I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.

Ray and Livy are precious.

The Magic of A Good Man

Days of Levity Before

Dear Livy,

For years the thought of coming home to you and our family and the home you have created for us has always put a warm feeling in my heart, in my stomach.

No matter what may be outside in the fields, in the world, the troubles, the worries.

Within is always love, always acceptance.

Always support and laughter and life.

Our years together have not been perfect.

But it has been the dream of my life.

It really does seem to help her though.

As Ray and the crew begin to harvest in the crops and the geese begin to fly south for the winter, Ray's preacher-ordered bride . . .

"Look, Ray, what I found in the cellar!"

. . . begins to find things . . .

. . . to make her smile more.

And harangue him . . .

"Oh yeah. I forgot that was down there."

. . . less.

The old crib Daddy had made for Martha May, that each of the children had used in turn.

Mama's spinning wheel.

The rooster windvane he's forgotten Martha May gave to Daddy on his birthday one year.

Now, in the evenings, instead of harsh overhead lights, there's often a softly glowing oil lamp in a room or two.

And even . . .

"Higher! Higher!"

"Not sure why we're putting an old ox yoke inside the house."

. . . old farm tools.

"It was probably that very yoke your grandfather first used to break this land."

"Yeah, well, it's about to break my back."

On the inside of the house.

But it makes her laugh, makes her smile.

With him.

So he can laugh and smile too.

"I want to show you the family history that means the most to me."

And he decides to share something with her that very private to him.

And very difficult to speak of.

"The cemetery?"

"Yeah."

Something he doesn't much talk about.

"Who is it?"

Because it still hurts too damn much.

"You'll see. It's just this way."

Daniel Singleton.

BM3 U.S. Navy.

Born March 24, 1923.

Died December 7, 1941.

It's a simple, gray tombstone.

Not unlike all the other simple gray tombstones in the world, in this very cemetery.

But it holds something all the rest don't.

It holds the body . . .

"I let him talk me into a deal."

. . . of his baby brother.

"If I'd stay behind and work the farm, he'd join the Navy."

Three months shy of his nineteenth birthday.

"Landlocked his whole growing up. He was always dreaming of the ocean."

Brother conversation flashback.

"I was the oldest. I should have gone."

Then you'd be somewhere else and I'd be rotting and buried in this hole.

And he can't say more.

Closing in on four years ago now.

And the pain and guilt are still too near to speak.

So he just stands, memories washing over him.

Laying down on their backs in the sun, watching clouds float overhead.

Running through the fields, seeing who was fastest.

Ray sometimes letting Daniel win, his little brother, sometimes Ray winning, but never by too much, not enough to stop Daniel trying.

Eight years between them and Ray'd always felt responsible for his little brother.

Responsible for his little brother.

And in awe.

He had always been so brave.

He had always just known he was the toughest thing alive.

Wild at times, sure, Ray'd heard the baby of the family always got away with everything.

But they'd loved him and he'd loved them.

And so he'd struck his deal with Ray and joined the Navy, promising to bring home a pretty young thing as his wife.

And a big medal for Mama.

But instead, with sirens wailing and men shouting and screaming, and bullets and fire and chaos and blood and slaughter everywhere, he died.

Trying to fight, trying to save whom he could.

On the doomed battleship, the USS Utah.

His body was pulled from the water, boxed up, and sent home with a flag.

They had buried him and Mama had displayed the flag.

After she had gone, Ray had put it away in the dresser and pretended to ignore it.

And now, standing here over his younger brother's grave, he doesn't know if he hopes Livy will happen upon it in her discoverings.

Find some way to display it in the house.

Or not.

Only that she has taken his arm, pulled herself close, and is rubbing his back with a gentle, reassuring touch.

And he, so deep in his grief, can not find it in himself . . .

"Come on. We best be getting back."

. . . to enjoy or acknowledge it at all.

He sees her touching her rounder, fuller stomach now and then, face frowning down momentarily.

Hissing through her teeth.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. The baby is kicking me."

And wants to ask.

Can I feel it?

Please?

Hasn't dared to.

"You want a what?"

"A telephone line."

A what?

"Why?"

It's not a rude question.

It's a confused one.

"Why? Well, for when the baby is born. I'd feel better if I could reach out to someone."

And he's still baffled.

Because . . .

"Livy, we don't know anyone with a telephone."

But she is undeterred.

"Well . . . the sheriff's department would have one, wouldn't they?"

And he is trying.

"The sheriff? Why would you need to call the sheriff when you're having a baby?"

And she also seems to be . . .

"They could get somebody to help, couldn't they? A doctor, a midwife."

. . . thinking steps ahead of him.

"Somebody, don't you think?"

And Ray Singleton . . .

"Alright. We'll go into Wilson tomorrow and see what we to do."

. . . sees his wife . . .

"Ring ring ring."

. . . grow even . . .

"It works!"

. . . happier.

She's taken to wearing slippers in the house, even Ray has seen that her pretty shoes have begun to squeeze and hurt as her pregnancy advances.

Even with the slippers she sometimes groans and puts a hand to her feet when she sits down on the couch.

He thinks about asking her if she'd like him to rub them.

But he doesn't know how.

And she probably wouldn't want him to . . .

"Good night, Ray."

"Good night, Livy."

. . . anyway.

He's seen her when she doesn't know.

Seen her stretch, delicate hands pressed to the small of her back.

Tilt her neck, from one side to the other.

Those hands going to rub the muscles there.

Along with the cooking and cleaning, Livy's also been pulling down the vines that have been well on their way to completely overtaking the porch, dragging them far out into the dooryard for burning.

Planting seeds in Mama's old flowerbed.

A long way from Denver, he's certain it's all the most physical labor she's ever done.

And pregnant to boot.

And though she has been friendlier toward him as of late, she still retains her personal space.

Graciously avoids his touch whenever possible.

And he's certain she will not allow him rub her aching muscles, apply a warm cloth to her neck.

So Ray Singleton decides the only thing she might allow . . .

"Livy?"

"Yes?"

. . . is for him to help her.

"I've, uh, I've drawn you a warm bath."

By letting her help herself.

"Upstairs."

And him . . .

"If you think that might be something you'd like."

. . . to stay out of the way.

"You can just let the water drain out if you don't want t-"

As much as possible.

"No. No. That's, that's okay. Thank you, Ray."

And he smiles.

Gestures.

"I'm, I'm just going to go out to the barn and milk the cow."

"Alright."

And leaves her to it.

Knowing she will find a warm, not scalding, tub of water.

Soap set neatly out.

Small washcloth.

Towel.

The best ones they have.

And then he tries . . .

"Ray?"

"Yes, Livy?"

"Would you mind getting my back please?"

. . . not to think about her . . .

"I can't reach."

"No, Livy. I don't mind at all."

"Mmm . . . that feels good."

. . . actually in there.