“Greta seems nice,” I said, looking down, remembering his proposal.
“You were right, Honey. She’s the one, and I aim to marry her next year,” he whispered. “But like I said, the proposal still stands if it’ll keep ya outta prison.”
I nodded, warmed by his offer.
“Hurry up, Carson,” Martha Hannah ordered.
“See you later.” I smiled.
He grinned and shot up the steps.
I said goodbye to Martha Hannah and headed toward the fire tower.
***
Grateful for the job, I found the week flew by as I waited on word from Mr. Morgan. In no time it was Friday and we journeyed to Bonnie Powell’s, one of the first of three patrons on today’s route, the cool morning growing into a warmer afternoon, leaving me to unbutton my coat.
An old woman with a brindle dog following behind her walked out of the yard as I tied Junia to the splintered porch propped up by worm-eaten stilts. The tired-looking cabin had seen better days, its roof sagging, the blackened boards rotting and bulging from the sides. I dug into the pannier, sneaking peeks at the widowed young woman coming out.
Bonnie pushed open the tattered screen door, smoking a cigarette, her bib overalls covered in coal dust, the miner’s helmet still resting atop her head. “See ya tomorrow, Grandma,” she called out to the woman. “Oh, Honey, thanks for putting me on the route.” Bonnie walked down the steps, dropped her cigarette, and stamped it out with a dirty black-dusted boot. “My cousin, Francis, told me, and I signed up right away, hoping for the books.”
“I didn’t know he was your cousin,” I said but could see some resemblance now that she mentioned it.
“Yeah, good kid, he’s eighteen, two years behind me. We’ve all missed your mama’s route—missed you, too, sweet pea.” She pinched my cheek affectionately, then walked over to Junia and stroked her. “Hey, ol’ apostle, you ’member me, girl?” She kissed the mule’s nose. Junia flopped her big ears, pleased. “’Member Bonnie? ’Member me?”
It was hard to forget Bonnie. The last two summers when we’d visited Troublesome, I sat her son while the young couple went to Knoxville for a night out on the town, or met up with another couple for an evening at the Moose Club.
When I’d first knocked on the door years ago, Bonnie had opened it wearing nothing more than a bullet bra and corselet she’d ordered from the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog, her hair done up in big curlers, her feet covered in canary-yellow satin slippers.
Bonnie loved to talk, and I enjoyed listening to her friendly chatter. Impressed by her beauty and sweet nature, I’d sat at the kitchen table fascinated while she drew on cat eyeliner and painted her lids with a dusty sky-blue eyeshadow, rouged her cheeks and brushed her lips in bold pink hues. When she was through, she did the same with me, leaving me speechless over the amount she used—and leaving my folk unsettled with pleas for cosmetics.
Today, Bonnie’s eyes were weary, and it looked like she’d been crying. She moved toward me and peeked over my shoulder inside the bag.
“Want to see what I have? Lot of good ones in here today, Bonnie,” I said, proud of my selections, moving aside to give her a better glimpse.
“Sure would. Come on up to the porch, sweet pea. Grandma just put the baby down ’fore she left. Sorry.” She stopped on the steps, kicking aside an empty pack of Lucky Strikes. “Haven’t had money to buy a proper porch chair.”
“How’s Joey Junior?” I asked as I carried the pannier up to the porch. We took a seat and sat huddled together on the top step next to several three-welled glass ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.