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Chapter Text

It's a bright and sunny morning as Raymond Singleton steps out onto the porch of the house he grew up in.

Little Danny in his arms outfitted in a little cream-colored hat, coat, and short pants Martha May sewed for him, looking as adorable as the day is long.

The month of May it may be.

But the breeze still carries with it the remembrance of chillier days.

And Ray won't have his little man unhappy or uncomfortable if he can manage it.

". . . treasure hunt."

They've joined Livy, beautiful Livy, his wife, mother of their child, standing on the porch.

Smiling and joyful, everything about her happy and alive and open.

In a way he only dared in his wildest dreams to hope she once may feel.

Blue paisley buttonup shirt Ray briefly wonders if he'll have the pleasure of unbuttoning down later.

Dark blue slacks more appropriate for outdoors than one of her pretty dresses.

Flat shoes upon her graceful feet.

Her makeup is neatly set, hair just tied back but loose, gold earrings glinting in her delicately curved ears.

The entirety of her a pleasant mixture of where she came from and where she is now, contentedly, it seems, is.

She's regained her former figure, though he knows she frets her belly isn't quite as flat and firm as it once was.

Ray has assured her on more than one occasion it is lovely and fine as it is.

With his hands, his lips, his tongue.

It eased her mind somewhat, pleasantly distracted it, at the least.

And he's happy to revisit the conversation anytime it benefits her to do so.

He's fiddling with Danny's coat, making sure their chubby-cheeked little man is comfy and cozy before they set out on their journey.

"It's not a treasure hunt. It's his first archeological dig for arrowheads, right?"

And Ray notices his wife, his beautiful Livy, smiling at him, at the boy, at them both, gazing and smiling.

It fills his chest with a warm feeling as it always does when she turns her attentions to him in this sort of way.

They are a family now, they are together.

Just as he had hoped and dreamed one day they would be.

It is a Heaven on Earth to him, if such a thing isn't blasphemous to the Lord Above.

But how could it be, this thing that has been such a miracle, from beginning to now.

This thing that he has been taught is the goal of a man and a woman.

The togetherness, the supports, the helpmeets.

And she is happy, her eyes are clear and bright as she gazes upon him, them.

Her heart is open, has been, for months now.

And he feels no hesitation, no fear, to lean toward her.

Softly press his lips to hers, his beautiful bride, his lovely wife.

Who kisses him back in love, with ease.

As their son bats at soft hand at their joined faces.

Well . . .

And then they separate and Livy guides them down the porch steps.

"Ready?"

"Come on."

. . . it's a little bit of a treasure hunt.

"Let's go."

And he gently soars his cooing five month old son . . .

". . . fly there."

. . . down the steps and across the dooryard.

Franklin trotting at their feet.

And Olivia Marie Singleton nee Dunne . . .

"It feels good out here today."

"Sure does."

. . . confidently in the lead.

Ray has always enjoyed walking his land.

The smell of the earth and growing things.

The breeze, the taste of green it brings with it.

It gently rolls, for miles and miles around.

He hears the birds, the scampering creatures, the quietness of the world so far away from all the hubbub and activity of town life.

In times of unhappiness and distress, it has soothed him, cleared his mind.

During growing and harvesting seasons, it filled him with understood and accepted purpose.

Now, on a day such as this, as his wife reaches out her hand to clasp his, he is filled with happiness, joy.

And . . .

". . . there, Danny? That's where we're going. Think we can manage it?"

". . . aaaa . . ."

"Yeah, I think we'll be just fine too."

. . . abiding gratitude.

The metal bucket contains gloves. A trowel.

A soft brush.

And a small cloth bag.

His wife, his Livy, knows exactly what she's doing.

And she's going to pass her knowledge onto . . .

". . . slowly and carefully, you see . . ."

. . . her little baby boy.

Ray could chime in too, he read that book about the German fella.

But this is Livy's wheelhouse, her knowledge, her passion.

And he'd rather just follow along with her . . .

". . . avoid damaging any of our newfound treasures . . ."

. . . and see the light in her eyes as she imparts that of which she loves . . .

-so it is a treasure hunt-

. . . to one whom she loves.

"Look, Danny, we found an arrowhead!"

Who seems more interested in eating the dirt.

". . . hundreds of years ago . . ."

Than what is being dug up from the dirt.

But Livy doesn't seem to mind.

And neither does Ray.

". . . all the dirt. We'll leave some for later maybe."

Not much anyway.

The sun has moved positions in the sky upon their return.

It's still high, Ray surmises it's no more than one in the afternoon.

Still plenty of time left in the day.

He sees the homestead on the hill, proud and well-cared for.

Livy-planted flowerbeds just starting to bloom. 

Billowing clothesline next to it. He'll help Livy bring in the linens when Danny's down for his fast approaching nap.

They've brought home a fair amount of arrowheads, the boy, a fair amount of dirt.

And Ray's . . .

"There's more brown than white in our little man's jacket now."

. . . beginning to rethink his son's archeological attire.

"It'll wash out."

Livy not quite so much, a relief of more rigid, tense days gone by.

Livy's pants have a moderate amount of dirt as well.

Ray's up for washing them after he takes them off himself.

If she likes.

He is a very supportive husband.

Chapter Text

Ray Singleton has entered the kitchen of his boyhood home.

His kitchen now.

His and Livy's.

Once full of activity and life and talk and homey smells, it had stayed quiet and still for so long after Mama had gone on.

Ray himself alone not quite able to fill the space.

But making do with what was provided.

What he could manage.

And then for a while whilst he and Livy had, well, found their way, a meager, flickering spot of life and hope had lit it ever so timidly.

Now, however, . . .

". . ., Sis, Ruth."

. . . there is more than a bit of activity and life and talk.

Womanly laughter. And chattering.

Hushed whispers and giggles.

Things he may not always understand the meanings of.

But enjoys being awash in nonetheless.

There are also bowls and measurings set about.

Spills and well, perhaps not homey smells but, certainly smells.

He washes his hands, dries them.

Pats the shoulders of his sister, his niece.

Touches the hand of his smiling wife, feels the corner of his mouth turn up at feel of her not try to not flinch away.

Crosses to the highchair, drops a kiss on the top of his babbling son's head.

"What are you ladies up to?"

And turns to take in the tableau of another small miracle of life.

Livy.

Martha May.

And Ruth.

All in the kitchen, at two in the afternoon on a Thursday.

". . . sister is teaching me to make rice pudding with raisins."

All together.

Once upon a time, on their wedding night, he had offered for Martha May to do just such a thing as she is attempting now.

Teach Livy how to cook.

And Livy had . . .

"Oh no, it's fine."

. . . brushed off the gesture with her own more preferential strategy of attacking the shortcoming.

". . . book from the library."

All alone. 

By herself.

Leading to isolation.

Stress. Tension.

And the infamous Fiesta Omelet fiasco.

The rememberance of which is still metaphorically burned into Ray's tongue's memory for all time.

And now . . .

"Do you think you think the cow could give another milking? I burned the first pot and the second isn't looking too good."

. . . they are here.

"We may need more rice too."

Raymond Singleton bites down on his encroaching smile.

His wife cannot cook.

Not a bit well, anyway.

And if Martha May Stewart nee Singleton cannot help her, there may not be hope for the venture at all.

She has come so very far though, Livy has.

To tolerate anyone attempting to give her help, much less invite Ray's sister and niece into the kitchen of her own free will, much less be standing there smiling at him with only the slightest flush of embarrassment coloring her pale cheeks, well, that unto itself marks the great progress of this woman Ray Singleton very much loves.

And so he does not laugh or chuckle or even allow more than a corner of his mouth to turn upward.

Simply replies with a light-hearted, "I'll see what I can do."

And takes himself back out of the kitchen once more.

Bessie's gonna kick me if I try to milk her now.

To see indeed what can be done.

And that's not all.

Martha May has also been tasked with working another small miracle of life.

Flore and Rose as well.

Helping Livy Singleton . . .

". . . like this?"

"Oh, no no, . . . here . . ."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry."

"No need to apologize. It just takes some practice."

. . . learn to sew.

As flush with funds as Federal Farmers of the World War II effort have been blessed to become in these times of need . . .

". . . winter wheat. Maybe some potatoes, rotate the soil, what do you think?"

. . . it appears Livy has come to realize that sewing her own clothes and as well as clothes for Little Danny and mending Ray's well worn pants and shirts and darning his socks now and again, will prove more financially wise and sustainable to their family than continuing to yearn for the shops and seamstresses of the faraway Denver.

And so . . .

"Uh, Martha?"

. . . the education . . .

"Oh. Oh. No problem. There."

. . . continues on.

"-Sss-"

It's a small sound, though not so small as to go unheard in Raymond Singleton's attentively husbandly ears.

It is toward evening, almost turning in time.

Little Danny is sleeping and Ray is in his chair and Livy is in hers.

In the parlor, near the fire they only need to keep very low on chilly spring evenings.

And he turns his head from his book.

"Are you alright?"

Something about livestock.

"Yes."

To his wife.

Livy.

Beautiful Livy.

Beautiful, sweet Livy who has been working so hard as of late to assure their wellbeing.

His. Hers. Their sons.

She has been cleaning.

Cooking.

Gardening.

And, as of late, . . .

"What's wrong?"

. . . taken up . . .

"Nothing."

. . . sewing.

She brushes off concern for herself, as still is so often her wont, not to be a bother.

Not to be a trial.

"My fingers are a little tender, that's all."

And he glances down.

"The sewing?"

She nods, nightly lotioning brought to a halt by lingering discomfort.

The machine he brought up from the cellar, Mama's old Singer, is a something of a practice to work.

Martha May is a wonderful teacher.

Flore and Rose as well.

Livy has managed an apron, hemmed pants.

All thanks to the Singer.

Buttons though, socks.

Those things require close handwork.

Needle. Thread.

And fingerwork.

And that . . .

"Here."

. . . takes time to adjust.

Ray should know.

A creature of necessity in his lone years after Mama, he learned to sew his own buttons, close a tear.

Never with grace and elegance.

But he did what needed to be done.

And so he knows.

And closes the book. Sets it down on the sidetable.

Scoots himself over onto the edge of the chair cushion.

And reaches out.

Takes one of his wife's hands in his own.

And caresses the tender flesh with a gentle touch.

Turns the palm face up.

And . . .

"Oh Ray, no, . . ."

. . . kisses it lightly.

". . . there's lotion there."

And then casts his attention . . .

"I don't mind."

. . . to her fingers.

He kisses them each in turn, one after the other.

Just the tips with gentle press of his lips.

And yes, there is lotion on them still.

And no, he does not mind.

For this is his Livy, his wife.

The love of his life.

"Oh Ray, . . ."

And any small comfort he can afford her, . . .

". . . you sweet man."

. . . he gladly does

Chapter Text

He's in the barn, has been working on the tractor.

A sturdy piece of equipment.

Solidly built and long lasting.

A dependable 1918 John Deere model, bought only slightly used.

His father's pride and joy.

It still needs tuning from time to time.

Tires rotated, shocks adjusted.

It's not real hot yet.

But it's warm in the barn and warm working.

So it is a welcome sight to him.

"Hi."

"Hi."

To see his beautiful wife . . .

"I made lemonade. Thought you might like some."

. . . bringing him an ice cold beverage.

"I would."

She's lovely in her pink striped dress, the one she wore to their first dance, that Martha May birthday so long ago.

She closes the door that has been propped open.

Casting the space into shadow as she comes across to him and hands him the glass.

"Thank you."

When he takes a sip, . . .

Oh boy, that sure is a lot of lemon.

. . . he refuses to grimace at the bite.

And simply puts the glass down.

"How's it going out here?"

"Good. Just about done."

And he realizes he's still sitting on an upside down bucket.

And his beautiful Livy . . .

"Good."

. . . is standing very close to him.

"That's good."

Very close indeed.

He gazes up at her in quiet adoration.

Pleasant delight.

Her hair is pulled back with a simple ribbon.

"Danny alright?"

"Mmm."

And she looks positively. . .

"Just laid down for a nap."

. . . glowing.

He's struck again by how close she's standing.

And how beautiful she looks.

"The weather's nice today."

"Mmm."

Her cloth-covered knee grazes his upper arm, near his elbow.

"Maybe we'll take the baby fishing later on."

"Sure."

Nudges again.

And it seems natural, it seems right.

"That sounds like a good idea."

To lift his hand.

And cup it around the back . . .

"Take some sandwiches."

"Mmm-hmm."

. . . of her calf.

Near the top. Close to her knee.

Just under the hem of her dress.

He does so and the bow of her mouth turns up a little.

Face tilted down, eyes still locked with his.

She doesn't pull away, she doesn't do that anymore.

For months and months, she hasn't pulled away from him.

She's pulled close to him, in fact.

Over and over.

Both in the husband-and-wife sense.

And in the companion, helpmeet sense.

And, not to be sacrilegious, Ray Singleton has been in Heaven.

As he is now.

Her skin is smooth, before her he didn't know women shaved their legs.

And his thumb appreciatively strokes . . .

"Mmm . . ."

. . . the back of her knee.

Her eyes slip closed, her lips open just enough it seems to release an exhalation of breath.

And Ray is entranced.

The barn is quiet, ice clinking against itself in the lemonade glass she brought him.

The cow lowing a few stalls over.

It smells like hay and oil out here.

And Livy's skin is like silk.

She opens her eyes and locks her gaze with his again.

He feels like she's . . . receptive . . . to his hand, his touch.

Easily able to shift back to signal her preference to stop if she so wishes.

Which she doesn't.

In fact, she smiles.

Nudges his arm again with her knee.

And Ray Singleton slowly glides his hand, the tips of his fingers, a few inches up to . . .

Livy . . .

. . . her thigh.

And her smile widens, eyes fluttering momentarily closed.

And then open again on his.

His palm is on her lower inner thigh, fingers stroking lightly.

The color is rising in her cheeks, her flesh seems flushed and warm.

"Ray, . . ."

And the touch of his fingers against her flesh, the alto murmur of his name from her lips . . .

". . . don't stop."

. . . light the flame of his mind and body for her.

He can't take his eyes off her, his love, his wife.

There in the dim of the barn.

And Ray . . .

"Do you want to go back to the house, Livy?"

. . . dares to slide his hand . . .

"No."

. . . further up still.

Calloused pads of his fingertips feeling the warmth radiating from that place, that secret place she has.

"Are you sure? It's not real clean in here."

That he feels she's inviting him . . .

"Yes. I'm sure."

. . . to.

He savors this a moment or two longer.

Then slides his hand up the last few inches, making her intake her breath again.

Until the side of his forefinger grazes . . .

"Oh . . ."

. . . the cotton of her undergarment.

". . . Ray . . ."

And the damp warmth . . .

". . . Ray . . ."

. . . within.

His loins are so tight he feels they might explode at any moment.

But he can't take his eyes off her, off her face.

And the demure pleasure written all over it.

"Don't stop."

He moves his finger again.

Slowly.

With light pressure.

Against the fabric.

Once more.

"Ray . . ."

And again.

Livy-

And her head tilts up, eyes closed, bow mouth open a small 'o' he can't take his eyes off of.

A soft sound issues from her, a sigh that almost sends him over the edge.

He continues and she continues, nice and slow and languid.

Until he can't stand it anymore.

And he rises, her eyes opening to his.

To his face coming to hers, eyes lidded with desire.

Mouth seeking hers.

"Ray . . ."

"Livy . . ."

And finding it.

He wraps her in his embrace, kissing her the way she's taught him she likes, hands lost in her hair.

Her hands are moving over him as well, roaming his arms, his chest.

Discovering the tent of his pants.

"Livy, . . ."

Pressing against it, kneading.

And he murmurs . . .

". . . are you sure you don't want to go to the house?"

. . . his question into her mouth.

And she . . .

"No. I want to stay right here with you, Ray."

. . . his.

Mouth forming a smile against his that makes him want her all the more.

And his hands are on her breasts, through the fabric of the blouse and the restriction she wears beneath it.

It still makes her cry out though and when his lips and tongue find the delicious flesh of her neck, the sensitive spot just behind her ear.

She propels him with her to the edge of an empty stall, pulling on the straps of his suspenders.

Into the cleanest one as he doesn't use it for animals but to store equipment and essentials.

He goes through the entryway with her, pulling the half door closed behind him . . .

I don't know what the cow's going to think.

. . . as he goes.

Tossing his hat off in a careless gesture.

"Ray . . ."

And they crumble to the fresh hay at their feet.

"Livy . . ."

Together.

They're not in their bed at home, rather in a haypile in the barn.

And so he doesn't attempt to remove any of her clothes he doesn't absolutely have to.

Passionate or no, straw stems in the back and other places are not Ray's idea of glorifying in his wife.

Neither are bare hardwood barn floor slats.

And so, even as he finds that warm, secret spot and delves himself into it, he's unconsciously conscious of her comfort.

And so finds himself at a slightly different angle and depth . . .

"Oh, Ray, . . . Oh Ray . . ."

. . . than they have both become accustomed to.

And his wife, face flush with color and clinging to him with surprising strength . . .

"Ray-"

. . . begins making sounds.

"Oh yes, Ray-"

He has never quite heard her make before.

And he's bracing one hand against the smooth wood floor.

And pressing her to him with the other.

His face is lost in her hair, eyes closed in bliss, mouth open on her neck.

"More . . . more . . ."

And he's vaguely aware he's making sounds right along with her . . .

". . . oh . . ."

. . . too.

As they together are swept away in what they are experiencing.

There in the barn.

Together.

Chapter Text

They've expelled their release.

Together, he thinks.

And more than once for her.

And now they are laying much more quietly.

Wrapped in one other's arms.

He's stroking her cheek, brushing her hair back from her temple.

"I've, uh, I've never heard you make those sounds before."

Picking an errant piece of straw out of her hair with a gentle touch and an adoring smile.

"Neither have I."

And kissing her soft and sweet.

"It, uh, it might take some time to move the whole house up here for the summer."

And light.

"But I think I can manage it."

She laughs and her eyes bright and joyful.

And full of love for him.

And he's struck all over again by how much he loves her and what a miracle he considers this that all these things have come to pass.

And he gently kisses her . . .

"I love you, Livy."

"I love you too, Ray."

. . . again.

After their first overwhelming bout of lovemaking, Ray has promised himself he will never again be wham-bam-get-up-and-run-Stan.

But will hold her afterward.

Kiss her.

Love her.

Treasure h-

". . . hear that?"

And he did, he did hear that.

It sounded like a human voice and-

It's supposed to be just us.

Martha May didn't ring ring ring.

She doesn't always.

And he rises up, zipping his already tucked back in manhood up safe in his pants.

And peers through the slats-

"It's Reverend Case!"

-of the barn wall.

And he and Livy burst into a flurry of activity.

Ray tucking in his askew shirt.

Grabbing his hat, brushing off the straw.

Livy wildly grabbing for her undergarment-

"What is he doing here?"

-hastily pulled off and tossed into the hay-

"Your guess is better than mine."

-in the throes of their passion.

The good Reverend almost upon them.

"-ay? Livy?"

And they only just burst out of the barn door-

"Reverend!"

