They both heard the truck pull up in the drive. Doc went to the door and looked out in time to see a rusted pickup truck slide around in a cloud of dust, its headlights sweeping the field, then disappear down the long driveway, three pinprick taillights winking out around the corner.
“Were you expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Must have had the wrong house.” He turned back to Martha. “I’m going to come back and visit next week, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Well, good. I’ll be going, then. Take care of yourself, Martha. Remember. No more potatoes and bread.”
“No more.” Martha stood up. She reached around his neck and gave him a big hug. He hugged her back in surprise.
“Bye, now.”
“Bye.”
She stood on the front porch and watched him drive off in his van. Such a nice man.
“Shut up, you little asshole.” The words whistled through the space where a front tooth should have been.
“Come on, Leslie. You don’t really want to go there.”
“Which driveway? This one?”
“Yes.” Ned slumped down in the seat of the rattletrap pickup. He would give anything to be somewhere else. Anywhere.
They slid around the turn, throwing rocks and gravel behind them, Leslie gunning the engine and racing up the long drive. His belly was full of beer and his eyes had dollar signs in them. He was out to get some tonight. They drove around the corner and almost ran into the bronze van parked by the front door.
“Doctor Withins. Oh, shit, it’s Doctor Withins’ van! Let’s get out of here!”
Leslie hit the brakes, cussing, spinning the wheel, sliding the truck around in a circle. His luck. Well, that was fine. He’d hit on her tomorrow night, and he’d leave this little wimp somewhere else. He lifted the capless quart of beer to his lips and drank deep. He looked at Ned out of the corner of his eye, cowering by the door. I should just dump that little fucker out on the turn, he thought. What a jerk. Instead, he turned toward town.
“Let’s get some action.”
Ned said a silent prayer of thanks.
Leon showed up bright and early the next morning, pickup filled with lumber and paint. Martha was feeding the chickens, watching them squawk and scratch at the hard earth, pecking at the little bits of seed she threw on the ground.
“Good morning!” he called, as he jumped out of the cab and grabbed a plank.
“Hello.”
“I’m going to start on the chicken coop.”
“Okay.” He looked so smooth. He looked so young and energetic, long muscles sliding under his skin. She watched him unload, then went into the house and sat at the makeup table.
With nervous hands she worked meticulously on her nose, looking carefully from all angles. She powdered once, then again as an immediate shine crept through the heat and the powder. The lipstick was crayoned on next, and she smiled in the mirror. Leon would like her. He was going to be here for a lot of days. They would become good friends. She wished she had some of that light blue that Priscilla put on her eyelids. Next time she went to the store, she would get some.
Just before noon, she limped past the chicken coop where Leon was hammering and picked fresh lemons. She made a big pitcher of lemonade and a plate of tuna-fish sandwiches. Then she sat at the table, nervously picking at the hem of her dress, and waited.
She jumped when she heard his sneaker-light step on the porch; he swung open the screen door and came in.
His sweaty presence overpowered the room. He looked at the plate of sandwiches and glistening pitcher and smiled.
“Lunch. I’m starved!” He went to the kitchen sink, washed his hands, then ducked his head under the faucet. He came up dripping, grinning, and asked for a towel. She hustled to get him one, as fast as her swollen ankle could go.
He toweled his face and hands, ran it over his hair, then sat at the table, towel still around his neck. Martha had never seen anything so beautiful before. His even white teeth flashed at her through his tan face, as big hands with large, healthy veins grabbed the pitcher and poured two glasses full of cold lemonade. She could only stare.
He wolfed three huge sandwiches, and washed it down with three glasses of lemonade, under her fascinated gaze.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
She’d forgotten! Her little plate of tuna was in front of her, untouched, her fork in hand. She blushed, hoping the powder would cover it up, and took a little bite. Her father never ate like that, did he? Maybe he did. She couldn’t remember. She didn’t think so. She’d never seen anybody eat like that.
He wiped his hands and mouth on the towel around his neck and sat back, leaning the chair on two legs. “That was great!”
She smiled back at him.
“I’ll work the rest of today and tomorrow on the chicken coop, then I’ll start on the porch roof.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Yep, I’ll paint the coop tomorrow when I’m done. Do you have any beer?”
Martha shook her head.
“Love a cold beer after work. Don’t worry, I’ll pick some up.” He stood, giving a mighty stretch, arms almost touching the ceiling, little hairs poking up above his cutoff jeans. “Well, back to work.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for lunch.”
Then he was gone, and Martha heard him humming to himself, Skilsaw whining, hammering, and still she sat there, her tuna in front of her, wondering about the new feelings that were creeping up inside of her.
She picked over the garden and cooked the vegetables into a light stew. When she heard Leon throwing his tools into the bed of his truck, she poured more lemonade and sat at the table to wait, but then she heard the truck start, and it drove off in a cloud of dust. Her heart sank to her toes. She turned off the heat under the stew and lay down on the couch. Sadness pressed down on her chest; a tear trickled into her ear. The dimness grew; then she heard a truck turn up her drive.
He’s come back. She quickly went to the stove to reheat the stew. It was still pretty warm. He’s come back. Oh, he’s come back. She went to the bedroom to check her makeup and heard the kitchen door open. No time to fuss with her nose. She walked back to the kitchen, and there he was, putting beer in the refrigerator.
“Hi,” he said, looking up, white teeth flashing in his red brown face.
“Hi.”
“Dinner smells great. Want a beer?”
“Okay.”
He popped open two beers and set them on the table, while she dished up the stew. They ate in silence, Martha concentrating on her meal, trying not to watch Leon eat. Soon he sat back, satisfied. She kept sipping her beer, not really liking it but wanting to do what he did. It was warm by the time Leon had finished off the stew. He stood.
“Let’s see what’s on television.” He clicked it on, and the green newsman warped into view. Leon squatted in front of the set and fiddled with knobs until the newsman’s face turned bright red, then settled to a rosy pink. He looked up at her, staring at the set. “Better, huh?”
“Yes.” She cleaned the dishes. When she was through, she sat next to him on the sofa, sipping her warm beer, as he drank three more cans. She was feeling very sleepy. Her head bobbed up and down; every time she looked at the television, somebody new was there. Finally, there was just the white crackling, and Leon was sound asleep. She fetched a blanket, covered him up, and went to bed.
Outside, a rusted truck came slowly up the drive, and with a barely audible curse from the driver as he noted Leon’s pickup next to the house, it backed down, squealed onto the highway, and was gone.
CHAPTER 8
Fern’s baby was born without a nose. Addie put the squalling child into Fern’s weak arms, then tended to the birthing mess. Harry slumped to the kitchen for a shot of whiskey. Fern examined her child, head to toe. The baby looked normal, healthy. Her head was not as pinched nor as elongated as with some newborns she’d seen; in fact, the head was quite large, and square. The fingers, toes, and ears were perfect, but there was no nose.