In truth, I wasn’t thinking about Trudy. I wanted to run my hands over Isaac’s clothes and breathe in his smell. Trudy knew that; I could tell by the way she clicked her tongue when she handed me his uniform. But what harm could it do? I saw her thinking that too. Isaac was leaving on the 9:45 A.M. for Nebraska.
It was hot for early May. The kitchen window was up, and between trains the birds sang. The robins were all back, and usually the sight of those summer birds made me smile. But that day, the day of Isaac’s leaving, tears blurred my eyes as I cooked breakfast. I was so sad and my heart so heavy that it was a wonder I was upright.
I wasn’t the only one grieving. Mrs. DuPree was in her bed, claiming a sick headache.
After breakfast, Isaac went with the men to the back alley and shook their hands good-bye. I watched from the kitchen window as I washed dishes. Jingling horse bells broke through my sadness. It was the coal man bringing his wagon from the other end of the alley. “Trudy,” I called out, my voice dull in my ears. “Mr. Jackson.”
In the alley, the boarders slapped Isaac on the back, and I imagined them telling him that they’d all meet up soon in South Dakota. He held his hand high in a wave as he watched them walk down the gravel road, their lunch pails swinging a little with their steps. When the men were gone, Isaac called out something to Mr. Jackson, the coal man, who said something back. Then Isaac came through the yard, stopped for a few moments as if unsure of his way, and came on toward the kitchen stoop.
My heart thumping, I dried my hands on my apron. The last two mornings he’d kept away. Trudy told me I should be glad; Isaac DuPree was doing me a favor, so I’d best stop looking so puny. For all of Mrs. DuPree’s faults, Trudy said, she had raised her son to know right from wrong, even if I had puffed myself up like a brazen woman. He knew to stay away from the help. His last morning home, though, he was heading to the back steps. He was coming to see me.
In the open kitchen door, Isaac stopped and looked again at the alley. “Poor bastards,” I heard him say to himself.
He didn’t know the half of it. Eleven days ago Isaac DuPree had walked into the boardinghouse, and without giving it a thought, he’d made every one of us want something big. The boarders wanted land of their own, Isaac’s mother wanted to keep him here with her, and me—I dreamed of making a home with him in South Dakota.
Mr. Jackson had his wagon in the backyard now. Trudy hurried through the kitchen to meet him, but not before throwing me a knowing glance when she saw Isaac at the kitchen back door. He stepped aside for her to pass, and that put him an arm’s length away from me.
My breathing turned ragged. I held out the sack lunch of biscuits and boiled eggs that I’d packed.
“What’s this?” Isaac said.
“A little something to tide you over.”
“Obliged.”
His eyes flickered over me as he took the sack lunch. I drew in my breath. He liked what he saw. Because I believed this—wanted to believe that his eyes shined for me—I said, “I’m proud to know you.”
Isaac raised an eyebrow.
“A man with land. That’s a proud thing.”
“So it is.”
“There’s talk.”
Isaac cocked his head.
“Talk that you’re getting married.”
“Gossip,” he said.
“To Lydia Prather.”
“Lydia Prather wouldn’t last a day in the Badlands.”
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. In the side yard, Trudy said something about Mr. Jackson making a mess the last time he was there. “That’s the nature of coal,” he said back. Then they both fell to squabbling, each saying the other needed to learn how to mind his own business. It came to me that a year from now, five years, ten, I’d be still in Mrs. DuPree’s kitchen, still looking out the same window, still listening to the same bickering. Mr. Jackson started up with his shovel. It made a raw scraping sound as it scooped up
It was hot for early May. The kitchen window was up, and between trains the birds sang. The robins were all back, and usually the sight of those summer birds made me smile. But that day, the day of Isaac’s leaving, tears blurred my eyes as I cooked breakfast. I was so sad and my heart so heavy that it was a wonder I was upright.
I wasn’t the only one grieving. Mrs. DuPree was in her bed, claiming a sick headache.
After breakfast, Isaac went with the men to the back alley and shook their hands good-bye. I watched from the kitchen window as I washed dishes. Jingling horse bells broke through my sadness. It was the coal man bringing his wagon from the other end of the alley. “Trudy,” I called out, my voice dull in my ears. “Mr. Jackson.”
In the alley, the boarders slapped Isaac on the back, and I imagined them telling him that they’d all meet up soon in South Dakota. He held his hand high in a wave as he watched them walk down the gravel road, their lunch pails swinging a little with their steps. When the men were gone, Isaac called out something to Mr. Jackson, the coal man, who said something back. Then Isaac came through the yard, stopped for a few moments as if unsure of his way, and came on toward the kitchen stoop.
My heart thumping, I dried my hands on my apron. The last two mornings he’d kept away. Trudy told me I should be glad; Isaac DuPree was doing me a favor, so I’d best stop looking so puny. For all of Mrs. DuPree’s faults, Trudy said, she had raised her son to know right from wrong, even if I had puffed myself up like a brazen woman. He knew to stay away from the help. His last morning home, though, he was heading to the back steps. He was coming to see me.
In the open kitchen door, Isaac stopped and looked again at the alley. “Poor bastards,” I heard him say to himself.
He didn’t know the half of it. Eleven days ago Isaac DuPree had walked into the boardinghouse, and without giving it a thought, he’d made every one of us want something big. The boarders wanted land of their own, Isaac’s mother wanted to keep him here with her, and me—I dreamed of making a home with him in South Dakota.
Mr. Jackson had his wagon in the backyard now. Trudy hurried through the kitchen to meet him, but not before throwing me a knowing glance when she saw Isaac at the kitchen back door. He stepped aside for her to pass, and that put him an arm’s length away from me.
My breathing turned ragged. I held out the sack lunch of biscuits and boiled eggs that I’d packed.
“What’s this?” Isaac said.
“A little something to tide you over.”
“Obliged.”
His eyes flickered over me as he took the sack lunch. I drew in my breath. He liked what he saw. Because I believed this—wanted to believe that his eyes shined for me—I said, “I’m proud to know you.”
Isaac raised an eyebrow.
“A man with land. That’s a proud thing.”
“So it is.”
“There’s talk.”
Isaac cocked his head.
“Talk that you’re getting married.”
“Gossip,” he said.
“To Lydia Prather.”
“Lydia Prather wouldn’t last a day in the Badlands.”
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. In the side yard, Trudy said something about Mr. Jackson making a mess the last time he was there. “That’s the nature of coal,” he said back. Then they both fell to squabbling, each saying the other needed to learn how to mind his own business. It came to me that a year from now, five years, ten, I’d be still in Mrs. DuPree’s kitchen, still looking out the same window, still listening to the same bickering. Mr. Jackson started up with his shovel. It made a raw scraping sound as it scooped up
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