-before he can duck his head in-

"Didn't expect you today!"

-to discover their barnstall boudoir.

"What brings you by?"

Where there may be accompanying scents and aromas now.

Than hay and animal dung.

They're not exactly yelling at him, not exactly.

But to say their voices are noticeably a little more elevated in both tone and volume-

"Oh, well, just, uh, just stopping by to see how you two are getting on."

- is an obvious and easy observation.

The elder gentleman adjusts his glasses, seeming to attempt to collect himself from the fright of the two of them bursting out of the barndoor seconds before he was reaching for latch.

As he turns, gesturing a hand out to Ray's freshly turned fields, Ray glances another strand of straw clinging to the side of Livy's slightly disheveled brown waves.

"Crop's looking good."

And he plucks it out and tosses it as the good reverend turns-

"How's everything here . . ."

-back to them once-

". . . on the homestead?"

-more.

"We've been milking the cow-"

"-ering the eggs-"

And they don't answer cohesively at all.

In anyway possible.

The Reverend's bushy eyebrows twitch.

And it's all Ray can do-

"Would you care for some lemonade? Down at the house?"

"Why, yes, Livy, that sounds delightful. Thank you."

I hope you like lemons.

-to keep a straight face.

"Well, we'll all go together."

About the whole thing.

An hour later, as Ray Singleton and his wife Livy are still blushing and giggling over their impromptu barn tryst and the triumph of keeping it a complete and total secret from anyone at all, especially the good reverend, Paul Bartholomew Case walks in the door of his small Wilson, Colorado house.

And is greeted by his wife of fifty-two years . . .

"Welcome back, Bertie, how did it go?"

. . . ready and eager . . .

"How are Raymond and Olivia? Are they getting on alright?"

. . . for a hopefully hopeful update.

The good reverend stands, wrinkled face holding the smile of the remembrance of long ago newlywed youth.

"Yes, Louise."

And gives his wife a sweet kiss . . .

"I think they're getting on . . ."

. . . on her cheek.

". . . quite nicely."

And then one onto . . .

"I love you, Louie."

. . . the hand that so warmly . . .

"What's going on, Bertie?"

. . . holds on to his.

"Nothing, dear."

Chapter Text

Raymond Singleton can do card tricks.

He enjoys using them to fascinate his nephews.

He fascinates his wife too.

"How did you do that?"

"It's magic."

And Livy Singleton never figures out his secrets.

She doesn't really want to know, she must admit.

It's much more fun that way.

The charm.

The mystery.

And she decides, one quiet evening, as the baby is sleeping and it's just time for early wake up farmer to turn in for the evening,. . .

"I, uh, know a little magic of my own, you know."

. . . to show her mild-mannered, now grinning husband . . .

"Oh you do, do you?"

. . . she has a few tricks of her own up her sleeves . . .

"Mmhmm."

. . . as well.

And it's time for dear darling Ray . . .

"I know a card trick that makes your clothes disappear."

"What? What are you talking about?"

. . . to find out what they are.

"Come on. I'll show you."

"Okay."

He's always let her beat him in rummy.

Especially in the beginning when they tiptoed on eggshells around each other so constantly.

It frustrated and angered Livy then.

Before, back in the days when everything seemed to discontent her.

Now, however . . .

"Rummy."

. . . she finds . . .

"Hmm. Sock."

. . . the devilish quality within her . . .

"Sock? My foot will get cold."

. . . to make him pay . . .

"I'm sorry. Those are the rules of rummy."

. . . for his misplaced generosity.

"The rules you made up, you mean."

In the most delicious way . . .

"Yes. Exactly. Now, sock."

. . . possible.

And Ray Singleton heaves a good-natured sigh.

"Alright."

And removes his left sock.

"Rummy."

She's enjoying herself wonderfully.

"Livy."

It really is the most fun game of cards she's ever played.

"Rummy."

Not that she's played that many.

"Livy."

Especially like this.

It's actually her first one.

And she thinks she'd really enjoy playing more.

"What?"

Especially with this man.

"I can't."

This man sitting across the table from her.

"Why not?"

Nearly naked.

"All I've got left are my pants."

She bites down on the inside of her cheek to try to stop her grin.

"So? I lost my shoe earlier. And my belt."

And the nearly clothes-less Ray, all pink-faced, grins a little himself.

Despite his obvious embarrassment.

"I'll be in my underwear, Livy. In the kitchen."

But she is a ruthless opponent.

"I don't mind."

"Livy-"

And she decides to show him just a little mercy.

"Oh fine."

But just a little.

"I suppose we could adjourn to another room of the house. And finish our game."

And then she ends up winning.

"Ray . . ."

"Livy . . ."

More . . .

"Oh Ray . . ."

. . . than once.

But that's not all.

"By the light of the moon, by the light of a star . . ."

Dr Seuss won't publish those words for fifteen more years now.

Though Theodor Seuss Geisel, is currently actively involved in the World War II effort.

Working for the U.S. Army, creating propaganda films like "Your Job in Germany" and "Our Job in Japan".

Livy and Ray don't know that.

And might not even care.

For the tightly trussed, tightly pinned, closed-hearted Livy nee Dunne isn't thinking about The War.

Books.

Or even archaeology for once.

She's thinking about . . .

"Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes. Almost as lovely as you."

. . . the moon.

And the stars.

In the vast night sky. 

That seems to dome the world and stretch forever.

She's thinking about that.

And the fact that . . .

"You know, I was thinking it would be really nice to float in that swimming hole you made for me. Float there. And look at the moon."

. . . she has been feeling wonderful as of late.

Ray Singleton, the man who did everything in his power to love and support his wife, even when it hurt him so.

Is behind her.

Arms wrapped comfortably around her middle, hands overlapping hers.

Her back pressed comfortably to his front.

On this mild early summer evening.

They are standing on their porch, looking up at the moon.

It's full and beautiful, hanging over the Singleton farmland, illuminating it in mystic, otherworldly light.

Ray's content with whatever Livy wants.

He lives to provide and support her and their son.

To make them happy.

Enjoy his life with them.

And right now . . .

"Yeah. That sounds right nice."

. . . he's lost in the moon.

And smelling her hair.

"What do you think? Want to go for it?"

She turns slightly, gifting him her profile, the upturn of her mouth, that for so long seemed to always turn down.

And he's taken by surprise.

Though he guesses he really shouldn't be.

"What? Now?"

"Mmmhmm."

And he muses on it.

"I guess I'd have to go dig out my swim trunks. It's been so long since I used them."

"I don't think you'd have to go to that trouble."

He inclines his head.

"You mean swim in my clothes?"

And his wife's beautiful smile is just a touch mischievous.

"Oh, I don't think you'd need those."

And now Ray's completely aghast.

"You-you-you mean swim . . . naked? Skinny dipping?"

And Livy grins.

"No one would know."

No one would know.

And Ray Singleton . . .

"Oh, um, . . . okay. If you want."

. . . acquiesces.

"Come on. Get the flashlight."

"Okay."

"Ray . . ."

"Livy . . ."

"So, have you all tried out the swimming hole yet?"

"Oh. Uh. Yeah, yes. A couple of times."

"It is alright, does it go deep enough?"

"Wha- oh. Yeah, uh, yes. The, uh, the depth is just fine."

"Good. Any snakes?"

"Snakes?"

"Yeah, snakes."

Livy'd never thought about.

"No. Not that we could see."

"Good. Hate to see one of you get bit by one of them slippery suckers."

"So, want to go for another swim?"

"Uh. I'm not sure."

"Snakes?"

"Yes. I just didn't think of it before."

"Yeah."

"We could, uh, we could take a bath."

"Together?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Okay."

"Ray . . ."

"Livy . . ."

Chapter Text

She is reading a book.

Sitting in a rocking chair by the fire.

Something about archaeology.

And Ray, her sweet Ray, is behind her, leaning over her shoulder.

Peering at the words.

He used to do that.

Back before she let herself love him and be loved by him.

He would read over her shoulder.

Fingers rubbing the spindles of the chair because he couldn't touch her.

Now he can.

And he does.

He plants a soft kiss on the top of her head, softly squeezes her shoulder, briefly grasps her hand gently in his rough one.

Before letting go.

Him moving to the rolltop desk for work.

Her continuing her peaceful reading of whatever is currently keeping her interest.

Because sometimes life is big and exciting.

". . ., Danny! An arrowhead! You found it!"

"Baaa!"

And sometimes life is quiet and peaceful. And . . .

"Going up to bed soon?"

"Soon. Just a little left in the chapter."

"I'll come with you."

"I'd like that."

"Alright."

. . . content.

It is late in The War, Hitler has already killed himself. The newspapers and radio report unspeakable atrocities being uncovered as, one by one, the death camps are liberated.

It is only a matter of time before The War is over, is the thought of many Americans across the nation.

Only the Japs remain to be defeated.

J. Robert Oppenheimer will soon finish his secret work in the New Mexico desert, becoming death, the destroyer of worlds.

Of which the populace at large currently knows nothing about.

And so with victory ever more steadily within their reach, American B-25 trainers still fly over the air above the Singleton farm from time to time, practicing runs, practicing attacks.

To the joy and wonder of Livy nee Dunne's growing infant boy.

"Baa!"

"See? See the plane?"

"Baa!"

Who knows nothing of his biological father's warttime occupation and Texas assigned post.

And never will, if his mother . . .

"You are one lucky little boy, Danny. Your father loves you with all his heart. He does."

. . . has any say in the matter.

Oh, I love you, Ray.

Ray.

Ray Singleton.

His father, his chosen father, his adoptive father.

His present and accounted for and doting father.

Who toils, works, day after day.

On their one hundred sixty acre farm.

With its cow.

And its goat.

Hogs.

And acre upon acre of rotating crops.

Half of them sugar beets.

Along with their smaller cash crops.

Green peas, green beans, sweet corn, all harvested in June.

Cucumbers, July.

Tomatoes in August.

Onions and dry beans in September.

Potatoes, October.

Along with those ever present, . . .

". . . Beet Box?"

"Sure. No problem."

. . . sugar beets the fall through.

Winter wheat being planted just as everything else is being harvested.

That backwards plant that can survive the harsh winter.

Popping up to be one of the first crops harvested come spring.

And still, still, Ray Singleton finds the time and care and energy . . .

". . . real you don't mind being hurt. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out."

. . . to love . . .

"And you get loose in the joints and very shabby."

. . . and read The Velveteen Rabbit to . . .

"But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly."

. . . to his very young son.

"Except to people who don't understand."

Right before bed.

And he also finds the energy to . . .

"Happy anniversary, Livy."

. . . dance with his wife.

"Happy anniversary, Ray. "

There in the parlor of their farmhouse.

"You're such a fine woman."

To the sultry sounds of . . .

"I am so grateful for you."

. . . Duke Ellington.

"And our son."

Or Glen Miller.

"I love you too, Ray."

Benny Goodman.

"There's no better man than you."

Though he doesn't remember their names.

"Our children are, and will be, so lucky to have you as their father."

He always remembers to be careful not to step on his wife's feet.

"Children?"

And to softly twirl her.

"Yes."

Here and there.

"As in more than one?"

And kiss her.

"Yes. I'm pregnant."

Wow. I'll be.

I'd better stop spinning her.

The first day they met, the day of their marriage, Ray Singleton brought his new wife home and in a show of grandeur . . .

". . . Coca Cola?"

. . . offered her a refreshing drink.

"No."

Which she promptly refused.

"Thank you."

Things have changed since then.

Quite a bit so.

But she still . . .

". . . Coca Cola?'

"No."

. . . doesn't partake.

"But can I have a sip of yours?"

Not entirely.

"Sure."

And Ray happily hands it over.

"Thank you."

Feels their fingers brush.

Watches her raise the glass bottle.

Watches her beautiful lips touch the mouth, take the tiniest sip,

Her lovely neck swallow.

And as she hands it back, he realizes he's been . . .

"Sorry. I didn't mean to."

. . . staring.

And she smiles.

"It's alright."

Red-lipped mouth curling up so prettily.

"I don't mind if you stare."

And then, as if to prove her point, Livy, smile turning mischievous, takes the bottle from his hand again.

Repeat the entire process.

And then . . .

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

. . . hands the bottle back to him.

And . . .

"It's delicious. You should have some."

"Okay."

. . . Ray takes a drink.

Watches her watch him.

Vaguely aware his lips are touching what her lips touched.

Vaguely aware it's causing him to . . . feel . . . things . . .

"Ray?"

"Mmm?"

"Put the cola down. And come here."

Okay.

"I love you, Ray."

And things have definitely changed . . .

"I love you, Livy."

. . . over the past year.

Chapter Text

He's pulling up his suspenders when she appears in the doorway of the bedroom he's been happy to share these last several months.

He looks up and he sees her in the morning light.

And her beautiful face is strained, lovely brown eyes blank and distant.

He pauses in his preparations.

"Li-"

"My sister just called. Our father died last night."

She doesn't scream it, she doesn't wail it.

She doesn't shout, she doesn't whisper.

She simply states the fact.

With words that drop like buckshot to the cleanly swept pinewood floor.

And Ray's suspender-hanging hands lower slowly to his side.

"I have to go back to Denver for the funeral."

And it is then he manages to move to her.

And as his hands reach her shoulders to comfort-

"Li-"

-she moves away.

Away and around him.

"I have to leave in the morning to catch the midday train."

Leaving his hands up to the empty air where she was.

"Will you drive me to La Junta tomorrow?"

He nods to her voice behind him, speaking over the rustling and clunking of items.

"I'll be gone a few days. I'll take Danny with me so you can work."

And Ray turns around, sees her opening her suitcase, already beginning to pack for the journey.

And then he goes to the closet himself.

Takes down a suitcase his parents used.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going with you."

And puts it on the bed next to hers.

Livy straightens up, turning fully to him.

"No, you're not."

And Ray mirrors her, bringing them fully face-to-face in this time of stress and emotional fragility into which both of them have been suddenly been flung.

"Yes, I am."

Livy huffs, turning away to resume packing.

"Ray, I don't need you to come with me. I can care of it myself. I know you don't like to leave the farm and I know you have to work."

Ray shakes his head.

"None of that matters. I'm your husband-"

"You're not going to suddenly become one of those men right now, are yo-"

She seems incredulous. And agitated at him uncharacteristically 'putting his foot down on the matter'.

And even now, with the abrupt turn of events and emotions, Ray must smile.

"I didn't finish."

And she inhales a sharp breath.

Standing, seemingly prepared to deal with whatever masculine ta-da Ray has supposedly decided to present.

And he speaks again.

"I know you're fully capable of taking care of yourself and Danny in this situation. And any other."

He takes a breath, lets it out.

"I'm not coming with you because you can't. I'm coming with you because you don't have to. I want to support you during this time. I love you."

And she doesn't react.

Doesn't kiss him, doesn't hug him.

She doesn't smile or cry or nod her head.

She just exhales a grudging breath.

"Alright."

And continues . . .

"I'm going to need to pack some stuff for Danny."

. . . packing.

Ray ring ring rings Martha May.

Tells her what has happened. What will happen.

And what needs to happen around the farm in their absence.

This isn't her first death rodeo.

". . . everything, brother. Don't worry about a thing."

"Thank you, Sis."

"How is Livy?"

"She's . . . managing. That's about all I can say."

"Whatever she needs, you provide. No questions, no nos. Whether or not she shows it or talks about it, what she's going through is worse than you or I experienced with Daddy or Mama. Even . . . Daniel. She's going to need you whether she realizes it or not. You're doing a good thing, brother."

"Thanks, Sis."

And he hangs up.

Pensive.

Picks up the baby.

"Come on, Danny."

And ruminates on what . . .

"Let's change that diaper, huh?"

. . . his sister has said.

He notifies his foreman.

Who will take up the crop slack in his absence.

Hank, who will maintain upkeep of the smaller chores, the animals, check in on the house.

Ray does this as his wife moves methodically about the house, cleaning, cooking, caring for their beloved son.

All in near silence that has been so unlike her in recent months.

Almost as if they have slipped backward in time.

To the Before Time.

And though he does not fully understand it, . . .

I guess even though they didn't get along, she still misses him.

. . . he does not question it.

"Ready?"

"Mmm."

"Baaa!"

It's one hundred eighty-seven miles from the farm to Denver.

Give or take.

Ray refuses to look back as Hank drives them away from the farm, from his home.

As Hank drives them to La Junta.

Ray keeps a quiet smile, a calm disposition, for his wife, their little boy.

He chose to come, insisted upon it.

So he will not be a burden.

He will not be one more thing for her to manage.

They make it to La Junta and its depot.

Where once upon a time, the good Reverend Case met Livy at this same spot.

To take her to her new home.

And her new husband.

Ray had not found the bravery to make the trip then.

He does now.

For her.

For Danny.

And so they board the train with their luggage, their son, . . .

"Thank you again, Hank."

"Of course, Livy. You take care now."

. . . and themselves.

"Ray."

"Hank."

To make the long journey . . .

"You take care of them now, Danny."

"Baaa."

. . . to Denver.

Chapter Text

They pass Rocky Ford, no time for prize-winning cantaloupe today.

Fowler.

Miles and miles and miles of open farmland.

Danny falls asleep to the rhythmic clickety clack of the train.

Ray, a little green around the gills to start, . . .

"Where do we put our luggage?"

"Just up there."

"Okay."

. . . nevertheless is fascinated with the entire process.

And Livy . . .

"Do you need anything?"

"No. I'm fine. Thank you."

. . . remains a rigid, uncommunicative statue in her stylish blue and white traveling clothes, hat.

They pass Nepesta, where the Missouri Pacific Railroad crosses the Santa Fe.

They eat sandwiches in silence as the miles pass.

They're heading west, farther than Ray's ever dreamed about going, never wished to go.

And where, months before, Livy desperately dreamed of returning.

But the set frown of her lovely mouth, downcast of her beautiful brown eyes.

And the way she clasps her gloved hands anxiously together betray her discontent at returning.

At least for such a visit as this.

They change trains at Pueblo, Ray, instantly overwhelmed by larger and more unfamiliar surroundings than La Junta, following his wife.

As she carries their still sleeping baby.

And he carries the luggage.

This train they board carries them all the way to Union Station and the sprawling urban of Denver.

Where Ray Singleton . . .

I'll be.

. . . is stunned beyond all belief.

And follows his wife and their now wakeful child . . .

"We can take a streetcar to my father's house."

. . . where they lead him.

Union Station is too large and overwhelming to comprehend.

A towering structure with shining glass windows.

It echoes when he walks, the people's voices echo around him.

Ray feels he could get lost in it and never find his way out.

But on the outside, he's even more inundated with what is so unknown, so alien.

The day is dazzling and he seems to be out of breath as he follows behind his wife, who seems to traverse all this with ease and familiarity.

If not joy or enthusiasm.

She leads them to one streetcar among several, each following a different line, heading off in a different direction.

And it's both horrifying and exhilarating.

Open on all sides, loud bell ringing.

Ray's afraid the baby's going to fall out.

Afraid he's going to fall out.

As slow as the streetcar is moving, it would still hurt.

And be embarrassing.

There are buildings everywhere.

People everywhere.

Everything everywhere.

