Morning Glory

Chapter 12

Will took the car, in deference to Miss Beasley. On the way into town they spoke of the boys, the birthday, and finally of Elly.

"She’s a stubborn woman, Miss Beasley. You might as well know, the reason I asked for that book on human birthing was because she refuses to have a doctor. She wants me to deliver the baby."

"And will you?"

"Reckon I’ll have to. If I don’t she’ll do it alone. That’s how stubborn she is."

"And you’re scared."

"Damn right, I’m scared!" Will suddenly remembered himself. "Oh, sorry, ma’am-I mean, well, who wouldn’t be?"

"I’m not blaming you, Mr. Parker. But apparently her other two were born at home, weren’t they?"

"Yes."

"Without complications."

"Now you sound like her."

He told her about the book and how it had scared him. She told him about going off to college and how it had scared her, but how the experience had made her a stronger person. He told her about the boys and how awkward he’d felt around them at first. She told him she too had felt awkward around them today. He told her how scared Elly was of the bees and how he himself loved working with them. She told him how she loved working among the books and that in time Elly would come to see he was cautious and industrious, but he must be patient with her. He asked her what kind of man Glendon Dinsmore had been and she answered, as different from you as air is from earth. He asked which he was, air or earth? She laughed and said, "That’s what I like about you-you really don’t know."

They talked all the way to town-argued some-and neither of them considered what a queer combination they made-Will, with his prison record and slapdash education, Miss Beasley with her estimable position and college degree. Will with his long history of drifting, Miss Beasley with her long one of permanence. He with his family of near-three, she an old maid. Both had been lonely in their own way. Will, because of his orphaned past, Gladys because of her superior intellect. He was a man who rarely confided, she a woman in whom people rarely confided. He felt lucky to have her as a sounding board and she felt flattered to be chosen as such.

Diametric opposites, they found in each other the perfect conversational complement, and by the time they reached town their mutual respect was cemented.

The library was closed that afternoon in memory of Levander Sprague, who’d worked there nearly a third of his life. It was a cloudy day, but inside the building was warm and bright. Entering, Will looked at the place through new eyes-gleaming wood, towering windows and flawless order. How incredible that he could work in such a place.

Miss Beasley walked him through, explained his duties, showed him the janitor’s supplies, the furnace, asked that he arrive each day five minutes before closing so she could give him any special instructions, then extended a key.

"For me?" He stared as if it were her great-grandfather’s gold watch.

"You’ll be locking up when you leave each night."

The key. My God, she was willing to trust him with the key. In all his life he’d had no place. Now he had a house and a library he could walk into anytime he chose.

Staring at the cool metal in his palm, he told her quietly, "Miss Beasley, this library is public property. Some folks around here might object to your giving the key to an ex-con."

She puffed out her chest until her bosom jutted, and locked her wrists beneath it. "Just let them try, Mr. Parker. I’d welcome the war." She reached down and closed his fingers over the key. "And I’d win it."

Without a doubt, she was right. In his palm the brass warmed while a smile lifted one corner of his lips and spread to the other. Some poor damn fool could have had her behind him all his life and had passed up the opportunity, he thought. This town had to be filled with some mighty stupid men.

She left him, then, went home to spend the remainder of her rare day off. He walked through the silent rooms in wonder, realizing there’d be no supervisor, foreman or guard; he could do things his way, at his own pace. He liked the silence, the smell, the spaciousness and purpose of the place. It seemed to represent a facet of life he’d missed. Stationary people came here, secure ones. From now on he’d be one of them-leaving his comfortable home and coming here to work each day, picking up a paycheck each week, knowing he’d do the same next week and the next and the next. Brimming with feelings he could find no other way to express, he pressed both hands flat on one of the study tables-solid, functional, necessary, as he’d be now. Good wood, good hard oak in a table built to last. He’d last, too, at this job because he’d found in Miss Beasley a person who judged a man for what he was, not what he had been. He stood at one of the enormous fanlight windows and looked out on the street below. Levander Sprague, wherever you are, thank you.

The janitor’s room smelled of lemon oil and sweeping compound. Will loved it and the idea that it was his own domain. Gathering supplies, he went eagerly into the public area and upended chairs and swept the hardwood floors with an oiled rag-tail mop. He dusted the windowsills, the furniture, the top of Miss Beasley’s neat desk, emptied the wastebasket, burned the papers in the incinerator and felt as if he’d just been elected governor.

