Andrea Rogers
No Money He Brought Her, Nor Other Fine Things
The hot orange light of the sun was edging its way into the dark of the east-facing windows. Danney rolled away from the warmth of Helen, her belly large with child. She was snoring thickly. He sat up and tuned the bedside radio to KVOO to cover her noise. Fiddlin’ time. Danney smiled. The extra two hours of sleep in a comfortable bed had done his hips good. He two-stepped into the kitchen, comfortable in his body in the way a man is when his is unseen and has thrown away his worries and stress in lovemaking. When the news came on the radio he would need to head to work, unlock the gates, begin the long day. He checked out the front window next to the front door to be sure no one was on the street. He had no interest in talking to the neighbors. All clear, he leaned out the front door of the duplex and grabbed the Tulsa World off the front stoop.
On the stove the percolator had grown cool. Danney poured the coffee into a saucepan and heated it up. He had heard the milkman making rounds and stepped quickly onto the back porch to see if there had been a delivery. In the cupboard a small glass bottle held milk, heavy with cream. Danney took a big swig. Returning to the kitchen he made a heavy pour into the coffee cup he had taken from Helen’s bedside. The cup was chipped, a bright white clay beneath a stunning red glaze. It was seated in the center of the red dish that was also an ashtray. He liked his coffee sweet and was glad to have found the sugar bowl full.
Danney fished a cigarette from his overalls and lit it. He understood why the wife kept it. Rationing was coming, money for luxuries was tight, even when your husband had a regular job driving for the Tulsa Fruit Company. When America had joined the war seven months ago, everyone thought they would put a quick end to it. Danney laughed to himself. Now that was nearly all the newspaper was about.
The small icebox had sausage and eggs. A cast iron skillet still sat on the top of the stove from a previous meal. Danney rolled the sausages into patties, greasing the skillet up good and then breaking three eggs into it. The grease popped, splattering his hand. Danney didn’t flinch. The army may have declared him 4-F, but that was their mistake. Danney could have singlehandedly defeated the Germans. They wouldn’t have had to train him to kill. Just shown him which way to march and where to point.
From the other room Helen’s breath seemed to catch, a guttural snore interrupted his thoughts. He considered turning up the radio but didn’t want to bother the neighbors. Pregnant women needed their sleep, he guessed. Danney opened the newspaper to the comics. He was glad the Tulsa World had been delivered. He didn’t care for the funnies in the Tribune. He liked Little Orphan Annie and that Blondie and that dimwit Henry and goofy Myrtle who, when her mom told her to pick up her archery set, stabbed the arrows into the wall and hung the bow on it. That was pretty clever. He started to fold the paper up, but an article about that Indian Detective, Jack Vann, caught his eye. He’d served with the Indian Infantry in the Great War. When he got back he had played baseball and become a club manager in Louisiana before retiring from the game and becoming a cop. He’d been hired by the Tulsa police department.
“Guess with a war on they’ll hire anyone,” Danney spit on the floor.
“And now for the news of the day,” announced the radio.
Danney stood up and threw the newspaper on the back of the stove. He was headed for the backdoor when he remembered he’d left his work gloves in the bedroom. Gray light filtered through the curtain of the open window. Flies had found the screen was missing quicker than you’d think. Already, sweat was running into his eyes.
“It’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity,” he joked, speaking to Helen.
Helen lay on her stomach, breathing growing more raspy and labored. Danney leaned over her and ran his grease-stained hands through the sheets. Realizing his gloves were beneath her, he lifted her slightly. He slipped the gloves on and picked up the metal pipe he had left on the floor next to the bed. Outside he heard a screen door slam, a woman talking to someone on the sidewalk while they retrieved the morning paper. Holding the stray corner of the recently stained white sheet in one hand, he pulled the iron pipe between the folds of cloth leaving an uneven fan of brown-black grease and blood.
He glanced down at his overalls. He’d need to change before he opened the junkyard. He walked to the window and stepped out into the gray.
Photo Credit: Erica Pretty Eagle
Andrea Rogers (she/her) is a Cherokee Nation citizen born at Claremore Indian Hospital. She grew up in Tulsa, but currently lives in unincorporated Artists Point, Arkansas, on the ancestral lands of the Osage and territory formerly allotted to her Old Settler ancestors. She writes and reads. For fun.