I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Ray and Livy are precious.
The Magic of A Good Man
The Way Ray Singleton Loves
Dear Livy,
I was never a man of hate, retribution, or racism.
I was a man of practical, reserved nature.
No matter what you thought of me in the beginning.
I felt strongly, deeply.
And always for you.
Her belly's growing, getting fuller, rounder.
Other parts of her too.
Though he does his respectful best not to notice.
She's begun pulling at her dress when she thinks no one sees.
Whether it's uncomfortable or she doesn't want people . . .
". . . judge, people gossip."
. . . to know just from the look of her.
And Ray wishes he could say . . .
Don't worry yourself about it.
. . . anything to help her feel better.
You're beautiful as you are.
But he can't.
And this is just nature's way, the way it's supposed to be.
So he just stays . . .
I bet Martha May'd help you learn to sew a more comfortable dress.
. . . quiet.
If you'd let her.
And respectful of her privacy.
He's there once when it happens . . .
"-mmm-"
. . . and she can't hide it from him.
"You alright?"
When she's mixing some concoction in a bowl, mixing and mixing.
And suddenly turns green and sheet-white at the same time.
"Y- I ju-"
And dashes the few steps across kitchen, Ray deftly catching the bowl she clunked down too close to the edge of the counter in her urgency to get out of the room.
And he catches it with hardly a fumble, puts it down and looks around.
She's gone and the sounds reaching his ears through the wide open sidedoor leave no question as to what she's doing.
And Ray Singleton grabs up things to take to her, things he can think might help her.
And goes out the door to her.
Livy.
Pregnant Livy.
His wife.
Standing several yards from the house.
She's made it all the way to the coffeetree, is leaned over.
One hand on the trunk, fingers splayed wide for support.
The other pressed to her mouth.
The mess at her feet is small and wet.
And will disappear quick enough, as all natural things do.
He approaches gingerly, uncertain whether she will allow his presence in this delicate moment or not.
She doesn't shoo him away, maybe she can't summon the presence of mind.
But she does take the cloth he offers, wipes her mouth with it.
"Thank you."
The cup of water, takes a sip.
He doesn't think she'd spit to rinse if he would see.
So he clears his throat, turns his head, pretends to survey the flourishing fields, the cloudless afternoon sky, the distant horizon.
And he doesn't hear her spit.
But he does . . .
"I'll . . . I'll clean up the mess."
. . . hear her speak.
He shrugs, shakes his head, still keeping his attention turned away for her privacy.
"No need. It'll wash away."
He doesn't bother to tell her there's a good chance the dog will probably get to it first.
She barely tolerates Franklin around as it is.
A breeze rises and he moves to let it reach her, cool the sudden sweat on her brow.
"Does that happen a lot? You feel sick? Because of the baby?"
She doesn't answer right away; he might have overstepped his bounds, intruded on her too much.
"No."
"Is there anything in particular that brings it on?"
"No."
He turns back to her.
"Would you like me to make you some tea?"
And at this point she removes her hand from the tree.
Stands upright on her own.
"No. Thank you. I'm fine now."
And he sees her shoes have been splattered, just a little.
He knows she likes them, that she wears them often.
He squats down in front of her, wipes them clean so she won't have to.
And stands back up.
And she almost . . .
"Thank you, Ray."
"You're welcome, Livy."
. . . smiles at him.
He works through the mornings, afternoons.
At breaks, he sits in the shade.
And reads, now about the excavation of Troy.
It's slow going, Mama's dictionary coming in handy in a way that would have made her proud.
Still, there's something to be said.
A German archaeologist.
Digging in the dirt. Taking what he found with him.
Gold. Silver. Bronze.
Smuggling it back home, like a, like a . . .
Pirate.
Daniel would like this guy.
He thinks if he can understand what Livy likes, he can talk about it with her.
And that might make her happy.
"The wind's turned. Comin' out of the north."
It'll be getting colder soon.
We need to finish the harvest and get everything snug and cozy for us for the winter.
You.
And me.
And the baby.
". . . Japanese."
She thinks he hates the workers for the color of their skin, the black of their hair, the slant of their eyes.
The fact that the they look the same as the ones who had attacked Pearl Harbor.
Caused death and destruction.
And killed his best friend, his younger brother.
The one he'd always tried to look out for when they were kids.
Eight years younger, his mother's surprise, Ray nevertheless always felt responsible for Daniel.
And it should have been him, it should have been him.
But he hadn't wanted to leave the farm. He hadn't wanted to leave the only place he'd ever known.
And Daniel had.
Daniel was the one who liked to wander far and wide.
Hitch a ride to Wilson, to La Junta.
Dream about the ocean.
A faraway body of ocean larger than anything either of them could ever imagine.
And salty to boot.
Ray had always wanted to stay home.
So Daniel had gone.
". . . farm those beets good, brother."
"Alright. I will. You take care."
"You take care too. Bye Martha May, bye Ma, love ya!"
"We love you too, Daniel!"
And Ray had stayed.
And Daniel had died.
And Ray had lived.
And it had hurt, oh how it had hurt.
But it hadn't made him hate them.
The workers.
". . . as stupid as you think."
He isn't even sure they belong in the internment camps.
They seem American. They sound American.
He doesn't really see how they could be spies or why they would want to.
But it isn't his call.
And the government requests crops, everyone must do their part for The Cause.
He gets paid and handsomely too.
And he can't do it without their additional hired help.
So no, he doesn't hate them.
He needs them to work.
And they are good for the work.
"I never said you were stupid."
Simple, then.
Country.
Uneducated.
Uncultured.
Whatever word you prefer to use.
I know you have a lot of them in there.
I see it almost every time you look at me.
Like now.
Pity and irritation.
For who and what I am.
Not like you.
And whatever else he is, by anyone's standard, Raymond Singleton is, and has never been, a Chatty Cathy McGee.
So he doesn't think it should surprise the woman who lives with him that he doesn't stay and have a smoke, trade a story.
". . . said I disliked them."
Pass the time with talk.
"I just said they're Japanese."
I'm just not that kind of person, Livy.
He likes his space.
And that's okay.
"And you keep your distance."
Yes, Livy.
I do.
And the only reason he cautions her . . .
Not because I care what other people think.
. . . is because he cares about her safety.
But I do care about what others might do.
Others who might not appreciate that wide world view of yours.
But he's learning Livy is Livy.
". . . on my own. I don't go into the fields to . . ."
And they aren't always going to see eye-to-eye.
". . . socialize."
And that got's to be alright.
"Rose and Florrie both went to USC."
She doesn't really seem to feel quite the same way.
"I can't tell you how good it is to talk about something other than crops and the weather."
That's my life, Livy.
That's who I am.
And I am trying.
For you.
Though he tries not to let it bother him.
"I bet."
Too much.
You just don't know it yet.
He guesses he can't blame her.
The house is, is supposed to be, her domain.
The fields are his.
And it is the same, day after day.
He finds comfort in it, the routine, the quiet reassurance.
He isn't sure . . .
"Would you like to go fishing next Sunday? After church?"
"Sure. That sounds nice."
. . . she does.