The Giver of Stars(60)
He mulled this over, then nodded. ‘So. You’ll take it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘For the dolls. A trade.’
Alice lifted her palms. ‘Oh, Mr Horner, you really don’t need to –’
‘Can’t take ’em for nothing.’ He folded his arms firmly across his chest, and waited.
‘What the heck is that?’ said Beth, as Alice dismounted wearily, pulling bits of foliage from the deer’s antlers. It had caught on every second tree the whole way down the mountain, causing her almost to fall off several times, and now looked even more bedraggled and wonky than it had on the ridge, strung with a variety of stray twigs and leaves. She walked up the steps and placed it carefully against the wall, reminding herself, as she had now done a hundred times, of the joy on the girls’ faces as they learned the dolls were truly theirs, the way they cradled and sang to them, their endless thanks and kisses. The softening of the planes on Jim Horner’s face as he looked on.
‘It’s our new mascot.’
‘Our what?’
‘Touch a hair on its head and I’ll stuff you worse than Mr Horner stuffed that deer.’
‘Shoot,’ said Beth to Izzy, as Alice strode back out to her horse. ‘Remember when Alice made out like she was a lady?’
Lunch service had nearly finished at the White Horse Hotel, Lexington, and the restaurant had started to thin out, leaving tables scattered with the detritus of napkins and empty glasses as, fortified, the guests wrapped themselves in scarves and hats. They were braced to venture back out onto sidewalks teeming with last-minute Christmas shoppers. Mr Van Cleve, who had eaten well on a sirloin steak and fried potatoes, leaned back in his chair and stroked his stomach with both hands, a gesture that conveyed a satisfaction he seemed to feel less and less in other areas of his life.
The girl was giving him indigestion. In any other town, such misdemeanours might eventually be forgotten, but in Baileyville a grudge could last a century and still nurture a head of steam. The people of Baileyville were descended from Celts, from Scots and Irish families, who could hold on to resentment until it was dried out like beef jerky, and bearing no resemblance to its original self. And Mr Van Cleve, although he was about as Celtic as the Cherokee sign on the outside of the gas station, had absorbed this trait thoroughly. More than that, he had his daddy’s habit of fixing on one person, then training on them his grievances and blaming them for all that ailed him. That person was Margery O’Hare. He rose with a curse for her on his lips, and he went to sleep with images of her taunting him.
Beside him Bennett tapped intermittently on the side of the table with his fingers. He could tell the boy wanted to be elsewhere; in truth, he didn’t seem to have the focus needed for business. The other day he had caught a gang of miners mimicking his obsession with cleanliness, pretending to rub at their blackened overalls as he passed. They straightened when they saw him watching, but the sight of his son being mocked pained him. At first he had been almost proud of Bennett’s determination to marry the English girl. He had seemed to know his own mind, finally! Dolores had cosseted the boy so, fussing over him as if he were a girl. He had stood a little taller when he informed Van Cleve that he and Alice were to be married and, well, it was a shame about Peggy but that was just too bad. It was good to see him hold a firm opinion for once. Now he watched the boy gradually emasculated by the English girl and her sharp tongue, her odd ways, and he regretted the day he had ever been convinced to take that damn European tour. No good ever came from mixing. Not with coloureds and, it turned out, not with Europeans neither.
‘You’ve left crumbs here, boy.’ He stabbed a fat finger on the table so that the waiter apologized and hurriedly combed them off onto a plate. ‘A bourbon, Governor Hatch? To round things off?’
‘Well, if you’re going to twist my arm, Geoff …’
‘Bennett?’
‘Not for me, Pa.’
‘Get me a couple of Boone County bourbons. Straight up. No ice.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Bennett. You want to head over to the tailor while the governor and I talk business? Ask him if he’s got any more of those dress shirts, will you? I’ll be there shortly.’
He waited for his son to disappear from his table before he leaned forward and spoke again. ‘Now, Governor, I was hoping to discuss a matter of a certain sensitivity with you.’
‘Not more problems at the mine, Mr Van Cleve? I hope you’re not dealing with the same mess they’re having down there in Harlan. You know they’ve got state troopers lined up to head in if they can’t sort themselves out. There’s machine-guns and all sorts heading back and forth across state lines.’
‘Oh, you know we work hard to keep a lid on that kind of thing at Hoffman. No good can come of the unions; we know that. We’ve been sure to take measures to protect our mine at the very whisper of trouble.’
‘Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it. So … uh … what seems to be the problem?’
Mr Van Cleve leaned forward over the table. ‘It’s this … library business.’
The governor frowned.
‘The women’s library. Mrs Roosevelt’s initiative. These women taking books to rural families and the like.’
‘Ah, yes. Part of the WPA, I believe.’