Read Online Man in the Blue Moon by Michael Morris - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Morris
Tags: Fiction - Historical
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register Samuel’s disbelief. “You’re taking him to town. Buy every saw, chain . . . every piece of equipment that he tells you to buy. I’m going to give you Aunt Katherine’s pearl necklace to sell.” The necklace and her wedding ring were the last pieces of real jewelry that Ella still possessed.
“What?” Samuel shouted. “You told Mr. Busby in front of God and everybody that you’d never sell that necklace.”
Ella bounded the steps two at a time. When she swung the store door open, the cat that had been hiding behind the sewing samples ran down the stairs, past the mule that kicked at it, and circled Lanier before disappearing deep within the thicket of pines.
5
Myer Simpson stood at the window in her parlor where the grandfather clock might have been placed. Sunlight streaked through and fanned out across the room to the walnut desk, where her husband sat working on his weekly sermon.
“Don’t you think it curious?” Myer asked as she fingered the lace curtain.
Not looking up from his papers, the reverend grunted.
“How this man just shows up out of the blue to help Ella Wallace.”
The reverend reached up to the bookshelf above the desk and took down a book of Greek translation. “What man?”
“What man?” Myer Simpson repeated and turned toward her husband. The light from the window cut across her face and caused the vein in her neck to look even bluer. “The man we met the other day when we were out taking exercise. What man? The very notion that you’d forget such a sight.”
The reverend never turned away from the pages he flipped through. A long gray hair fell from his beard and floated in the air before landing on the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
“That younger man, I might add. He’s at least ten—well, maybe five—years younger than Ella Wallace. Don’t you think it curious how this woman who is about to lose everything suddenly has this man show up at her place? This woman—this married woman, I might add—has a man living at her place. In the barn, supposedly.”
“Maybe he’s an answer to prayer,” the reverend said. “Lord knows she could use the help.”
“Reverend Simpson, must you always be contrary when I speak my mind? The woman has three impressionable boys living on the place.”
If the reverend heard her he didn’t let on. He simply flipped through the Greek translation, searching for the original meaning of the word pardonable . All the while, Myer Simpson fingered the seam of the lace curtain and watched as the townspeople made their way down the dirt road to the store that Ella Wallace struggled to keep open.
By the third day of gripping the handle on the snarl-toothed saw blades to rip through pine bark and swinging a machete to slice through the vines of kudzu that hid the trees, every muscle in Ella’s back ached. She worked alongside Narsissa and Lanier without ever voicing uncertainty or fear. She fought the clumps of briars and a swarm of hornets that tried to keep her from the pines. She sliced her machete through palmetto bushes deep in the woods, all the while staying on alert and ready to kill a rattler like the one that had struck at Narsissa two days earlier as she stepped over a dead log. Even though Narsissa kept looking at Ella in a cautionary way as if she might break at any moment, Ella marched forward, deeper into the rows of pines. She swung the axe until her fingers were numb and wore stains of dirt and pine tar on her face like war paint.
“Everybody okay?” Lanier would call out, his voice echoing against the trees. “Fine,” Ella would yell, knowing full well that the question was intended for her.
By the end of the first week of cutting timber, even the Watkins liniment that Ella sold to customers in the store by guaranteeing its ability to replenish tired muscles had stopped working. She went to bed each night too sore to move and too tired to let the pain keep her from sleep. Ella made certain that her sons would
“What?” Samuel shouted. “You told Mr. Busby in front of God and everybody that you’d never sell that necklace.”
Ella bounded the steps two at a time. When she swung the store door open, the cat that had been hiding behind the sewing samples ran down the stairs, past the mule that kicked at it, and circled Lanier before disappearing deep within the thicket of pines.
5
Myer Simpson stood at the window in her parlor where the grandfather clock might have been placed. Sunlight streaked through and fanned out across the room to the walnut desk, where her husband sat working on his weekly sermon.
“Don’t you think it curious?” Myer asked as she fingered the lace curtain.
Not looking up from his papers, the reverend grunted.
“How this man just shows up out of the blue to help Ella Wallace.”
The reverend reached up to the bookshelf above the desk and took down a book of Greek translation. “What man?”
“What man?” Myer Simpson repeated and turned toward her husband. The light from the window cut across her face and caused the vein in her neck to look even bluer. “The man we met the other day when we were out taking exercise. What man? The very notion that you’d forget such a sight.”
The reverend never turned away from the pages he flipped through. A long gray hair fell from his beard and floated in the air before landing on the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
“That younger man, I might add. He’s at least ten—well, maybe five—years younger than Ella Wallace. Don’t you think it curious how this woman who is about to lose everything suddenly has this man show up at her place? This woman—this married woman, I might add—has a man living at her place. In the barn, supposedly.”
“Maybe he’s an answer to prayer,” the reverend said. “Lord knows she could use the help.”
“Reverend Simpson, must you always be contrary when I speak my mind? The woman has three impressionable boys living on the place.”
If the reverend heard her he didn’t let on. He simply flipped through the Greek translation, searching for the original meaning of the word pardonable . All the while, Myer Simpson fingered the seam of the lace curtain and watched as the townspeople made their way down the dirt road to the store that Ella Wallace struggled to keep open.
By the third day of gripping the handle on the snarl-toothed saw blades to rip through pine bark and swinging a machete to slice through the vines of kudzu that hid the trees, every muscle in Ella’s back ached. She worked alongside Narsissa and Lanier without ever voicing uncertainty or fear. She fought the clumps of briars and a swarm of hornets that tried to keep her from the pines. She sliced her machete through palmetto bushes deep in the woods, all the while staying on alert and ready to kill a rattler like the one that had struck at Narsissa two days earlier as she stepped over a dead log. Even though Narsissa kept looking at Ella in a cautionary way as if she might break at any moment, Ella marched forward, deeper into the rows of pines. She swung the axe until her fingers were numb and wore stains of dirt and pine tar on her face like war paint.
“Everybody okay?” Lanier would call out, his voice echoing against the trees. “Fine,” Ella would yell, knowing full well that the question was intended for her.
By the end of the first week of cutting timber, even the Watkins liniment that Ella sold to customers in the store by guaranteeing its ability to replenish tired muscles had stopped working. She went to bed each night too sore to move and too tired to let the pain keep her from sleep. Ella made certain that her sons would
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