Page 31 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
“Well, I came to see you. Seeing as how we both have eight-month-olds, I figured we might visit a bit. I’m trying to get to know other moms, since Ethan’s my first.”
“Um.” The woman almost visibly fluttered, like a small brown wren caught in a trap. “I don’t know if I should…”
“I understand. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. We can chat out here.” The deck was bare of seating, toys, or any indication it was used in December.
“I don’t want to leave ababyout here in the cold!”
Yes. One point for bringing Ethan. “Maybe we can come in, then? Just for a few minutes.”
“Yes, okay, but you should leave before Cal gets back.” Tiny opened the rickety storm door and led Clare inside. The Marches’ home was considerably prettier indoors; the walls and peaked ceiling were paneled in shiny pine, and a woodstove radiated heat from a corner. A sofa, a stuffed chair, a TV console, and a playpen filled the small space. Tiny’s daughter was pulling herself up to stare at the visitors.
“Hi, there,” Clare said to the baby. “I didn’t get her name when we met.”
“Rose.” Tiny’s face softened into a smile as she hoisted the baby from the playpen. “My absolute favorite movie of all time isTitanic,and I always wanted my own little Rose.”
Clare set the carrier down. “We could let them play, but I’m afraid the car ride’s conked Ethan out cold.” She took off her coat and looked expectantly at the sofa.
Tiny pushed a pile of fabric scraps into a basket. Her hand twitched; either an invitation to sit, or a nervous reflex.
Clare sat. “What are you working on?”
“I make rugs.” Tiny perched on the edge of the sofa, sitting Rose on her knee.
“Are these yours?” The floor was layered with colorful braided and rag rugs. “They’re beautiful. I thought making handmade ones was a lost art.”
“My grandma taught me how.” She ducked her head. “I get the scraps from the transfer station. Lots of people drop off clothes and stuff, you know?”
“How on earth do you go from old clothes to this?”
Tiny scooted back and set Rose on the cushion beside her. She pickedup the basket. “See, I pick fabric that’s good to work with—it’s got to be real cotton for the woven rugs and real wool for the braided ones. I cut ’em into strips.” She lifted a pair of long silver sewing scissors from the basket. “Sometimes I sew the strips together, sometimes I knot ’em, it all depends on how I want it to look in the end. Then I, you know, braid ’em or weave ’em.”
“That’s amazing. You’re a real artist. You could sell these.”
Tiny giggled, then covered her mouth. “I do! There’s a lady volunteers at the library. She runs a shop. It’s how I get my spending money.”
“So you do have a job.”
“Oh, no, this is just my hobby. It lets me get things for the baby, or Cal’s Christmas presents, stuff I don’t want to ask him for.”
“Does Cal know about you earning money from these gorgeous rugs?”
“Well… it wouldn’t be a present if it wasn’t a surprise, would it?” Tiny had a look Clare could only describe as sly.
“No. No, it wouldn’t.” She tried to think of a way to talk about Tiny’s husband without causing the woman to shrink down again. She glanced around the room. “I like your stove. Do you buy your wood, or does your husband split it?”
“Oh, Cal cuts and splits it. We’ve got fourteen acres here, it’s a good size for a wood lot. He works real hard on it.”
“That’s a good thing in a husband.”
“Isn’t it?” Tiny pushed a strand of muddy brown hair behind her ear. “My dad couldn’t hold a job. He drank. Blamed everybody else for his own messes. That’s one of the things attracted me to Cal at first. He’s a hard worker. And he does what he says. You know where you stand with him.”
“Mmm.” Clare held out a finger toward Rose. The baby grabbed it and squeezed. “Seems like he has a temper. At least, he did when I saw him.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s true. But like I said, he lays down the law and as long as I stick to it, everything’s fine.” She looked around. “This ain’t a big house, but it’s all ours, and he likes how I keep it. And we’re saving upto get a bigger place in a few years. We want room for more kids.” Her voice was cheery, but her shoulders sagged.
“Hmmm. So what’s Cal do?”
“He’s got his own truck company,” she said proudly. “Not the big eighteen-wheelers, but the smaller kind. He drives, and he’s got some guys who work for him on and off.”
