Etagere (3)
Guilt crept in. She didn’t take the time to water the once alive plant, perhaps thinking only of her problems. Looking down at him she realized Red was a massive presence--a totally self-confident man. Few men she’d ever met carried themselves with such finesse. "Mind if I look at this?" He walked three feet farther and dragged an index finger across the Victrola. "Go ahead." “This play music?” ”Yes.” Long steamy nights flew through her mind. She was a new widow and not in the market for a man--especially him. In fact, what was worse, she was the widow of his best buddy. His being there was wrong; it had only been eight months since her husband passed away? Suspiciously, her eyes followed his athletic strides up and down the front hallway, because she felt he was up to something and she was in the center of his plans. She hated to admit it, but the clean light look of him impressed her, but she'd die before she'd let him know she approved. Besides, the man probably figured he had the monopoly on virility and in actuality, he broke every law in the book concerning illegal whiskey and gambling. In town she heard the talk of his women friends, the guns and the shootings. He gambled worse than her deceased husband, she'd heard and God knows what else the man was mixed up in. Rumors about him traveled six counties in each direction. Her eyes followed him as he paced before her. "What are you going to do now?" she asked exasperatedly staying on the stairs as though the soles of her feet were glued down and she could not move. He didn't have a return for her comment. "There is a law against this, isn't there? House breaking and entering, I believe?" With an air of command his deep voice uttered, "There's a law against other things too." He paused, much to her horror and toed the rope. "Like this." He leaned over and picked its end up and waved it before her. "And if Jim were here, I'd tell him his tastes in whiskey is foul. Out in the snow. You been drinkin' that vile stuff?" She flinched at the tone of his voice. Her voice rose in surprise at his accusation. "I don't-- but I just tasted it." She didn't know how to respond to his insolence. "It was bad. I agree." Grumbling, he dragged the uncoiled rope to the back door, opened it and tossed it into a corner of the screened-in porch. “Nothing is that bad.” "Listen. Mr. Watson. I--" "Red." The surge of affection scared her. She said turning her face away, "Red, then.” He eyes wandered back. “I don't think it's right for you to be in my house like this. Night's a-comin' and I--" ”You eat and I’ll leave.” Nodding, she said, “All right then.” She tasted salty tears and his male aroma reached her; he smelled of an intermingled mix of Burma Shave and some exotic cologne; he smelled so manly and dressed up in fancy clothes. Surely he didn’t buy his clothes nearby. "I'm here today to check on you. Number one: I owe it to Jim to look in on you. So I will not pay attention to a 'no' or a 'you must leave,' " he said clapping his hand to rid himself of imaginary dirt. "So. With that out of the way, I’ll fix dinner." His eyes rose to take in her expression and he offered her a heartwarming smile. “Okay?” ”I guess so.” She managed a small tentative smile and wondered if he was capable of such a feat as capturing a chicken. "I'm sorry.” Three fingers moved to her lips as she thought. “I know you mean well. But-- I'm not able to be neighborly. I'm really down. In my mood, you see. And, I can't--" She sunk to her rear end onto the stair steps, her forehead touched her knees keeping herself wrapped herself papoose-style in a colorful pineapple quilt. "I'm not right I guess you'd say--right now, I'm not." Tears emerged which she thought had long left, returned. "Don't try to be friendly. Don’t try to do anything on my account. I'm just here. Stay right there.” He waved her to stay put. “I'll find the skillet and pot." He slid a muscular arm into his dress coat's sleeve. "Do you know how long it's been since I chased down a goddamned chicken?" He laughed with an adventurous toss of his head, his pearly, devilish smile broadened and caught her eye for a moment. The smile still trembled over her lips. she sniffed even though her nose was completely stopped up. She regarded him with a speculative gaze and he absolutely showed no signs of relenting, confounding her. He cleared his throat, his head thrust down and he lowered his voice. " I haven't done this for a long time. Cook. Me a gambler. But with that said, here I go. Wish me luck." Resigned, he turned and strode to the door and said with eagerness in his voice. "I guess then I'll be back soon with the meat for supper." Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live. --Dorothy Parker 1893-1967 Evening arrived, kerosene lamps were lit, upstairs by Margaret and downstairs by her uninvited male house guest, who was neither a relative nor of course, her deceased husband. The downstairs grandfather clock bonged six times as Red Watson diligently cooked a dinner for two, sending appetizing aromas twirling upward, he asked up the stairs, “You have any wine glasses, Margaret?” ”Yes--the pantry.” The food scents tempted her and she actually wanted to eat his cooking. The man was being so nice trying so hard to help her--such a good friend of James, he was. She couldn't throw him out the door because his intentions seemed honorable. “I have raspberry wine in the car, hidden under the seat. And, I found your glasses. Finally.” Unknown to her friends, her husband often distilled liquor using berries he picked in nearby Miller’s woods: blackberries, raspberries and some little bluish little berries she didn't know the name of. He called his potent purplish spirits wine, but in actuality it was plain old everyday moonshine and was the whiskey she earlier vomited out the back door. In any event, she wouldn’t say her husband’s brew was rotgut because she really wasn't prepared to say anything derogatory about James. She was not a drinking person--social or otherwise, but her husband and Aunt Evelyn drank the hootch often. Many times, they stated their affection for it. After the funeral her Aunt took home bottles in her suitcase aboard the train--whiskey James left behind and she and her aunt found hidden here and there throughout the house and barn. It was too bad that she didn't give her the bottle she found earlier atop the mantle. In a few seconds he yelled up the stairs, “I’m really going all out for this meal,” he said trying to cheer her. ”You’re gonna see my amazing culinary talents.” She closed the door realizing he felt she was a bit of a challenge. Silence resumed as Margaret lit a room stove and a kerosene wall lamp. Disrobing, she tested the water with her big toe. It was moderately hot. Satisfied with the water temperature, she slid into the water and submerged completely, holding her breath. She had to recuperate and she would. Splashing water onto the floor, she rose gasping a few moments later. She first soaped herself thoroughly then her hair. “Mm,” she said, scrubbing her head. She reached for a pitcher and rinsed all the soap from her long hair. The bath totally revived her spirit; the aqua therapy was with scented bubbles--a ten minute soak she enjoyed, rose, grasped a towel and stepped from the tub, toweled off and slipped in a robe. Her wet hair turban-wrapped, she slipped into fur-lined house slippers, turned off the room stove, lamp and padded down the hall to the third bedroom on the right, stepped inside and closed the door and it dully clunked shut. Raising the wick, she scratched a match and held it to the wick of the kerosene lamp and replaced the glass. It was a warmly decorated room, wallpapered in a red and pink multi-rose print. Her bed was covered with quilts and large fluffy pillows edged in lace. For her sanity, if she decided totally against the suicide route, which she believes she did, she planned to move from James and her room to the room across the hall. Where she slept presented loving but painful memories to mull over, moments before bedtime--a very difficult time. Surely she could decorate the new room to her tastes, making it just as eye-appealing as the old room. Her mind was set. After hanging up wet towels, she brushed and pulled her damp hair up into its usual gibson, in front of the mirror on the dresser. That’s all right, her hair being wet, she thought, it would dry soon enough. She felt a lot better since Red visited that afternoon. The world seemed brighter, because of his caring enough to check on her and he seemed to be a warm, friendly human being whom she wanted to befriend. The world needed more folks like him. Pulling out a drawer, Margaret lifted her lingerie and searched for her jewelry. Realizing she hadn't cried for an hour straight through, she grasped a box which contained a long strand of gold beads and earrings to match. Maybe she'd feel better if she cleaned up and dressed up. Lightly she daubed a dot of Forever Love at her pulse points. She sighed when she held up the dress on a hanger and studied it closely; off the hanger the whispery fabric slipped and into her hands. It was a new style dress which hung many months in the back of her closet. James purchased it at Marshall Fields in Chicago and presented it to her on her birthday, July 22nd of the preceding year. Could she find the off-white pumps which matched? She sank to her knees and crawled on the cold floor into the dark depths of the closet, reached and grasped heels and brought them into the soft light of the room. She rose to her feet with the shoes. The house