Bartle Clunes - Chapter 17
El Dorado County 1950 - A New Year
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Lonnie arranged to have Bartle's truck towed to the garage at Riles Crossing. The mechanic, an older man with a huge mustache, shook his balding head sympathetically. “Mrs. Clunes, it'll no doubt take more’n two weeks to get the new radiator and windshield up here. Meanwhile we'll just pound out the biggest dents in the hood and fenders. Your husband was fortunate there was so little damage,” he said, handing her a shockingly large repair estimate.
When Bartle saw the cost, he did not feel all that fortunate. He sighed and wandered restlessly about the kitchen. He leaned back against the sink and stared out the front window. He sat and read, did some paper work, paid some bills, put all the books away that he and Ayla had scattered all over the house. He found himself frustrated and looking for something useful to do.
“I am not worth a hill of beans,” he complained to Louvina. Maybe I will go out and fix the headlights on your truck again, maybe straighten that crooked shelf in the kitchen. I have been meaning to get to it. The chicken coop wants raking and I noticed that sagging clothes line could use tightening. Your sheets are practically dragging in the dirt out there.”
Louvina would have none of it. “Sit,” she said. “Please! Here, peel these apples if you are bored,” she said, pushing a large bowl of Gravensteins toward him. “I have six pies to make today. Just stay in the house, Bartle. Sit!”
“Sit. Stay,” he mumbled crankily to himself, picking up the red-handled peeler. “God help me, I am turning into a dog!” Louvina was tired of reminding him to rest and he was tired of hearing it.
She went to him, flour on her hands and apron, smelling of cinnamon and allspice, and wrapped her arms very lightly around his waist. Laying her head on his chest, she said, “I am sorry. You are the light of my life, Bartle Clunes, and it pains me to see you hurting and so dispirited. I thank God a hundred times a day that you are here with me and safe.” She gave him a long, sweet kiss and they both felt the better for it
New Year's Day came and went without mention at the Clunes' house. No one was in the mood. Lonnie came by to shovel some snow, but there really wasn't any. Mostly he just wanted an excuse to see Ayla. He brought her a couple of Popular Science magazines and two U-No bars. Then he sat with Bartle in the kitchen for a while, the pale winter sun through the window warming his back.
Louvina bustled around, cleaning up the dishes, sweeping corners, chopping cabbage, putting on a cheerful face. The men had biscuits and coffee and played a game of checkers, which Bartle won easily. Lonnie was not of a competitive nature. He played checkers because he liked the game and because he liked Bartle. He didn't care anything about winning. Never did, really.
“Have you made your New Year resolutions, Lonnie?”
“Pointless, Bartle,” he answered. “I am what I am and I do what I do. There’s not much chance of me changing my ways. It's as sorry as all that.”
“Well, you sound like a staunch devotee of Popeye the Sailor, I have to say. ‘I yam what I yam!’ Aren't you a little young to be so fixed, so resigned to your fate? There’s hope for you yet, don't you think?”
“It is a sad story,” he admitted. “I’m only twenty , but old before my time, I know it. Next thing you know, I’ ll be wearing flannel underwear and carpet slippers.”
Bartle laughed, inflicting a sudden flare of pain in his rib cage. He himself wore flannel underwear and carpet slippers, and had not realized they were the trademark of old men until just now.
Lonnie, seeing Bartle needed rest, stood and went for his coat. “Okay then, Bartle, I just came by to check up on you, and to make sure your wife was waiting on you hand and foot, as is your due.” Louvina snorted and went out the door with scraps for the compost.
“I am glad you lived to tell the tale,” continued Lonnie. “El Dorado County would be a poorer place without you. I'll be back in a day or two when you're feeling better. I will let you know soon as we get the phone call saying your truck is fixed. Any errands I can run for you? Chores?”
“You bet you can,” said Bartle. “You can rake out my chicken coop and then bring me a large bottle of fifteen-year-old Laphroaig. ” He laughed, shallowly. Both knew how much that scotch whisky would cost.
“Will do, Bartle,” Lonnie said, without missing a beat. “I'll bring two bottles for good measure. These are dark times. But, as for your chicken coop, I wouldn’t think of taking away your opportunity of tending to those birds yourself, you know, considering your health. You need your exercise.” And out he went. After he left, Ayla wandered out into the kitchen. She sat down and said, “I need pie.”
“You need pie? Well… alright, honey.” Louvina thought now that’s a good sign, if you ask me.
Louvina tore off the calendar page this morning as February rolled around, clear, bright and cold. She was reminded that she would be taking a trip with Bartle to the gallery in Sacramento this coming Saturday. Both she and Bartle needed a day out, just the two of them, away from worry, drama, housework, pies and chickens.
Life was slowly returning to normal. It had snowed some, but there’d been no real storms. Bartle got his truck back and was still chafing about the cost of the repairs. He was at his house today, framing two more paintings for delivery to the gallery. Ayla had gone with him. It was her first time out since the accident and she was painting next to her father with quiet ferocity.
Ayla would start back to work at the store with Lonnie on Monday, four weeks to the day since the accident, and he was looking forward to having her back to help him out, as he was managing the store on his own now. He’d confessed to the Clunes that after his dad’s surgery at the Veterans' Hospital in Walla Walla, he was still not much improved. “I don’t know when he will start work again, or if he ever will,” he said.
Ten o'clock Friday night found Louvina and Bartle in their bed. The house was absolutely still as they settled into one another for the night, talking softly, and watching the full moon move slowly down the sky out the west window.
“Bartle, Ayla and I would like to get a goat.”
“A what?” he asked sleepily.
“A goat, a milk goat. Two, actually.”
“What? Two what?”
“Do you think keeping a couple of goats would be a lot of trouble?”
“Goats? I don't know anything about goats. Why on earth do you want goats?”
“Ayla and I want to learn how to make soaps with goat's milk, perfumed hand soap. We could sell it here at home and also over at the Riles' Store.”
“Well ... now that sounds like a lot of work to me, Louvina. You think you two need more work?”
“No … well … I don't know. But but if we do a good job, I imagine we could sell them pretty easily.”
“You can do anything you put your minds to. You are both creative women and full of energy. And if anyone can make good use of a goat, you two can. I am sure of that,” he said, moving a little closer to her.
“There is a place a little north of Clarksville that sells goats,” said Louvina. “Let’s go by there tomorrow afternoon on the way back from the city, you know, just to have a look?”
“We could do that. We will see how the time goes.” Then he added, sleepily, “I could maybe build a little pen and a lean-to onto the shed to shelter a goat or two.” She loved that sweet, encouraging offer from her husband, and though most people would not consider a conversation about goats to be particularly romantic in nature, Louvina found it to be a surprising aphrodisiac on that particular cold, moonlit February night.
I am pretty sure I have never used goat soap. 🤓
Maybe the goats should use it.
Goats sound like trouble waiting to happen to me. 🤣