I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Ray and Livy are precious.
The Magic of A Good Man
". . . delicate condition . . . prospects or any other wherewithall . . . helpmeet in these trying times . . . companion . . . God's Will . . ."
Many people thought him to be a simple man.
". . . consider, Ray?"
And he was, Raymond Singleton.
Simple.
". . . does she think?"
Not stupid.
". . . only with her father . . . agreed to be receptive to the arrangement."
Receptive.
And he asked for some time to think on the matter.
Reverend William Case had nodded, shaken his hand, . . .
". . . by and let me know when you've made your decision then."
. . . and . . .
"Yes, sir. Thank you for your time."
. . . shown himself out.
And Ray . . .
A wife.
. . . had stood on the porch, still sweaty and dirty from work.
A wife.
And turned and headed into the house.
Washed his hands in the kitchen sink.
Gone into the sitting room.
And picked up the Oxford dictionary his mother had always kept close by her reading chair.
And . . .
Receptive.
Receptive.
R-e-sss-c-e-p-
. . . got to spelling.
Okay, r eceptive.
Adjective. Willing to consider or accept new suggestions and ideas. "The receptive students sat in class and listened to the teacher."
Hmmm.
And then . . .
"Good evening, little brother!"
"Hey, Uncle Ray!"
"Can I talk to you, Martha?"
"Sure. Come on. You can cut up the potatoes for supper."
. . . he went to go talk with his sister.
Martha May.
The one who had always looked after him.
Played with him.
Made him put his napkin in his lap when they ate mudpies after a rainy summer night.
And the one who always . . .
". . . run off fishing now and forget to come."
"I won't."
. . . made sure he came to Sunday evening meal, had family companionship.
And he told her . . .
". . . Denver."
. . . about his conversation with Reverend Case.
As succinctly . . .
". . . think?"
. . . as possible.
She hadn't responded right away, Martha liked to set up her thoughts in a nice, neat order row before bestowing her gentle wisdom onto those who came to her for it.
Very discerning as to what considerations and ideals she put into other's heads.
"Well, . . . sometimes arranged marriages can work to the benefit of everyone involved."
Particularly, her inexperienced . . .
"People grow to . . . care for one another. In time."
. . . baby brother.
"It would certainly reduce your workload around the place. Relieve the loneliness."
And Ray had worked his hat brim in his hands.
"Do you think she could grow to . . . care for . . . for . . ."
And Martha had smiled so gently, sweet, gentle Martha.
"Well, I don't see why she wouldn't. You're a kind, decent man, Ray. You always have been."
Then she winked at him.
"Especially if you change your shirt once in a while. Brush up on those dance moves I taught you."
Gentle, jibbing Martha May.
He'd managed a smile for her.
And then she'd asked him the serious question.
The one that he knew really mattered.
"The question is, are you prepared to handle the burden? Accept the responsibility?"
He thinks on it, has been thinking on it.
Nods.
"Yes. I think so."
"Even though the baby is not yours?"
"Even though the baby isn't mine."
It's her turn to nod now.
Reach out a hand to pat his.
"Sleep on it tonight. Make your decision in the morning."
He'd nodded.
"Alright."
So he'd eaten supper, smiled nice.
Discussed crops with Hank, the weather.
And taken a good-sized plate . . .
"Just one more dip of green beans-"
"Martha-"
. . . home with him.
Put it away.
Fed the animals.
And found . . .
". . . God's will . . . receptive . . . only to her father . . ."
. . . he couldn't sleep a wink.
He'd wandered the two story farmhouse in the dark.
Padding quietly through the still, empty rooms he grew up in.
Living there his whole life, he knew every inch, every nook and cranny.
Every smell, every surface.
Hardly changing a thing from its place where Mama had kept it in her days.
Sitting room, dining room, kitchen.
The closed-in back porch where the tub washer was set, the wringer.
Back into the house.
Up the stairs.
