I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.

Ray and Livy are precious.

The Magic of A Good Man

Making Headway

Dear Livy,

I've danced with you so many times over the years.

At parties, at weddings.

In the comfort of our very own home.

And it has always been magical to hold you in my arms and feel you light as air as you move your feet with mine.

But I will never forget the first time we danced at Martha's birthday party.

She brings him his hat.

The day Hank brings him The Claw to dig a hole for her to swim in when it fills up.

She brings him his hat . . .

"Thank you."

. . . after trying to make him something she thought he'd like to eat.

"Fiesta omelet."

So he supposes it's something that she's trying.

She sits on the knoll with Martha May and Ruth and watches him struggle to work . . .

"Left! Left lever!"

"What?!"

. . . a two ton machine that he almost flips over.

Still, it's fun for him.

He doesn't know if it's fun for her.

But she's there, sitting so pretty.

She could have stayed in the house.

She could have let him go back in and retrieve his own darn hat.

She could have let him eat toast for breakfast.

So it appears, to Raymond Singleton, . . .

"Thank you. For digging the swimming hole."

. . . that they're making . . .

"You don't think there'll be snakes in it, do you?"

. . . some sort of progress.

If there were, you could make them one of those fiesta omelets again.

That'd chase them right away.

So when Martha invites them to her birthday party the next weekend . . .

". . . dancing and punch . . ."

. . . Ray swallows his trepidation about the crowds and loudness . . .

"Sure. Do we need to bring anything?"

. . . and shares the information . . .

"She said to just to bring ourselves."

. . . with his lovely wife.

"I may not dance."

Who apparently has worries . . .

"Well, Martha'll just be glad we're there."

. . . of her own.

"She's always been a fool for dancing."

Truth be told, she's the only reason Ray has the few dance moves he does . . .

". . . way you're going to catch a girl, Raymond!"

"Dancing's not the only way to catch a girl, Martha!"

"Well, it's one of the best! Now, put your hand on my waist-"

"On your what?!"

"Waist, you ninny, come on!"

. . . at all.

But he's in good spirits.

". . . your land."

Or trying to be.

Livy seems intent on picking apart also every single facet of his life lately.

He swears it's her . . .

"It seems every war in human history is about owing the land."

. . . hobby.

But we're not having a war.

We're going to a birthday party.

At least I thought we were.

But he stays quiet, lets her talk.

Maybe if she gets it out of herself, she can relax and enjoy the party.

If not, well, at least, he's tried to be a good husband.

And he's gotten them both out of the house and made Martha . . .

"There you are! Oh, I'm so glad to see you both!"

"Happy birthday, sis."

"Yes, happy birthday, Martha."

"Thank you, thank you! The big three-five!"

. . . happy on her birthday.

So he'd stayed quiet.

Or tried to stay quiet.

"It's not temporary to me."

As quiet as he could be.

". . . less than a hundred years. In the span of human history, that's nothing."

Until he'd felt he had to speak.

"In the span of a life . . ."

Because she has a right to.

". . . it's near everything."

And so does he.

He doesn't want to be the husband who speaks and whose word is law and whose wife is expected to nod and smile and be silent.

He doesn't want to be the husband who always argues with his wife, never has any peace and quiet.

But he is learning to not be afraid of her.

Of her sophistication, her class.

Of her beauty, her intelligence.

She's much more schooled than he is, there's no denying that.

But what he's learning is that it doesn't quite make her as happy as his so-called lack of education does.

She's broadened her horizons, so to speak, her world view, he's heard it called.

But she seems to have broadened them so much that she doesn't enjoy the simple things.

"Don't you ever wonder what else is out there, beyond the farm?"

The day-to-day living things.

"I like coming back to my place. Sleeping on my land."

So focused on what was, what has been . . .

"Aren't you curious how other people live?"

. . . that she doesn't pay attention to what's right there before her.

This party tonight, for example.

Other people.

They don't act like her people in Denver, of that he's relatively certain.

And she doesn't . . .

"It's not a party until you come! There's my guy!"

. . . act like them.

So he'd spoken his thoughts without superiority or dismissiveness as best he could.

And now . . .

"You really ought to dance."

"I'm fine."

. . . he tries to enjoy the party.

I'm not going to dance without my wife.

What kind of husband would that make me?

The music's good, he enjoys the lively beat.

The drum, the steel guitar, in particular.

And he's perfectly content to drink punch and watch Martha May shake a leg . . .

"Dance with your mother, come on!"

. . . all night long.

"Alright!"

"Sure?"

Until his wife stands up . . .

"Yeah."

Wow.

"Alright."

. . . and asks him to dance.

Truth be told, he really isn't very comfortable dancing with her.

Right here, in front of near everyone in Wilson.

Including the good reverend and his wife.

He isn't used to touching Livy. They rarely do.

But he also really wants to dance.

Move his barely nimble feet . . .

". . . Singleton, you've got two left feet!"

"I do not, Martha May! Look, they're normal feet just like you've got!"

"Well, they sure don't move like it!"

. . . to the beat.

And try . . .

"Good?"

. . . to not embarrass himself in front of his beautiful, sophisticated, . . .

"Yeah."

. . . world-view wife.

And it works, it truly works.

She laughs. She smiles.

Livy, his wife.

In her pink and white striped dress.

Hair looser than she usually wears it, pulled back on by a simple ribbon.

Pearl earrings in her ears.

Looking, just for a little while, freer, happier.

Livy.

With him.

She twirls in his arms and loosely clasps his hand.

And puts her other hand on his shoulder and doesn't remove it.

He even manages to stop counting steps for a little while and get some rhythm to his feet.

Twirl her.

More than once.

Fred Astaire he is not.

But the smile he feels breaking out over his face is wide and real.

And Olivia, Livy, laughs in his arms, actually laughs with joy and smiles at him.

More toward others, Martha May, the boys.

But with him.

And she's still reserved, still withdrawn, not quite open to him yet.

But it's so much better . . .

How many birthdays can I make my sister have in one year?

. . . than what it has been.

And it makes his heart soar out into the night sky beyond the barn.

And he hopes he would never forget this night . . .

"Goodnight, Livy."

"Goodnight, Ray."

. . . as long as he lives.