It smells different here, like exhaust and city, nothing green.

He still can't quite catch his breath.

And Raymond Singleton . . .

How does she manage all this?

. . . has never understood what his wife went through, coming to their quiet little farm, more.

How did she manage me?

Or less.

In his life.

Their transportation trundles past a towering tile and stucco church with a huge wooden door and stained glass windows.

Ray reads the sign, St. Thomas Episcopal Church. And wonders what the word episcopal means.

The Park Hill Branch Library.

Which absolutely dwarfs La Junta's humble bochard.

Ray can imagine Livy must have spent long hours in contentment, reading about ancient civilizations and adventurous explorers.

Dreaming of her own splendid future just on the horizon.

That she never reached.

They pass the Colorado Women's College, a massive, sprawling structure.

The Holly Street Junior High, its dominating Tudor style the grandeur of which assures Raymond Singleton could never imagine daring to step foot inside.

The Fox Residence, a Mediterranean revival structure, an actual home, though Ray is not aware of it at the moment.

He takes in everything and nothing as the sights and smells and sounds bombard the humble beet farmer from Otero County . . .

"How far is it?"

"Six miles from the station. We should be there in about twenty or thirty minutes."

"Okay."

. . . on all sides.

Livy pulls the cord running above their heads.

A bell sounds and the streetcar slows to a stop.

Ray follows her lead and grabs the suitcases as she hefts Danny.

She holds the handrail as she steps down and then they're on the street on the final leg of their journey.

She doesn't speak, only glances to see Ray is with her.

And then sets off down the street.

With the now fussy Danny . . .

"My father's house is this way."

. . . in tow.

She lived here?

It's a three story brick structure, presumably with the third floor being an attic.

One house among many.

On a flat street with a short cobblestone driveway.

Tutor, as so many structures in this area seem to be.

Not that Ray would know the word or the architecture that makes it so.

All he can see is a steep roof, wooden beams set against the brick, and narrow windows.

There's no porch, only steps leading up to the deepset front door.

Which has a curved top and is constructed of dark wood.

The yard is small and Ray instantly feels constricted by the closeness of the houses here, how can anyone breathe or stretch out with so many people looking over their shoulders all the time?

Potted plants are set about and they follow the brick walkway up from the street up to the door.

Ray's wife turns to him without speaking, hands over the boy.

And kneels down, lifting the edge of a heavy-looking tan pot.

Revealing a small, shiny key.

Which she uses to unlock and open the door.

Before wordlessly turning back to reclaim their son.

While Ray picks up their luggage.

And they step inside.

It's dark inside and Ray's slightly discombobulated as he follows his wife into her childhood home.

He sets down the suitcases and gingerly closes the door to the metallic sound of her setting down the key on a nearby foyer tabletop placed there for just such a purpose.

And turns on the light.

The wood paneling is dark, and there's two different kinds.

One that stops halfway up the wall, that Ray does not know is called wainscoting.

And another that continues on from there up to the high ceiling.

To the left is a parlor, curtains drawn.

To the right, a closed door.

That for some reason he wants to remain closed.

"The bedrooms are upstairs. We can put the luggage in there for now. Second door on the left."

Ray takes this direction for what it is.

"I'll be in the kitchen with Danny."

"Alright."

And tremulously ascends the sweeping staircase with its curling iron railings, luggage in hand.

Oh boy.

I sure hope I don't fall down.

He finds the room as she has said.

Deduces it must have been the one she and her sister shared.

Though personal artifacts are nowhere to be seen.

There's a double bed covered with a white chenille blanket.

A chest of drawers.

A desk and chair.

And a lace curtain at the window.

He backs out as quickly he can, doesn't dare peek in the other rooms, although the bathroom calls him.

He can't imagine actually relieving himself in this house.

Or doing anything daring.

Like breathing.

Or sitting on the furniture.

I thought I was uncomfortable waiting in Reverend Case's parlor.

He descends the staircase and doesn't fall.

And follows the hallway to the back of the house.

"Hi."

"Hi."

And . . .

"All set down."

"Okay."

. . . the kitchen.

Everything in here is more modern than at home.

With all of the same kitchen accoutrements.

Any Denver omelets in here?

Or Coca Colas?

Livy is drinking a glass of water from the tap.

Danny is chewing on a cracker.

Crumbs spilling down the front of his shirt.

I'm not entirely sure crumbs are allowed in this place.

And he wants to go home.

He wants to go home badly.

But his wife is here. His son is here.

And they need him . . .

"Are you alright?"

. . . here.

"Yes."

And he doesn't want to ask.

It seems rude to ask.

But it's what they came here for.

And so . . .

"Where is your father?"

. . . it's what he feels he must do.

Livy looks at him.

In Wilson, in Otero County, at home, there would be a wake.

At home.

The deceased in the front room.

Flowers, arrangements.

Smells to cover the odor of the recently deceased.

People would come and go.

Sit quietly. Talk quietly.

Share memories. Offer support.

Children stuffed into suits and ties, hair plastered down with Brycreem and tightly braided tails.

High and sincere threats made against misbehavior, of any kind.

Covered dishes would be brought, partaken of.

Wrapped and stored for the family for days to come.

This would go on.

For a day or two.

Not too long.

The dead don't keep well.

The casket would be then taken by chosen men to the cemetery in the back of someone's truck, to the family plot.

A minister officiating the service.

Casket lowered, perhaps sung to, ministered to.

And then-

"They've taken him to Olinger Funeral Home for the . . . preparation and viewing."

"Oh."

"I'll call my sister and we'll see when we're supposed to go."

"Okay."

Chapter Text

He does eventually use the facilities.

Right before there's a much more embarrassing situation to attend to.

The bathroom is upstairs and makes their bathroom at home look like an outhouse in comparison.

The floor is green patterned tile, so fancy Ray doesn't feel comfortable putting his shoes on it.

It matches the green tile of the walls and Ray is mystified that there would be tiles on the wall in the first place.

The commode and tub with shower attachment are all in order.

The pedestal sink has a curved mirror above it.

And Ray doesn't know what to do with himself.

Monogrammed towels shouldn't really be used to dry his hands, should they?

And the lightbulb is brighter than the one at home.

He has to bite down on the apology his brain has ready that he even used the room in the first place.

I can't go outside.

Neighbors are everywhere.

Refreshed as Ray supposes they're going to be, they leave the house once more, Livy having successfully contacted her sister regarding their father's whereabouts.

Without suitcases, Livy, now changed into a black mourning dress with handbag tucked under arm, and the freshly changed Danny bouncing along with his father.

They retrace their steps to the streetcar stop.

Board it.

"Did we pass it on the way here?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

And head back the way they came.

Until Livy . . .

"Here please."

. . . pulls the cord to signal a stop.

And he doesn't know how on earth he missed it.

Two stories tall, a large rectangular building, he sure doesn't know where he would go in or go out of.

Or if he could ever find his way out of.

But despite the anxiety squeezing his chest, Ray Singleton, baby boy in his arms, steps down from the trolley.

And follows his wife.

Her sister is there.

In the parlor.

". . . -member Abby . . ."

Her aunts.

". . . I introduce my husband, Ray Singleton . . ."

And, he can only guess . . .

". . . Maris and Tripp . . ."

. . . parishioners of her father's church.

"So, you're the farmer."

The ones who didn't help her.

"Yes. Pleasure to meet yo-"

The ones who allowed her to be sent away.

"And who is this young man?"

And never inquired as to why.

"Oh, this is our son, Daniel. Daniel, can you say h-"

"Well, that's interesting."

Or sent their wellwishes or carings.

"She disappeared from sight a year ago. How old did you say the child is?"

"Oh, well, um . . ."

They're all dressed like her.

Or even nicer.

And Ray in the brown suit he married his wife in feels like a dusty house wren amongst freshly flounced peacocks.

He feels it. He knows it.

And they do too.

The 'slumber room' as they call it, is quiet and still.

Entered only after the attendees sign a book, Rememberances, and date their arrivals.

Ray sees Livy sign for them both, hand pause before the writing of 'Singleton' and he wonders what she may be thinking.

But he's got his hands full with keeping Danny entertained and Martha told him not be another burden.

So he stays close, he stays attentive, and he stays . . .

"I've never seen a man take care of a baby."

. . . quiet . . .

"Oh yes, ma'am. Anything Livy needs."

"Mmm."

. . . as he can be.

The room is plain.

A few flowers stands set about.

Folding chair seating. With cushions.

Livy's father, laid out in the standard way, Ray supposes.

Hands folded on his stomach.

Face pulled down in a almost life like frown.

"-hair just right, don't you think, Livy? That part could've been cut with a straight razor-"

Ray thinks he looks terrifying.

And not just because he's dead.

He thinks this might be the way the man always looked in life.

"Abby-"

But of course, he can't be sure.

After viewing the deceased, Ray's taken a quiet seat with Danny in the second row.

Close to Livy.

But at a respectful distance to her job.

Livy who stays near the casket, greeting mourners, reassuring and taking the platitudes of reassurance.

Her who sister comes and goes, mingles and talks, wipes her eyes, laughs, pats hands.

Ray notices the responsibility seems to fall to Livy more than Abby.

Yet Abby takes more of the attention.

People come and speak to Ray, offer secondary condolences.

Mostly they just pretend not to stare.

Ray doesn't attend. He knows what he looks like.

He knows who he is.

Why he is there.

And why he is not there.

He's brought his father's pocketwatch, keeps Danny entertained with it as much as possible.

And when the viewing is over for the day . . .

"My sister wants to take us out to eat. I said yes."

. . . they are whirled off somewhere else.

"Alright."

In Livy's sister's . . .

Holy cow.

I saw it before.

Am I allowed to sit in this?

. . . brand new car.

She takes them to the Tiffin.

"Architects of Appetites", it's called.

". . . one of Livy and mine's favorite eateries . . ."

"It's okay, we can just eat something at Father's hou-"

"No, it'll be my treat. If you don't have the money."

The last sentence is directed toward Ray, of that, there is no doubt.

And he decides to focus . . .

"Whatever Livy wants."

. . . on the baby instead.

"That's fine. Whatever. Really."

". . . fruit cocktail to start. Followed by the Double Cut Prime Sirloin Steak with Button Mushrooms. Cottage cheese and apple sauce on side. Tiffin Blend Coffee to drink. And for dessert . . . hmmm, Livy, what do you think? The Roquefort Cheese or the Chocolate Mint Parfait? You know what? I'll have both."

As Ray Singleton's eyes are in danger of popping from his head at the price of Livy's sister's lavish lunch order . . .

$4.50 just for the steak?!

. . . Abby is turning her attention toward her older sister.

Doting smile on her red-lipped face.

"What about you, sister? Anything you want! My treat. I know you must miss the food here. I can't imagine they have Roquefort cheese on that farm."

Ray takes another barb without mention while Livy stammers over her order.

"Oh, uh, I'm not very hungry, uh, just the green salad bowl for me. And, uh, tea."

"And the Angelfood Cake Ice Cream! It's her favorite!"

"Abby-"

"We used to come here just for the dessert, didn't we, Livy? Father never let us have them at home."

This is whispered conspiratorially across the table to Ray.

Which Ray does not respond.

"And for you, sir?"

For he is suddenly in a brand new experience of his life.

Ordering food in a restaurant.

With other people and tables and talking and-

Not his home.

Not his sister's.

Not even the church's gathering hall.

"Oh, uh . . ."

He squints at the menu, and all of the options, trying to find the least expensive thing he will only be able to pick at.

"Braised AA Beef Tenderloin Tips en Casserole."

He reads it slowly, he's already uncomfortable enough, he doesn't want to embarrass himself, or Livy, any further.

"And your sides?"

"Pardon?"

"Sides, sir. Just here."

"Oh. Uh . . . french fried potatoes. And . . . home baked beans."

"To drink?"

"Oh. Uh. Milk."

"Very good, sir. Anything for dessert?"

"Oh. Uh. No. Thank you."

And then the tall, immaculately dressed waiter with his nose high in the air Ray wonders if he'll drown in case of a sudden deluge . . .

"Very well."

. . . leaves them in relative . . .

"So, Livy! Did I tell you about Marge Canwell?"

"Oh. Uh, no."

"Baa!"

. . . peace and quiet.

Ray watches Livy pick over her plate, select the tiniest bites of food to put in her mouth.

He worries about the stress all this is putting on her.

And the new baby.

But he doesn't dare mention it. It's up to her to tell her sister.

And since her sister hasn't thrown a low-country-baby-barb at him yet, he figures she hasn't told.

So he leaves it alone.

Ray himself is fully convinced the food is delicious, better than he's ever had before.

And completely inedible, the acid in his stomach threatening to make a scene over the smallest bites that he puts into it.

He feeds Danny small morsels of bread, meat, potato.

Trying to keep the child content as possible.

Livy wipes the boy's mouth, tries to keep his hands out of the water glass.

Abby, on the other hand, seems carefree as can be.

Chattering away about her deployed army doctor of a husband Kent, the maid who never gets her doilies just right, and everything else under the sun.

"- believe it, I told her, just you watch, it'll be the talk of the town within the day . . ."

Whilst managing only three bites of each component of her meal . . .

". . . eat another bite, I'm absolutely stuffed."

. . . before summoning the waiter to take her plates away . . .

Who's going to eat it now? That could feed another person.

Maybe two.

. . . from the table.

By the time Danny's starting to get a little fussy . . .

". . . apologies, what was I thinking, a restaurant is no place for an infant . . ."

. . . Abby's graciously paid the check.

". . . insist, it's the least I can do after your long trip here . . ."

They're all back in the car.

". . . if you want. Or we could drive around like we used to . . ."

". . . I'm sorry, Abby, the baby . . ."

"Oh, right. Of course."

And she takes them back to . . .

". . . Father's house. Forgive me, but I'm just not ready to step foot back in there. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes. Of course."

"I could put you up in a hotel, if you want. My house isn't really outfitted for babies at the moment-"

"No, it's okay. Really."

"Alright. I'll pick you up tomorrow for the funeral."

"Alright."

And Ray's almost relieved to go into the house.

"Shall we?"

"Yes."

Almost.

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry about Abby. She usually doesn't act like that. I think she was just trying to prove a point today."

I can't imagine what that might be.

"It's okay. I just want you to be alright."

Danny is sleeping on the bed in Livy's old room, surrounded by a protective arrangement of pillows.

His mother and father are standing at the foot, still dressed in their day clothes.

Ray watches his strained wife shake her head.

"I don't think I am. But it's not you. It's just . . ."

She doesn't finish her thought.

Ray wants to take her in his arms; comfort her. Isn't sure if she'd invite his embrace just yet.

She appears very much the way she used to.

Distant.

Withdrawn.

"My sister and I used to snuggle under the blankets on cold nights."

As shes stares at the sleeping child on the bed.

Perhaps a bit more talkative.

"Tunnel down and whisper until we fell asleep."

But slow.

Halting.

"When we were older, we played rummy."

As if it is so very difficult to say the words she speaks.

"My father didn't approve of card games. Thought they were gambling."

She walks out the door then and he follows.

She closes it until there is only a crack.

And stands with one hand on her head.

"I don't . . . I can't . . ."

And then she walks away from him.

Drifting, almost.

To the room with the door ajar.

She does not go in.

Ray follows, stands within reach, close.

But not too close.

He can see in, peek in the dim light.

It is an office.

Bookshelves with books.

Chair.

Neatly stacked paper topped with a precisely placed pen on the desktop.

It is . . .

"My mother could sing beautifully. She couldn't play the piano like so many minister's wives. But she could sing. My father would put my sister and me on his feet to practice dancing. And he would smile."

. . . her father, the minister's . . .

"Did you know he didn't even take me to the train station himself when I came to you?"

. . . office.

"He said goodbye to me from behind that desk. No hug, no handshake, no smile, no well wishes."

She's speaking so quietly.

"He said to me, 'You may think this is a mean supper. But you chose it.'"

So quietly it's almost hard to hear.

"Then he stood so I would know I had been dismissed."

But Ray Singleton is a good listener.

"I left the room and went down the stairs."

And he loves his wife.

"My sister was waiting for me in the nice, new car her nice, new doctor husband bought for her before being drafted."

So he lets her talk.

"I looked up and saw my father staring down at me from the second floor window. This big, towering, dark figure frowning down at me."

"Like God. And I had sinned. And was being cast out."

She sighs, eyes downcast. Pretty mouth a frown.

"My father preached morality to others all his life. Stood himself and us up as righteousness to be respected, admired. It was unthinkable to him to ever have borne the shame of having daughter who had gotten herself in trouble."

"My sister drove me to the train station. Said goodbye. Gave me a pair of earrings. And that was it."

"I came to Wilson. To you."

Ray cannot fathom treating anyone, much less his own flesh and blood, in such a manner.

He is speechless.

Your father . . .

And Livy . . .

Your father was a bad man.

. . . turns away.

And Ray . . .

He didn't deserve you for a daughter.

. . . follows.

She stops again at the bottom of the stairs.

Thumbs the stack of untouched mail almost thoughtfully.

"By the end of 1942, we were attending war bond rallies, learning what to do in air raids. My mother sewed blackout curtains, we rationed gasoline, well, my sister didn't when she got married."

She seems to almost laugh, seems to not expend the energy to.

"We saved toothpaste tubes, tin cans, fat."

Ghosts a hand over the unmarred glass of the entryway mirror.

"Father was displeased when he had to turn over his good tires and drive around on bald ones."

Leaves no prints.

"Did you know sometimes he purchased black market gasoline so he could travel around the city as he wished?"

She makes a quiet sound in her throat that on a better day might sound like the beginnings of a mirthless laugh.

"I never told anyone that."

And wraps her arms around her middle. Doesn't look at Ray.

"He could talk about piety and humility all he wanted from the pulpit."

"But he wouldn't be caught dead riding a streetcar."

She walks away then with her head down, heels clacking on the hardwood floor.

Ray follows.

She draws herself a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen.

Holds it.

Doesn't drink.

Instead, looks around the room.

As if never seeing it before this moment.

"When my sister and I were little, we used to sit on the counter and watch Mama bake. By the time we were older, she had hired a cook and housekeeper so she could focus on charity work. It wasn't fun to watch the cook like it was Mama. So I didn't watch her."

Ray can't think of anything to say.

"I guess that's why I never cared to learned. It wasn't from Mama."

Livy has drifted out the backdoor.

Ray has followed.

Even in the dim light, it's obvious it used to be a flower garden.

The flowers are gone.

"My mother loved to work in the garden, feel the dirt between her fingers. She knew all of the names of the flowers. But she especially liked the ones with odd names. Lady Slippers, Monkeyflowers. Snapdragons. Johnny Jump-ups."

When she talks, it's in quiet murmurs.

"She taught us how to prepare the soil, plant bulbs. It was one of the few times we were allowed to get dirty."

And Ray lets her without interruption.

"She sang to us too, told us fairy tales, myths."

"She even made up her own stories."

"My father didn't approve of fiction."

"She wanted to be a novelist when she was a girl. But then she got married to my father instead."

"I asked her once if she regretted her decision."

"She said, 'Who better to tell my stories to than you girls?'"

Livy almost smiles then.

