1
A HAND TO HOLD
DAISY
“I just don’t get what the big deal is,” my sister Jo said, adjusting the basket of sandwiches hooked on her arm.
I gave her a look as we walked up Main Street. “You put a laxative in Marjorie’s birthday brownies.”
“Well, she was leading the charge on a vicious rumor about me. Besides, she didn’t know for a fact that it was my brownies. At least four other people gave her pastries for her birthday.”
“Pretty sure she deduced that you were the only one who’d have the nerve,” my other sister Poppy said on a laugh.
“She can’t prove a thing. Hope she has a good book to read while she’s stuck on the can. Assuming she can read.”
“What was the rumor?” I asked.
“That I’m pregnant. Can you believe that? What, is she keeping track of my cycles?” she scoffed.
“Well, are you?” Poppy said after a second. “Pregnant?”
“Of course not. She said she found a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom at Bettie’s and pinned it on me just because I happened to be there. I’m still trying to get to the bottom of why she was digging around in the feminine products trashcan in a restaurant, but I can’t get any answers.”
“Hard to get back to you from her new porcelain home.” Poppy snickered.
“I wonder whose pregnancy test it was,” I mused.
“Probably Marjorie’s,” Jo guessed. “In her mind, me being pregnant out of wedlock is somehow worse than her cheating on every husband she’s ever had with his brother. She’s running out of inlaws to sleep with.”
We were heading toward the park where a few clusters of homeless people had gathered, but a few more sat on the sidewalk, tucked in doorways of closed businesses. There were a lot of those in our little Texas town these days. We’d never had many homeless to speak of in Lindenbach, but over the last month or so we’ve been the seat of a migration out of San Antonio and Austin, our closest major cities.
Just like on every other topic, our town was split on the matter.
Half of Lindenbach was on the ew side of things. The vagrants were an eyesore, a danger, nothing but drug addicts and layabouts. The other half of us were doing what we could to help. We’d collectively hired some and fed them when we could. Pastor Coleburn had organized a regular soup kitchen and clothes donations, and we’d been working on getting a free clinic up and running. Of course, the ew half said we were only prolonging their freeloading and encouraging them to stay, suggesting instead that we should run them out of town.
To go where, I didn’t know. But if it were one of our own who had fallen on hard times, the people here would find grace and understanding for them. Just not outsiders, I figured.
It was another wedge between Us and Them, the divide made wider by the mayor and his toadies, who wanted nothing more than to hammer apart that distance until we broke. Nobody was getting along, and everybody was mad about something, most of the time.
We approached a man and his dog under the eave of a closed shop, his belongings piled up around him.
“Mornin’, sir,” I said with a smile. “Would you like a sandwich?”
His eyes brightened, changing his face. “Yes, ma’am. Mighty kind of you.”
“It’s nothing.” My cheeks warmed as I handed him two sandwiches from Jo’s basket. “Would your dog like one too?”
“That’d … that’d be real nice,” he answered with his voice tight as he pet the skinny retriever’s head. “Thank you, miss.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Henry Alcott, and this here’s Buster. Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s ours,” I said. “I’m Daisy, and these are my sisters, Jo and Poppy Blum. We run the honey farm up 1092 and sometimes hire for work around the farm, if you’re ever looking. Just come on over and ask.”
He pulled off his baseball cap and pressed it to his chest. “I got a bad leg, but if you got something for me, might I come by tomorrow?”
“We’d love to see you, Henry,” I answered. “I think we can find something for you. See you tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, you will, Miss Daisy.”
Jo reached down and scratched Buster’s head before we said our goodbyes and headed on.
A few more homeless people were between us and the park at the end of the road, and the sight of them left me wishing we could do more. Wishing the town would get up and help instead of opting for rejection. I wanted to believe they were afraid. It was easier to swallow than the alternative. But truth was, this was the way of things. Every man for himself.
I let out a long sigh. For once, my sisters said nothing. Pretty sure we were thinking the same thing.
A few shops ahead of us, the door of the hardware store opened up, and the lungs I’d just emptied locked shut.
Because there was Keaton Meyer.
Sighting Keaton in the wild was a rare and unheard of event. But when my gaze did happen to be blessed by his visage, I lost all higher function of my brain and body, leaving me staring like a fool at a man no one might ever have, least of all me.
He was a beast of a man, rugged in that unaffected way, with a short but slightly unkempt beard and a head of hair I found myself envious of, the gentle waves licking the collar of his flannel shirt. He was a thunderhead, brewing lightning behind eyes black and depthless. His shirt was cuffed just below his elbows, I suspected because the folded material couldn’t house the masses of his biceps. The effect was more intense than I anticipated. His forearms were bigger around than my arm, traced with veins and dusted with dark hair. At the end of each was a hammer of a fist, one clutching a plastic bag.
Keaton had always been the stoic Meyer brother, but when his dad died nearly five years ago and his wife shortly after, he disappeared. Physically and otherwise.
I knew a little bit of the feeling.
I realized I was gawking, and on noticing what had stopped my clock, my sisters shared a wicked smile.
He, however, didn’t see us. He didn’t seem to see anyone. His brow was flat, as were his lips. Gravity affected him differently, pulling him, body and soul, into the ground. As if bearing the weight of his burden took everything he had, every minute, every breath of every day.
“Well, hey Keaton!” Jo called.
“Iris Jo,” I hissed at her back, since she was already on the move in his direction.
He stopped, surprised at the sound of his name. His dark brows clicked together as he looked us over, lingering on me.
Flushed, I put on a smile.
“How’s it going?” Jo asked.
“Good,” he answered, though his eyes shifted in search of escape. “I was just on my way back to a job site. Needed a couple things.” He lifted the bags in that hammer fist a little.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in a year,” Jo said. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Don’t be nosy, Jo,” I scolded. “I’m sorry. What she’s trying to say is, it’s good to see you.”
A sort-of chuckle—just a puff through his nose. “S’ppose it was when we worked on Main Street. ‘Bout six months ago, if I recall.”