she looked back at Father in her keen-eyed way, although those eyes were a bit damp. "Thank you. It helps, to know what someone else has been through."
"All right then. Good night, Rose."
"Good night."
4
F RIDAY, RACE DAY, IN MY DREAM-TOSSED STATE I OPENED THE door to Rose's now familiar knock and stood there blinking. Along the line of her right shoulder hovered a startling mustache, like a hairy epaulette.
"Paul!" she exclaimed as if delighted that I still was in existence. "Look who's with me!"
"Uh, morning, Mr. Morgan," I managed.
"Needless formality, Paul, especially at this ungodly hour of the day," he protested as if he had come all the way over to our place on this matter of manners. "Let's make it 'Morrie.'" He stepped from behind Rose and provided me the necessary handshake.
The sound of Morrie's voice brought Father straight out of the kitchen, cup in hand. Before he could get in a word, Rose was combining explanation and congratulation:
"We're in luck, Oliver! I've conscripted Morrie to clean the chicken house. It's really quiteâ" The way she wrinkled her nose said the rest.
Morrie raised a hand as if to fend off any objection from
Father. "Gratis. A token of thanks for the new lease on life you have provided Rose. And for that matter, me." By now Damon and Toby were charging down from upstairs, all ears. Morrie acknowledged their presence with as much of a smile as could make its way through the mustache. Then sped right on: "Montana seems to agree with me. Hard laborâthat is, strenuous exertion such as cording up woodâwas just what I needed to draw me out of dwelling on the recent plights of life."
Was? Father was startled by that; we all were. "You worked yourself out of a job already?"
"Three cords of freshly split wood, measured to the inch," Morrie attested, Rose beside him proudly nodding approval of his achievement. "The Parthenon is not built more exactly than Eunice Schricker's winter woodpile." He swung his arms restlessly, evidently ready to tackle more labor. "I believe destiny is fueled by momentum, Oliver. Once launched upon a fresh turn in life's path, a person ought not to slack off." He gazed at his sister as if to give credit where credit was due. "Rose never slacks off."
"Destiny has led you to our chicken coop, has it?" Father said, an uncommon glint in his eye. "Maybe you ought to fortify yourself with a swig of coffee first."
"Gladly," Morrie accepted, missing Rose's shake of her head to warn him off.
Damon and Toby and I were in a dilemma, antsy to reach school and endure through the day until the big race, but reluctant to tear ourselves away from Morrie's debut at shoveling chicken poop. Our compromise was to scamper upstairs to get ready for school and at the same time strain our ears to pick up every word from the coffee klatch in the kitchen.
"What's 'gratis'?" Damon asked me.
"For free."
"Really? The chicken house? Ugh."
"I have to say, our chickens usually don't have such elevated company," Father's voice drifted up. "Isn't there some other trade you want to take up, more on the town side of things? Westwater could use a good glover."
There was a rattle of cup and saucer, which we figured was Morrie putting Father's version of coffee a safe distance away. "By 'glover,' you meanâ"
"Work gloves, lady's suede, sled mittens," Father hypothesized. "For someone like you who knows the leather trade, a glove store would seem a natural opportunity. Or were you and Rose and the late Mr. Llewellyn not in retail, before?"
Morrie sounded pensive. "International trade was more our line. When catastrophe came down on us as it did, frankly I lacked the heart to return to that kind of endeavor. I decided to seek something more, well, fundamental. Down to earth. No more of the frippery that we had made our name by. And so, when Roseâ" He broke off, in that mannerism he shared with her, as though the rest explained itself without being said. Toby's
"All right then. Good night, Rose."
"Good night."
4
F RIDAY, RACE DAY, IN MY DREAM-TOSSED STATE I OPENED THE door to Rose's now familiar knock and stood there blinking. Along the line of her right shoulder hovered a startling mustache, like a hairy epaulette.
"Paul!" she exclaimed as if delighted that I still was in existence. "Look who's with me!"
"Uh, morning, Mr. Morgan," I managed.
"Needless formality, Paul, especially at this ungodly hour of the day," he protested as if he had come all the way over to our place on this matter of manners. "Let's make it 'Morrie.'" He stepped from behind Rose and provided me the necessary handshake.
The sound of Morrie's voice brought Father straight out of the kitchen, cup in hand. Before he could get in a word, Rose was combining explanation and congratulation:
"We're in luck, Oliver! I've conscripted Morrie to clean the chicken house. It's really quiteâ" The way she wrinkled her nose said the rest.
Morrie raised a hand as if to fend off any objection from
Father. "Gratis. A token of thanks for the new lease on life you have provided Rose. And for that matter, me." By now Damon and Toby were charging down from upstairs, all ears. Morrie acknowledged their presence with as much of a smile as could make its way through the mustache. Then sped right on: "Montana seems to agree with me. Hard laborâthat is, strenuous exertion such as cording up woodâwas just what I needed to draw me out of dwelling on the recent plights of life."
Was? Father was startled by that; we all were. "You worked yourself out of a job already?"
"Three cords of freshly split wood, measured to the inch," Morrie attested, Rose beside him proudly nodding approval of his achievement. "The Parthenon is not built more exactly than Eunice Schricker's winter woodpile." He swung his arms restlessly, evidently ready to tackle more labor. "I believe destiny is fueled by momentum, Oliver. Once launched upon a fresh turn in life's path, a person ought not to slack off." He gazed at his sister as if to give credit where credit was due. "Rose never slacks off."
"Destiny has led you to our chicken coop, has it?" Father said, an uncommon glint in his eye. "Maybe you ought to fortify yourself with a swig of coffee first."
"Gladly," Morrie accepted, missing Rose's shake of her head to warn him off.
Damon and Toby and I were in a dilemma, antsy to reach school and endure through the day until the big race, but reluctant to tear ourselves away from Morrie's debut at shoveling chicken poop. Our compromise was to scamper upstairs to get ready for school and at the same time strain our ears to pick up every word from the coffee klatch in the kitchen.
"What's 'gratis'?" Damon asked me.
"For free."
"Really? The chicken house? Ugh."
"I have to say, our chickens usually don't have such elevated company," Father's voice drifted up. "Isn't there some other trade you want to take up, more on the town side of things? Westwater could use a good glover."
There was a rattle of cup and saucer, which we figured was Morrie putting Father's version of coffee a safe distance away. "By 'glover,' you meanâ"
"Work gloves, lady's suede, sled mittens," Father hypothesized. "For someone like you who knows the leather trade, a glove store would seem a natural opportunity. Or were you and Rose and the late Mr. Llewellyn not in retail, before?"
Morrie sounded pensive. "International trade was more our line. When catastrophe came down on us as it did, frankly I lacked the heart to return to that kind of endeavor. I decided to seek something more, well, fundamental. Down to earth. No more of the frippery that we had made our name by. And so, when Roseâ" He broke off, in that mannerism he shared with her, as though the rest explained itself without being said. Toby's
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