At six-thirty, he headed home.

Home.

The word had never held such promise. She was waiting there, the woman who’d called him dear. The one whose cheek he’d kissed. The one whose bed he shared. At the thought of returning to her, visions filled his head-of walking into her arms, feeling her hands close over his shoulders, burying his face in her neck. Of being held as if he mattered.

He felt different now that he had a job. Bolder, worthier. Perhaps tonight he’d kiss her and to hell with the consequences.

The kitchen was empty when he arrived, but his supper waited in a pie tin on the reservoir lid. The birthday cake sat in the middle of the cleared table. From the boys’ room came a spill of light and the murmur of voices. He carried his plate and fork to the doorway and found Elly sitting beneath the covers in Donald Wade’s bed, an arm around each of the boys.

"… took a scamper’round that hen house a-yowlin’ at that fox fit to kill, and when he-"She glanced up. "Oh… Will… hi." Her face registered pleasure. "I was tellin’ the boys a bedtime story."

"Don’t stop."

Their eyes held for several electric beats while her color heightened and she tucked a stray hair behind one ear. Finally, she continued her tale. He lounged against the doorframe, eating his leftover hash and black-eyed peas, listening and chuckling while she entertained the boys with a sprightly story peopled with furry critters. When the tale ended she gave each of her sons a kiss, then edged off the bed and held out her hands for Thomas.

Will pushed off the doorway. "You shouldn’t be lifting him. Here, hold this." He handed her his plate and swung Thomas up, transferring him to the crib. There followed the ritual goodnight kisses, then they left the boys’ door ajar and ambled toward the kitchen.

"So, how was it at the library?"

"Do you know what she did?" he asked, amazed.

"What?"

"She gave me the key. Feature that. Me with a key to anything."

Eleanor was touched, not only by his astonishment, but by Miss Beasley’s trust in him. He rinsed his dish and described his duties while she settled into a rocker and pressed one of the Madeira doilies into an embroidery hoop. He dragged a kitchen chair near, sipped a cup of coffee and watched her fingers create colored flowers where only blue ink had been. They talked quietly, calm on the surface but with an underlying tension simmering as the clock inched closer to bedtime.

When it arrived, Will arched and stretched while Eleanor tucked her handiwork away. They made their trips outside, battened down the house for the night and retired to their room to undress, back to back, as had become their habit. When he had stripped to his underwear, Will turned to glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of her naked back and the side of one breast as she threw a white nightgown over her head.

Dear. The memory of the simple word gripped him with all its attendant possibilities. Had she meant it? Was he really dear to someone for the first time in his life?

He sat on the edge of the bed and wound the alarm clock, waiting for the feel of her weight dipping the mattress before he settled back and lowered the lantern wick.

They lay memorizing the ceiling while memories of the day returned-a birthday gift, an endearment, a handclasp, a parting kiss-none very remarkable on the surface. The remarkable was happening within.

They lay flat, quivering inside, disciplining themselves into motionlessness. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed his bare chest, the looming elbows, the hands folded behind his head. From the corner of his eye he saw her pregnant girth and her high-buttoned nightie with the quilts covering her to the ribs. Beneath her hands she felt her own heartbeat driving up through the quilt. On the back of his skull he felt the accelerated rhythm of his pulse.

The minutes dragged on. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Both worried.

One kiss-is that so hard?

Just a kiss-please.

But what if she pushes you away?

What is there for him in a woman so pregnant she can scarcely waddle?

What woman wants a man with so many tramps under his bridge?

What man wants to roll up against someone else’s baby?

But most of them were paid, Elly, all of them meaningless.

Yes, it’s Glendon’s baby, but he never made me feel like this.

I’m unworthy.

I’m undesirable.

I’m unlovable.

I’m lonely.

Turn to her, he thought.

Turn to him, she thought.

The lantern wick sputtered. The flame twisted, distorting the impression of the chimney rim on the ceiling. The mattress seemed to tremble with their uncertainties. And when it seemed the very air would sizzle with heat lightning, they spoke simultaneously.

"Will?"

"Elly?"

Their heads turned and their eyes met.

"What?"

A pause. Then, "I… I forgot what I was going to say."