And Ray's heart breaks for her, for what she has lost.

When she had so little.

So little Real.

Then she continues speaking.

"My mother's cancer had already eaten her alive by the time the doctors discovered it. She was practically a skeleton when she died."

"I dropped out of school right after the new year. Stayed home. Moved her into that spare room next to the foyer. The door that's closed."

"The cook kept food for us. The maid cleaned the house."

"But I was the one who cleaned her up when she was dirty, bathed her."

"I learned to inject the morphine to make her pain go away."

"My father was gone. All the time. Busy caring for others instead of his own wife."

"My mother would ask for him sometimes when she was lucid. I would have to tell her he was gone. And she would be so sad."

"Abby came during the day sometimes, held Mama's hand, talked to her."

"She took over her charity work. That made Mama happy."

"But I was the one who would feed her, clean her. My father was gone."

"On one of her last days, it wasn't too cold and the sun was shining. She asked me to take her outside into the garden where she could feel sunshine."

"I took her to the garden like she asked, half carrying her, half helping her walk. I sat her on a cushion among her flowers."

"I stayed with her and held her."

"I was afraid, so scared she was about to die."

"But she didn't. She didn't die. Not that day."

They can see the mountains from her father's house.

Tall and imposing in the near distance, they rise above everything else.

They loom.

As if they are watching them.

"When I was young, we would drive into the Rockies and go skiing after the first winter storm."

"We'd be all alone because most of the tourists had packed up and gone by that point."

"My father could ski better than any of us and I was the only one who could almost catch up with him."

"He'd shout out, 'Bravo, girl!' and I would feel happy that he was so proud of me."

She's laid herself down next to their baby.

Their baby that is still sound asleep on his back, round, innocent face peaceful in sleep.

Ray lays down on the other side, facing her, facing them.

And Livy . . .

"When I found out I was . . . pregnant the first time, I didn't tell anyone for two weeks."

. . . eventually begins speaking once more.

"I was just . . . hoping it wasn't true. Or that something would happen. That I would lose it."

Whilst gently caressing her cooing son's head.

"Then I finally told my sister. In confidence. And she . . . she told our father."

Curling his sparse hair between her fingers.

"Her intentions were good, I think. She thought he would come up with a plan to take care of me."

Tracing the lines of his skin.

"He was never much of a talker. His daughters were his but as girls, we belonged to our mother. After we starting growing up, he always relied on her to talk to us about things."

Concentrating her gaze on him, only on him.

"He didn't speak to me for two weeks after Abby told him. Wouldn't even look at me. It was so quiet in the house."

Ray doesn't know exactly why she can't, or won't, look at him.

"And then one day he called my sister over and the three of us sat in his study."

He can guess why.

"Him on one side, us on the other."

But that's not his job right now.

"That big, massive desk between us."

His job is to listen.

"And he told us about Reverend Case."

Listen to this quiet outpouring that has begun.

"And you."

Begun.

"My sister cried and tried to talk him out of it."

And, quite possibly, . . .

"Go to a home for unwed mothers, give the baby up for adoption."

. . . might never end.

"Say I had gone to care for some unwell, distant relative for a time and then come back when it was all over."

She has waited so long to tell it.

"My father refused."

And there is so very, very much to tell.

"'We must all bear the consequences of our actions,' he said."

And all of it so very sad.

"And that was it."

"He ignored my sister's begging, he ignored her tears."

"He ignored me as best he could."

"He cleaned his glasses even though they weren't dirty. Just so he wouldn't have to look at me."

"And I never tried. Never tried to fight back, to defend myself. I never asked for forgiveness. Mercy."

"I suppose I understood, better than my sister, that there was no mercy."

"If I had done something we could hide, I might have been forgiven."

"Family dignity was always one of our family's primary concerns."

"It was all said and done before he even told us."

"And then he was done with it. Done with us. Done with me."

"My sister went back home to her doctor husband and I . . ."

"I got on the train the next week."

She stops talking for a long time then and Ray wonders if the time has come for him to say something, do something.

And then she speaks again.

Her final words of the night.

"At christening ceremonies, my father always said a healthy child is an incredible gift from God."

"I guess he didn't mean all of them."

She eventually slips into sleep.

Restless and fitful.

Ray lays still and watches her.

Until his eyes droop and he also falls asleep.

When Danny wakes up a few hours later, whimpering and hungry, in need of a change, Livy takes him out of the room.

Insists Ray stay and rest.

Instead, he lays staring at the ceiling.

Understanding now how living alone on a farm could be less lonely than living in a house close to so many people so close.

And so far away at all.

Chapter Text

The First Baptist Church.

Six miles from Livy's father's house.

Thirty minute drive in Abby's car.

". . . as ever, isn't it, Livy?"

"Yes, I guess so."

And his head seems to swirl.

A large two story red brick building, with a white and gray towering ten foot spire topped with what he can barely make out is a tiny cross.

Ray does not know it was built in 1921, that it extends all the way back to the end of the property.

That it was built in the style of late nineteenth and early twentieth century Colonial Revival.

That the giant columns in its portico were constructed from granite, mined and transported from fifty miles away.

That at the time they were built, they were the largest polished granite columns in the city of Denver.

And topped with a regal stone pediment.

He does not know that Livy's father was part of the planning, the construction, and very founding of this church, his church.

God's church.

He does not know that when she was five, little Miss Livy Dunne fell down the steps they are now approaching and scraped up her knees, tearing her brand new dress.

And embarrassing her father in the process.

Ray does not know that in less than twenty years, the great Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr will preach equality, non-violence, and the positive affects of these on American democracy from its pulpit.

An unspeakable occurrence in 1945.

But revered and honored in April 1962 and beyond.

He does not know many things about this place or those that patron it.

He only knows his wife, his beautiful Livy, tightens, stiffens even more than she has, as they ascend the steps to the main entryway.

He knows that she carries their son, clings to him like a drowning person clings to anything that can save them in their moment of need.

Or a shield.

He knows she holds her head up high, her back straight, that her face and hair under her hat are flawless, impeccable.

And he knows he walks behind her, trying to hold her up with his love and his devotion.

Even as he stares in awe at the surroundings he finds himself in.

At home, the single story Wilson church is white and there is a spire.

Even stained glass windows which Ray has always enjoyed and been intrigued by.

Wooden pews, ten of them, enough for a hundred people packed elbow-to-elbow if need be, he supposes.

It's comfortable, it's cozy.

It's home.

But here, oh, the chapel itself is massive and cavernous, impossibly tall ceiling stretching out overhead.

Cream colored walls and tall, narrow windows.

More granite columns, smaller ones, lined along the ends of the pews.

If he sat near one, he would worry it would fall on him.

Black curtain enclose something behind the pulpit.

The front of which is laid the casket.

Flowers.

Wreaths.

And hundreds of mourners easily taking up the space about.

And he wonders how many of them know . . .

How many of them?

How many?

. . . Livy's father was not the man . . .

How many of them would have done the same thing to her?

. . . they might have thought him to be.

And he decides he might perhaps not want an answer to that question.

As before, Ray notices, he hears, that those speaking with Livy speak very little of her father.

Who was esteemed.

More so of her mother.

Who was loved.

They seem to speak perfunctorily of Reverend Dunne.

But they share stories of Livy's mother, Margaret.

They wipe their eyes when they speak of her, take Livy's hands in their own.

And that, Ray thinks, is significant.

Some of the service is familiar to Ray.

". . . the life of Reverend John William Dunne, a pastor of this church . . ."

As he sits and holds the thankfully docile Danny.

". . . -ing father to Olivia and Abigail . . ."

". . . husband to Margaret Anne Walter . . ."

And listens to what the speaker, a nondescript man Ray has forgotten the name of, is saying.

". . . in Ecclesiastes chapter three, 'To everything there is a season . . ."

I know this one.

". . . every purpose under heaven . . ."

Reverend Case likes this one.

". . . time to be born, and a time to die . . ."

". . . to plant and a time to pluck what is planted . . ."

". . . time to kill and a time to heal . . ."

He doesn't seem to like the first part of that one.

"I believe our good Reverend Dunne did not know it was his time to die."

If he had, he might have contacted his daughter and his grandson first.

"He had been writing out his Sunday sermon at his desk in his home at office. It was about righteousness. Piety. Commitment to God's Path."

Maybe not.

"He went downstairs to pour a cup of coffee. And Jesus called him home."

"Some of our parishioners, friends, and family, might have known that Reverend Dunne was fond of reminding us not to love too much in this world. That to love too much in this world is to divide oneself from God."

What?

"And though that can feel a mean supper at times . . ."

That sounds familiar.

". . . it's end is Heavenly Reward."

"We must believe that Reverend John William Dunne has gone on to his Heavenly Reward as promised."

"And we must rejoice and be glad one day, to join him."

"Let us pray."

If you say so.

And after that prayer, with thees and thous and an ending Amen, a cadence even the county bumpkin, uneducated Ray finds comforting in its familiarity, it is then that he receives a shock he is not expecting.

"At the request of the family, we will stand now and attend the removal of the casket from our hallowed sanctuary."

Ray prepares to stand, heft their baby boy, organ music playing a slow dirge.

"And we shall let it be taken onward to its final resting place in Fairmount."

And then, starting with the family, file out quietly.

Until they reach the cars and-

"While we conclude our attendances to one another here."

We're . . .

". . . and disjoin for the evening."

We're not going to the graveside?

He glances over at Livy, sees her eyes are down, uncommunicative with him.

Looks further over.

And sees her sister Abby.

Blotting her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.

Well, . . .

And discreetly . . .

. . . I'll be damned.

. . . checking her watch.

After a few more well-wishes and reassurances, hugs and cheek kisses, after Abby has already gone, claiming further seeing-tos to see to, Ray and Livy and an increasingly cranky Danny . . .

". . . to say so but he just doesn't resemble his father, Livy."

"I always say a boy should resemble his father, makes for a good family connection-"

"Yes, Aunt Pearl, I have heard you say that-"

. . . are left to fend . . .

"-otherwise, it just leaves them feeling as if they don't really fit in-"

"I think he'll fit just fine-"

"Tell me, are there many fair-haired children in your family, Ray?"

"A few."

. . . for themselves.

"Tell me, is it common for children to attend funerals where you're from? Do you not have family members back home willing to care for the child? Is he problematic?"

"No. Not at all. We just didn't want to leave him."

"We wanted him with us."

"Ah. I see."

After that, they go home.

To Livy's home.

To Livy's father's home.

They take the streetcar.

". . . ride?"

And they . . .

"She said she had some things to attend to. I told her we could take the streetcar."

"Alright."

. . . go home.

Chapter Text

Danny is falling asleep as Livy is trying to feed him.

Bits of leftover biscuit falling from his open mouth.

As his eyes slip closed, snap halfway open, droop again.

Ray, tie thankfully loosened, finally picks him up, nearly bald head lolling on his shoulder.

"I think we're done feeding the floor for now."

And Livy, beautiful Livy doesn't smile.

"Are you alright?"

Doesn't answer.

She's standing as she has stood so often this trip when not holding Danny.

Arms wrapped about her, head tilted down, eyes staring into the distance.

And Ray dares to ask.

"Do you . . . do you usually go to the graveside? After the . . . service?"

Livy's shrug is somewhat carefully non-committal.

"Some do."

He chews on this for a moment.

"Did you . . . for your mother?"

Livy takes a breath, lets it out.

"No. My father said it wasn't proper. Said she would want us to say our final goodbyes to her at the church."

And Ray is . . .

I'll be double damned.

What is wrong with this family?

. . . further stunned.

And he stands there.

Staring at his wife.

At beautiful, kind Livy.

He remembers she didn't like him saying it might be God's Will that she come to Wilson, to him.

At a time when things weren't going according her will, yes, he understands that now, how it was an accidental insult to her.

But he believes it more than ever.

Because without her coming to him . . .

"I don't . . . I . . . probably shouldn't say . . ."

Ray pauses, wondering if he is going to break the cardinal rule Martha May, so far away, has set for him on this trip.

Not to add to the worries of his wife.

But he decides he must speak.

"I don't agree with the minister at the funeral today."

Livy still doesn't speak, doesn't move. Only her eyes, to him.

"He said we weren't supposed to love too much. That your father said that."

Listening.

"I don't think that's right."

Ray feels anxious he's upsetting her.

"I think that's exactly what we're put here on this Earth to do."

But he feels what she has been taught is more upsetting than what he has to say.

"With all our hearts."

And he wants her to hear it.

"To love and accept and care for each other."

And Livy . . .

"Without reservation."

. . . doesn't speak.

Not then.

"That's why I am the way I am, you know."

He doesn't know she's going to speak.

But that's the way it's been for them here.

For her.

Maybe she doesn't know she can.

Until she does.

"Mama always wanted me to follow my dreams. Even if they didn't include a husband and family."

"And I think a part of her still hoped I would find a man to love me. Just as I was. Body and mind."

And she opens the closed door they both have been avoiding.

The one near the entrance door.

The one her mother died in.

And walks inside.

Ray, after the slightest of hesitations, follows.

It is a small room.

Probably better suited to an office.

But of course, Livy's father had taken the one on the second floor for himself.

And so, when the time came, this became hers.

Small.

No more than ten feet by ten feet.

A small window.

Hung with lace curtains.

There is a bed, narrow.

And now covered with a white sheet.

A chair set near the bed.

Livy must have sat here, hour after hour.

Holding her mother's thin, frail hand.

Talking to her. Watching her breathe.

There is a wooden dresser, top cleaned off.

Medicines must have stood upon it.

A bowl maybe, a cloth.

For washing the sick sweat from her brow.

The closet door stands ajar.

It is empty.

Ray feels very sad standing this room with his wife.

Very sad.

And very lonely.

And then, his wife whom he loves, begins to speak.

Another part of the story, a part of her tale, a part of her puzzle.

"My mother died in this room. On a Thursday afternoon. She was asleep. I had given her a pretty good dose of morphine to stop the pain."

"She was sleeping. And I was watching her breathe."

"And then she just . . . stopped."

"I waited. A long time, it felt like. For her to take another breath."

"She didn't."

"And so . . . I got up. I went to the phone. I put in a call for my sister, my father. The funeral home."

"The funeral home got to the house first."

She's got her arms wrapped around her middle again.

Ray wants to hold her so badly.

"We had a wake, just like with Father, a funeral. I picked out a dress. My sister picked out a different one and told the funeral home to put it on her."

"And then, when it was all over, my father disappeared into his church work again. My sister went home to her husband and our mother's charity work."

"She said I could stay with them. But they had only been married a few months. It didn't seem right."

"So I came back here."

"I spent weeks laying in bed, hardly getting up except to eat or drink, use the facilities."

"I told myself I was resting from taking care of Mama."

"I know now I was grieving. Depressed. Lost."

"My sister would call and I wouldn't answer the phone."

"I didn't brush my hair. Bathe."

"I was so alone. I went for days and days at a time without hearing another human voice."

"My father rarely checked on me. Sent the maid, here and there, the cook."

"My sister."

"She finally convinced me to come with her to a USO show."

"That's where I met Edward."

Ray refuses to tense. He knows she needs to speak.

And as he loves her, he must listen.

"He was tall, had suntan from high altitude flying. Bright blue eyes and a handsome smile."

"He was charming and confident. But not cocky."

"It was the first time I'd smiled or laughed since before Mama died."

"He talked with me about history, actually seemed interested in my thoughts."

"He said his parents operated a hotel in Estes Park."

"We went to the Museum of Natural History one day, spent hours in there."

"He talked about after the war. Buying property, developing a ski lodge with a restaurant."

"We went dancing."

"When he kissed me for the first time, everything went away."

"Even my mother's cancer and death."

"That night, he ordered orange juice and gin. I'd never had alcohol, Father didn't believe in it, so I ordered the same."

"And afterward, . . ."

She trails off and Ray is glad.

He doesn't want to hear it.

But he will if she has to say it.

Then she picks up the thread.

"It was only one night though I didn't know at the time it would be."

"I thought we would be together forever once he got back, married and everything."

"When I went home, I snuck in as quiet as I could, hoping my father wouldn't catch me."

"But I didn't have to worry. He was asleep in his room and snoring."

"He'd never even thought of me at all."

"I was writing him letters before I even knew of my father's plans for me to marry you."

Another place Ray has not yet seen.

A room with a writing desk, a chair.

Stiff Victorian furniture.

And stiff Victorian pictures.

Livy is standing, just standing.

She doesn't seem to sit in this house.

No one seems to want to sit.

"He never wrote me once."

She huffs bitterly.

"He had told me he wasn't much of a writer. I should have listened."

"He never even bothered to call."

"I spent all that time by the phone, checking the mailbox."

"Never anything, not once."

"I guess I didn't mean that much to him at all."

She turns then.

And looks Ray full in the face.

Her eyes are full of sorrow, of unshed tears.

He wonders if, yet again, they are for the loss of the man who never loved her.

The life she never got to live.

The life she had been trussed with instead.

He wonders how far back they have slid on this trip.

This trip that has reminded her, so strongly, of all that she thought she used to have.

And all she'd lost.

"That's what I meant that night on the farm when I woke up crying and you came to me. I said, 'I gave my life away just to be held by a stranger'."

But, as she continues to talk, he begins to realize.

"I gave myself away to Edward, risked my future, just to be held."

What she is truly mourning. Had been truly mourning.

"He didn't trick me into doing what I did. He didn't trick me into going to the Natural History Museum, into going dancing, into drinking."

"He didn't trick me into . . ."

She pauses and he's grateful again.

"I chose."

She touches a hand briefly to her forehead again, the ring he gave her months after marrying her winking in the dim light.

"A lot of women meet men at USO shows, dances. Have shotgun weddings, days, hours before shipping off to The War."

"I could have asked him to do that. I could have refused him if he had refused me."

"But I didn't want to. I wanted . . . I wanted . . ."

And she seems to want to hide her face from him.

Seems to refuse.

"I wanted to be held. Seen. Heard. Loved."

"So I gave my life away to be held. By someone I didn't even really know. "

"That's what I meant when I said that."

Ray Singleton has seen his wife, heard his wife.

Now he is ready to hold her, just hold her.

As long as she wants him to.

Because he loves her.

And she . . .

"I hear the baby."

. . . deserves that love.

"I'll get him."

Always.

"I want to go home tomorrow."

She says this and it makes him so very very happy.

"I don't want to be here anymore."

And sad for her.

She's playing with the sleeping Danny's hair again.

The peach fuzz that is still is all he has on his head.

"I'll tell my sister we have to get back to the farm. I know she'll have something to say about that."

She pauses.

Then speaks again.

"But I don't care. I love her. But I don't care what she has to say."

Ray feels proud of her.

Sad for her.

But proud of her.

"I just want to go home, Ray. Is that alright?"

He nods.

"Yeah. Of course."

She nods back.

And lays her head down.

And stares at their baby.

And Ray . . .

I love you, Livy.

. . . stares at her.

Chapter Text

And she's standing there before him.

Pretty Livy, so fine, so lovely.

In her blue dress her friends made for her.

With the the little white collar.

And her thick wavy brown he always wanted to run his hands through, smell, frames her face so pretty.