guest was an attractive man and she wondered why James never brought him home. Yes he was handsome and she would not deny it at all. As a matter of fact, any woman with eyes to see could behold he was a strapping specimen of manhood who could turn female heads wherever he stepped foot. How did she really feel about him? It was too early to entertain such ideas about men and dating. To her, they were almost dirty words--and James not cold yet in his grave. In the event she ever found another man, there were many facets of life and experiences she and James shared which would forever be sealed; their shared secrets were sacred. The sex they shared--was exhilarating and was one of those shared secret moments. But, sadly her life with James was gone. Their marriage and his life was like the rising steam off bath water. Their time together was over. Nonetheless, in her heart she knew God wanted her to pick up the pieces and she was free to remarry; but she wasn't ready to be married. Perhaps some widows healed more slowly than others. Then again, widows were supposed to finish their years the best way they knew how and so she would she'd pull herself from the depression. She could do it. From that moment on, she’d carry on with her life as a free woman and keep remembrances of James and the baby in her inner étagère. It would be difficult, but she would try to march with life’s cadence once again. Actually, she didn’t know what she really thought or felt about Red yet other than he saved her. For now she'd call him a friend and a good friend at that and she was eternally grateful. In all honesty, she barely knew him before the funeral. He must have thought a lot of James to come to her home to check on her. Red was interesting man, or so she thought. He seemed to harbor a restless spirit which intertwined into his personality showing up from time to time, especially during their first dealings in their first conversation, especially. At the very least, Red assisted her out of the dark hole of unrelenting grief which consumed her. She realized that she must step into reality about the situation and her widowhood. Being James best friend, Red was owed a warm welcome into the Hendrick’s house. Out of her mind and with much tenacity, she’d snubbed him horribly after the funeral. Her excuse being, her mental state was bleak. Her behavior was inexcusable. There was a time for everything; and it was the time for her to apologize for being such an ass. That evening she would present him with a few kind words of thanks during dinner and assure him she would resume her role in life by being an upbeat, practical and productive woman again and to not worry she would forget about taking her own life. She couldn’t believe she dragged a rope from the back porch with the idea of making a noose with it. Surely, she wouldn’t have gone through with the suicide. Memories of what had been and what could have been with James and her baby, would be left in the mind’s étagère. Red’s appearance was a godsend. His extraordinary influence breathed emotional life into her very being and she was indebted to him. Delicious smells continued to curlicue up the stairs and entered her room. She leaned out the bedroom door and yelled, “Smells good.” She hadn’t eaten a good meal since --since--she couldn’t remember. Her stomach growled and all the remnants of a hangover resulting from the morning’s drinking session miraculously disappeared, much to her delight. The dress still had the price tag attached to an underarm seam, so she clipped it off. It was one of the many presents James offered after one of his Chicago business trips. It was off-white and woolen. She kept it in the back of the closet because the hemline devilishly rose an unheard of six inches above the ankle. People in the area were not ready for women to wear such scandalously short clothing. With the dress, he also bought silly lingerie she was to wear with the peace offering. She couldn’t get over the structure of the brassiere as she held it up and examined it closely. It flattened her breasts which was unheard of before 1922. Why would women want to downplay the size of their breasts? However the boyish look was in vogue, and women everywhere abandoned the whale bone devices designed to slenderize a woman’s waistline, but constricting her waist and as a direct repercussion the bust size was enhanced. The contraptions’ demise wouldn’t be too soon for her, either. Men designed them. Why didn’t the men wear them, then? A woman wouldn’t design torture apparel. Margaret’s husband did not have a problem with her bust size. Oftentimes, he complemented their roundness and made her feel so womanly. She doubted any man could ever make her feel so sexy again and that part of her life ended. Pouf. Sighing, she stopped a moment, she examined her breasts in the mirror from the front and sides. Yes they were nice. Rising off her chest wall nicely upturned a little, she thought. He was right, they were good. One hand on each side of her panty’s waistband, Margaret shook and slipped into the medium-sized underwear. She slipped on the nylons and the white chemise. With much struggle she buttoned it all the way up. She wouldn’t wear the matching cloche, She shoved the hat box back into the top of the closet, closed the door and walked downstairs. