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Dream Forge Demo 1995 February
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1995-02-01
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
THE BLUE ROCKER
by Melina Huddy
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
It was a large and rambling house, grey shingled and white
painted, with a flower bed moat. On the porch, a busy broom
dusted the noon-shadowed floor. The young woman, occupied with her
task, could not keep her thoughts from the simple sign, tacked that
morning to the front gate: "Room".
She and her husband, John, had talked far into the night about the
room. It was to be the nursery; she was carrying their third child.
A length of yellow spotted muslin for curtains, a hand-stitched
comforter from her mother, a second-hand rocker badly in need of
paint (white maybe) were all she had so far, but there was time, a
few months to plan and sew and . . . .
"Exactly," John had agreed, "months of an empty room! These
fellas they have in from the farms working in the plant need lodging
and have money to pay. Sue, look, I'll not be getting the hours I
was, and it's not like taking in a stranger. I'm working with these
boys. God knows we can use the money and there's no sense that room
sitting there empty. Sue, there's three fellas bunking in the lunch
room and . . ."
"All right," she interrupted. She knew that he was right in
every practical sense, that she could provide no justifiable reason
for an empty room while young men slept on factory floors. "Just one,
John, you hear? Just one -- and someone you know."
He nodded at the firmness in her voice, but morning found him
printing and tacking up the sign. She stood in the room (empty save
for her dreams) and listened to the staccato tapping of his hammer.
The broom stopped as her thoughts raced on, listing all the things
she couldn't say to him.
A good man, honest, hard-working, dependable, occasionally dull,
he would never understand if she spoke: "But, John! That room isn't
empty!" She could imagine his reaction. He would take her by the
hand, lead her down the hall to show her the bare walls, the floor,
all the time thinking her half mad.
She smiled somewhat wistfully and saw the tiered muslin curtains,
comforter covered crib, the oak chest, rag rug, and shining white
rocker of the furnished nursery. She had only to lower her lashes
to see the child sleeping there; a dark haired boy, she was sure.
Her girls were her best friends. She loved them, yet she longed for
a son.
"A sigh, John? I thought . . ."
"Hmm -- just in case." His mind was elsewhere. "What do you
think, Sue? Ten a week sound fair?"
There was no pleasure in her smile as she answered, "What are
ball gloves going for these days?" While in her heart she cried,
"The cost of a dream! What price happiness -- how much is THAT!?"
* * *
She had told him in the spring.
"Two's enough!" His whisper screamed across the dim bedroom.
"I've been to Dr. Renner, John." A quiet statement.
"I'm not doubting your word." His pale fingers carefully buttoned
the crisp cotton of his pajamas. "I'm sorry. I just don't know what
to say . . . at least we have plenty of room . . . ."
He stood mirrored in a black window. In profile, she saw a
slight forward thrust of his head, a dash in the flared nostrils,
a glimpse of the man she'd meant to marry.
His white hand brushed the draperies back in place: he had been
raised by women. She wondered if he realized how much time she spent
closing things -- doors, windows, drapes. In his absences, all stood
open, receptive to the tidings of the next new breeze.
"How can we afford . . ." he began to question, but her chuckle
overwhelmed and he went still.
"John, dear John." Something touched her nearly pretty face, her
brows arched fine above cool eyes. "John, if people waited until they
could afford to have children, nobody would ever have any! We'll
be all right" Why, Laura and Barbie are thrilled . . . and, if it's
a boy," smiling, "we can call him `Little John'."
"You told the girls?! -- Never mind. I'll work it out . . .
somehow. Maybe Joe will let me get in some overtime."
"You know, your mother always says, `A house is not a home until
its rooms are full.'" She teased away his fear (a practiced art).
"I don't think she meant to fill them up with children! At home
we had the sewing room, and . . . ." He sat heavily on the edge of
the bed to ease his weary feet from terry slippers. "You're making
fun of me."
"I'm doing nothing of the sort," gently, from her pillow. "The
doctor said around Christmas . . . I thought you'd be pleased. I am."
He laughed; she felt his bitterness. "Now that must be the
understatement of the year! Tickled pink is what you are, with your
head all up in the air, and never a thought to how we're going to pay
the bills." He stretched beneath the quilt. "Of course I'm happy --
you just surprised me --" He moved to take her in his arms. "Don't
worry, Sue."
She burrowed into sleep with a mumbled, "Silly man. You'll worry
enough for us both."
* * *
A whisper of a sigh escaped her as she went back to her sweeping.
No time now for this day-dreaming, she admonished herself, the girls
would soon be up from their naps. The increased tempo of the broom
showed purpose, her chore nearly completed. She did not hear the gate
latch, nor the measured footsteps on the walk.
"Excuse me, ma'am."
The well timbred voice caused her to turn. "Yes," she started
and halted into speechlessness. A wave of mahogany hair, snapping
chocolate eyes, and a grin so full of joy that she instinctively
returned a smile.
"About the room, ma'am. This is Alden's? John said that I should
stop by." He stepped briskly forward, up the steps, onto the porch.
With him came a smell of dark tobacco and what she thought must
be Brylcream. "Ernie Boston, about the room . . . ."
He carried a small Woolworth's bag: Cornhusker's Lotion (she
could see the yellow label). A lunch-hour errand, she supposed; John
said that it was too far to walk. A scant half-mile, still, he
refused to return home for the mid-day meal. Before her stood this
grinning stranger who had apparently been several blocks beyond and
into town.
Some of his initial confidence seemed to fade as her silence
continued. Sensing his discomfiture, she found her voice to answer.
"Yes, we have a room. I didn't expect . . . that is, John
didn't mention that someone -- you -- might be here today. I haven't,
I mean, it's not ready . . . but, if you want to take a look,
Mr. Boston, did you say?"
"Ernie," he corrected, as the grin returned. "And no, thank you
-- I don't need to see the room, I'm sure it's fine, Mrs. Alden."
"Sue," automatically.
"Well, Sue," he went on, "John did say that it would be a couple
days. No, I don't need to see the room. Just wanted to introduce
myself." He handed her a sheaf of loose and crumpled bills. "John
said I was to give you the rent." A pause. "I'll be going now."
The gate clicked loud behind him, and his whistle filled the air.
She held the money, still clutching her broom, and watched him go.
Several moments passed before she remembered that she should have
thanked him, should have asked when he'd be moving in, should have
. . . she shook her head, stood the broom in its designated corner,
and went into the house.
In the kitchen, she dropped the bills lightly on the table
(without counting them) and looked at her reflection in the buffet
mirror. "Whatever must he have thought?" she mused aloud, and lifted
a towel to wipe the smudges from her chin and forehead.
She heard the rustle of the girls' waking and turned to mount the
stairs, thinking that the rocker (blue maybe) would fit nicely in the
corner by the stove.
"Coming," she called, and two little girls giggled in their beds.
Mommy could be wonderful fun, and she sounded happy.
{DREAM}
Copyright 1988 Melina Huddy, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (Reprint)
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Melina Huddy lives in Newark, Delaware where she is adored by her (4th)
husband, accepted by her friends, and tolerated by the bird. She writes
short stories and works in the advanced ceramic composite research
field in her spare time. She can be found in Author's Network.
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