She's wearing the gold earrings she says her sister gave her.

The one who doesn't like Ray, the one who looks like she ate a bad lemon whenever she looks at him.

The rich one from faraway Denver.

". . . bye to the girls."

Where Livy wants to go.

Not go.

Where she is going.

Beautiful pregnant Livy.

Who is finally, finally leaving him.

Who has been wanting to leave since she got here.

He knows.

It has been obvious.

He has done everything he could to give her time to settle, to acclimate.

To learn to enjoy, find peace.

Here.

On their farm, in their home.

The home he grew up, found himself alone in.

Invited his wife into.

It hadn't worked.

And he had tried so hard.

For months and months.

He has done everything he could.

And it has not been . . .

"Okay."

. . . enough.

He has a ring, the one his sister gave him for her, small but maybe she'd like it anyway.

If he could only work up the courage to give it to her, tell her how he really feels but-

"Thank you for letting me borrow the Beet Box."

He doesn't speak.

Only nods.

Because he can't, he's too painfully awkward and shy and who knows what she'd say, think.

And he doesn't want to hear 'no'.

Or her take it out of pity.

So she takes the truck and he let's her.

It's their truck anyway.

That's how he feels about it.

Wants to feel about it.

Everything they have is theirs, he gives it willingly.

But he supposes that's all coming to an end now.

She's going back to Denver.

To give birth in the hospital, rest and recuperate under her sister's care.

Ray doesn't think she'll return.

This isn't her home.

She never allowed it to be.

But he's gone over that time and again so much it makes his head ache and his heart break.

So he tries to put it away.

He tries.

The drive to La Junta is long and quiet.

Livy's not talking, she's never much.

Unless she's disagreeing with him, criticizing.

So he let's the silence stand.

Because he cannot speak what he wishes anyway.

He's fallen in love with her.

Though she's given him no reason to.

He supposes he never really needed one.

He has been a lonely man, accepting of his lot.

But yearning for family all the same.

A wife, children.

Just like he grew up in.

But it hadn't worked out on its own.

Until Reverend Case . . .

". . . God's will . . ."

. . . had come to him with a proposal.

And Ray had invited Olivia Dunne into his home.

And moved around her . . .

". . . Fiesta Omelet . . ."

. . . day after day.

She's beautiful, well mannered, every movement a practice in grace.

Cultured, sophisticated.

Her voice is what some might call smoky alto, alluring.

On the rare occasion she smiles, it lights up her whole face, makes his heart swell.

She naively thinks everyone here has less of a considering mind than she does.

Ray just understands they have different things they think worthy of considering.

But he loves her, though she's never given him any reason to think it might be reciprocated.

Sitting next to him in the truck, smiling, not hunching away, he supposes is not enough to consider reciprocation.

Gazing at him from the stairs.

Sharing a smile here and there, a laugh.

A dance.

Bringing him his hat, cooking his food.

Taking his arm, rubbing his back so comfortingly at Daniel's grave.

None of those things is enough for her.

For him, those moments are everything.

Those, and all ones he dreams of between them.

But not for her.

So Ray drives her to La Junta, carries her bags to the train.

And nods goodbye.

"Ray, I'm . . . I wish . . . I . . ."

"Goodbye, Livy. Travel safe."

And watches . . .

I wish I could have made you happy.

I tried.

. . . her go away from him.

The house is emptier without her.

He can feel her presence gone.

The ox yoke is still on the wall.

The oil lamps sit unlit, the flints forgotten on the mantle.

And Ray goes into . . .

". . . beans, don't you think?"

"Oh. Yeah."

. . . a clear and present state of deep and pervasive malaise.

He trudges stoically through each day, his purpose stalwart, unchanged.

His heart broken and shattered.

She does call, prefunctionarily.

Assures him all is well.

Asks after him, the farm, Martha May's family.

And then with the shallowest of well, I don't want to keep yous, they disconnect.

And Ray considers tearing the phone she asked for directly out of the wall.

Because when he hangs up, he immediately wishes, almost against his will, . . .

I wish I could have made you happy.

Why couldn't I make you happy?

. . . that it will immediately ring ring ring again.

And he will pick it up and it will be her, Livy.

Saying Ray, I made a mistake, I shouldn't have left, I was just scared because I love you and I never meant to.

He would say, All mistakes can be amended, Livy, please come home to me, I love you, we can start fresh, just let me love you and that baby.

And she'll come home and they'll live happily ever after.

And she'll love him and let him love her.

She'll have the baby and it'll be theirs.

And they will be a family.

And they will dance, and she will let him kiss her, she will want him to kiss her.

And he will and he will love her and she will let him make love to her, and she will want him to make love to her.

And he won't know how but he will be gentle and kind and she will teach him what she likes and he will learn.

And they will live and love each other all the days of their long lives and-

But the phones doesn't ring ring ring.

And Ray eventually leaves it and gives up on his hope.

At least he will try.

For days and days.

Weeks.

A month.

Two.

He tries to take comfort in his farm, his work, his church, his sister, her family.

But there is nothing left, it is all grey and lifeless.

And Ray feels he may die.

Or continue to live.

And either is intolerable, untenable.

Until one morning he wakes up and he simply cannot live in a world anymore without telling her how he feels, offering his open, speaking heart.

And the ring.

So he drives the Beet Box to La Junta, hops the train and rides to Denver.

It's a long journey and the city is so huge, he can't imagine finding one person in all of it.

But he asks around, gets directed here and there, gets lost.

And finally knocks on the door of Reverend Dunne's daughter Abby who's husband's name is Kent and a doctor-

He's suddenly terrified a tall, handsome man will answer the door.

And he won't know whether it's a flight instructor from Texas.

Or a drafted doctor from Denver.

But it's Livy that answers the door.

And her face is beautiful and shocked and . . .

"Ray? What are you doing here?"

. . . flushed red high up on her cheekbones.

And his voice doesn't fail him as he opens his mouth, praying for strength and courage.

"I've come to see you, Livy. I need you to know how I feel."

And she's standing there, she's not pregnant anymore, maybe she had it, maybe the child is sleeping, she didn't give it up.

Maybe it'll all work out and he can be a father to it.

If he can only speak.

"I've fallen in love with you, Livy."

His heart's hammering so hard he's afraid it'll burst and he'll die.

"And I love that baby."

So lost and far from home.

"For me, you're the best thing that's ever happened."

And he's crying now and he shouldn't be.

"Livy, you're a fine and talented woman."

But he is.

"I know what happened isn't what you were planning for."

And he can't stop.

"But it's all I can ever imagine or dream of. You and me and the baby . . ."

He pulls the ring from his pocket.

"The day the preacher married us, I forgot the ring."

Knows it isn't worthy of her.

"I have one now."

Wishes it, and he, could be.

"Will you please give us another chance?"

And she's standing there.

She's standing there in the door and he's standing on the stoop, holding the ring that doesn't sparkle here in Denver like it did in the light in La Junta.

And she's staring at him and his heart is pounding and he's terrified, terrified of the rest of his life without her.

And his heart is pounding, pounding-

Pounding so hard it hurts in his chest.

And Ray's rubbing his chest and his face is wet, why is his face wet, why has he been crying and there's a crick in his neck and-

"Ray? Are you alright?"

And he hears her voice, Livy's beautiful voice.

"Ray?"

And he opens his eyes, blurry and he can't see her well.

But he can feel her gentle hand on his face.

"Ye- yeah. Yeah. I'm . . . I'm just fine."

And he sits up, trying to get his bearings.

He's in a strange place, he is not in his bed on his farm.

It smells strange here, the light is different and the walls are not his walls, the floor is not his floor, the-

"Are you sure?"

The voice is his wife, his helpmeet, his companion, his partner.

His . . .

"Ray?"

. . . Livy.

And he smiles, swipes at his eyes, his running nose.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay."

And he speaks stronger, calmer.

He speaks like him.

But his wife . . .

"I don't think you were. But it's over now."

. . . puts her arms around him . . .

"I'm here."

. . . anyway.

"Thank you, Livy."

And he . . .

"You're welcome, Ray."

. . . lets her.

Chapter Text

Ray is at peace the last few hours of the night, thanks to his wife, his Livy.

In the morning, they rise early.

An easy thing as their Little Darling Danny is wakeful and hungry with the sun.

Danny alternates between eating his Cream of Wheat and playing with it.

The adults eat sparsely, Livy barely nibbling her toast.

They clean, they dress.

Danny gets a bath.

Splashing and giggling.

Which first brings a small smile to Livy's face.

"When I was a little girl, I loved to swim."

Before it slowly fades down into a sad frown.

"My sister and I'd splash in creeks on camping trips my family took."

And her fingers play with her son's.

"When I was eleven, I had been swimming with my sister and I came out of the water . . ."

In the water.

"And my bathing suit had slipped and . . . "

"My father said I was becoming a young lady now, that I was growing up. And it would be inappropriate to swim anymore."

"He never let me swim again. I had to sit on the bank properly and watch my sister play."

"Until, of course, she started growing up too."

And again, . . .

"And then nobody could play."

. . . Ray is at a loss.

"Is there anything else we need to do before we leave? Anything else we need to take care of?"

And Livy's response is simple.

"No. I just want to go."

Ray nods.

He wants to ask her if there's anything she wants to bring.

Any of her history it would comfort her to have.

He also figures she may not want to consider that now.

That later might be better.

"Okay, I'll let Hank know so he can pick us up in La Junta."

She can always come back, he'll make the trip with her if need be.

So he leaves it.

"Thank you."

To care for her.

"You're welcome."

So they go.

Out of the house and down the neighborhood street.

They wait for the streetcar that will take them to Union Station.

They wait in the morning sun and city smelling breeze.

Livy looks the opposite way they are to go.

Ray sees nothing but more road.

"Back in college, we went to the cinema, . . ."

Sharing more of herself from the Before Time.

". . . the ice skating rink from time to time."

With Ray.

"I had a few dates, not as many as the other girls. I wasn't looking to get married. Or to, well, . . ."

She fades off, looking disheartened.

And Ray feels somewhat inspired, perhaps, this, he can do for her.

"Would you like to go see your college, Livy?"

Take her back to a place she used to feel happy.

"You could show me around. I know you liked it."

She tries a smile but it fades as though it were never there.

"No. We haven't got the time."

Well, we do.

So Ray tries another, related, attempt.

"Do you think you'd like to go back and finish schooling? Do your field studies?"

And Livy throws another dismissive blink right back at him.

"No. it would be a waste of time. What would I even do with my degree?"

Whatever you want.

As his wife turns her head away from that direction without speaking further on the matter.

I'd do anything to make you happy, Livy.

Ray Singleton heaves a sigh which stays all inside.

While they wait for the streetcar.

To take them home.

But Livy pulls the cord that rings the bell before they get to Union Station.

At first Ray doesn't know why.

And then he sees.

And simply follows.

Whatever Livy wants, whatever Livy needs.

Without fail.

Especially now, especially in this time.

She doesn't speak, just carries Danny, who plays with her hair, puts it in his mouth and chews it.

Ray with the suitcases, follows.

They walk carefully among the planted, both ancient and younger.

It is a well-tended garden, cared for and looked after.

She seems to know where she's going, perhaps she has perused these memorials very specifically before.

Perhaps with her sister.

Perhaps alone.

Now with her husband trailing along behind.

So that she is with companionship.

Love.

Acceptance.

Without reservation.

Until . . .

"Will you take him?"

. . . she stops.

"Sure."

Hands over their son.

"Baaa . . ."

And heads onward.

Alone.

And Ray watches her go.

"Your mother is so brave, Danny. So brave."

Approach her mother's tombstone.

It is plain and white.

Simply etched and kept clean.

The groundskeepers are nowhere to be found, it would be untoward to see one cleaning the place, interrupting the mourning.

Ray waits where she has stationed him.

And, with their son, watches on.

She does not collapse, she does not wail, she does not cling to the cold, unfeeling granite slab, throw herself upon the neatly trimmed grass.

She does not pound her chest or pull out her hair.

On the contrary, Olivia nee Dunne remains quite still once reached her destination.

And quiet.

He thinks she speaks words, sees her lay a hand upon the stone.

Sees her wipe her eyes.

He also sees that she does not direct her attention toward the grave beside it.

Her father's grave.

Perhaps she has nothing to say to him.

Perhaps she is not ready.

Perhaps . . .

I'd do anything to make you happy.

. . . there'll be another visit one day in the near or distant future.

Ray Singleton does not know.

All he does know is . . .

"Okay. I'm ready to go."

"Alright."

. . . he is providing what his wife needs of him.

"Thank you, Ray."

"You're welcome, Livy."

He hopes.

On the train ride home, they are exhausted.

Little Danny babbles and points out the window.

Sleeps off and on.

Plays with Ray's father's pocketwatch.

The one that's his now.

The one that Ray's saving for him.

When they switch trains, Ray doesn't even bother to be overwhelmed anymore.

He's too tired.

And when they depart in La Junta, Hank is there.

Good old Hank.

With his good old smile.

And his good old . . .

"Everything go alright?"

"As well as can be expected."

. . . nature.

"Good."

Ray's known him long enough to know he knows there's more.

"Well, expect you'd like to get on?"

And that it can wait until they've rested.

"Yes, we would. Thank you, Hank."

And had a good Sunday meal.

"You're welcome, Livy."

In a few days.

They arrive home.

They get out of the truck.

Livy takes Danny. Ray, the bags.

Hank asks if there's anything else he can do.

Ray jumps in with a I think we've had just about all we can manage but we'll let you know.

Hank smiles, nods.

Glances at Livy, already turned away toward the house.

Tilts his head in her direction.

Ray nods back.

And goes.

Danny is already lain down again, this time in his own bed.

Ray checks on the animals, the farm, in general, a quick sweep.

All's in order, Hank's done well, also the forearm who's been with them for years.

He returns to see Livy out on the porch, looking out over the fields, beautiful face a closed mystery.

As he approaches, she speaks.

"My mother told me once every person has a secret compartment inside themselves, a locked door no one ever gets to see inside."

He stops at her side, one hand on the plain post porch column.

Listening.

Because he loves her.

"But not you. You are open in a way I have never seen anyone else."

"And I couldn't . . . I didn't . . ."

She stops. Puts her head down.

Sighs.

Raises it.

"I let what I thought I wanted almost ruin what I actually needed. It almost ruined me, ruined us, our chance."

Ray ventures a word.

"But it didn't."

Which Livy concurs.

"No, it didn't."

And Ray, suddenly overwhelmed at where she has been taken from and placed without her consent into, begins to speak.

"I'm sorry to take you away from-"

And now she moves, wrapping her arms not around herself.

But him now, slipping them around his middle, pressing to him, squeezing tight.

"I think my mother would love you, Ray. Because you are that man that loves me for who I am."

And he can hear her tears in her voice, feel them on his skin.

"I'm so relieved to be home. Here, with you. And the baby. I love you, Ray."

Ray Singleton closes his eyes.

Squeezes his wife tight.

And holds her.

"I love you too, Livy."

As long as she wants him to.

Chapter Text

First they eat.

Martha May has sent along a casserole for supper, chicken and rice with Jiffy cornbread muffins.

The P&P's, a cake.

Pineapple Upside Down.

With cherries.

A true treat, especially in these times of rationing.

And they eat.

They eat in their own home at their own table until their bellies are full.

Even Danny gets up to eat.

Six months old, tired and cranky after his long there and back again adventure.

He eats.

Gums mostly, his two burgeoning teeth occasionally skewering.

It is casserole after all. And cake.

None of the crackers or Cream of Wheat in the world can compare.

And then, they rest.

In the middle of the day with a farm to attend to and clothes in suitcases waiting to be unpacked.

Ray and Livy Singleton lay down on their bed in the house Ray grew up in and welcomed new his wife into, once upon a time.

They lay down.

He curls himself up into her back, puts his arms around her.

They both ignore the thing that happens to his body whenever he touches his wife in nearly any manner.

There will be time for that later.

And it will be good and well spent.

But now is not it.

He holds her, simply holds her, and she seems to welcome his chaste embrace.

Reaching a hand back to stroke along his jaw, turn her head for a light, sweet kiss.

And they sleep . . .

"Baaa . . . baaaaa . . . ashgiphifff . . ."

. . . for a while at least.

It is then that another small miracle takes place in the lives of the Singleton family.

Livy . . .

". . . Marie, it's Marie."

. . . Singleton . . .

"That's so pretty."

"Thank you , Ruth."

. . . begins to blossom.

Truly blossom.

Not just in body.

"I can't believe I'm starting to show already."

"That's the way it was with Hank, Jr. I hardly showed at all with Ruth at first but Hank Jr felt almost immediate. How's your morning sickness?"

"Not too bad right now. No eggs for a while, maybe."

But also in . . .

". . . Pratt, thank you so much for all of your cake. It was delicious!"

. . . gregarious personality as well.

"Well, you are most welcome, my dear!"

"And what a handsome little boy, you are growing to look just like your daddy, yes you are!"

"Ray didn't have hardly a hair on his head until he was a year and a half old."

"Then suddenly poof!"

"And look at him now!"

"So handsome!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Parker."

"So, I was wondering, Mrs. Pratt, Mrs. Parker, if you're not too busy, if you would teach me some of your cake making secrets."

And the P&Ps just about gently burst with delight.

"Why, my dear, we'd love to!"

"The secret is not overmixing the batter-"

"And using room temperature ingredients-"

"And-"

And it doesn't stop there.

". . . Sunday with you? Wonderful! I'll bring a cake! See you then, Martha!"

And she makes a cake, even remembers the levening agent this time so it rises beautifully.

Her decorating skills leave much to be desired.

But . . .

". . . taste great anyway. Ready to go?"

The cake earns appreciative applause at the dinner table.

After a well fed meal of chicken, mashed potatoes, rolls and peas, tea and sliced tomatoes, green beans with bacon.

A Sour Cream Coffee Cake, Livy presents.

A bit bold and daring perhaps for her culinary skills.

But completed and succeeded and henceforth a triumph all the same.

And no it is not perfect and yes the P&Ps could have made a better one.

And nobody really cares because it is quite edible and yummy and they really just want what is best for her.

And what is best for her is . . .

". . . slice of cake!"

"Thank you!"

"Now, what ancient faraway ruins should we discuss over this cake today, Ray?"

"I'm not really sure, Hank. Livy, what do you think?"

"Oh, um, let's see . . ."

. . . time.

And . . .

". . . you to Aunt Livy before you leave the table, boys."

"Thank you, Aunt . . ."

". . . Livy!"

. . . the love of a real, caring, accepting . . .

"You're welcome!"

. . . family.

And it doesn't stop there.

She sings in church, actually sings.

With a soft smile on her face at the sermon.

Her and Ray switching the energetic Danny between them.

The preacher's sermon of kindness, forbearance, and renewed peace in the world, a stark contrast to what Ray knows Livy has told him have been the booming, self-righteous, drawn-out, Denver discourses she previously sat through, focusing on "deliverance of justice upon the Godless heathen Japanese and all their ilk".

Reverend Case, on the other hand, speaks quietly, thoughtfully.

And with just enough time to muse upon the Divine Word,. . .

". . . change Danny."

