Beneath the Apple Leaves(31)
The house was not what he had expected and left him sullen. The siding was worn, the paint chipped and curling like Mary Pickford’s hair. The stone walkway broken so badly that one had to walk on the parallel dirt path instead of on the stepping-stones. Lily’s mood instantly turned inward and the smile seemed long forgotten as they approached the warped screen door.
“Claire?” Lily called out. She peered into the kitchen. “Claire, you in there? Want to introduce you to our neighbor.”
The room was quiet until a croaked sobbing filtered over the creaking floorboards. Lily hurried into the kitchen. A woman about Eveline’s age huddled in the corner, a wire basket overturned by her side. Yolks and egg whites and shells spread in a gooey mass across the splintered floor. Lily knelt next to her sister, stroked the woman’s blond hair. “Claire, what’s wrong?”
The woman trembled, watched the broken eggs in horror as if they were some moving assailants. “B-b-broke them, Lil. I broke them all. All of them. I b-b-br . . .”
Andrew began scooping the mess into his hand, threw it in the compost bucket. The ooze dripped through his fingers as he corralled the shells and broken bits.
“It was an accident, Claire,” Lily whispered to her sister, petted the hair in long strokes. “No need to get so upset. No need.” She cradled her older sister as she would a child. “It’s all right, Claire. I promise.”
Andrew washed his hand, picked up the wire basket and washed it off, set it next to the sink and then wet a towel, set to wiping up the last remnants of egg along the floor.
But despite her sister’s comfort, Claire became more agitated and shouted, “All of them, Lil! All of them!”
Lily held her sister tight even as Claire’s limbs quivered. Andrew sat down next to Claire and Lily shook her head fiercely at him in silent pleading. Just go, she mouthed.
He ignored her and lifted the woman’s hand, held it tight in his palm. “Look at me, Claire,” he ordered kindly.
“No! I b-b-broke them!”
He squeezed her hand. “Look at the floor, Claire. Just look.” He let go of her fingers and forced the bobbing pupils to look where he directed. “It’s all gone. It’s all better. You see?”
She blinked at the space as if finally emerging from a nightmare. “It’s all better,” he repeated. “We have eggs at our place. Lily will bring you a whole basket of eggs. More than you can eat. It’s all better now, you see?”
A sparkle entered the wet eyes; the irises stopped their spastic movements. “Yes.” She nodded. The lucidity, the clarity, cutting through the anxiety. “I’ll make the cake tomorrow.” She squeezed Lily’s hand. “You’ll bring me the eggs?”
Lily nodded, her chin set as granite, and Andrew knew if she spoke her voice would not mirror that strength.
Claire stood then, wiped down the folds of her skirt. She smiled widely, the childish smile of a toddler who fell and scraped her knee and then was off running again. She turned to Andrew, the hysterics forgotten, and she beamed. “I’ll make a cake for you, too. All right?”
Andrew nodded, attempted to smile, but his insides were too sad.
“Good.” Without another word, she walked to the sink, picked up the compost bucket and took it outside. The screen door banged loudly behind her.
Andrew still stared at the wake left by the woman when the warmth of Lily drifted to his skin, her expression wide and open, full and soft. He blushed without warning, the look of gratitude too deep.
“Thank you.”
He drifted into the face that peered up at him. “I only cleaned up the eggs,” he answered.
Lily’s brow wrinkled. “Not many people are nice to her. You were nice without even trying. Didn’t make her feel like there was something wrong with her.”
There weren’t any other words to speak in the presence of such heart. And so Andrew turned and watched his feet as they headed back to the farm, the way back as forgotten as his own name.
CHAPTER 20
Edgar and Will returned from town with pockets stuffed with white and red peppermints. Wilhelm came back with sacks of flour and sugar, salt, cartons of eggs, milk, cheese, racks of beef and lamb. He had burdened the wagon with paint cans, new saws, chisels, hammers, steel sheathing and roof tar. He carried an ice block wrapped in newspaper and set in sawdust for the icebox. He clutched in his fist a list three pages long of supplies ordered for the farm. Ice and bread would be delivered twice a week, milk and eggs every two weeks until the farm could produce its own. But no purchase or prize in town could compare with the introduction to the newly arrived Otto and Harold Kiser.
Eveline could not stay idle and was washed, dressed and presentable. Her hips and pelvis ached, but the discomfort was still less than when the twins had pummeled inside her womb. When Wilhelm returned, found her sitting in the rocking chair cradling his new sons, he was no longer a man fired from the railroad or displaced into a corroding farmhouse; he was a man who had sired four sons.
“I’ll drive back to town tomorrow and bring up the doctor,” Wilhelm promised as he held the tiny boys bundled in Edgar’s old baby blankets.
“No need.” Eveline stretched and stood, placed her hand at her lower back out of habit, pleased the shooting nerve pain was gone. “Thank goodness for that Lily Morton.”