Martha smiled. A new house for the chickens.
“Leon?”
“Huh?”
“Pris? What . . . happened?”
“Oh, Priscilla. She thinks I’m out here after your money. She thinks we’re sleeping together. It’s just that she’s got an eye on your money and is afraid somebody’s going to undermine her action, that’s all. Don’t worry about Priscilla. We’re not doing anything wrong. I’ll have to talk to Ned, though. That girl is trouble.”
All Martha heard was “She thinks we’re sleeping together.” “Us sleeping together?”
Leon looked at her fondly. “Yes, us. You and me.”
Martha stood up to stir the soup. Sleeping together. Her mother and father used to sleep together in the big bed. Sometimes she’d look in there and they’d both be on Daddy’s side, with him facing the window, and Mother up close next to his back. It always looked warm and cozy. Sleep together with Leon? Sounded nice.
He drank another beer while she dished up the soup. As they ate, Leon talked on and on about how he was going to repair the porch, and Martha thought only of sleeping with Leon, his smooth warm body next to her in the soft bed. Then she had a new thought. She interrupted Leon’s discussion of tar paper and shingles.
“Leon?”
“Huh? What?”
“Why Pris mad?”
“I told you, because she thought we were sleeping together.”
“So?”
“So . . . so, I don’t know.” He waved his spoon around while he looked for an answer. He didn’t find one. “Maybe she wants to sleep with you.” That was a stupid answer, he thought. “Hell, Martha, I don’t know.”
Sleep with Pris. Pris didn’t seem warm, like Leon.
Leon finished his soup, ate the last piece of bread, popped another beer, and turned on the television while Martha cleaned up.
She joined him on the couch, watched him as he watched the television, tried to laugh when he did. Nice lines in his cheeks and around his eyes appeared when he smiled at the silliness on the screen. He drank beer after beer until his eyelids started to flutter down. Martha turned off the TV with the little box on the coffee table, and listened to the quiet. Not quite quiet. The crunch of tires outside in the driveway. Just someone turning around.
She nudged Leon, and he woke up partially, his eyes not focusing on her face.
“C’mon, Leon. Bedtime.” She took his arm and led him to the bedroom, where he undressed and slid beneath the covers. She put on her nightie and got in on her side of the bed, then slid over to cuddle him.
Instantly, Leon was wide awake. What in the hell was she doing? I gotta go home. The thought registered, but her little soft hand was rubbing his arm and it felt so good, so good.
Martha had never felt anything like this before. He was so smooth, so soft, his skin was cool and pleasant. She could stroke him like this for hours. Her hand ran up and down his arm, then down his side, over his hip—he didn’t have any clothes on at all—to the little hairs on his thigh. The feel of him made her sleepy. Her hand rested where it was.
Leon rolled over, completely aroused. He knew he was crazy, but suddenly it didn’t matter. She was so soft, so nice, so tender. He really cared about her. He pressed against her and ran his fingers lightly over her cheek as he looked at her profile silhouetted in the moonlight shining through the window. Her face was soft; he could see the little tiny white hairs that covered her cheek. He brushed his hand around her neck, down her arm, up over her breast and down to her ample middle. She felt marvelous. He kissed her cheek, then her neck.
Martha was in heaven. She had no idea people did this, but she loved it. She loved him. They would do this every night forever. He began talking to her in a low voice, and feelings began to pulse in her body. He took her hand and put it on a part of his body she’d never seen. She was startled, surprised, but as he told her what to do, she began to enjoy it, she enjoyed it all, she enjoyed him, oh, she loved him.
They stroked and caressed each other for hours, then drifted off to sleep, only to wake up and begin again. Leon pushed his conscience to the back of his head. He tried to take it slowly, easily, not to frighten her. She was alarmed when his muscles tightened and he jerked and warm wet stuff flowed all over her hand, but he didn’t seem to hurt, so she just wiped her hand on the underside of the pillow and didn’t tell him about it. The night had a magical quality, a newness, a strange feeling of sleeping but not really sleeping, of someone else in the bed, someone nice, always aware, yet comfortable and peaceful. In the early hours they both slept deeply.
Martha woke up as she always did, when the rooster crowed just before dawn. She felt warm and cozy, drifty, floating. She looked over at Leon, sleeping with one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, the sheet covering his chest to his thighs. His face was relaxed, peaceful, little whiskers growing darkly on his chin and under his nose. His sunblond hair scattered across his forehead.
She snuggled back down under the covers to watch him wake up. She kept to her side of the bed, wanting to touch him, not wanting to wake him. She wanted to watch him wake up all by himself. Feelings of the night before came back to her, memories in vivid detail of the closeness they had shared. She could understand this. She yawned, lazily.
Why would Priscilla be mad? Because Priscilla wants to sleep with Leon, that’s why, not because she wants to sleep with me. Why would Priscilla not want me and Leon to be together? What did he say? “It’s just that she’s got an eye on your money.” That’s what he said. Priscilla wants money? She can have money if that will make her not mad.
Somehow that didn’t feel right. Martha’s face screwed up in concentration. What does money have to do with sleeping together? She thinks I’m paying Leon to sleep with me? That’s silly. I’m paying Leon to fix the chicken house. Maybe that’s the money Priscilla wants. And Priscilla doesn’t want Leon to sleep with me because if he’s here every night, he’ll work every day, and he’ll get all the money for doing other things. Her heart started to pound. She looked at Leon, sleeping, his eyes moving under his lids.
This whole thing is silly, Martha thought. She thought of Mike, and that afternoon in the bar when Leon brought her home. She thought of the other day in the bar with the man with the toothpick, and the one who called her retard. She had answered him: Daddy. Oh, boy, did she really say that? And Mr. McRae in the market. What a nice person. The chickens really liked the food he gave her—what did he call it? Cluck peck. She smiled at the ceiling. Wait a minute. I gave it that name. The smile vanished. In front of all those other people. Shame crept up her face, burning her cheeks. Did I really say that?
Leon moaned and turned onto his stomach. She slid quietly out of bed and went into the kitchen.
It all looked different. There were squished beer cans on the coffee table, leftover soup still on the stove. She thought to scramble some eggs for Leon’s breakfast, and went to the refrigerator. Something was really different. Had she ever noticed how dirty it was? There was dust and dirt in the little egg cups, old rotten food in dishes, dirty marks all over the front. She felt a little faint, pulled out a kitchen chair, and sat down heavily. Something was happening to her mind. She looked around the room again. It was shabby, terrible. Something broke inside her chest, some constricting band was suddenly cut loose. She inhaled a great breath and the dizziness faded. Things were so clear.
Automatically, fingers went to her nose, a longtime habit. She went to the mirror in the bathroom and looked at herself. Her twisted nose was still there, the scars were still there, but her lips were even and straight. She picked up a brush and began to brush her hair back from her face; then she stopped and stared. Her eyes. They were a light green-brown, with little flecks of black and gold, and so pretty. They sparkled in the faint light of the dawn that was sliding up over the windowsill. As she watched, the whites reddened, little veins standing out. Tears filled the lower lid and spilled down her cheek. They were beautiful; her eyes were so beautiful.