"Do you want me to?"

"No, thank you, I'll be right back."

. . . or not more than a bit of a toss over before coming to a close.

And afterward . . .

"I can't believe you hid it in the bushes until we could get away. What if someone had found it?"

"I had no other choice, Ray, the smell, oh!"

. . . the back of the Beet Box temporarily transports more than beets.

But they laugh, there are no shameful downcast eyes, no stern reprimands.

There is laughter, there is unity, there is togetherness.

There is . . .

"I wish there could be a way we didn't have to reuse them, just throw them away."

"Wouldn't that be wasteful?"

"It'd be worth it. Here, smell."

"Oh, eww, you're right."

. . . cleaning, of course, always cleaning and choring.

Still and all, . . .

"I love you, Livy."

"I love you too, Ray."

. . . Livy Singleton seems to be living life in a way Ray has never seen her.

Even when she is angry or displeased.

". . . fine, Abby."

"Yes, I know your opinion on the matter but I won't have you disparaging Ray, he is a fine man, he is so much better than you give him credit for-"

"Yes, I know he's just a beet farmer but he's my beet farmer and a good man and I love him!"

"No, I don't think I've lost my mind living down here."

"Yes, I understand there are other places in the world. I'm not denying that."

"Yes, I do still have hopes and dreams beyond the kitchen."

"Abby, I love you, I really do, but I'm not going to listen to this anymore. I'm hanging up now. You may call back when you are ready to be kinder about my life here. Goodbye."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, let's go fishing!"

"Alright."

Chapter Text

Bent's Old Fort

". . . ?"

She asks over supper one night.

Over navy bean soup that she's simmered for hours until it practically turned to mush.

Tasty, salty mush.

Cornbread muffins.

That the enthusiastic Danny seems love to eat.

And throw on the floor.

So she's asked and, as always, . . .

"Sure, that sounds like a nice little adventure for us."

. . . it's easy to say yes to her.

"How about tomorrow?"

And Ray watches his wife Livy . . .

"That's great! Thank you, Ray."

"You're welcome, Livy."

. . . glow.

Another archaeological expedition.

Maybe not to far off Turkey or someplace else.

But, Livy Singleton decides with a pleased little smile, an archaeological expedition nevertheless.

One that Ray is willing to go on.

Though, she must admit to herself, he has always proved himself willing to do almost anything Livy has asked of him.

Too much so, she supposes.

And that makes her guilty and sad.

And then she resolutely pushes that guilt and sadness away from herself again.

When he had given her the ring, when he had poured out his heart to her, begged her one last time to stay, and she had finally admitted her heartbreaking admission so long ago that she didn't know if she deserved him, not after everything she had done, he had said one day she would forgive herself.

And that was the goal, what she strives for, day after day.

But, she knows and he would probably concur if she brought the subject up, it doesn't happen all once.

She may consider it.

Forgive myself?

How can I forgive myself after everything I did?

How can he?

Pray about it.

". . . help me forgive myself for hurting Ray . . ."

Even say it out loud.

"I forgive myself for hurting Ray."

But it isn't magic.

The guilt tries to stay, creeps back in from time to time when she tries pushes it off.

The thoughts, the memories.

And then she has to . . .

". . . myself for hurting Ray."

. . . forgive herself all over again.

And that's okay, she's decided.

Life takes time.

She learned that before, when she was caring for Mama.

Watching her slowly wither and die.

She had learned then how much time life can take.

And she learned it again, those long months adapting to life on the farm when she didn't really want to try.

And she's learning again it now, in a different way.

In a joyful way.

Watching Danny.

Little Danny.

Her son.

Their son.

Watching him grow.

Learning to hold his head up.

Smile.

Roll over, reach for things.

She has never known she could love someone, something, so much as she loves her son.

And Ray.

Ray.

Who has agreed for them to go to La Junta tomorrow, La Junta and then northeast.

To the Bent's Old Fort.

An adobe trading post . . .

". . . built in the 1833 by William and Charles Bent so they could trade with the Cheyenne and the Arapaho Indians!"

She knows she's chattering on.

To the quietly smiling Ray.

And her babbling boy.

"Amba-"

Who seems to be talking back to her.

"That's right, Danny. William Becknell deviated from the Oregon Trail in 1821 in order to find a way to Santa Fe which at the time was part of the territory claimed by Mexico!"

As she points and gestures at the world around them.

". . . -iam Bent married Owl Woman, the daughter of White Thunder, a Cheyenne chief and medicine man . . . "

The rolling fields, the green grass and blue waters they pass by.

". . . made him an honorary chief himself and . . ."

The sunny blue sky above them with its puffy white clouds and the dirt road rolling away underneath them that make her feel as if . . .

". . . son even married a Cheyenne woman named Magpie and . . ."

. . . history is alive and well here.

". . . Bent left William to manage the fort, that's why it was originally called Fort William. And Charles went to New Mexico . . ."

In the wide open spaces of . . .

". . . civil governor of the entire region . . ."

. . . Otero County, Colorado.

Ray Singleton drives as his wife regales their six month old son with all the knowledge she has absorbed from the book she borrowed from the La Junta Library two weeks ago.

She's positively lit up with joy, Danny on her lap, his hands on her hands.

And she's pointing and gesturing at the wide open spaces laid out before them, talking with a lilt and excitement to her voice she only gets when swept away by the magic and mystery of Times Before, Ancient Times, he guesses she'd call it.

Not too ancient, a little more than a hundred years ago.

But enough that it has sent her skyward.

And it makes him happy for her to be happy.

Excited.

Joyful.

She holds volumes of information more in her head, it seems, of Things Long Ago, than he holds in his head regarding soil composition, conservation techniques, crop rotation, water management, and seed costs.

Volumes and volumes more.

But he doesn't care, now that she doesn't scoff anymore, ridicule his life and simplistic preferences, he enjoys their differences more easily, appreciates her individuality.

Glad to contribute to her joy and take part in her interests, she could have invited Florrie and Rose instead him.

". . . that it?"

"Yeah. I think so."

So he is glad to give of his time and effort.

"Look, Danny, look! Your first fort!"

And will be glad to return home at close of day.

It is mostly grass grown ruins now.

The 1921 Pueblo Flood having . . .

". . . washed away all the above-ground remnants . . ."

. . . decimated three hundred square miles of the Arkansas Valley.

". . . already crumbling for decades . . ."

La Junta sustaining only moderate damage.

". . . abandoned in 1848 after a devastating cholera outbreak . . ."

And Wilson escaping damage entirely.

" . . . call it 'Bent's Old Fort' because in 1860, he moved to Big Timbers and built a new fort . . ."

But here . . .

". . . stone instead of adobe mud . . ."

. . . nature has reclaimed what man once wrought.

". . . visit that one day too!"

Because that's . . .

"What do you think, Ray?"

. . . life.

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

He thinks.

They've brought a blanket, a picnic basket.

Sandwiches.

A slice of cake.

Coca colas.

And they sit and they eat.

Ray and Livy and their little boy Danny.

They sit outside the ruins of Bent's Old Fort in the warm sunshine and the refreshing breeze.

They talk and they eat.

And after they have replaced all their items back in the Beet Box, . . .

"Ready?"

"Yes!"

. . . they begin their exploration.

". . . -ders, trappers, travelers, and the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes came together in peaceful terms for trade here."

They walk here and there and yonder.

All over the area.

There really isn't much to see.

To the untrained, Ray eye.

For Livy, however, . . .

". . . imagine it, Danny? People from all over this area came here, walked upon this very land. Men, women, I bet they even brought children along at times. They looked different, they spoke different languages. But they came together in peace. They found ways to communicate, to work together, despite their differences."

. . . what once was is still alive and well.

"They ate together, slept in rooms within the walls. They traded buffalo hides and beaver pelts."

And so, so . . .

"And then they went out to different places, lived their lives."

. . . meaningful.

"They probably left pieces of themselves, of their possessions, deep down in this very soil."

"Baaa!"

"Do you want to see if we can find something?"

"Baaaa!"

They find little things.

Bits of metal, stone.

Bits of wood and bead.

Even something Ray thinks might be a length of leather strap.

Livy is over moon, excited to record her findings in the notebook she has begun to keep on their 'expeditions'.

The items go into bags to be further examined and doted upon later.

Danny has to be convinced not to ingest some of their treasures.

". . . -no!"

But that's just part of the adventure.

On the way home, Danny falls asleep with his thumb in his mouth.

Livy holds Ray's hand with a soft, contented smile on her face.

And Ray thinks . . .

"Thank you for this, Ray."

"You're welcome, Livy."

. . . it has been a good day.

Chapter Text

Sunday afternoon in Martha's kitchen.

A warm breeze through the open window. Swingtime rag playing low on the radio.

And the ladies are cleaning up from dinner.

Humming here and there, maybe little foot jig as a dish is washed.

The men are on the porch, boys gone off to play.

And here, the women, the givers, the continuers, the sustainers of life, abide together.

"Aunt Livy, when is your birthday?"

It is the girl's question.

"Ruth!"

And her mother's abashment.

"I'm sorry but no one ever asked."

And Livy's . . .

"Oh, uh, July. Twenty-fourth."

. . . revelation.

And both Stewart women seem aghast.

"July?!"

"Why, we didn't even celebrate last year, you poor thing!"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

Livy's face reddens, she finds herself stuttering, hands fluttering.

"I, uh, I didn't feel much like celebrating. You know, all things considering."

Softening expression from Ray's caring sister.

Who speaks in cipher, for the benefit of the last of her brother's wife's privacy.

"Well, how do you feel now?"

And it's easy for Livy to smile.

"Better."

And watch Ruth's girlish face light up.

"Well then, let's throw you a party!"

And Livy waves the gesture off.

"Oh, no, that's okay. I, uh, my father didn't believe in those sort of things. He didn't even allow music in the house after my mother's death. Our radios were only for the news and gospel sermons."

Martha Stewart's hands set themselves decidedly upon her aproned hips.

"Well, now, I'm more determined than ever on the matter!"

And one hand leaves its station, reaches out for Livy's.

"If you'd let us?"

And Livy, embarrassed for so much attention, finds herself shrugging in shy acquiescence.

"Alright."

Martha's smile is genuine.

"Lovely! Thank you."

And Ruth's hands clap together in a quick patter, joy overflowing.

"We'll get right on it!"

The meeting hall's all aglow with lights, aflurry with music and activity.

People dancing to Slim and talking and laughing.

And Martha May, big and beaming smile on her face as she twirls by on Hank's arm.

"Come dance with your sister, Little Brother!"

And Ray leaves Livy's side, a look of the mildest sibling exasperation in his face.

Livy laughs and claps, dances with Hank, Ruth.

And back again with Ray.

Many people are here, most from church, others she has met in the community.

Some she does not recognize at all.

But is reassured they are connected to the Singleton family by some way or another.

They are all here for her tonight, for Livy.

Although she knows it may be for her, it is because of them.

Ray and his sister.

Her family.

The community.

They have embraced her because . . .

"They want what's best for us."

Ray had said that to her so long ago.

When she was worried about the baby and people talking.

And Ray had never blinked, never flinched.

Never worried.

Because . . .

"They want what's best for us."

And this is still something Livy finds new and not quite used to.

Genuine, sincere kindness and well-being.

For those upstanding.

And for those who have to learn to stand up.

I love it here.

It's not the first time she's had the thought.

She's certain it won't be the last.

And every time, . . .

"Reverend Case, hello! Mrs. Case!"

"Happy birthday, dear!"

"Thank you!"

. . . she's grateful for it.

The baby is passed from here to there.

Hand to hand.

Arm to arm.

Lap to lap.

Even trotted out on the dancefloor a time or two.

Active little Danny, who babbles and grabs food to stuff in his mouth.

Friends and family.

Even Slim holds him for a . . .

". . . you've got a little musician on your hands here, Ray!"

. . . verse or two.

The child seems relatively content, cousins Hank Jr, and Chester feeding him crackers and cookies and cake on the fly.

His diaper may be an event of which to speak later.

But for now his baby boy giggles mingle with the laughter and chatter and music of the evening.

And all is well.

Ray stands up.

Ray stands up to speak.

In front of people.

In front of all the people.

And Livy's once again . . .

"I'm, uh, I'm not much of a speaker."

. . . astounded.

"Anyone who knows me will tell you that."

And proud.

"In fact, I'm up here and all I want to do is step back down."

Light laughter, encouraging and warm.

"But before I do, I want to say, I love you with all my heart, Livy."

And . . .

"I'm grateful to be your husband and I'm blessed to have you for my wife. Happy birthday."

. . . grateful.

Loud applause, whoops, and cries of 'hear, hear'.

And then . . .

"So, let's dance, everyone."

The party winds down as all parties do.

Feet grow tired, limbs grow heavy.

Children become cranky and final food is eaten.

Little by little, with well-wishes and hugs and pecks on the cheek . . .

". . . birthday, Livy. Wilson is glad to have you."

"Thank you. I appreciate that so much."

. . . they go.

Until . . .

"Well, Livy, I'd say this has been quite the successful evening."

"Yes, Martha, thank you for it. Thank you, Ruth."

"You're so welcome, Livy-"

"We love you, Aunt Livy!"

. . . it is only a few.

"Well, what shall we do with the, uh,-"

"Oh no no no, you're not helping us clean up after your own party!"

"I don't mind, Hank, I-"

"No, I won't hear of it, not a lick. Danny, take your Mama and Daddy on home and put them to bed."

This is said to the boy completely knocked out on his daddy's arm.

And winked to his mother and father.

And that . . .

"Thank you, Hank. Martha. Ruth."

"And us too!"

"Yes, of course, Hank Jr. Chester."

"Goodnight, everyone."

"Goodnight!"

. . . is that.

"Happy birthday, Livy. I love you."

"Thank you, Ray. I love you too."

Chapter Text

"Ray! Ray!"

Livy Singleton is running through the fields, face drawn and strained.

Waving her hands wildly, waving her hands and running.

"Ray!"

And Ray Singleton sees her, sees his wife, his delicate with child wife, running toward him.

Livy, what-

And his heart leaps up in his chest, is the baby alright, is the other baby alright, is Livy alright-

And he stomps the brake, lurching the vehicle to an abrupt stop, nearly going chest-first into the steering wheel.

Kills the engine.

"Livy! What?!"

And leaps off the tractor.

"What are you doing?"

And runs toward her.

"What's wrong?!"

She reaches him and she can't talk, she's gasping for breath. 

And Ray's out of breath himself. 

With . . .

"Are you alright?! Is something wrong with the baby?!"

. . . worry.

"Is something wrong with Danny?!"

And she's flapping her hands dismissively, waving them. 

And trying . . .

"No . . . it's . . . H-shi . . ."

. . . speak.

"What?!"

Ray's got his hands on her shoulders, leaning over, trying to see her beautiful face, hear her words.

The workers around them have stilled, or at least slowed very much down. 

Alarm, alert apparent all over the field. 

"No-"

And despite yelling and shouting earlier, . . .

"The Americans . . ."

. . . she's almost whispering now.

". . . they dropped a nuclear bomb on Japan!"

It is August 6, 1945.

And the United States of America has dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan.

Eighty thousand human beings, dead, vaporized, incinerated instantly in the hellish firestorm. Blasted apart in the earthshattering shockwave.

Men. Women. Children.

The town has been razed to the ground, smoking rubble and burning things everywhere, littered with bodies and remnants of people's lives.

The clouds of ash and dirt do not mute the screams of the injured, the dying, the mourning left alive in this hellish wasteland forever, if only in their minds.

Hundreds of thousands will die of their burns, their wounds, in the hours and days and weeks and months to come. 

The poisonous, deadly radiation, years.

Decades.

J. Robert Oppenheimer's theoretical monstrosity works better than anyone could have possibly imagined.

The weight of what has been done, the threat of what could be done in the future, will loom over him, and the rest of humanity, until the end of time.

World War II has been, for all intents and purposes, essentially won. 

The United States and its allies are victorious.

But all that Livy cares about in this moment . . .

"Livy-"

"Where are Rose and Florrie? I need to talk to them-"

. . . are her friends.

Livy's friends.

The California born-and-raised Japanese Americans.

The ones currently interred at Amache.

Made to work in the fields.

Because of the shape of their eyes.

The color of their skins.

And Livy . . .

I have to tell them. 

I have to tell them.

"They're not here. They didn't get on the trucks today."

. . . is very very worried.

Amache.

Granada Relocation Center.

Smallest of ten such facilities built and run by the United States government for the sole purpose of incarcerating those removed from their West Coast communities through Executive Order 9066.

To in order to provide "every possible protection against espionage and against sabotage to national-defense material".

February 19, 1942.

Two and a half months after Pearl Harbor.

Signed into law by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Thus upending the lives of more than one hundred twenty thousand Japanese Americans.

Out of fear.

Hatred.

Discrimination.

And retribution.

Livy persuaded Ray back to his tractor, has left Danny with Martha and Ruth, she doesn't want to be distracted by him and not hold her friends with both arms. 

If they will allow her.

Over ten thousand legal Japanese Americans have been forced to leave their jobs, leave their homes, leave their lives, to come here at some point during the War.

Seven thousand currently reside on the grounds.

And Florrie and Rose have always, always kept her away.

Come to her. Or met somewhere.

And Livy knows now why.

Oh my God.

She is permitted access through the only entry gate on the north side of the camp, the guards eyeballing her appraisingly and snarking as to why she's coming in of her own accord.

Livy speaks no more than necessary and is relieved they do not pat her down before allowing her through.

Once inside, she is aghast.

It is a prison set on the plains of southeastern Colorado.

Set up in the dust, there are five hundred and fifty-six buildings, many of which have been so hastily constructed that spaces between the insulation board walls and the wooden frames of the barracks invite in constant dust and insects, drip rain, bow in the heat, the cold.

Eight widely spaced octagonal guard towers with searchlights loom over the site and four-strand barbed wire surrounds it all.

A cemetery, one hundred eight plots will be filled by war's end.

It is organized like a military camp, laid out in straight rows, a grid of efficiency and sameness.

Staffed with military police, armed at all times.

The residential area takes up an entire square mile and is separated from the administrative area by a stretch of land and additional four-strand barbed wire.

There are twelve barracks, each measuring twenty feet by one hundred twenty feet.

These are divided into individual living units of no larger than twenty four feet by twenty feet, the largest living arrangement still less than five hundred square feet reserved for families with multiple children.

These are cheerless places, colorless and despairing, under the endless blue dome of the world.

Constructed of fiberboard walls, asbestos shingle siding, concrete floors.

These residents being the lucky ones; other camps have only tar paper shacks to protect them from the harsh elements.

She had to tell the soldiers at the gate who she was here to see.

They told her the number, explained the layout, and sent her on her way.

She finds it after some careful searching.

Passing the mess hall that feeds them unfamiliar, meager portions three times a day while they first stand in long, silent lines, then sit in long, silent rows to consume subpar meals within the allowed timeframe.

Effectively destroying the family tradition of mealtimes, of unity and bonding.

The laundry building, the recreational building.

Fire department, police station, school, minimally functioning hospital, beauty parlor, optometrist.

And, of course, farming, always the farming.

