Free Manroot by Anne J. Steinberg Page A

rhododendron.”
    “ Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t know what it was. I really don’t know what half of them are called, but I like growing ’em anyway.”
    In the dusk he seemed younger. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, a streak of dirt lay across his cheek. With sudden realization, he looked down at his hands.
    “ I’ll get you a wet cloth,” she offered. Beyond her the door to her room was still open.
    She entered the darkness, reached for the light switch. In the basin she ran warm water over the cloth. When she turned, she saw him standing in the doorway, one arm up on the frame, looking about the room. She put the damp cloth down and with an unspoken invitation, moved away from the sink.
    He entered the room, went to the sink and lathered up his hands ag ain and again until they were clean. In the manner of men, he scooped water in his palms and splashed his face, finishing with a cold rinse that made him issue a ‘Brrr, Brrr,’ sound.
    She held out the towel and he buried his face in it; the scent of warm su nshine, fresh lemons and a faint tinge of natural flowers assailed him, and he felt a pang of nostalgia. The smell made him think of running through a field of sunflowers, coming home to a warm kitchen redolent with fresh lemon as his mother’s pies baked in the oven, the feel of her arms, her lips in his hair. ‘I love you, William – you’re my good boy.’ He hadn’t been lonely then – the emptiness was full then.
    He stared over at Katherine. What was it about her that dredged up these childhood memories?
    She s tood near the door, uncomfortable with his presence here.
    He looked at the dresser; in the injured glass he saw that his face was clean. He picked up the ‘God’s eye.’ “Hey, this one’s great! I remember making these in Boy Scouts. I was clumsy as hell, it took me two or three tries to make one and even then it was always lopsided. I forget now how we made them.”
    She stepped closer and took the ‘God’s eye’ from him. “It’s simple. My mother and I used to make them back in Gallup. She sold them as Indian souvenirs. First you find two twigs and tie them together to form a cross, then you take a piece of yarn and wind it round and round until you can tie it off at the end. Then you take more yarn, a different color this time, and do the same thing, winding and changing colors until it’s done.”
    He reached for it and held it up. “It looks like a small kite.” He pointed to the middle of the triangle. “Your ‘God’s eye’ – it’s red, scary. I’d hate to think that God’s eyes are red,” he teased. She blushed with embarrassment, and he laid it back carefully on the dresser.
    Next he saw the card, with Jesus. “Are you Catholic?” he asked.
    “ No, but my father was.”
    “ I am,” he said. “Don’t go to church much, though. Don’t go to church at all.”
    Again this faded card broug ht back the scent of incense, the feel of the starched cloth of the alter-boy apron scratching his neck. For so many years he hadn’t thought of those things.
    He saw the carefully clipped article on the dresser.
    Reader’s Digest: Know your stars.
    “ I promised you a book about stars. I haven’t forgotten,” he lied. He straightened up and felt the urge to run from this room, away from this strange girl. She, too, seemed reluctant, pulling back as he passed her and made his way back up the stairs.
    Carefu l, he must be careful, he thought. What would people think? His friends – his professional friends, those that talked of nothing but laws and bills and stock options, and his other friends – fair-weather friends, those he drank with, played cards with… to those he was the Judge, a cardboard caricature of someone, this person Judge William Reardon. What would they think of a friendship with a half-breed Indian servant? They could understand a drunken one-night-stand with her, but could they fathom the warmth of standing next to her in