Beneath the Apple Leaves(34)
Lily entered the worn Morton house distracted and feeling low. She had probably overstayed her welcome at the Kisers’, but she didn’t want to leave, would have gladly slept in the limbs of the apple tree if given the chance. But she had happily helped Eveline get the twins down and the older boys to bed. Made her feel good. Feel useful.
All the lights were off except for the oil lamp that Claire had left on in the kitchen. Lily turned off the flame and headed upstairs to her room. Frank’s snoring labored from behind the wall. Lily lit the Rochester wick on her old lamp and turned the knob to the lowest brightness. From beneath her mattress she pulled out a sketchbook and a pencil worn down to half its original length. She flipped the pages, nearly all the spaces filled with drawings. She cherished the book as her only true belonging. One day, the pages would be filled, with no more space to sketch, and her fingers would lie idle.
This night she drew a rabbit, small and fragile beneath an expanse of trees, the round eyes black and glistening. They peered up to the boughs and leaves, wanted to be them instead of a small creature hiding amid the blades of grass. The light flickered at her nightstand, seemed to glisten the matte lead and make the rabbit’s eyes truly bright. She closed the book and hid it and the pencil back under the mattress.
Lily inspected her hand, the right side of the palm gray from rubbing on the graphite. She stared at the ceiling, the warped and sagging plaster, and the heaviness came and wet her eyes. Don’t let my light go out, she begged silently, her prayer since childhood. She closed her eyes and tears squeezed from the corners. The darkness pulsed around her covers, slinking and waiting for her to be weak and let it in. But I won’t. She gritted her teeth stubbornly, defiantly. I won’t let you take me. She cried now, kept the tears locked in her thumping chest so no one would hear. Please, God. She prayed to everything and nothing. Please don’t let my light go out.
CHAPTER 22
Andrew took the smallest bedroom in the house. After Will and Edgar worked by his side repainting the walls, they displayed his few belongings and books along the top of the bureau. Will picked up Andrew’s football, the threadbare leather patched at the tips. “You play football?” he asked.
“Used to.” Andrew pressed the top of the paint can loosely, then hammered down the rim. “You can have it if you want.”
The little boy rubbed the ball. “Could you play with me? With me and Edgar?” he asked, the question tentative.
“It’s too late. Maybe tomorrow.” He was distracted and half-listened, had been irritable all day. “Why don’t you and Edgar run off to bed now. I’ll finish up in here.”
Will stepped closer. “I could help you.”
I don’t need any help, he wanted to shout but kept his mouth shut, ignored the child’s offer.
Will gave a slight toss to the football, but when he tried to catch it the ball landed on one of the paintbrushes and knocked it to the floor, splattering cream paint across the hardwood.
“I’m sorry—” Will chased the wayward ball, but Andrew caught it first.
“Just go,” Andrew snapped. His temper rose without warning. “Both of you. Just give me some peace, all right?”
Edgar and Will dropped their heads. “Just wanted to help,” Will sniffled.
Andrew turned away without a response, began wiping up the spilled paint with an old rag. Two small arms came from behind and hugged his waist. “I’m sorry,” came the little voice before the two boys left the room and closed the door.
Andrew threw the rag to the floor and plopped down on his bottom, rubbed his forehead. He stared at the newly painted walls, his cousins’ artistry that left patches of white between uneven and sloppy paint strokes. He shouldn’t have been harsh with the boys. He saw Will’s face, the crushed expression, and the guilt poked. After all, on most days the little boys were the only ones who helped him forget the pain, the loss and homesickness that waited in the shadows.
But even the boys couldn’t offer relief today. For the telegram came this morning from his mother overseas. Only an address, nothing more. No words of her travel. No words of the fighting or her health. No warm memories of his father or mention of his severed limb. Only her address. And the absence of sentiment spoke louder than any commissioned typing—after the loss of her husband, the pain of her son’s deformity was more than she could bear.
The contrast between his mother’s rebuff and his cousins’ affinity stood out bold and blunt. He’d make it up to them tomorrow, play ball until it was too dark to see. But he knew it wasn’t just his mother’s telegram that set him off. He was getting too close to this family. Growing up in the coal mines, one learns quickly not to give away the heart so freely; in the mines, every greeting is laced with a farewell. He had been well taught and the lesson learned—life has a way of taking away what you love the most.
Andrew finished cleaning up the paint cans, the brushes and the floor. With hand at his hip, he viewed the room. Home. And yet he never felt more lost.
The window in his room yawned widely, the temperate night air full with the infused scents of honeysuckle and lilac. Andrew took off his shirt to cool his skin and sat cross-legged on the quilt, swinging his father’s miner tags in front of him like a pendulum. He thought about the work of the day, the inability to do any task quickly or efficiently. He had tried to carry rocks for the new stone wall but couldn’t grip the round edges with his one hand. He settled for smaller stones and filled the wheelbarrow. He lifted the handgrip and thought he could balance, only to have the wheelbarrow fall to the side and the rocks roll out. He couldn’t patch the roof because he couldn’t work and hold on at the same time. He was the first one up and the last one to bed and still his efforts were only a quarter of his former production.