The agriculture.

The livestock, the pigs, chickens, the cows.

They must grow as much food as they can.

And give some of it away to the war effort.

The latrine is beyond her destination, divided into a men's sections and women's section, where the toilets and showers are open within the walls, affording no privacy whatsoever.

And the easy spread of germs and infection.

She passes few people on the streets, mostly soldiers, as the occupants, it seems, are within today if they have not taken jobs at the farms, work required jobs within the compound.

The ones she does see keep their heads down, keep their suspicious looks to themselves.

And of course they would.

She is not of them.

Just as these people represent to Americans all of those who bombed Pearl Harbor and fight against them in the war, brazen, dangerous kamikaze heathens, she represents to them all of the ones who put them in here.

And she does not imagine many of them, if any, receive visitors at all. 

Much less like her.

They resemble Florrie, Rose, these people.

Dark straight hair, dark eyes.

Slender stature.

And well dressed.

She finds this odd that in such stark circumstances they would be so well dressed.

Then it hits her.

They could only bring what they could carry, one suitcase each, the rest would have been left, never to be returned.

So they brought what they could keep with them.

To start their lives over.

When the War was over.

And they possibly gained their freedom once more.

She finds the correct tenement, she thinks.

And hesitates, biting her lip.

They may not want to see her.

She is of the ones who bombed those like them.

And so she stands, worrying.

But she has come all this way, she is a friend, surely they must know she would never-

And Livy Singleton knocks on the door.

Chapter Text

"Livy! What are you doing here?!"

It is Rose.

Tall, graceful, big sister Rose.

Rose who tries to balance her emotional, careless little sister, protect her.

Livy loves them both.

But it is to Rose that she looks, feel respect and admiration.

Rose.

"I mean, I'm sorry, please come in."

Who holds everything together.

For her family.

And Livy is ushered in, door closed behind her.

"It's . . . it's so good to see you."

Rose's words say it.

But her eyes do not, her frowning mouth.

Neither does the rest of her.

"Please, sit."

It is a small space and humbler than Livy has words for.

The entire space is one room.

Four unpainted walls. One small window, cleaned to a sparkle.

A coal burning pot belly stove in the corner, the kind that gives more smoke than heat.

Kettle set atop it.

Four wooden chairs, Homma chairs one day they will be called, are the furniture, a small wooden table.

Made by interred craftsmen in the camp.

In exchange for some sewing.

An elder man and woman have risen from two of these chairs.

They look small and withdrawn, though they might be no older than fifty.

But they're smiling politely and shaking hands.

". . . Mr. Mahara, Mrs. Mahara, I am so glad to meet you . . . I . . . I'm sorry for barging in like this . . . I didn't even bring anything . . ."

"It's no problem. We're glad to meet friends of Rose and Flurrie."

They speak in American accents, the very juxtaposition to the color of their skin, the shape of their eyes, the coarseness of their hair, that leads so many ignorant and cruel in the world now . . .

". . . with these people?"

"Yes. I am."

"Well, if they could get on with their business, management would appreciate it."

. . . to treat them so callously.

"Thank you. You're very gracious."

A curtain is hung to portion the room.

Were Livy to pry, she would discover four cots, lined up, uncomfortably close together, sparse blankets and pillows folded neatly atop each.

The floor is freshly swept bare, yet still a layer of dirt will be upon it by day's end.

And a bare bulb hangs from the ceiling.

Livy can only see one electrical outlet. Though there doesn't seem to be anything to use it for.

There is no kitchen, there is no radio.

No lamp.

"Believe it or not, this is still better than the first place they took us."

"Florrie-"

"It was a race track outside Los Angeles. We lived in a horse stall for six months."

"Florrie-"

"We cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. But it always smelled. It always smelled like a horse stall."

"Florrie, . . ."

"When we got here, they said we were put here to protect us from harm from the outside world. But if that was the case, why are the guns pointed in and not out?"

Her big sister has not been able to stop her outburst of words.

"Please do not bother our guest so with such unpleasantries, Daughter."

But her mother's gentle voice does, gentle hand clasping upon hers.

And Florrie bites her lip, still smiling, dark eyes shouting misery.

Then Rose speaks, her words ringing hollow and tinny in Livy's ears.

"It's not so bad all the time. Sometimes cowboys ride up and give the children rides. A neighbor down the street teaches an art class. And of course, we are allowed to leave now. At first, we weren't at all."

Livy opens her mouth and then closes it. Opens it hesitantly again. She doesn't know if she should be the one to say what she's come here to say.

"I have something to tell you. I'm not sure how to say it-"

And Rose interrupts, so very uncharacteristic of her.

"We heard about the nuclear bombing on this morning on the radio. We weren't allowed radios when we first moved here. But now they are and-"

And Florrie bursts into tears.

Livy reaches to comfort her, put her arms around her.

"I'm so sorry. Do you have family in Japan?"

Her question directed to Rose but-

"No! Our great grandparents moved here in the 1850s, to work on the Transcontinental Railroad! We're Americans, Livy!"

Florrie spits out angry, anguished words through her tears.

And Livy sees their mother dab her eyes with the corner of a handkerchief, their father work his hands together in worry.

It is Rose that clarifies.

"Many people in the camp are afraid they will be hurt for being what we are when the War is over. We don't want to stay here but . . . people are afraid today. More than in a long time."

And Livy says words she hears are ridiculous the moment they leave her mouth.

"Perhaps they'll let you go home once the War is over. Return to the USC-"

And Florrie scoffs in indignation, sweet smile opposite the pain and tears streaming from her eyes.

"College? Home? Where do you think home will be, Livy?! They gave our house away! Other people live in it now! You don't think they'll make them leave just because we're not a national threat anymore, do you?"

"Florrie!"

Livy watches Rose look from her younger sister, to her parents.

And back to Livy.

"I'm sorry, Livy."

Watches her summon a small, sick smile, hold it firm.

"There is a fine line between hope and despair on a daily basis here. I don't mean to be ungrateful but today . . . today is not a very good day for us . . ."

And Livy stands.

Tries to calm the instinct to apologize, to flutter about.

"No, I should have sent word, set up a day to come . . . I only wanted you to know . . . I am sorry for what you and your family are going through . . . What everyone here is going through. You don't deserve this. None of you do. And I want you to know that I know that. And I know I'm not the only one."

Florrie goes to her parents, her father, her mother. Crumples between them on the hard concrete floor, cries like a child, so heartbroken, so lost and afraid.

They pat her, stroke her hair.

Rose gestures to Livy, walks with her to the door, opens it, and steps out with her.

"I'm sorry you had to see all of that, all of this-"

"No-"

"We will spend a day out together, hmm, when we can."

"Yes, of course-"

"We are grateful for your friendship, Livy. We are appreciative-"

And Livy feels the cracks forming in her emotional armor, if they haven't already.

"Rose, please, you don't have to be grateful to me, or appreciative, you're my friend and I-"

Rose stops her words, hugs her, kisses her cheek.

Rose, so strong, held together with nothing but sheer force of will, it seems.

"It's alright, Livy. Thank you for coming today. We'll get together soon. Alright?"

And Livy nods.

"Alright."

"Goodbye, Livy."

And then, because Livy Singleton can't think of a single other thing to do . . .

"Good- goodbye, Rose."

. . . she turns around.

And leaves.

Chapter Text

Livy Singleton keeps her head down, doesn't make eye contact with any of the sparse few people on the narrow dirt street outside the Mahara dwelling.

Not as she makes her way back through the relocation camp, which she has come to realize is just a different kind of concentration camp.

Not as she exits the same way as she came in, grinning soldiers still leering appraising looks as she goes.

Back to the Beet Box.

Starts it up.

And makes her way back home.

She doesn't smile and wave to anyone on the road.

She doesn't dare.

For she knows what's going to happen, can feel it deep inside her, threatening to swell up, threatening to break free once she does.

For when her gentle husband greets her at the creaky door of their family farmhouse . . .

". . . hi to your Mama . . ."

. . . little Danny in his arms.

"Hey, how're you doing?"

She comes apart.

"Livy-"

Against her will.

"Here, Danny, hang on-"

And she presses . . .

"Come on, Livy, I got you-"

. . . her gloved fingers to her trembling lips.

"We'll go inside for a bit-"

As her eyes overflow.

And her throat closes up.

And her husband . . .

"There ya go, Danny."

. . . puts an arm around her.

Kisses the top of her head.

Guides her inside.

"Here."

And lets go only enough to place their very active little boy into the safety and restraint of his high chair.

"We'll just be on the other side of this wall, okay?"

And takes her back into the hall.

"It's okay."

Out of sight.

"It's okay."

Where he wraps his arms around Olivia Dunne in the warmest, most comforting, most loving hug . . .

"Let it out."

. . . she's had since she was her mother's . . .

"It's alright."

. . . daughter.

She cries for a while, quietly, not at all like the night she woke him up across the hall.

But it is a flood and it does take a while for her well to run dry.

Pregnancy hormones, the death of her mother.

The resigned misery of Rose and Florrie and their parents, the death and destruction of the unknowns in Hiroshima, the watery dead at Pearl Harbor.

The dismissive uncaring apathy of those in the world, like her father, who didn't really care, don't really care, not really, for the imperfect, innocent humanity all around them.

The unfairness of it all and her inability to stop it, even her complete and absolute ability to somehow make it even worse for her dear, sweet friends-

Livy cries and her husband holds her.

And eventually, to the sound of their little boy conversing with his baby boy dampened bread bits, she calms.

He's still holding her, occasionally murmuring reassurances into her ear as he holds her close.

Strokes her hair.

And kisses her temple, her forehead.

Until she's ready . . .

"I . . . I shouldn't have gone."

. . . to talk.

"It was a mistake."

It's so difficult to admit.

"I just made things worse."

So humiliating and embarrassing.

"What happened?"

She tells him.

". . . horrible there. Not fit conditions for anyone, not even a criminal, and these are good, decent people . . ."

He listens without interruption.

Livy cries some more, wipes away the tears from her eyes.

Finishes her story.

". . . know what to do, they don't want me there, I don't know how to help . . ."

And then he holds her to him some more.

"I love you, Livy. I don't . . . I don't have any answers on how to make it better. But I'm here for you. As much as you want."

"Thank you, Ray. I love you."

Because it seems . . .

"I love you."

. . . neither of them have any more words . . .

"Baaa!"

"We're . . . we're coming, Danny."

. . . they can think to say now.

"Baaa!"

Even though their son . . .

"Hey, little man, we're here."

"Baaa!"

. . . does.

After that, things go back to a normal of the sort.

Ray farms.

Livy tends to the house, tends to Danny.

And Danny tends to . . .

". . . doing? No!"

. . . everything else.

Which at times involves . . .

"Hey, everything alright?"

"Yes. I just have to go into town to buy more flour."

"Wh- oh- Danny, that is a lot of flour on your head."

"I had to go to the bathroom but he seemed fine on the floor so I didn't put him in his highchair."

"And he got into the flourbag?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I know that's a waste of money-"

"No. It's okay. Would you like me to give him a bathe while you go into town?"

"Yes, thank you. But I have to clean up the kitchen floor and cabinets first."

"O-oh. Wow. Danny, you . . . you . . . come here."

And instead of anyone going to the store or having a bath, Ray Singleton puts his flour-covered son safely in his high chair.

Kneels down next to his beautiful, flustered wife.

"You don't have to do this, Ray. It's not your job."

"My job is taking care of you."

And helps her clean up.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And then there is a trip to the store.

"No, no, here. I"ll take care of the baby powder. You've had enough white stuff for today."

And a bath.

Rose and Florrie do return to the fields in a few days.

They take their breaks with Livy here and there.

Have polite conversation.

Drink Coca Colas.

Livy, completely and abjectly terrified of driving them further away with further social blunders, does not attempt to inquire further about their family, their lives.

Any further than what her friends deem acceptable conversation.

She worries an irreparable fissure has formed in their relationship, cracking and damaging something she has come to devoutly value.

And that it is all her fault.

Florrie does not mention this. Does not seem to notice.

Her smile is sweet and toothy as it has always been.

Rose and her worried eyes are the same.

And as they are heading back the second day, Rose hugs Livy, puts her cheek next to hers.

And murmurs softly in her ear.

"You're a good friend, Livy. The best. We are not mad at you. Please believe me."

And then when she pulls back, Livy refuses to let herself cry.

"Thank you, Rose."

"See you tomorrow."

"See you."

At least until her friends . . .

I hope so.

. . . are out of sight.

Chapter Text

The weather grows cooler, the days shorter.

The war ends on September 2, 1945, a little less than a month, as anyone with any sense had known it would, after the bombing of Hiroshima, of Nagasaki.

Not the dropping of one, but two atomic bombs that cause complete and utter devastation, annihilation more than anyone could have imagined.

The sin committed not once in ignorance but twice in pride and wrath and unchecked power.

And the Americans celebrate, heedless of the loss of life, the ruination of humanities.

And Livy worries for her friends, she worries.

She worries for their health, for their safety, she worries for their present and their future.

But the hard learned lesson is not forgotten; she does not speak of it.

But waits for them.

And they, for the most part, . . .

". . . -ther says we may be released. Now that we're not considered a threat to the United States anymore."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. We've only ever lived in California."

. . . do not much speak of it.

And then one day, in late September, the workers seem fewer.

Fewer and fewer, day by day. 

Week by week.

Ray worries over this, works harder than ever to bring in the final crops with the declining work availability.

The Japanese workers are leaving the relocation camps, American soldiers by the millions, the ones that survived, stepping foot back onto their home soil.

The transition will take time, they do not yet know how many will be returning, what they will be capable of, desiring and choosing of.

And so Ray works as hard as he can.

Most of the crops have already been harvested.

The tomatoes, onions, the dry beans.

Only the potatoes remain and the sugar beets, they work long hours to get them pulled up from the dirt.

Then the planting of the winter wheat that will lie quiet and still until spring.

Spring, when they do not know what will be required of them, who they will have to help work, what they will be able to provide.

It isn't for desperation of money that Livy's husband exhausts himself and those paid for their labor in the fields.

Thanks to the fruitfulness of the farm, his frugal ways and Livy's adoption of them as well, Ray Singleton has the funds to go for years without much worry.

It is the pride of the job. It is the resourcefulness of the Great Depression of his youth that drives him.

It is the thought that these last few fields ought not be wasted, may feed people, soldiers, nurses, volunteers, widows, orphans, who find themselves without their own means to plant and grow and harvest.

That he and his workers and his crops are sustaining them, their very lives.

That is what makes it so meaningful to Ray Singleton. He would not do it for free to the detriment of himself and his family, no, never.

But the government set the payment and Ray accepted the contract.

And the money, month by month. Year by year.

And now he is quite well-off, at least by any standards he has to compare it to.

He has shared it with Livy.

Not out of pride or boasting, the Good Book and his mother would not have allowed that.

"Is that . . . is that what you have?"

But rather knowledge for the wife.

"We. Yes. As of right now."

Whom he loves and respects and trusts.

And she is taken by surprise, he lives so plainly.

"What . . . what are you going to do with it?"

He looks at the numbers, not a Rockefeller by any means.

Not a scrapper either.

And then his focus shifts.

To Danny. To Livy.

"Set it aside. For our children. For our family. Our future."

"Oh, Ray."

And then he puts the ledger . . .

"I love you."

"I love you too."

. . . away.

Dear Livy,

Our father says we will not be allowed to come out to say goodbye.

They are preparing to ship the last of us off by the end of the day and do not want us wandering off.

We are receiving twenty-five dollars each and a bus ticket back to Los Angeles to restart our lives again as American citizens.

We also have some cash left over from our work in the fields but Mother says the soldiers don't need to know that so she has sewn it into our undergarments.

We are leaving for California tonight and I worry we may never see you again.

I am sorry we did not get the chance to say goodbye.

We have been so lucky to have studied the butterflies together and come to know you as our friend.

We will continue to write as we can.

Please thank Ray for being a good overseer.

Love,

Florrie

And Livy cries for the loss of her friends.

Her friends she is so grateful are finally leaving the prison they did not deserve to be trapped in.

And starting life anew back home.

So far far far away from here, from Otero County, from Livy.

She is happy for them, relieved and happy.

And sad.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes . . . No . . . But I will be."

And she cannot help it.

Another day dawns on the farm.

Ray is up with the sun, tending the animals, milking the cow.

Livy, bleary-eyed and yawning, is making porridge.

Toast.

Coffee.

"Baaa!"

And eggs.

Her son is growing, hers and Ray's son.

He will be one year old in a few short months and she smiles every time she looks at him.

"Baaa!"

The baby inside her is growing.

Soon it will be time to go to the doctor, have a checkup.

She'll be much happier than she was before.

She has been so much happier.

Happier than she has ever been in her life.

Happier.

More loved.

And . . .

"Oh Danny, what are you doing?"

. . . more content.

"Why are you rubbing bread in your hair?"

Mostly.

Chapter Text

"Once upon a time, in the long, long ago land of America, back when dark skinned people were still in chains and wandering trappers traded furs with the Indians who considered themselves the temporary guardians of the land they freely roamed, settlers and pioneers fled the growing animosity in the East.

And came out West.

They rode in wagon trains along ruts carved in the ground so deep we can still put our hands in them today.

One of the travelers, a young man named Elias Singleton, walked along the trail because he had no horse, no wagon, nearly no possessions with which to travel.

He and his mother had lived as an indentured servant in St. Louis, to a cruel man who treated them cruelly and stole their pay.

Day after day Elias had watched the wagons heading west, dreaming of a new life, a new hope, a new adventure beyond the dirty, loud, overcrowded cities East of the Mississippi River.

After his mother died of consumption, Elias made a promise to himself, to her, that he would make a better life for himself, free and beholden to no man.

In the wild lands of the Louisiana Purchase.

He left in the middle of the night, with a rolled up blanket, a pocketknife, and his father's pocket watch that his mother had never been able to bring herself to sell for food.

He took these things and followed the wagon ruts west.

He caught up with the slow wagon train and slept on the hard ground, crouching by different fires, night after night.

Sleeping under a sky full of stars, counting them until he fell asleep.

Waking in the morning covered with dew, shivering and hungry.

He traded work, a helping hand, for a bowl of soup, a cornmeal cake.

He fixed wagon wheels and gathered fruits and nuts from bushes.

He helped skin and dress the few animals they could catch for a sliver of cooked meat.

There were many different people on the trail.

Gruff, silent men traveling alone.

Couples, groups seemingly unrelated, pooling resources toward California, Oregon.

Families with babies, families with children, families with almost grown youth.

Day by day, they left behind their dead buried with stick crosses left to mark their passage.

They forded rivers, crossed wide, flat plains.

Circled wagons to ward off Indian attacks.

Astounded at the herds of buffalo, gathered their leftover chips as fuel for nightly campfires.

Elias body grew leaner than ever before, his feet grew sore and sometimes they bled.

But he walked on, having come all this way, vowing to go further still, into the unknown.

By and by, his eye fell upon a young woman, traveling with her mother and father and sisters in one of the slow crawling wagons rolling east.

She had dark hair and eyes the color of the sky on a clear day.

