with his sleeve. He’d just been trying to make her stop crying, but she’d taken him very seriously. Her response had been to declare him the most wonderful and handsome man in the world, and to swear that when she was grown she would marry him. She’d stated it, in her usual way, as a fact, a foregone conclusion.

  He’d laughed, which hadn’t been a very tactful response, he now realized. But shoot, she’d been a skinny kid at the time and the very idea had been startling and ridiculous. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings, but a sniffling marriage proposal had been the last response he’d expected from the Runt.

  Well, she likely wasn’t a runt any more. She was a fully grown woman of marriageable age, and Oswald would make a right fine Haley son-in-law. And when Oswald left the farm to move into the big Haley house, he could take his mother and his brother with him.

  She’d never seen anyone do so many things at once. Charmaine watched in horrified fascination as her friend Eula bounced a baby on her knee, scolded the one at her feet, sipped a cup of tea, glanced over the mercantile books, and planned what she’d prepare for supper.

  They were seated in the small office at the rear of the Markam mercantile, and Winston was up front behind the counter for a change.

  “There it is, another error. I swear. Win never was good at math.” Eula brought the tea to her mouth and th
en set it beside the open accounting book. “Sarah Elizabeth, take that out of your mouth right this minute,” she snapped at the two-year-old who sat on the floor with a collection of odds and ends as playthings.

  Eula smiled brightly as she turned her attention to her guest. “Sarah’s a handful, I can tell you that. From the day she was born she was demanding and ornery. Now Little Win, on the other hand, is an absolute angel.” She presented her angel with a crinkled nose and a “gootchy-goo.”

  “They’re beautiful children,” Charmaine said as she tasted her own tea. “But I don’t know how you have time to do all that you do. With the store and the children and the household. . . . ” She refrained, with some difficulty, from jumping into a speech on the unrealistic demands placed on women.

  “You make time for the things that have to be done,” Eula said sensibly, and with an air of contentment. “Oh,” she said sharply, and her eyes widened slightly. “Now, that’s an idea. I have to use those apples anyway, I might as well make a pie. That will go nicely with the ham and the beans, don’t you think? Win loves my apple pie.”

  Charmaine sighed, unable to help herself. “Don’t you think Winston could occasionally prepare his own meal, and perhaps even yours? You work so —”

  Eula interrupted with a laugh. “Win in my kitchen? Oh, no. He’d only make a mess, and he’d likely burn the place down in the process.”

  “But you work so hard,” Charmaine said insistently. “He demands too much of you.”

  “Nonsense,” Eula said, her smile fading but not disappearing entirely. “I like taking care of my husband and my children, and working in the store give me a chance to meet new people and visit with old friends.”

  Proving Charmaine’s point, Winston Markam opened the door and leaned in. He was a thin man, relatively handsome with his neatly groomed auburn hair and startling blue eyes and neat, sensible clothing befitting a merchant. A white shirt Eula had washed and starched and ironed. Brown trousers with a sharp crease — also courtesy of Eula. “Where’s that new ribbon?” he asked without preamble. “Mrs. Provost is having a conniption trying to find what she wants.”

  With that out of the way, he nodded politely to Charmaine and smiled widely at Sarah Elizabeth.

  “Mrs. Provost always pitches a fit,” Eula said, and she stood with Little Win on her hip. Then, without warning, she placed the baby on Charmaine’s lap. “I’ll be right back.”

  The door closed, and Charmaine found herself alone with Eula’s children. Little Win immediately grabbed her ear and squealed with delight. Charmaine’s left ear stung with the grip of those strong little fingers and rang from the surprisingly high pitch of the screech. Before she had time to recover, Sarah Elizabeth went in search of trouble. The tot stood, nose barely even with the desk, and reached for her mother’s tea.

  “No!” Charmaine said, coming out of her seat with Little Win — who still grasped her ear with all his might — in one arm. She reached the teacup just in time, and moved it safely out of reach. Sarah Elizabeth didn’t even pause to take a breath. She reached a chubby hand to the accounting book and pulled it to the floor before Charmaine could stop her.

  “Now, now,” Charmaine said, stooping down with Little Win on one hip and a delighted Sarah Elizabeth tugging on her skirt. Still, she managed to pick up the book and return it to Winston’s desk. “You mustn’t touch your mother’s things. You have your own toys to play with,” she said sensibly, pointing to the collection of dolls and brightly painted wooden blocks on the floor.

  Little Win released Charmaine’s ear, and she sighed with relief. Then he grabbed her hair.

  “Ouch!” She tried to pry his fingers loose, but that chubby little fist held tight and pulled, and he squeaked a delighted proclamation directly into her ear.

  At least Sarah Elizabeth was settling down. She sat on the floor amidst her wooden blocks and picked one up. Charmaine was somewhat mollified to be assured that children could be reasoned with.

  And then Sarah Elizabeth drew back her arm and let a red block fly. It bounced off the side of the desk with a resounding thud.

  “Stop that right this minute,” Charmaine said in her most stern yet reasonable voice.