Ten seconds of beating silence before she said softly, "Me too."

They stared at each other, feeling as if they were choking, each afraid… each desperate…

Then all of his past, all of her shortcomings, billowed up in a conflagration and exploded as might some distant star.

Her lips parted in unconscious invitation. His shoulder came off the bed and he rolled toward her, slowly enough to give her time to skitter if she would.

Instead her lips shaped his name. "Will…" But it escaped without a sound as he bent above her and touched her mouth with his own.

No passionate kiss, this, but a touch fraught with insecurities. Tentative. Uncertain. A mingling of breath more than of skin. A thousand questions encapsulated in the tremulous brushing of two timid mouths while their hearts thundered, their souls sought.

He lifted… looked… into eyes the color of acceptance, deep-sea green in the shadow of his head. She, too, studied his eyes at close range… brown, vulnerable eyes which he’d hidden so often beneath the brim of a battered hat. She saw the doubts that had accompanied him to this brink and marveled that someone so good, so inwardly and outwardly beautiful, should have harbored them when she was the one… she. Plain and pregnant Elly See, the brunt of laughter and pointed fingers. But in his eyes she saw no laughter, only a deep mystification to match her own.

He kissed her again… lightly… lightly… the brush of a jaconet wing upon a petal while her fingertips brushed his chest.

And at long, long last the loneliness of Will Parker’s life stopped hurting. He thought her name over and over-Elly… Elly-a benediction, as the kiss deepened, firmer, fuller, but still with a certain reserve-two people schooled to reject the possibility of miracles now forced to change their beliefs.

His hand closed over her arm and hers flattened on the silken hairs of his chest, but he remained a space apart as he urged her lips open with his own, bringing the first touch of tongues-warm, wet and still atremble. Hearts that had hammered with uncertainty did so now in exultation. They searched for and found a more intimate fit, enhanced by the sway and nod of heads that built the kiss into something more than either had expected. Sweet sweet commingling, bringing more than the rush of blood and the thrust of hearts, bringing too, the assurance that Will and Eleanor were to one another beings of great moment.

He hovered above her, bearing his weight on both elbows, afraid of hurting her. But she bade him come. Nearer… heavier… to the spot where her heart lifted toward his. And he rested upon her breasts, gingerly at first, until her acquiescence seemed unmistakable.

For long wondrous minutes they sated themselves with what both had known too little of before Will broke away, looked down into her face to find the same expression of wonder he himself was feeling. They stared-renewed-then wrapped each other tight and rocked because kissing hardly seemed an adequate expression of all they felt.

In time he hauled them safely to their sides, pressing his face to her throat, folding himself like a jackknife around her protruding stomach.

"Elly… Elly… I was so scared."

"So was I."

"I thought you’d turn me away."

"But that’s what I thought you’d do."

He pulled back to see her face. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I’m not very pretty. And I’m pregnant and awkward."

He cradled her cheek tenderly. "No… no. You’re a beautiful person. I saw that the first morning I was here."

She held the back of his hand and hid her eyes in its palm. These things were easier to admit behind closed eyes. "And I’m not very bright, and maybe I’m crazy. You knew all that."

He made her lift her chin and look at him. "But I killed a woman. And I’ve been in prison and in whorehouses. You knew that."

"That was a long time ago."

"Most people never forget."

"I thought because it was Glendon’s baby inside me you wouldn’t want to touch me."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Her heart seemed too small to contain such joy. "Oh, Will."

He asked, "Could I touch it once? Your stomach? I never touched a woman who was pregnant."

She felt warm and shy but nodded.

His hands molded the sides of her stomach as if it were a bouquet of crushable flowers. "It’s hard… you’re hard. I thought it’d be soft. Oh God, Elly, you feel so good."

"So do you." She touched his hair, thick and springy and smelling of his unmistakable individual scent. "I’ve missed this."

He closed his eyes and gave her license. If he lived to be a thousand he’d never get enough of the feeling of her hands in his hair.

In time he let his eyes drift open and they lay for minutes, gazing, taking their fill. She of his incredible eyes and jumbled hair. He of her softly swollen lips and green, green eyes. He found himself unreasonably jealous of her early years with Glendon Dinsmore. "Do you still think of him?"

"I haven’t for weeks."

"I thought you still loved him."

