Just then a baby’s wail could be heard coming from inside. The woman propped her stick against the lip of the wash pot and started toward the door of the shack. As she rushed past Thatcher she said, “Be on your way now.”
“Thanks for the water.” Before she disappeared inside, he said, “Wait, what was that name again?”
She paused in the open doorway and looked back at him. “Hancock’s.”
“No. Your name.”
“Oh. Laurel. Plummer.”
Five
As Laurel rushed inside, she nearly ran directly into Irv, who was standing just beyond the threshold but far enough back in the shadows that he couldn’t be seen from the yard. He held a doub
le-barreled shotgun crosswise against his chest. He raised his index finger to his lips, signaling for her not to make a sound.
She went over to the crib that Irv had made for Pearl out of scrap lumber he’d salvaged from one of his fix-it jobs. Her daughter’s face was near purple from crying and coughing. Laurel picked her up and held her against her shoulder as she firmly patted her back, trying to loosen the phlegm that had made her croupy for more than a week.
Irv remained stock-still, watching the stranger until he had reached the road and headed in the direction Laurel had told him would lead to Foley. Only then did Irv relax his stance. He returned the shotgun to its usual spot, resting it between two hooks mounted above the door.
Laurel said, “He hopped off a freight car and wasn’t sure of where he was.”
“That’s what he told you, anyway.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Any number of reasons, and none of them good.”
“He startled me, but apologized for it.” For reasons she couldn’t explain, she felt compelled to defend the stranger. “He was mannerly.”
“That’s the worst sort. They sneak up on you and act like your friend.”
“The worst sort of what?”
“Of anything. How many times have I told you to be suspicious of strangers? Out this far? He could’ve been up to all kinds of mischief.”
“He was only asking for directions and a drink of water.”
“He must’ve had the thirst of a damn camel. What took so long?”
“While we were back there, the rooster made a nuisance of himself.”
She thought the less said about that incident, the better. The mean rooster had been the least of it. She’d known what to expect from that damn bird.
Her thoughts lingered now on what had come after. She hadn’t touched a man, or vice versa, since Derby’s death. Not even Irv. Despite the stranger’s leanness, he’d felt as solid as a tree trunk when she’d backed into him. When he’d steadied her with his hands on her arms, she’d had a momentary yearning to lean against him. It hadn’t lasted any longer than the flit of a butterfly’s wings, so it didn’t merit dwelling on now. She forced herself to tune into Irv’s grumbling.
“He didn’t look like any hobo I ever saw.”
Not to Laurel, either. “No, but he looked like a man who’d jumped off a train. His clothes were dusty. He had a ripped sleeve and a bruised bump on his forehead. And a cut on his hand.”
She didn’t want to think at all about that business with his hand. Any woman in the world would have responded the same way to seeing a nasty cut like that. She’d reacted in a typically female way. Instinctually. Maternally. Although, held in her palm, his hand hadn’t felt like that of a child.
“What was that hogwash about saving his army buttons?”
Seeing them had been a bleak reminder of Derby’s uniform hanging abandoned in the empty closet. She hadn’t told Irv about that, and saw no point in telling him now. It would only make him sad.
“The man was just passing by, Irv,” she said. “For heaven’s sake. Really, you’re making too much of it.”
“And you’re not making enough. I’ve lived longer. I’ve learned to be more cautious, less friendly.” He indicated the shotgun. “I’ll teach you how to shoot in case a vagrant, who ain’t so mannerly, comes along when I’m not here watching your back.”