December 17, 1871
Rudy brought a coil of new rope.
He had noticed the washing line fraying at the post. I had noticed it too, but I meant to wait until it broke before listening to Ma tell me what another would cost.
He held the coil against his coat as though it were something finer. I put my fingers on it and said he must have read my thoughts. His ears colored above his collar.
There are gifts a woman must be seen accepting. I stayed on the step until he had carried his round the house.
Then I went back to the lamps.
The little room upstairs was still shut. Two nights ago, after the sound in the lock, I had come down with the candle and sat beside the kitchen stove until there was no flame left to watch. Yesterday morning I put the key in my sewing box, beneath the scissors. I had grown tired of feeling it move against my leg.
I cleaned the lamp chimneys at the window. One had a crack near the rim. I turned that side toward the wall and rubbed the others with a rag until the winter light showed every scratch.
Outside, Rudy worked at the clothes post with his gloves tucked beneath his arm. His fingers were red. He kept looking toward the glass.
I began to sing.
Only a little song I use when a room needs settling. There is a place in it where I let my voice thin, just enough to make people lean nearer. Then I give them the full note. I have seen a man forget his cup halfway to his mouth.
Rudy forgot his knot.
I pretended not to see.
When he came to the door, I had coffee ready. He took it standing, careful of the clean floor.
“You haven't sung that one for a while.”
“Have you been keeping count?”
He smiled into the cup. I could have asked him for more than rope then.
I asked whether staying would make him late.
“For what?”
He said it lightly, but I watched him afterward. He did not consult a watch. He did not name anybody waiting. He asked whether there was more work I wanted done.
I gave him the loose latch on the wood shed.
It pleased me to have him in the yard. That is a poor thing to confess after the coffee and the smile, but I wanted somebody who would come when I called. I had spent too many nights listening for somebody who might not wait to be asked.
By dusk the rope was taut and the latch held. I thanked him at the gate. He lingered until I let my smile go, then remembered his horse.
I watched him take the bend.
Inside, Ma had left the supper bowls for me. There was dried gravy beneath the lip of Pa's. I set it to soak and lit the cleaned lamp.
The song came back while I trimmed the wick.
I hummed the first few notes. Another note reached me from upstairs, so faint I took it for my own sound coming down the passage.
I closed my mouth.
The singing continued.
I left the lamp on the table and went to the foot of the stairs. It was coming from the little room at the far end. A woman's voice, quiet and careful.
I waited through the verse with my tongue pressed hard against my teeth.
At the place where I make people lean nearer, my voice grew thin behind the locked door.