She drew courage and repeated his words. "What does that have to do with anything? Do you think I’ll love this baby any less, just because two others came before it?"

He braced up on an elbow, stared at her and swallowed. He felt as if a great fist had closed around his chest. When he spoke the words sounded pinched. "Elly, nobody ever-" Abashed, he couldn’t go on.

"Nobody ever loved you before?" She tenderly cupped his cheek. "Well, I do."

His eyes slid closed and he turned his mouth hard into her palm, clasping it to his face. "Nobody. Ever," he reiterated. "Not in my whole life. No mother, no woman, no man."

"Well, your life ain’t even half over yet, Will Parker. The second half’s gonna be much better’n the first, I promise."

"Oh, Elly…" Above all the things he’d missed, this had left the greatest void. Just once in his life he wanted to hear it, the way he’d dreamed of hearing it during five long years in a cell, and all the lonely years he had drifted, and all through childhood while he watched other children-the lucky ones-pass the orphanage and gawk from the security of their parents’ carriages and cars. "Could you say it once," he entreated, "like they say people do?"

Her heart beat like the wings of an eagle, taking her soaring as she spoke the words. "I love you, Will Parker."

The sting hit his eyelids and he hung his head because nobody had prepared him for this, nobody had said, When it happens you’ll be resurrected. All that you were you will not be. All that you weren’t, you are. He lunged against her, burying his face above her breasts, holding fast. "Oh, God,…" he groaned. "Oh, God."

She held his head as if he were a child awakening from a bad dream.

"I love you," she whispered against his hair, feeling her own tears build.

"Oh, Elly, I love you, too," he uttered in a broken voice, "but I was so afraid nobody could love me. I thought maybe I was unlovable."

"Oh no, Will… no… not you." His bittersweet words filled her with the deep wish to heal, left her throat aching as she curled around him, held his head protectively and felt him breathe against her breasts. She threaded her hands through his hair and felt him grow still with pleasure. She raked her nails over his skull in long, slow sweeps… time… and time… and time again, lifting his scent, memorizing it, impressing it forever in her senses. His hair was thick, coarse, the color of dry grass. It had grown since she’d cut it, became shaggy at the neck where she brushed it up from his nape, then smoothed it before beginning another long, sensuous stroke at the crown of his head. He shivered and made a sound of gratification, deep in his throat.

His whole life he’d longed for someone to touch him this way, to touch the boy in him as well as the man, to soothe, reassure. The feel of her fingers in his hair brought back a measure of all he’d missed. He was parched earth, she fresh rain. He, a waiting vessel, she rich wine. And in those moments of closeness she filled him, filled all the lacks endowed him by his shiftless, loner’s life, becoming at once all the things he’d needed-mother, father, friend, wife, and lover.

When he felt sated he lifted his head as if drunk with pleasure.

"I used to watch you touch the boys that way. I wanted to say, Touch me, too, like you touch them. Nobody ever did that to me before, Elly."

"I’ll do it anytime you like. Wash your hair, comb it, rub your back, hold your hand-"

His mouth stopped her words. It seemed risky to accept too much in this first, grand rush. He kissed her with gratitude changing swiftly to the lushness of fresh-sprung love. He braced higher and pushed her softly into the pillow, letting his hand rove over her neck and shoulder, suckling her mouth, spreading his fingers on her face, resting a thumb so near it almost became part of the kiss. His body beckoned to join more fully in this union. Realizing this was impossible, he broke the kiss but spanned her throat with his hand. Her pulsebeat matched the quickness of his own.

"You know how long I’ve loved you?"

"How long?"

"Since the day you threw the egg at me."

"All that time and you never said anything. Oh, Will…"

A swift slew of possessiveness hit him. He claimed her mouth again, washing its interior with his tongue, holding her arms locked hard around his neck. He bit her lips. She bit back. He lifted a knee and pressed it high and hard between her legs. She opened them and squeezed his thigh. He circled her immense waist and held her as if forever.

"Tell me again," he demanded insatiably.

"What?" she teased.

"You know. Tell me."

"I love you."

"Once more. I got to hear it more."

"I love you."

"Will you get tired of me asking you to say it?"

"You won’t have to ask."

"Neither will you. I love you." Another kiss-a hard, short stamp of possession, then a question filled with boyish impatience. "When did you know?"

"I don’t know. It just came upon me."

"When we got married?"

