I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Ray and Livy are precious.
The Magic of A Good Man
The Homestead
Dear Livy,
I cannot imagine the courage it took to do what you did.
Even though you felt you had no choice.
Come so far.
Alone.
To meet a man you'd never met. To marry him without true reassurance that everything would be alright.
For my part, I had no idea what I was doing, especially that first evening.
I wanted so much to prove to you that you would be safe with me, provided for.
Cared for.
And now, after all these many years, I still do.
I love you.
Always.
He would have opened the door for her when they stopped.
Gestured a hand of welcoming to his, the, their farm.
But she is already out of the truck, turning, looking at everything.
The farmhouse, the fields, the shed . . .
". . . your mother's?"
. . . the gone-to-seed flower garden.
"Yes, it was."
Or had been.
She had always kept it so nice, so carefully weeded and proudly displayed.
He hadn't been able to keep it up.
The fields provided his sustenance, his income.
The government highly requested a certain amount of crop, that was his part in all this.
One son to enlist, one son grow crops for The United States of America.
He had made an agreement, signed a contract.
Received a tidy commission for his exhaustive efforts.
And that is where his priorities lay.
Not a pretty flower garden.
So he'd had to let it go.
To take care of the farm.
To do his job.
And he knows it isn't the warm and welcoming setting she might have imagined.
". . . sounds unhappy."
That none of it is.
"Just the dog."
But he has been doing all he can by himself since Mama passed on.
"I put him in the shed so he wouldn't jump on you."
And he knows it's pitiful much as it is.
She offers to carry the casserole, he carries her suitcases.
And they cross the dooryard.
The porch.
And when he opens the door, she turns to look at him as he . . .
"Thank you."
. . . does the best he can . . .
"Welcome home."
. . . to provide a modicum of comfort for her.
In which he feels he fails.
He knows what the typical idea is.
Lifting her up in her his manly embrace.
Her arms wrapped around his much kissed neck.
Carry her kicking and screaming and laughing over the threshold.
Into their new home.
He'd seen it in a movie once, in his youth.
A traveling pictureshow in La Junta Martha'd drug him and Daniel to.
So he knows the notion.
But this . . .
I'm sorry.
Livy.
. . . isn't that.
She looks at him, trepidation and uncertainty evident in her beautiful eyes.
She is about to enter the house of a man she has only just met.
Agreed to bond her life to.
Anything could happen in there.
Anything.
And no one would know, be able to help.
This is the final step, it is all isolated and remote.
And he's never really felt it much, except in the darkest of night, when all his life shrinks to a point and there's no one existing on the whole earth but him.
And it's all he can do to go to sleep to escape the slinking shadows.
That is her now.
The aloneness.
The yawning void.
She doesn't understand him.
She doesn't know him.
Even if Reverend Case, or her father, of which he doubts, relayed to her the kind of man Ray himself is . . .
It's alright, Olivia.
Livy.
. . . this must be an awfully fearful thing for her.
You're safe with me.
And he resolves to keep his distance from her, do everything he can to show her the gentleman he is, how she is safe with him.
Ask nothing of her, offer anything in return.
Until she eases her dread and fear
Of him and this place that is to be . . .
". . . receptive . . ."
. . . her new life.
And to stand here and hold that door open as long as he must.
Until she chooses to go in.
The brief moment is ageless and without words.
And then she turns.
And goes into the, his, her, their house.
And Ray Singleton follows behind.
She doesn't say a word as they move through his childhood home.
The hallway. The sitting room.
"Kitchen's there."
The kitchen.
He moves around her carefully, just as aware she is shifting away from his space just as much as he is shifting away from hers.
He sets down her suitcases, takes the casserole.
Moves into the kitchen.
Pulls open the Frigidaire.
". . . coca colas in here."
I bought extra special.
Which she graciously . . .
"No, thank you."
. . . refuses.
Oh.
Sure.
Maybe later.
And then he picks up her suitcases once more.
And ascends the stairs.
The air billowing through open windows should provide a refreshing breeze as they pass by them.
But he can hardly feel it.
". . . Martha's room."
As he makes a nervous report of the bedrooms.
". . . you'll be staying."
Martha had come.
Opened the windows.
Freshened the sheets.
Even placed a vase of fresh flowers.
"Will this be alright?"
And even though she nods and 'mmm's her agreement.
I know it's not what you want.
He knows it isn't, it's clear and it's understandable.
But because he needs to complete the task at hand . . .
"This is . . ."
. . . he shows her the last bedroom.
". . . the bunk room."
"You have a brother?"
"I do. I did."
Even though it is the one that feels the emptiest.
"Daniel got killed at . . ."
". . . your loss. Your brother was a good soldier. And a fine young man.'
". . . Pearl Harbor."
Then he turns away.
It has been too big of a day, too emotional, too overwhelming.
My brother was my best friend.
And he isn't ready . . .
He could talk me into anything.
I wish he hadn't.
. . . to talk about anything else he doesn't have to.
So he goes right ahead . . .
". . . bathroom."
And shows off what he's had done . . .
". . . plumbing! Hot water, cold water."
. . . while waiting for his new wife . . .
". . . receptive . . ."
. . . to come to him.
"I just put that in."
For you.
He did it so his new big city wife would feel more at home.
Not have to heat water over the stove to wash up in the kitchen.
Put the washtub in the shed with all the other outdated junk there was no longer any need for.
He had felt absurdly proud, childishly hopeful, having that installed upstairs.
It had cost a pretty penny but he'd figured . . .
"Where's the telephone?"
. . . she would appreciate it.
Which he's sure she does.
Although . . .
Oh, uh . . .
"There's a phonebox in Wilson outside the post office."
. . . not as much as he had selfishly hoped.
I suppose everyone in Denver has heated indoor plumbing.
And telephones.
And there she is, let down again.
And all of his budding hope . . .
I forgot Mrs. Pratt's cake in the truck.
. . . drains away out of his worn down shoe soles.
I better go get it.
And he leads her back downstairs.