The Painted Table(70)

She catches a glimpse of Jack as he heads around the corner of the house. Already, streaks of sweat on his shirt validate his effort. In the Kvaale household, she was a spectator to domestic life, rarely doing, certainly never sweating. Not knowing how to share responsibility, she has little confidence she can contribute acceptably to any task, but it seems important that she try.

Making a quick tour of the yard, she notices an unsightly brown brush along the entire east side of the house. It wouldn’t require any expertise to rid the area of last year’s weeds. With bare hands—she has no work gloves—she begins to remove tangles of debris. The roots are fairly deep and the stems dry and rough, but hard work feels good. Maybe they can plant some petunias here. Or geraniums? The thought energizes her. She gives Jack a wave as he roars past; he gives her a thumbs-up.

After about thirty minutes of work, a two-foot strip of brown earth is freed along the house between the lawn and the cement block foundation. Her burning hands and damp shirt give satisfaction, and she knows that Jack will approve her minor accomplishment. She jauntily heads toward the garage for a rake, stopping when she hears voices and laughter. Who could Jack be talking to? She has a familiar but unwelcome mental flash of her mother’s slightly bent listening posture. Determinedly, Saffee rounds the corner. Jack is on the shared driveway shaking hands with a smiling young couple and a little girl.

“Honey,” he calls, “come meet the neighbors!”

With an arm Saffee wipes perspiration from her forehead. She is relieved the garage door is still down, concealing a peculiar pile of spotted wood.

“Saffee, this is Gail and Bill.” Gail holds the hand of dark-haired Jenny Rose, who, her proud mother says, is four years old. Saffee notes immediately how jovial they are.

“I’m awmost five!” Jenny Rose declares. “An’ I’m gonna have a brudder! Oh, or maybe a sister!” Gail’s round middle confirms the fact.

“Not due until the end of August,” Gail pretends to lament, “and it’s only May.”

Saffee slaps her grimy hands on her jeans and apologizes for not shaking hands. She tells them she’s just pulled up all the weeds on the side of the house and is about to rake.

Gail’s dark eyebrows go up. “Weeds?” she says.

“Yeah. Lots. Want to see?” Saffee is pleased she can share her first visible contribution to their household.

The two young neighbors go around to the side of the house, Jenny Rose in tow.

“Oh dear,” Gail says, then hesitates, eyebrows up again. “Saffee, I hate to tell you, but those weren’t weeds, they were chrysanthemums. They did need cutting back, but not pulling up. I think Mrs. Corbett, the owner, was sort of proud of them.”

Chrysanthemums? Any plant pulled in error would be bad, but chrysanthemums?

. . . the butcher knife . . . the blue house . . . the police . . .

Later that night Saffee lies awake. Her intentions to do a bit of honest labor had been innocent. She jerks over onto her side and pulls the pillow tightly around her head. Think about things that are good. Think about ways I am not like her. Think . . . Think . . .





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE



SOFTBALL RELIGION





What do you want on your waffles?’ Tom whispered syrup-titiously.”

“Oh, Jack, now that’s a funny one,” Saffee says, throwing her arms around him.

Looking pleased, he says, “I’ll scramble the eggs.”

Having been married for a week, they celebrate with a late Sunday morning brunch. The waffles drip with melted butter and maple syrup. Happy, they sit in the kitchen at the little red Formica table, knees bumping. With second cups of coffee, they move to the love seat that faces a small alcove meant to serve as dining room.

“When are you going to start taking paint off that old table in the garage?” he asks.

“Jack,” Saffee sighs, “we’re having a lovely morning, let’s not break the mood.” She pulls her legs up under her. Honeymoon contentment, other than their trip to Miller’s Ford, has made her feel as if they are the only people in a world that has stopped. Nothing else, especially issues of the past, could possibly be important.

Not reading her, he says that if their neighbor, Bill, is around this afternoon, he will ask him to help assemble the parts. “It will be easier to work on if it’s upright,” he says.

“I’d guess the scraping is going to take some time.” He catches her expression. “Just hoping there’ll be room in the garage for the car by winter, that’s all.”

“I don’t know, Jack. Maybe later, when summer comes.”