"No."

"When we bottled the honey?"

"Maybe."

"Well, sure’s heck not when you threw that egg."

She chuckled. "But I noticed your bare chest for the first time that day and I liked it."

"My chest?"

"Aha."

"You liked my chest before you liked me?"

"When you were washing, down by the well."

"Touch it." Jubilantly he flattened her hand against it. "Touch me anyplace. God, do you know how long it’s been since a woman touched me?"

"Will…" she chided timidly.

"Are you shy? Don’t be shy. I thought I was, too, but all of a sudden it seems like we got so much time to make up for. Touch me. No, wait. Get up. First I gotta see you." He piled onto his knees and pulled her up to kneel before him, holding her hands out from her sides. "Mercy, are you a pretty sight. Let me look at you." Her chin dropped shyly and he lifted it, pressed the tousled hair back from her temples, then fluffed it with his fingertips and arranged it on her collarbones. "You mean I don’t have to sneak anymore when I want to look at you? You got the greenest eyes. Green is my favorite color, but you knew that."

She folded her hands between her knees, quite overcome by this exuberant, demonstrative Will.

"I used to think if I was ever lucky enough to have a woman of my own, she’d have to have green eyes. Now here you are. You and your green eyes… and your pink cheeks… and your pretty little mouth…" With his thumbs he touched its corners and let his hands trail down to her shoulders, to her upper arms where they stopped. "Elly," he whispered, "don’t move." He slipped his palms to the sides of her breasts and held them lightly while the blood rushed to her cheeks and she searched for a safe place to rest her gaze. The dim light shifted on the folds of her nightgown as he cupped a breast in each hand, his palms too narrow to contain their prenatal fullness. Gently, he reshaped and lifted, then released them to glide one hand down the fullest part of her belly. There it rested, fingers splayed. He watched the hand, soon joined by the other to smooth the cloth toward her hips where he held it taut, disclosing the impression of her distended navel. Bending, he kissed her. There. On the stomach she’d thought ugly enough to put him off.

"Will." She found his chin and attempted to lift it. "I’m fat as a pumpkin. How can you kiss me there?"

He straightened. "You’re not fat, you’re only pregnant. And if I’m going to deliver that baby I’d better get to know him."

"I thought I married a shy, quiet man."

"I thought so too."

He smiled for the length of three glad heartbeats, then laughed. And wondered if life would ever again be this good. And decided surely tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow it could only get better.

He was right. He’d never imagined happiness such as he knew in the days and nights that followed. To roll over in sleep and draw her back against him and drift off again in a cocoon of bliss. Or better yet, to roll the other way and feel her follow, then press close behind him. To feel her hand circle his waist, her feet beneath his, her breath on his back. To awaken and find her lying with an elbow beneath her cheek, studying him. To kiss her then in the buttery light of early morning and know that he could do so anytime. To leave her with a goodbye kiss and return anxious. To step into the kitchen and find her working at the sink, glancing shyly over her shoulder then down at her hands until he crossed the room and slipped both hands into her apron pockets and rested his chin on her shoulder. To kiss-over her shoulder-awaiting the exquisite moment when she’d turn and loop her arms up in a welcoming embrace. To eat cake from her fork, braid her hair, refill her coffee cup, watch her embroider. To lean over the sink and shiver while she washed his hair, then wilt on a kitchen chair while she dried, combed and cut it, and sometimes kissed his ear, and sometimes teased him when he dropped off and she had to awaken him with a kiss on the mouth. To walk down the driveway holding hands, pulling the boys in the wagon.

Only one thing disturbed him during those serene days. Lula Peak. It hadn’t taken her long to get the news that Will was the custodian at the library. One evening within a week of his starting she walked in the back door and found Will in the storeroom gluing a loose chair rung. "Hey, sugar, where y’ been keepin’ yourself?"

Will jumped and swung around, startled by her voice.

"Library’s closed, ma’am."

"Well now, I know that. So’s the cafe, ’cause I just shut off the light. Thought I’d sashay on over and congratulate you on your new job." She leaned against the doorframe, one arm crossing her waist, the other hand dangling near the white V of her uniform collar. "That’s the neighborly thing to do, i’nt it?"

"’Preciate it, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do."

