LaVyrle Spencer - Morning Glory

"Seventeen… that’s young."

"Yes… I worry about him so." A brief silence passed before she inquired, "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Parker?"

"No, ma’am. Somethin’ I had to do for you before I leave." Holding the paper sack against his stomach, Will reached in, pulled out a quart jar of honey and handed it to her. "A few months back I stole a quart jar full of buttermilk from your well. This here is it. Buttermilk’s gone, of course, but that’s our own honey-we keep bees at our place." Next came the towel. "Stole this green towel off your clothesline, too, and a set of your husband’s clothes, but I’m afraid they’re about worn out-"

"Well, I declare," she breathed, accepting the honey.

"-or I’d’ve returned them, too. I was hard up then, but that’s no excuse. I just wanted to apologize, Mrs. Marsh. It’s been on my mind a long time, is all, and it bothered me, stealin’ from good people-Elly, she says you’re good people." He backed away, pointing at the jar. "So there. Honey’s not much, but-well-it’s-" He donned his hat and rolled the top of the sack down tightly, still backing away. "My apologies, ma’am, and I sure hope your husband makes it back from this war."

"Just a minute, Mr. Parker!" He paused near the gate and she hurried down the walk.

"Give me a minute to let this sink in-nobody’s ever-well, if this isn’t the darndest thing." She chuckled as if in surprise. "I always wondered where those clothes went."

Will turned red to the ears while she seemed pleasantly amused.

"I got no excuse, ma’am, but I’m sorry. I’ll rest easier now that I got it off my chest."

"Thank you for the honey. It’ll come in handy with sugar being so dear."

"It’s nothin’."

"It’ll more than pay for those old clothes of Tom’s."

"I hope so, ma’am." He pushed the gate open and the pup tried to slip through. She leaned down and grabbed its collar as Will closed the gate between them.

"I’m impressed by your honesty, Mr. Parker," she offered, rising.

He chuckled self-consciously and dropped his gaze to the gate while absently fingering one of its pointed slats.

"I appreciated the buttermilk and jeans at the time."

They studied each other, strangers caught in the backlash of war, considering the possibilities of death and loss, amazed that those possibilities could so swiftly create a tie between them. She reached out her hand once more and he took it in a prolonged handclasp.

"I hope to see you passing on the road again-soon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Marsh. If I do I’ll give a holler and a hello."

"You do that."

He dropped her hand. "Well,… goodbye."

"God bless you."

He tipped his hat and headed for the road. Several paces away he turned back. She was dipping her finger into the honey. As she stuck it in her mouth she looked up and found him watching, grinning.

"It’s delicious." She smiled broadly.

"I was just thinkin’, ma’am. You asked if there was anything you could do and maybe there is."

"Anything for a soldier."

"My wife, Elly-she’s got a new baby just two months old plus two others, and she doesn’t get out much. If you should get-well, I mean, if you needed a friend, or someplace to go visit, I know you got kids of your own and maybe y’all’d like to walk up to our place and say hey sometime. Kids could maybe play together, you two ladies could have tea. Seein’ as how your husband’ll be gone, too."

Her pretty face puckered in thought. "Eleanor… Elly-your wife was Elly See, wasn’t she?"

"That’s right, ma’am. But what they say about her ain’t true. She’s a fine person, and brighter than some who spread rumors abut her."

Mrs. Marsh recapped the quart jar, held it as a bride holds a bouquet and replied, "Then I’ll want to thank her for the excellent honey, won’t I?"

He smiled, gladdened, and thought how Mrs. Marsh’s prettiness went deeper than skin and hair and cheek rouge.

"Enjoy that honey," he said by way of farewell.

She raised a hand and waved. "Come back."

As he turned away they both hoped fervently they’d meet again, felt a vague sense of deprivation, as if they might have been friends had they met when there was more time to explore the possibility.

The railroad station seemed to be the busiest building in town these days. Two young recruits-one white, one black-already waited with their tickets in hand, surrounded by their families on separate sides of the depot. A troop of Girl Scouts in uniform broke into two factions-the black girls to present the black recruit with a small white box, the white girls to do the same for the white recruit. A contingent of local DAR ladies waited for the train with juice and cookies for any war-bound men who might need a snack. A thin young man in a baggy suit and felt hat interrupted the family goodbye of the white recruit to get a last-minute interview for the local paper. A black minister with springy white curls rushed in to add his farewell to those of the black family.

And Miss Beasley was there, too, dressed in her usual puce coat, club shoes and a hideous black straw hat shaped like a soup kettle with netting. In her left hand she held a black purse, in her right a book.

"So Eleanor didn’t come," she began before Will even reached her.

"No, ma’am. I said goodbye to her and the kids on our own road, where I want to remember them."

Miss Beasley shook a finger beneath his nose. "Now you stop talking so fatalistically, do you hear? I’ll have none of it, Mr. Parker!"

"Yes, ma’am," Will replied meekly, warmed immediately by her stern demeanor.

"I have decided to give your job to a high school student, Franklin Gilmore, with the express understanding that it is a temporary arrangement until you return. Is that understood?" She gave the impression that she’d get any Japanese soldier who dared fire a bullet at Will Parker.

"Yes, ma’am."

"Good. Then take this and put it with your things. It’s a book of poems by the masters, and I want your assurance that you’ll read and reread it."

"Poems… well…"

"A man, it is said, can live three days without water but not one without poetry."