The bedrooms.
His parents.
Martha's.
His and Daniel's.
Twin beds.
Sidetables.
Rag rug on the floor.
Closet of clothes.
Daddy's watch in the dresser.
He still slept in here.
Hadn't seen any reason to move across the hall.
Until now.
He went and stood in the doorway to his parents' room.
He had been in here before.
Could come in anytime he wanted.
It was his house now, now that . . . that . . .
It could be hers now.
The woman, Miss Olivia Dunne.
His, maybe, his, with . . .
He had swallowed.
Retreated from the door.
And gone back to his own room.
". . . God's will . . . receptive . . . only to her father . . ."
And stared at the ceiling.
Listening to the quiet sounds of the house.
The creaking floorboards.
Some insect lost in the room, smacking softly against the walls, the window.
It didn't settle on him, sting him.
So he left it alone.
And eventually . . .
". . . receptive . . ."
. . . he slept.
Fitfully.
Restlessly.
Alone.
When he woke up the next morning, well before the sun, Ray Singleton got up.
Attended to his toiletries.
Dressed.
Went downstairs.
Made toast.
Fried himself an egg.
Drank a cup of coffee.
Fed the animals, milked the cow.
And got on . . .
". . . receptive . . ."
. . . with his day.
He worked with the team, the hired workers.
Mostly in silence, only speaking when necessary.
Then, he went home.
He ate alone.
He read alone.
He slept alone.
And the next day . . .
"I . . . I think . . . I think that'd be, uh, . . . just fine."
. . . met again with Reverend . . .
"You're doing a good work, Raymond. God will reward your charity toward this unfortunate soul."
"Yes, sir."
. . . Case.
"Ray . . . Ray . . . I'd like to . . . um . . ."
It is the day of.
". . . there's something we haven't discussed . . ."
They are about to go in, Ray to meet his new wife for the very first time, Martha and Hank to serve as witnesses to their marriage.
And his big sister's generous face is a rosy shade of pink that lends her a girlish, youthful air.
"When, uh, when you and, uh, um, um . . ."
She gestures helplessly.
"Olivia?"
"Olivia, yes. When you . . . when it's . . . um . . ."
She's so easy to speak, so much easier than him.
So full of life and light and so very well her he can't fathom what is causing her so much distress-
And the realization of what has got his big sister so flustered, hands wringing at her middle, color flushing even higher-
"Oh, uh, no, I, uh, no-"
As if she hadn't once been a twitterpated young nineteen year old bride whose not quite overt behavior toward her new husband had sent their father to hide behind his pipe and his evening paper-
"No, listen, Ray- . . . She's . . . expecting already and that does things to a body and you don't know each other yet and and and-"
And he could almost smile, chuckle.
"Martha, Sis,-"
He's always called her 'Sis' since they were kids on the farm, building forts and digging out gopherholes.
"It's okay. I understand. I won't. Don't worry."
I'm not that desperate of a bachelor.
And he does manage a sick, nervous smile.
That wants to be reassuring to them both.
"You and Mama and Daddy raised me better than that."
He shrugs, rather helplessly at a loss for eloquent words.
"I'm not that kind of man."
And Martha May nods.
"Okay, yes, I know, Of course, I know."
Blows out an exhalation of breath.
"Alright then. Well, see you there?"
He nods, nearly paralyzed with sudden rising unnamed terror.
"Yeah, yes."
Tries to take a big, calming breath.
"Yes."
And she gives him a quick hug.
A kiss on the cheek.
And then . . .
"I'm proud of you, Ray."
. . . he is left . . .
"Thank you."
. . . to meet . . .
"Raymond? Are you ready?"
. . . his new wife.
"Oh, uh, yes, sir."
For the very first time.
Yes, more Ray and Livy. You know why?
Because they're adorable and precious and wholesome.
And that is a beautiful thing to me.
Hope you enjoy, because I'm enjoying writing.
:)