He squatted again, turning his back, minding the chair. She moved into the windowless room and stood behind him with her knee against his back. "You thought any more about what I said, sugar?" She kneaded the side of his neck. "Man like you makes a girl lay awake nights. Figured maybe you lay awake, too, what with that wife o’ yours bein’ pregnant. No sense in both of us losin’ sleep now, is there?"

He spun to his feet, took her by the shoulders and pushed her back.

"I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, I told you once before." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling soiled from touching her. "I’m a happily married man, Miss Peak. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave,’cause I got work to do."

She let her eyes meander over him, from forehead to hips and back up. "You’re blushin’, sugar, you know that? Must mean you’re hot… let’s see." She reached to touch his face but he grabbed her wrist and held it away, squeezing hard.

"Dammit, Lula, I said leave off!"

Her eyes took fire, radiating excitement. "Well, that’s an improvement. At least we’re on a first-name basis."

"I don’t want you comin’ here again."

"Some men don’t know what they want." Like a cobra she struck, biting his knuckles and retreating in one flashing movement.

"Ouch, goddammit!" He nursed the hand and already saw blood.

"What’s it take, Parker, huh?" she challenged from the doorway, shoulders thrown back, hands on hips, eyes glinting with demonic glee. "I know things that crazy wife of yours never dreamed of. You think about it." She turned and ran.

He felt violated. And angry. And guilty. And powerless because she was a woman and he couldn’t level her with his fists as he had the men who’d tried to seduce him in prison. That night, returning to Elly, he held his feelings inside, afraid to tell her about Lula, afraid to jeopardize their new burgeoning closeness.

At the library he had always locked the front door. After Lula’s intrusion he locked the back, too. But she cornered him one night when he took the trash out to burn in the incinerator behind the building, slipping up behind him in the dark and touching him before he was aware of her presence. He shoved her harder this time, knocking her against the incinerator, cursing, raising his fist but halting himself just in time.

"Do it," she goaded. "Do it, Parker," and he realized she was sick, driven by some twisted need that scared him.

"Keep outa my way, Lula," he growled, picked up his trash can and ran.

He tried to put the incident from his mind, but found himself looking over his shoulder every time he stepped out the library door, every time he locked it at the end of the night. He grew closer to Elly, appreciated her more, soothed himself with her goodness.

Nights, when he’d return home, she’d awaken and stretch and watch him shuck off his outerwear and slip in beside her. And her arms would open and they’d lay kissing and murmuring until the hour grew wee and the moon began its descent. Though they were husband and wife, their embraces remained chaste. Sometimes he caressed her breast, but as her time grew closer she’d flinch and he was smitten by a wave of guilt.

"Elly, honey, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"They’re always a little tender, late like this."

After that he kissed and held her, but no more. She always wore her long white nightie and he knew she was shy about exposing her distorted body. Though he was tempted to do more, he never pushed, but settled for kissing and lying with their limbs entwined, their hands safely removed from intimate territory.

Until one night in early December when he’d found a note from Lula on the back door as he left work. It was graphic, obscene, suggesting how she might thrill him when he finally broke down and accepted her invitation. That night he had a dream. He was walking through a dry wash in Texas. It was high noon and so hot the earth burned through the soles of his boots. His mouth felt parched and a dull ache bowed his shoulders. He labored up a rocky ridge, panting and tired, then halted in surprise at the sight beyond the crest. A layer of sky might have dropped from overhead, so brilliant was the valley below. Filled with Texas bluebonnets, it seemed to reflect the hard cobalt blue of the bowl overhead. A ribbon of sparkling water bisected the field as he wallowed through it in flowers as deep as a man’s boot tops. He knelt to drink, swashing his face and neck, dampening his collar and leather vest. He cupped his hand again, and as he knelt, sipping, a pair of feet waded into view beneath his nose. A gauzy yellow skirt floated on top of the water. He looked up into eyes as black as Apache tears, and hair to match.

"Hola, Weel-jew been lookin’ for me?" It was Carmelita, one of the women from the whorehouse in La Grange. She had Mexican blood, enough to make her skin dusky and her lips a ripe plum red.

He pushed himself onto his haunches and backhanded his mouth slowly, eyeing her as she caught her hands on both hips and rocked seductively. Her feet were widespread, thighs silhouetted through the yellow gauze skirt. She reached down and lazily wet her arms, bending forward until her breasts hung pendulously within the peasant-style blouse.

