The Cove by Ron Rash

day. I was down the creek below you. It was the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard. Sometimes when I was in school we’d do some singing, and there’s music at the victory jubilees, but we’ve never had it here. Daddy and Momma hadn’t a fiddle or guitar or the least sort of music maker. Not that we had much to sing about, at least in a happy way. But just hearing music, even the saddest sort of song, lets you know you’re not all of every way alone, that someone else has known the likesomeness of what you have. At least that’s what I felt when I heard you playing. Does it ever feel such to you?”
    Walter let his eyes settle on the coffee cup. Pondering the question in a serious sort of way, she could tell, like it was something he’d thought about before. He looked up and gave a slight nod.
    Laurel smiled.
    â€œYou might figure it a blessing this morning that you can’t talk, because I’ve got a peck of questions I’d love to ask. If you could write, I’d surely have you wear out both those yellow pencils on the bookshelf yonder. Well, I do know one thing. You sure look better today than yesterday. Are you feeling more your ownself again?”
    Walter nodded and raised the cup to his lips and drank the last of the coffee, shook his head when she asked if he wanted more. He gestured toward the back window and stood up. As he walked out to the privy, Laurel took the dishes and knife to the basin. When Walter came back inside, he seemed unsure what to do so lingered near the door. She watched his eyes take in the room, settling on nothing long until he saw Hank’s tunic on a peg.
    â€œThat’s Hank’s army coat. I guess you can’t be a soldier unless you can speak.”
    Walter nodded.
    â€œYou’re lucky. Hank didn’t want no part of that fight but they made him go anyway.”
    Laurel washed the dishes and tinware, set them out to dry.
    â€œI’ve got to fetch the eggs and feed the chickens. Just sit comfortable where you like. I won’t be long.”
    She did the chores as quickly as she could, looking toward the cabin every few minutes. When she came back inside, he was in the bedroom. The bureau was bare and the haversack lay beside the door.
    â€œYou ain’t got need to pack up,” Laurel said. “I’ll be fixing noon-dinner before long. It’d make me feel a poor host if you just up and left.”
    For a few moments he didn’t tilt his head one way or another.
    â€œIt ain’t the least bother.”
    He nodded then.
    â€œYou can sit at the table or just rest in here.”
    He nodded that he’d stay in the bedroom.
    Probably tired of my prattling on, Laurel thought, but it had felt so good to speak to someone. She hadn’t talked this much since seeing Marcie at the victory jubilee last month. Slidell, good a man as he was, talked easier to Hank than to her. As for Hank, it seemed they spoke a little less each day. Sometimes they’d eat a meal with hardly a word between them. But to never be able to speak, what an awful thing that would be. Music might be the onliest thing that gave you cause to stand it, because it flowed out on your breath like words, and you could hear it. In its way, it answered you.
    He’s asleep, Laurel thought, but after a while a few notes came from the bedroom and then a song. The whole cabin suddenly became less gloamy, as though the music pulled in more light through the windows and chink gaps. One song blended into another as Laurel got the eggs and milk and flour and mixed the cornbread batter and smoothed it in the bake pan. As she set the table, Laurel wished she knew the songs so she could hum along. She was about to take the cornbread out of the stove when she saw Hank in the doorway listening. Laurel wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door.
    â€œYou ever heard anything as pretty?” she asked softly.
    â€œIt’s nice to the ear,”