He accepted the book, looked down at it with a full heart.

"Thank you."

"No thanks are necessary. Only the promise that you’ll read it."

"I promise."

"I can see your dubiousness. Undoubtedly you’ve never thought of yourself as a poetic man, but I’ve heard you talking about the bees and the boys and the boughs-they have been your poetry. This shall stand in lieu of them… until your return."

He gripped the book in both hands as if swearing upon it. "Until my return."

"So be it. Now…" She paused as if putting aside one subject before attacking another. "Do you have money for your fare?"

It was a question a mother might have asked, and it went straight to Will’s heart. "The draft board sent me a ticket."

"Ah, of course. And decent meals while you travel?"

"Yes, ma’am. Besides, Elly packed me some sandwiches and a piece of quince pie." He hefted his bag.

"Why, of course. How silly of me to ask."

They paused, trying to think of something to fill the awful void which seemed impacted with hidden emotions.

"I told her to come to you if she needs help with anything. She don’t have nobody else, so I hope that’s okay."

"No sense in getting maudlin, Mr. Parker. I’d be insulted if she didn’t. I shall write to you and keep you informed of the goings-on about the library and town."

"’Preciate it, ma’am. And I’ll write back, tell you ’bout all them Japs and Jerries I get."

The train steamed in on a billow of smoke and noise. They were at once relieved and sorry it had finally arrived. He touched her arm and moved toward the silver car with the black and white families and the Girl Scouts and the DAR ladies and the local reporter, all who politely nodded and called Miss Beasley by name.

The sun still shone in an azure sky pocked with bundles of clouds a shade darker than the smoke spouting from the locomotive. A flock of pigeons dropped down in a flurry of wings to settle on the baggage dray. The black family kissed their boy goodbye. The white family kissed theirs. The conductor said, "Boooooard!" but Will Parker and Gladys Beasley stood uncertainly before one another-a portly old woman in an ugly black hat and a rangy young man in a battered felt one. They looked at their feet, their hands, her purse handle, his brown paper bag. And finally at each other.

"I shall miss you," she said, and for once her sternness was gone, the dry-pudding lines relaxed about her mouth.

"In my whole life I never had anybody to miss-now I got so many. Elly, the kids and you. I’m a lucky man."

"If I were a sentimental woman I might say, if I had a son, and all that."

"Booooard!"

"I imagine conductors these days get hoarse calling that word," she ventured, and suddenly they pitched together, his book pressed against her back, her purse thumping his hindside. Immersed in her spicy scent, he closed his eyes a moment, thinking of how grateful he was that she’d come into his life.

"If you get yourself killed I shall never forgive you, Mr. Parker."

"I know. Neither will I. Take care of yourself and I’ll see you when I get back."

They lurched apart, searched each other’s faces-hers pruned to keep her from breaking down, his wearing a soft grin-then he kissed her swiftly on the mouth and spun for the steps of the waiting car.

Feb. 26, 1942

Dear Elly,

I’m at Parris Island and the trip down wasnt bad. I had to change trains in Atlanta, and made it into Yemassee in late afternoon. Met there by marine corp recruit bus and rode it thirty mi. to the base, which is just outside Buford an ugly town I was glad I dint live in. Crossed a bridge and traveled thru a big marsh to get here. Yellow grass and birds by the hundruds you would love to see em. Met by our drill sergeant a big mean bull name of Twitchum and he right away starts laying it to us. He roars like a sonuvabee and says how we got to start and end everything we say with sir, like-sir request permission to speak sir-and he makes a couple recruits crinj and feel dumb and theres a few farm boys here from Iowa and Dakota who never saw anything but the back end of a horse, and they’re pretty big-eyed I dont know why they came to the marines but some think the armys the worst and would rather take the sea instead thinking to keep away from the front maybe. Them farmboys looked ready to jump the fence but Ive seen all kinds in prison, so boot camp’s nothing new. Twitchum he likes to make those farmboys scart. Kept em up till all hours making them learn how to make up a bed before they could sleep in it cause their mamas allways made theres up at home so they never lurnd how. Me I had five years of making up my own and plenty worse to pay if it wasn’t done right than around here. Twitchum he comes by and gives everybody the old eagle eye and he sees my bed done up good and stops with his nose so close to mine I could smell his snot and he says to me (testing me, see)-what’s your name boy and I says sir-Parker-William-Lee-sir, and he says to me-northerner or southerner? But Ive seen his kind before and Ive seen how he looks at those yankee farmboys and enjoys making them squirm and how he takes digs at the black boys and makes them squirm too so I says to him-sir-westerner-sir. He thinks about it a hen’s blink and barks-Bunk patrol every morning at 0-500 hours, Parker. You dont teach them farmboys how to do womens work and its your ass! So I reckon I got me a duty already. How about that. Miss Beasley gave me a fare-well book of poems and I gave her a kiss she din’t seem to mind They issued us our fatigues and blankets and toilet artikles and marched us in here to our barracks and half of em are laying here snivveling for home I reckon. Me I know theres worse places than this cause I been there. But I sure miss you green eyes and those babies and our bed. I ate the sandwiches and the pie on the train and they tasted real good and I probly never told you before but you make the best quince pie of anything. Lites out theyre saying so I have to end here and I’m sorry if this aint so clear my writing never was good cause I hated school and dint go much less they made me.