"’Ey, Weell Parker, wot jew lookin’ at, eh?" She straightened, still with legs spraddled, and wrung out her skirt, enticing him with a glimpse of bare skin and black pubic hair underneath. She laughed throatily and wallowed to the bank. Standing ankle-deep, she began washing his face with the wet skirt. He reached beneath it and gripped her bare hips. Immediately she shoved him away, scuttled backward into the swifter water, laughing throatily. "Jew want Carmelita… come and get hur." He was stripping off his vest before the words cleared her lips. Down to bare skin, he shucked, then plunged into the cold, rippling creek. She shrieked and ran, but he caught and spun her, took her down and himself, too, into the purling water that turned her clothes transparent. He bit her nipple through the wet gauze and she shrieked again, laughing, then squiggled away, fighting against the current while stripping off her dress and flinging it back in his face. He plunged after her, scraping the clinging gauze off his head, and tackled her as she scrambled up the bank, kissing her voluptuously while her wet black hair got between their tongues. His finger was inside her before their ripples disappeared downstream, and she bucked up lustily, chuckling in a rich contralto. They rolled wildly, collecting sand on their backs. When they stopped, breathless, she was on top, urging him with practiced hips.

"Jew like, eh, hombre?" She growled low in her throat and took him in hand with little gentleness and less pause. Firmly stroking him, she let her eyes flash wickedly. "Jew will like this even more." She dove down without invitation, opened her mouth and narrowed his world to a thin corridor where carnality was all that mattered.

"Will… wake up, Will!"

Disoriented, he opened his eyes to find himself not in a field of Texas bluebonnets but in an iron bed; with a face dampened not by creekwater but by his own sweat; not with Carmelita, but with Elly. His body was swelled like a cactus in a March rain and his hand was inside Elly’s cotton underwear, in her pregnant body.

Startled, she looked back over her shoulder. He held himself rigid, too near climax to risk even the faintest movement.

"I was dreaming," he managed in a raspy voice.

"You awake now?"

"Yes." He withdrew his hand and rolled onto his back, covering his eyes with a wrist. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What were you dreaming?"

"Nothin’."

"Of me?"

Afraid of hurting her feelings, he remained silent, damning Lula, and the dream, and his own body for needing release. "Elly, you scared to let me touch you?"

"You touch me all the time."

"Not there."

Silence… then, "I don’t want you to see me. Pregnant women aren’t so pretty to look at."

"Who told you that?"

"They just aren’t."

"I’ll see you when the baby is born."

"Not for long. And afterwards I won’t look like this."

He moved his wrist and stared at the ceiling, thinking, It isn’t natural, two people lying beside each other, married all this time and never touching deliberately. "I’m gonna turn off the lamp, Elly."

No reply, so he reached over and lowered the wick. In the unaccustomed darkness they lay in the strong scent of kerosene smoke.

"Come here." He reached, closed his hand over her arm and pulled gently. "It’s time for this, don’t you think?"

"Will, I like it when you kiss me and hold me, but I can’t do any more."

"I know." He found her hips and rolled her to face him. "But I’m dying every night, wondering. Aren’t you? I’ll be gentle as anything you ever felt." He pulled her nightgown up and laid both hands on her. "I want you to know somethin’, Elly." He kissed her mouth, breathed on her, felt his heart drumming everywhere, everywhere. "I wish this baby was mine."

He explored her skin as if it were braille, leaving no further secrets. "Ah, Elly… Elly…" he murmured throatily. Then he found her hand and placed it upon himself and his breathing became a battle for air. He shuddered and ejaculated in her hand. Swiftly. Afterward he felt healed and renewed and reached for her again, to repay her in kind. But she pushed his hand away, sighed and curled close against him.

He lay holding her while emotions came to cleanse him. He thought of thanking her, but considered himself inarticulate in a moment too precious to jade with words. So he enfolded her, rubbed her back, her spine, her hair, pressing her even closer at intervals when his sense of fulfillment cried for expression.

Outside a solitary woodcock called, rising on whistling wings. The wind rested, stilling the tree tips. Off in the distance a barred owl called, like the bark of a dog at first, then, as if questioning, Who-looks-for-you? Who looks for you?

Inside, entwined, Will and Elly drifted to sleep.

And neither of them thought to turn the light back on.