  The little girl smiled sweetly, and picked up another block. This one came directly at Charmaine, but with a quick hand she deflected it so that it fell to the floor. Little Win, perhaps distressed by the excitement, pulled on his handful of hair and squealed loudly.

  “Sarah Elizabeth,” Charmaine said calmly, “would you build me a house with your blocks?”

  The little girl looked at the blocks before her, stacked one on top of another, and smiled widely. Win relaxed, and instead of pulling on Charmaine’s hair and screaming, he simply gnawed quietly on her shoulder.

  It was just as well that she’d decided never to marry. Having a husband to answer to was bad enough, but children! A few minutes with Eula’s “angels” and she was doubly glad she’d decided to remain unmarried and chaste.

  “There now,” Eula cooed as she swept through the door. “Did you miss your mommy?” She scooped Little Win into her embrace and retook her seat.

  Sarah Elizabeth was innocently stacking blocks, and Charmaine sighed in relief. Yes, it was just as well.

  Three

  “No, no, no!” Ash hurried across the grassy yard that separated him from the wagon Oswald was struggling to hitch up. Elmo turned to see what the commotion was about, after he tossed another bucket of water into the pigsty. That big old boar was already rolling in the mud, delighted with the cool treat.

  The horses were prancing, pulling away from one another and whinnying softly.

  “What have I done now?” Oswald asked tiredly.

  “You’ve hitched them up on the wrong sides again,” Ash said, as he began to undo Oswald’s work.

  “The wrong side, the wrong side,” Oswald moaned. Ash cut a biting glance at his stepbrother just in time to see Oswald roll his eyes in despair. “They’re horses, dumb animals, what possible difference does it make?”

  “Betsy on the right,” Ash said through gritted teeth, keeping to himself the conviction that these dumb animals were a lot smarter than the man who couldn’t remember the simplest instruction. “Lady on the left. Always. It’s what they’re used to. They get skittish when you change their routine.”

  It was Saturday, and Verna was going to town. She used shopping as an excuse, but this was a ritual more social than practical. Oswald and Elmo usually accompanied her, which made Saturday afternoons Ash’s favorite time of the week. Oswald would visit the small Salley Creek library, and Elmo would find the doctor and casually bring up his aches and pains, his imagined illnesses. Poor Doc Whitfield. Even when he tried to hide, Elmo managed to find him.

  Ash switched the horses, whispering soothing words as he hitched them up correctly. It didn’t take long. If Oswald could remember this one little detail, life would be so much simpler. It didn’t take a genius to remember how to hitch a pair of horses to a wagon, but half the time Oswald managed to botch the job. By the time Ash was finished, the mares were settled.

  Elmo carried a couple more buckets of water from the well to the pigsty, complaining constantly about his throbbing back and cramping hands. He was sure he’d done himself serious injury by carrying the heavy buckets. By the time Verna emerged from the house, Oswald and Elmo were waiting for her in the wagon.

  “Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Verna asked again as Ash assisted her into the seat of the wagon. She’d never asked him to ride to town with her before. Never. And this was the third time she’d asked this morning.

  “I’m sure. There’s work to be done around here.”

  “There always is,” Verna sighed. “You work much too hard, Ash. You need to expand your horizons, to look beyond this farm now and again. Why,” she said as if the thought had just occurred to her, “you should come to town and pay a call on that nice Charmaine Haley.” She looked him up and down critically, taking in
the dark beard, the hair that desperately needed to be cut, the worn and dirty work shirt and the faded Levis. “Well, perhaps another time would be best.”

  Ash watched them ride away, and when he could no longer see the wagon along the winding road, he closed his eyes for a moment. Peace. Quiet.

  When he opened his eyes he saw that Elmo had left the gate to the pigsty wide open. The ornery old boar had stepped into the barnyard, his beady eyes intent upon an unsuspecting chicken.

  Ash stepped forward. “Back where you belong, old man,” he said, waving his hands at the boar. “Let’s go.”

  In answer, the boar rushed past, his big body brushing against Ash’s leg. The hen squawked, flapped her wings, and headed for the safety of the chicken house. With his prey out of sight the boar stopped in his tracks, suddenly aloof as he surveyed his surroundings.

  Ash held the gate to the pigsty open in invitation. “Come on. The food’s in here, and this nice cool mud is just waiting for you. What do you want with a scrawny old hen, anyway?”

  The boar headed for the open gate, lumbering, his big body moving ponderously toward the pigsty. And then he stopped. He looked at Ash as if there was something he all of a sudden found offensive. He snorted, shook his big head, and rushed forward before Ash knew what the nasty old boar was thinking.

  Ash stepped back as the boar charged him, ready to sidestep the big, low body and slip out the gate. But the boar changed directions without warning, and knocked Ash’s legs out from under him. His arms automatically extended to break the fall, finding the slick mud and causing the muck to splash into his face. Ash’s hands slipped forward, and he landed face down in the pigsty.

  He snapped his head up quickly, but not before he got a good dose of cool mud up his nose.

  Once that was done, the boar was perfectly satisfied to roll happily in the mud beside the newest resident of the pigsty.