“You new, ain’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Been here about a month.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever your husband tells me.”
Moe came out, glared at her, and she scooted back inside and slammed the door shut. Afterward, it seemed to Del she was all over the place. Strolling about the yard as he and the others walked by on their way to a tobacco or cornfield. Pointing out something to be done to one of the help. Glancing his way a little too often. One evening she showed up as he sat on the steps of his shanty and asked his advice about a poorly mule.
He said, “What makes you think I know anything about mules?”
His thinking went in another direction as she twirled a strand of brilliant hair, pondering if what lay under her skirt was the same color. Maybe she could interpret he’d had such thoughts, because he caught the change in her expression, a knowledge she was aware she had an effect on him.
She ignored his question and said, “He’s in the barn. Been limping. Won’t you look at him?”
He followed her swaying backside, and once in the barn, she bypassed niceties, pleasantries, or anything else considered respectable prior to such a coupling. Moe was off somewhere, she said. Hurry, she said. He had her in the stall beside the perfectly healthy mule. From that moment on, Del was a busy man juggling three women, but it was Myra who was most demanding. On a warm evening she ordered him to meet her in the woods near a distant cornfield. He’d been with her earlier, a hasty encounter by the tomato vines growing behind the ham shed. Wasn’t that enough? Could be she was jealous. Maybe she’d seen him with Sarah, because she directed him to go to the same cornfield he’d been the day before with the other woman.
They started like always, quiet, surreptitious. He was about there, when out of nowhere Myra caterwauled, loud as a screech owl. Startled, he clapped a hand over her mouth when another, different noise came from behind him. He disengaged from Myra and quickly did up his pants. There was a hush all around, the woods unnaturally quiet, and now, he’d lost his nerve, among other things. Myra huffed and yanked her dress down.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
Del moved away from her and saw the source of his unsettled feeling. Moe, that big lug of a man who could eat five chickens in one sitting, scowled at him from a few feet away. Stomping through a row of the corn, shotgun aimed at Del, he looked fit to be tied. Myra bent down to pick a wildflower, acting as if her husband’s appearance was as common as a sudden rain shower.
Del raised both his hands, “I was out for a walk, and your missus here joined me, no harm intended, or done.”
Myra held the wildflower to her nose, ignoring her husband. Moe abruptly stuck the end of the barrel under her dress and flipped it up, exposing her thighs.
She snatched the material down and yelled, “Moe!”
He yelled back, “Where’s your doggone bloomers, Myra? What are you doing out here without no bloomers on?”
Myra said, “It’s hot! I’m cooler this way!”
Moe grabbed her elbow and pushed her in the direction he’d come.
He said, “Git on back to the house! Git! I’ll tend to you when I get there.”
Myra flung the flower on the ground, grumbling as she made her way through the stalks. Moe turned to Del. He stared at him long and hard, and Del had the feeling he was contemplating his next move. He couldn’t be certain of what Moe had seen or not, but the other man’s countenance suggested it was more than Del wanted. Del started to speak, only Moe turned away and started after Myra.
Over his shoulder, Moe said, “Tomorrow, I want you working the grain bins.”
Del rubbed his forehead and worried over the job. He could set plants, sucker, and hand tobacco, pull corn, but working the grain bins? It was dangerous if you had to go inside them.
He couldn’t refuse unless he wanted to lose this job, so he said, “Okay.”
Back at his shanty, he filled his wash bowl, splashed his face, neck, and forearms. He rummaged around for what he might eat, only to settle for a can of beans, his appetite gone. He started to brew some coffee, but his last bit was running low and it was hard to come by. Rationing was happening all over, and stores couldn’t hardly keep sugar, meat, fish, eggs, cheese, and real coffee on shelves. Nowadays it was the chicory kind. He went on the porch, spooned beans in his mouth, chewed slow, and thought. He could hear the murmur of his neighbors’ voices, the clanging of pots, and he caught the smell of something frying. Out of the three women, he wished it had been one of the other husbands who’d caught him. Not Moe Sutton. After he’d eaten, he pulled out Melody and tried tooting out a tune. Even that didn’t help his jangly nerves.