The Cove by Ron Rash Read Free Book Online Page B

the night. That’s charity enough. How many folks have done anything for us?”
    â€œSlidell has.”
    â€œThat’s one person.”
    â€œAnd that’s all we’re helping,” Laurel answered. “You saw the note, the man can’t even talk.”
    â€œOkay,” Hank said, “but I’m still taking the shotgun with me.”
    After Hank left, Laurel sweetened her breath with a piece of licorice root and then took the wash pan into the bedroom, set it on the bed. The man closed his eyes as she rubbed scabs of paste off his face and neck. The washrag was thin and she could feel his skin against her fingertips. As Laurel leaned to free the paste from the other side of his neck, her hair brushed his shoulder. She swept it back behind her ear and tugged the dress collar close to her neck. Brash of her to be so near the man, maybe even dangerous now that he was stronger, but she didn’t fear him. He’d stolen, but he’d done that out of hunger. More than anything though, she didn’t believe anyone who made such beautiful sounds could be dangerous. Laurel set the cloth in the pan.
    â€œI’ll let you dab the ones on your hands and belly,” Laurel said.
    She took overalls, a chambray shirt, and socks from the bureau’s bottom drawer.
    â€œAfter you finish washing, put them on,” Laurel said, setting the clothes on the bed. “Come to the front room and I’ll have your breakfast.”
    The blackberry jam and cornbread and butter were still on the table so she set out a plate and knife. Laurel emptied the stove’s ash catch and fed more kindling into the firebox. She filled the berlin kettle with snap beans and potatoes to simmer for noon-dinner. Laurel looked around the room and tried to see it the way the stranger might. There wasn’t much to make notice of, no pictures or calendars on the wall, no radio or music box. Maybe the Franklin clock with its hands on the ten and two like stilled wings, or the rio lamp also on the fire board, or the woodstove with the word RAVEN embossed on its iron door. He’d notice the two nailed-together crates that held the books Miss Calicut had given her and probably the flour barrel and butter churn beside the washstand. But nothing bright and pretty like the flute.
    When he came into the front room, Laurel saw that the overalls were a decent enough fit. She poured him more coffee and a cup for herself and sat down with him. The man acted near starved from how fast he ate the slavered cornbread, but he didn’t make notice of wanting more until it was offered. When he’d finally got enough, Laurel filled their coffee cups again.
    â€œMy name’s Laurel, though I guess there’s not much cause to tell you. It’s not like you can say it if you had need to, but I still like you knowing, especially now that I know your name. Is that what you answer to, Walter?”
    The man nodded.
    â€œMy brother’s name is Hank. You might not of noticed yesterday but he’s only got one hand. He don’t complain but his lot in life is the harder for it, at least in most ways. Not being able to talk, that’s got to be burdensome too. I’d think it could make you feel a lavish of aloneness. After my daddy died and Hank was over in France, I was here by myself and it was a hard row to hoe. I guess your music helps you to feel less lonesome, but I’ve never had anything like that.”
    Laurel hadn’t meant to say so much. Walter didn’t move his head or shrug his shoulders but he was listening. She could tell by the way he looked at her while she talked. To have someone meet her eyes was as pleasing a thing as him listening, because so many people looked away or past her like she wasn’t even there. Her coffee cup was empty and there were plenty of chores to be done, but Laurel decided they could wait a few more minutes.
    â€œI heard you playing your flute the other