Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(19)
He glanced around at her. Beneath his hat’s shadowy brim, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You’re afraid of old Ulysses? Why, hens have more teeth than he does.”
“Dogs and meself aren’t the best of buddies.” It could be worse. She could be back at Sachsenhausen. Her toes a mass of oozing blisters, she began to hobble forward again on Irina’s one good high heel.
“Oh, hell!” He dropped the cardboard box, and books spilled out of it. He strode back toward his pickup.
She stopped. “What?” Had she forgotten something? Was he angry with her about her fear of his mutt?
Without even pausing in his long strides, he scooped her up under one arm like she was a parcel and headed again toward the porch.
Her wits were scattered. She twisted her neck to look up at him and screeched, “Put me down, ye rotter, ye clapperclaw, ye shitehead!”
His mustache twitched suspiciously. Its narrowed ends traced the long pleats at either side of an equally long mouth set in an unrelenting line.
His boots thudded up the porch’s three stone steps. The screen door grinded as he hooked it open with one finger. She could hear Ulysses panting excitedly at the rancher’s heels as they crossed the stone porch, and then the weathered front door moaned.
Inside, resinous air wafted memories of the Black Forest. Next, pine boards creaked as he negotiated semi-dark rooms. And then he was setting her on her feet. All too quickly. As if she were too heavy for his monumental strength. Crikey! Clearly, he bloody well hated having her here.
He moved away to switch on a lamp.
Her eyes darted around the sparse room – an ironwork double bed covered by a shabby quilt made of what appeared to be shirt fragments, a nightstand with its lamp naked of a shade, an old pine armoire – and what looked to be a sea chest. Straw beach matting and a fisherman’s net curtained the single window. So, a seafaring man he had been?
“The bathroom’s to the left, between here and the other bedroom, my office now. Parlor’s just ahead. Kitchen’s to the right. Rustle up something for us to eat, while I get the box of books and check on Lucy.”
“Lucy?”
“The mama cow that’s calving.”
“Oh. Uhh, what do ye want to eat?”
“Whatever. Throw together something quick and easy like. It’s late. Fry up some eggs and bacon. And toast. And, oh, yeah, coffee.” He looked anxious to be as far away from her as possible. Did she smell that badly? She had tried to make do with washing from the ship cabin’s tiny sink.
She sighed, shrugged out of Irina’s soiled coat and tossed off her hat. Espying on the nightstand a red-and-black paisley kerchief meticulously folded, Romy nabbed it and knotted it about her head.
Then, she kicked off the crippling heels. Flexing her freed toes with pure delight, she made her way across the parlor’s creaking, uneven floor boards, one that nearly tripped her, toward the kitchen. At last, she felt a stone floor cool beneath her feet.
Pulling on the light chain, she stared stupefied at the large room, clearly the center of activities. Beneath a kitchen window was a wide and deep, rust-stained porcelain sink. On one side, squatted a huge copper tub, plugged into the wall. What in God’s name was that for? On the other, resided an oven-range such as she had ogled from a Paris restaurant’s alley door.
‘Roper’ she read. But she had no idea what all its knobs did. She knew nothing about electric cooking.
Nor did she have a clue about the room’s other bewildering appliances, all looking brand spanking new. Placed precisely upon a Mexican-tiled counter was a small, shiny metal box with two narrow slits atop it and an electrical wire attaching it to the wall socket. What did that contraption do?
The wood box mounted on the wall, alongside a peg rack, was a telephone, of course – but she had not a clue as how to use it.
Against another wall stood a heavy, white metal cabinet on legs not much longer than hers, which, granted, were short. It made an ominous humming noise, and, warily, she opened it. Her breath caught at the cool air that rushed over her face. Not an ice box, but one of those new-fangled refrigerators.
Aha! Inside, was brown paper-wrapped bacon and a basket of eggs.
A lengthy and rustic trestle table, its slat top looking as if it had been ripped from a dock, did double duty as both a dining and a work table, judging by its knife notches.
Another noise, this one a thumping one, alerted her. Cautiously, she peered underneath the table. Stretched out on the flagstone, Ulysses watched her. His tail beat a syncopated, begging tattoo.
“As long as ye’re not planning on having me for dinner,” she mumbled, “we’ll get along fine.”
No choice but to dig in and begin. She pushed up her blouse sleeves and with the sink’s cake of lye soap lathered to her elbows, drying them on a dish towel. Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus, she longed to soak for hours in that bath tub her sponsor had mentioned.
She went to work, doling out the coffee grinds. Next, she flopped the thick-sliced bacon strips in the cast-iron skillet. And bread? The bread box yielded – pre-sliced bread? Imagine that!
She found a baking pan to layer the slices on, shoved the pan into the oven, and flipped the oven knob as far as she could. Lastly, her mouth ricked to one side, she rotated the knobs beneath the coffee pot and the skillet all the way.
Good to go. Easy as falling off a log. But nature called, and she turned in search of the bathroom. She got no further than the parlor’s rock fireplace, when she smelled smoke. And it wasn’t coming from the fireplace.