The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [79]
Grey shook his head when she offered him food. He lit a cigarette and smoked it on the doorstep as the sky darkened, then returned to the bedroom. Exhausted from the drive, they all sought sleep. The men got the bedroom, the girls the living room and Claire the kitchen.
She rolled up in a blanket on the kitchen floor, her back to the stove, an arm folded under her head. It was musty inside; the air had been cooped up too long. Claire felt the weight of it, like history, bearing down on her, pressing her into the floor. When she closed her eyes, she could smell the Oklahoma dirt and feel the weight of her mother’s wasted body in her arms.
Anna cried out in her sleep like a wounded animal. Marta soothed her in a low voice that sounded like a song. Claire rubbed her eyes, pulled back to the present. She fingered the rose she’d taken from the shop, the dying petals limp against her skin. She swore long ago she damn well wasn’t going to end up faded and broken, surrounded by dirt. Paris was her life, never a place like this.
The next morning Claire woke to the golden red light of a promised sunrise tracing patterns in the window’s wavy glass. She passed the girls wrapped in a blanket on the floor. Anna was curled against her big sister’s stomach. Her baby face innocent, a thumb inches from her mouth, poised to be sucked. Marta’s arm was wrapped protectively around her. Even in slumber, Marta’s face was serious.
Tired hinges creaked as Claire stepped through the door. She sat on the worn boards of the bottom stoop and watched the sky shift from indigo to pale blue. The farm was bordered on the north and west by dense forest. To the east and south, open farmland rose into rolling hills. The morning air was fresh and smelled of damp earth. A flock, a murder, of crows flew overhead. A breeze cooled her and nuzzled the trees, leaves whispering softly.
She knew this time of day, how it felt. It had been her chore to haul in water from the well, to milk the cows and let the chickens from the coop before she sat down for breakfast with Mama. By then Pa, Willy and Hank would be in the pastures or fields, and she wouldn’t see them until nightfall. Stop dawdling, you worthless thing, she heard Pa say. Get something done. She was glad the bastard was dead. Her seeking eyes found the well, tucked up around the corner from the house, and her feet began moving toward it, stirring up little puffs of dirt with each step. You think you’ve won, she whispered to him. You haven’t.
Two buckets hung over the side of the well next to a coiled length of heavy rope. Hooking the first onto a rusted metal hook and gripping the line, Claire lowered the bucket until she heard a splash, felt the rope go limp and then heavy. She spit into her palms, gritted her teeth and pulled, hand over fist. Her arms were burning before the bucket was level with the well’s wall. Bracing the rope around a shoulder, Claire reached out and pulled the bucket toward her to rest on the wall. Tugging the handle free, she wrestled it to the ground.
Dipping her burning palms into the water, she flinched at the bite on open blisters. It was shockingly cold on her skin, smelled earthy and sweet. She splashed water on her face, rinsed out her mouth, then took a long drink and felt the chill roll down to her empty stomach. It was good, clean of taint and grit.
She filled the second bucket and was working her way toward the house, one in each hand, when the door opened. Grey scanned the farmyard before his eyes lit on Claire. He couldn’t quite conceal his surprise before he hurried to her side. Claire was gratified when he hefted the buckets and exhaled under his breath.
“I didn’t see you inside when I awoke,” he said.
“Thought I made a run back to Paris?”
His brows knitted as he tried