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Wearing her calico apron and holding a wine glass, he emerged from the kitchen and his eyes riveted onto her body. “My god. Are you the same woman I saw earlier?” he said practically open-mouthed and unblinking. Without letting her respond he said, “I can’t believe this. Look at you.” He walked a three hundred sixty degree circle around her feasting on each square inch of her body. “I’d whistle, but that’s not enough. “I need to bring you an armload of roses or a box of pearls. Something--anything. Jewelry?” ”No. Please, Red.” ”I don’t know if I can remain a gentleman with such a beautiful woman in my midst. But god. I sure as hell don’t want to scare you off,” he said with sincerity. ”I’ve been smelling the food,” she colored fiercely. ”I didn’t mean to--aw. I’ll be quiet. How’s that?” She appeared more delicate and ethereal than before with her damp wealth of chestnut hair with wispy bangs sprinkled across her forehead and he could lose himself smelling her fragrance. Dusty rose pinked her cheeks and the corner of her mouth pointed up more than it pointed down. He accidentally unleashed his eagerness on her, he guessed, and he should remain a gentleman with her. With a hand to the small of her back, he led her to the dining room and seated her beside his chair. "You look lovely." He lit the candles and served the meal of roast chicken, green beans, applesauce and corn bread. “I guess you can buy a lot fancier food in the restaurants,” he said upon seating himself. She lifted a dainty bite to her lips and ate the first bite. “It's good." It was the first food she had eaten for two days and she found herself hungrier than she'd ever been once she started eating. Watching her eat, he smiled, his eyes moved to her. “I surprised myself.” He poured her a glass of wine. ”Just a finger of wine. After what I drank earlier I--” ”All right.” They finished the meal and cleaned up together and retired to the sitting parlor. “I promised you that I would cook you supper and leave. So--” He put the glass down. “That’s what I’m going to do.” ”I really enjoyed the time today with you, Red,” she said as her cheeks heated under the intensity of his gaze. It was emotions she hadn't felt for years and it was as though her senses sprang to life. ”And I enjoyed talking to you. A lot, as a matter of fact. A whole lot,” he said in a gentle tone as a delightful shiver of want ran through him. His heart took a perilous leap when he gathered her into the circle of his strong arms and hugged her warmly and gently he rocked her back and forth in a generic brotherly way. He hoped she felt the same about him. “It’s going to be all right. You’ll see,” he whispered huskily. In the stillness of the big house, Red caressed and kissed her with his eyes without exchanged words. His lips found hers for the first time in a light kiss pressed to her forehead. Withdrawing, he pressed a second quick kiss to the end of her nose. As he walked into the hallway and reached for his jacket, she said, “I want to thank you. You’ve helped me get over this period in my life.” ”That’s what I came over for. The church ladies. And I was wondering about you.” ”I know. Bless their hearts.” ”So if I leave you, you’re gonna be okay?” ”I’ll be fine, I’m sure. I'm not going to do anything.” He slipped on his coat as the clock bonged on the half hour after seven o’clock. He tamped on his hat. “I’m going to get out of here. I’ll be back--to check on you.” He paused thoughtfully “You think it's all right. I mean for me to check on you?” She nodded. ”I appreciate supper--and everything else.” He nodded. ”We’ve both been through a loss here, I guess. You especially. I've promised you that if you ate, I would leave right after supper. So I'm doing just that. But never mind that. Listen." He paused. "Are you spending Christmas Eve with anyone tomorrow night?" "Ah." Her eyes dropped to the floor. She forgot about Christmas. "Unfortunately, no." "I'll be back. Tomorrow night. That is if you don't mind. Do you?" "Okay. You can come back. Sure." "Great," he said grasping the door handle. "We'll do that and talk awhile or whatever you'd like to do." He smiled, opened the door and disappeared into the night.
Copyright © 2002 Karen L Snyder |