The girl gave him dippers of water as he worked to help her father fix a wagon tongue, snuck him an extra hard biscuit after a long day on the trail.

Her name was Madelyn and she was two years his junior, only fifteen.

She never spoke much but her eyes smiled at him when he retrieved their cow from the gulch where it had wandered.

And in territory of Colorado, he asked her father for her hand, promising to do his best by her all his days.

Her father, a man with too many mouths to feed and not enough food to provide for all, asked his daughter if she would go.

She agreed. Hugged and kissed her mother and sisters goodbye.

And went on foot with the boy.

To the place they chose for themselves.

They carried their supplies on their backs, lashed to the mule her father had not been able to afford to part with.

And had parted with anyway.

Elias told her to put her foot down on the land she wanted.

So she walked and she walked until she found a place where the sky domed the world above their heads and the soil was rich and dark and fertile.

She put her foot down and they built a tiny dugout out of the very earth they lay upon at night..

She worked alongside him, her hands bleeding cuts from tiny stones, earthworms burrowing deeper under their feet in an effort to escape their digging.

Blood and sweat and mud and grass and a chopped tree he had downed made up their home.

No door, no windows.

The roof leaked and the walls required constant resodding.

The floor was dirt and animals burrowed in with them.

Elias began to work the soil, with the help of the mule, bring food up out of it, meager amounts that almost starved them in winter.

But they lived, they survived.

And when new life came into the world, Elias lifted the boy high and called him a miracle.

And began to build a house, a large house on a hill.

With wooden walls that did not crumble and a metal roof that did not leak.

Wooden floors that could be swept free of dirt.

And glass windows in every room to let in all the sunlight one wished and keep out the rain no one wished."

"And that is the house we live in today, Danny. Your great-great-grandfather built it for his family. And your great-grandfather brought his family in to it. And his father. And your father brought us.

And that is what makes it so special. Us. Our family. And our history."

The boy's eyes have closed, his round cherub face is angelic in sleep.

Olivia Singleton gazes at him for a moment, strokes a light touch along the side of his cheek.

Tucks the blanket a little closer around him.

"You're a fine storyteller, Livy."

And rises, still gazing upon their child in the dim light of the room.

"Even if I'm not sure how much of that is actually true."

And Raymond Singleton, the man who has continued the story of gentleness, of goodness and hard work and long suffering, steps up behind her.

"Yes, well, it could be."

Lays loving hands upon her delicate shoulders as she reaches a hand back to lay upon his.

And he kisses her temple, sweet and kind.

And acquieses with soft surresh.

"Yes, it could."

As they gaze at their sleeping son.

"I love you, Ray."

"I love you, Livy."

In the dim moonlight.

Chapter Text

Little Danny, her son, his son, their son, likes to crawl. Hands and knees. Giggling and cooing and babbling.

All the way from his spot on the rag rug to his daddy's chair. Grabbing holding of his daddy's pants leg, his outstretched hands.

Giggling and cooing and babbling, pulling himself up to slap and bat and grin.

He also likes to bang things together, Danny does.

Toys. Shoes. Anything that will make a sound that he can laugh at.

And he wants to walk, he does.

He just hasn't . . .

"It's okay . . . Come on . . . Come on, Danny . . . I'm right here. You can do it . . ."

. . . quite worked up the gumption to.

"Well, maybe some other day."

Yet.

"He'll get there."

"I know."

In the meantime, Franklin seems to spend all of his contentedly canine days . . .

"Come look at this."

"Franklin, what are you doing?"

. . . attached to Little Danny.

Scooting along backwards just in front of the boy, doggie bottom up, shaggy tail high in the air and wagging.

As if encouraging him, as if giving him . . .

Come on, pal . . .

. . . a buddy to keep him company in his 'dogged' pursuits.

Franklin.

Sitting under his highchair.

"Danny, stop throwing your breakfast at the dog. It's for you to eat."

"Baa!"

Nipping up every delicious morsel.

"He's got his own food."

"Baa!"

Not letting a single crumb . . .

"Danny . . ."

"Baa!"

. . . go to waste.

And Raymond Singleton's heart and soul . . .

"Good dog, Franklin."

"Ray-"

"You take care of him, boy."

"Woof."

"Ray-"

"Baa!"

. . . are very, very full indeed.

Livy Singleton is very full too.

With the new baby.

"Well, hello again, Mrs. Singleton. How are you?"

"Hello. I'm fine."

At least that's the way it feels to her.

"Expecting again?"

"Yes."

Her belly has become noticeable much more quickly than it had . . .

"Well, congratulations!"

"Thank you."

. . . the first time around.

". . . to be expected."

"That's what my sister-in-law said."

"She's a smart woman."

"Yes. And a good one."

"That's quite a blessing."

"Yes. It is."

The gray-haired, kindly doctor is all smiles and, unlike last time, Livy finds her smile, her own response more relaxed, more genuine.

"Let's examine you to see how far along you are, shall we? Lay back for me please?"

"Alright."

Although not entirely relaxed.

A man not her husband touching her, if only on her abdomen, . . .

"Well, I'd say about . . . five months along. Due in February, I think."

That would make . . . the barn maybe?

The swimming hole?

Playing cards?

There are so many possibilities.

"Alright."

. . . is not something she feels she will ever be comfortable with.

"Now, how have you been feeling?"

"Oh. Fine. Fine."

"Any heartburn, fatigue, swelling in the feet or ankles?"

"No, no swelling. Heartburn, occasionally."

"Fatigue?"

"Sometimes. More in the beginning. It's better now."

"Well, growing a baby is hard work. So nothing wrong with putting your feet up from time to time."

"Yes. I try."

"Any other problems?"

"Oh, um, . . . no. No. Thank you, Doctor."

Problems?

No, not problems.

She's been feeling fine, no morning sickness for several weeks now, and even then, only bout or two of significant.

She does feel tired here and there.

But Martha May is very good at helping out around the house, sending Ruth in substitute when she's got a full plate.

Ray helps as he can, as she'll let him.

He's also very good at rubbing away her aches and pains, her neck, her shoulders, her back, her feet.

Which leads to another development of the most recent weeks.

Not . . . problematic necessarily.

"Livy . . ."

But definitely not . . .

". . . I don't want hurt the baby . . ."

"You won't . . . come here . . . it'll be fine . . . please . . ."

"Um, okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure. I promise. Please."

. . . what she had been expecting.

"Oh . . . Ray . . ."

"Oh . . . Livy . . ."

She understands everything was different with Danny's pregnancy.

It still grieves her to think of how poorly she treated Ray, how steadfast he was in the face of it all.

And how much she did not deserve him.

Even unto herself she could not feel joy in the child, she had said as much to the very doctor before her at just about the same time.

". . . mistake."

"Well, when the baby comes, you won't see it as a mistake anymore."

And he had brushed all her misgivings aside, as all men seemed to do to all women, her father, Edward, misunderstandably Ray, any man who never seemed to listen to any woman.

And she had put a polite smile on her face and shut her mouth because that's what was expected of her, of all women, and what was the point, none of them ever listened anyway-

And she had put her head down and gone on, unable to feel love, unable to feel joy or enjoyment, unable to feel anything at all but her hurt, her resentment, her loneliness, her desperation.

Until she had begun to feel considerations of possibilities of other feelings . . .

". . . Troy."

?!

"Troy who?"

"The city of. The lost one."

Oh, Ray.

You . . . you've tried.

No one's ever tried before.

. . . that she had tried to tamp down . . .

". . . -night."

"Goodnight."

. . . until . . .

". . . didn't know you were married, huh?"

. . . it had all almost been . . .

". . . deserve you, Ray."

. . . too late.

And thankfully, through some miracle . . .

". . . forbearance here . . ."

. . . it hadn't.

And now-

". . . see you back again in another month, if you don't mind. Just to check up. In the meantime, if you have any concerns, just contact the office here and we'll take care of you."

"Pardon? Oh. Yes. Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Singleton."

. . . it's all . . .

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Everything go alright?"

"Yes. Let's go. We'll talk in the truck."

. . . more wonderful . . .

"Alright."

. . . than she ever could have imagined.

They don't talk much from the doctor's office to the truck.

He doesn't have to chase her down like when she was with Danny.

No, in fact, his beautiful Livy threads her arm through his and he puts his hand dotingly atop her gloved one.

And they smile at each other all the way across their stroll of the street to . . .

"Thank you, Ray."

. . . The BeetBox.

"Welcome."

Where he opens and closes the passenger door for her.

And she . . .

"Ready?'

"Yes, ma'am."

. . . smiles warmly at him . . .

"Alright."

. . . as he comes around and sets himself down . . .

"Let's go."

. . . behind the wheel.

She's smiling at him. Smiling with light in her eyes on such a sunny day.

Body turned toward him, tilted even.

Not in town, not as they were around people.

A real stickler for propriety and manners, his shy Livy is.

Ray doesn't mind. It almost feels like it makes everything else between them more special.

Because it's just them.

Take now, for instance.

Here, away from others.

Out on the open road.

He's driving The BeetBox, trundling along at about twenty-five miles an hour.

And Livy's beside him.

Smiling, warm.

Focused on him.

Curling her fingers through his hair.

Stroking the nape of his neck.

It makes him feel warm.

Loved.

Tingly, if he were to be honest.

But he's not going to tell her to stop.

It feels too good.

And he tries . . .

"How was the appointment?"

. . . to keep up the considerate conversation.

"Fine. Everything's right on schedule."

He can barely register that this interaction has distinct similarities to the one . . .

"Did he say when the baby's coming?"

"February. I could have guessed around then myself."

Oh, right.

The barn.

The swimming hole.

Maybe-

. . . they had before.

"Well, Danny will be just over a year old by then."

Well, yes.

"And, uh, . . . people . . . people will know."

And he thinks he knows what she means.

Prim and proper and sweet Livy.

"Know what?"

If he could think.

"Know we . . . well, that we . . ."

And she blushing, grinning and blushing.

Curling her fingers through his hair and he can barely concentrate on the road anymore.

"What will they think then?"

And he tries to save her concern over nothing important.

What people think.

"They'll think we're . . . we're . . . doing . . . well. That we're married and doing well."

Through his distracted haze.

"Besides, . . ."

As best he can.

". . . I don't care what people think. And they won't say a word."

And Livy, darling dear, daringly close Livy . . .

"Because they'll be happy for us? Because they'll want what's best for us?"

. . . whispers close in his ear.

"M - mmmph . . ."

And she huffs a breath, warm and sweet that wafts across him like a welcome intoxicant.

"You are what's best for me, Ray. Ever since the day I met you. You have always been what's best for me. Even when I wasn't ready to accept it for myself."

"I'm . . . I'm glad, Livy."

"Ray?"

"Y- yeah?"

"Pull the truck over. Over there. Behind that tree. Just for a few minutes."

"Really? You sure?"

"Yes?"

"Okay."

And then Ray figures . . .

"There . . . just there . . ."

. . . she's not so prim and proper . . .

"Ray . . ."

"Livy . . ."

. . . after all.

But definitely, definitely . . .

"More . . . more . . ."

. . . sweet.

"Oh Ray! Ray!"

After a fashion.

"Welcome back! Did everything go alright?"

Martha May's generous face is welcoming and bright with interest.

Over their upcoming child.

"Yes. Everything's right on schedule."

As she holds their firstborn child . . .

"Wonderful! Livy, are you alright? Would you like some tea? You seem a little flushed."

"Oh. Um. Yes, Martha. Thank you."

. . . in her arms.

"Ray? Tea?"

"Yes. Thank you, Martha May. That sounds swell."

And they decide to sit.

"Oh hey, Aunt Livy, how was town?"

"Oh, it was fine, Ruth, just fine."

"Maybe I can come with you next time?"

"Oh, uh,-"

"Ruth-"

And stay a spell.

Chapter Text

"Ray, Ray, come here! Here, feel that?"

The pot of creamed corn on the stove is forgotten. The spoon set down on the counter without the rester beneath it.

A urgently gesturing Livy has summoned an instantly attentive Ray to her side.

Well, rather, her front.

"Do you feel it?"

And unabashedly pressed his hand to her lower belly.

"Here?"

He directs all his attention to his hand on her rounding stomach.

The stomach.

And the child within.

And . . .

"There! Do you feel that?"

. . . his efforts are unfortunately not rewarded.

"No."

"Oh."

Livy's bright eyes and upturned lips register disappointment as she looks down.

"Oh."

Shifts his hand to a slightly different position on her stomach.

"There?"

"No."

"There?"

"No."

And finally releases his hand.

"Oh."

And Ray . . .

"It'll be okay. I'll feel him when he's big enough."

"Alright."

. . . gives her a light kiss on her cheek.

"Wait? Him?"

"Maybe her."

And doesn't make too much of it.

Because one day, well, one evening . . .

"Livy . . . I . . . feel it."

. . . he does.

And then . . .

"Wow. Is that what you feel all the time?"

"No. What I feel is stronger."

"It is?"

"Mmhm. Makes me need to use the facilities."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"I need to use the facilities."

"Oh. Okay."

And it doesn't stop there.

As withdrawn and island-ish as Livy understandably was in her first pregnancy . . .

". . . the baby, Aunt Livy?"

"Ruth! Don't pry."

. . . Livy is more relaxed, more comfortable.

"No, it's okay, Martha. Ruth, would you like to?"

"Yes please!"

With the family that has been so good . . .

"Here. Feel that."

"Wow, Aunt Livy! He's strong! Does it hurt?"

. . . to her.

"Ruth!"

"A little. Mostly it's just uncomfortable and I have to use the facilities more."

And that . . .

"Oh. Why?"

"Ruth!"

. . . she loves.

She's not that open with everyone.

"Well, good morning, Ray! Livy!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Pratt. How are you?"

"Oh fine, just fine-"

"You look like you're doing just fine too."

"Oh-"

"We're just so glad!"

"Well, thank you-"

"We were just wondering, Livy,-"

"-what your favorite color is-"

"-so we could make your new little one-"

"-a baby blanket all his own."

"Oh, well, thank y-"

"We don't want to give him-"

"-or her-"

"-the same color as his-"

"-or her-"

"-brother-"

"-so we just thought we'd ask."

"Well, uh, thank you, both of you. I think green might be nice-"

"Oh yes-"

"-so it could go with either a boy or a girl-"

"Good idea, Livy, Ray, this young lady should is a smart one-"

"Oh, you don't know the half of it, Mrs. Pratt-"

"Now, Livy, have you been feeling alright with this new pregnancy?"

"Oh, um, yes, everything's been fine-"

"You know, I had a niece who just never could get over her morning sickness-"

"-Morning, noon, and night, it plagued her-"

"-until we thought she'd have to give birth in the outhouse-"

"-she almost did-"

"-yes, out there between the barn and the house-"

"-of course, it was her fifth-"

"-and by that time, they just came flying along with hardly any effort at all-"

"Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Parker, but Livy and I have to be on our way-"

"A little too cold for fishing."

"Maybe a little. The sun helps though."

"Being' out here's the point."

"Yes. Would you like to try, Danny?"

"Baa!"

Dear Livy,

I hope this letter finds you well.

We are back home in California but it doesn't feel like home any longer.

As Rose suspected, our home and our belongings have been given away to others.

We are living in a one room tenement while we try to find work. College is, of course, out of the question for now.

Father fears we may have to move again soon but at least we are not living in a horse stall.

We hope you are doing well and that your baby is growing healthy and strong.

I hope to write again soon with better news.

Your friend,

Rose

November brings with it colder winds and less field work.

Good, now that there are less workers to do it.

Ray takes to mending fences, clearing refuse.

Danny is growing like a weed, Livy, having happily worked for the first time in years in the flowerbed this summer, has a new respect for that unique expression.

Little Danny still crawls as his main conveyance, Franklin his constant companion.

Though the child will now stand and pat his way across the whatever surface he may grip.

Grinning . . .

"Baa! Baa!"

. . . all the while.

He points at what he wants.

"Baa! Baa!"

And when he hears no . . .

". . . for babies, Danny."

. . . he screws up his face . . .

"Baa! Baaaaa!"

. . . and makes his discontentment well and clearly known.

He is far too busy to be interested in his mother's growing belly.

She tries to explain . . .

". . . brother or sister . . ."

. . . but he mouths a sweet baby kiss on her cheek . . .

"Baaa, baaaa!"

. . . and worms away . . .

"Well, I tried."

"He'll notice when the baby's born."

"I hope."

. . . to discover and play and . . .

"Danny, no . . ."

"Baa!"

. . . scheme his time away.

The colder weather makes his soft sweet skin dry and prone to scabs and rough patches.

His loving mother and dedicated father prepare colloidal oatmeal baths.

"Are you sure this is right?"

"Martha May swears by it."

And rub cream on his skin . . .

". . . , Danny, don't eat it-"

. . . to moisturize it.

The Thanksgiving table that year . . .

". . . end to that terrible war. Now so many can start putting the pieces back together again."

. . . is a bit more full.

". . . harvest this year."

And a lot less disquieting.

". . . happiest year of my life. I never knew life could be so simple and content. And full of daily joy."

And, of course, full of good . . .

"I'm grateful to have my wife and my son with us here this year. I'm grateful for the small miracles of every day life. Not the least of which is this delicious looking table of . . ."

. . . food.

"I'm thankful Aunt Livy's going to have another baby. Hopefully this one's a girl!"

"Ruth-"

And family.

He doesn't work the beet factory this winter.

He can't bear to. Not with Livy . . .

"It's alright. Nothing will happen."

. . . and Little Danny . . .

"I know, I know. I just . . . don't want to chance it."

. . . and another little baby on the way.

"This is one of those times when what we've put back will be put to good, careful use."

And so they . . .

"Alright. If that's what you want."

"I do."

. . . begin passing the winter . . .

"Would you like me to read to you?"

"Sure. Sounds real swell."

. . . together.

Chapter Text

This December there is no escaped German soldier.

There is no stolen truck, no burning uniforms, no junk being destroyed.

There is also no well-meaning Asian sisters who only wish the love and acceptance and interest that so many people find themselves hoping for throughout their lives.

There is also no Christmas baby, born just a few days earlier than intended.

Because Little Danny is celebrating his one year birthday.

"Danny, can you say Ma-ma?"

"Da-da."

"Ma-ma?"

"Da-da."

"Ma-ma. Ma-ma."

"Da-da-da-da-da-da."

And is bigger than ever.

Toddling here, toddling there.

"Ma-ma?"

"Da-da."

Toddling everywhere.

There is also no more joyfully overactive libido.

Livy has now reached the third and final trimester of her pregnancy.

And is in the same dull misery . . .

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. Somewhat."

. . . many women find themselves in during the last few weeks.

"Would you like me to run you a bath?"

"I'm afraid I would get stuck."

Nothing fits comfortably, not her shoes, not her clothes.

Not even . . .

"Are you alright?"

"I have an itch. I can't reach it."

"I can help."

. . . her own skin.

Ray takes it all in stride.

She's survived this before.

He's survived this before.

And they both survived it mostly alone.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Livy."

So this is still easier.

He does find ways to be as helpful as possible.

"I was thinking of making some chili tomorrow. We could eat on that a few days. Have toast and jam for breakfasts. What do you think?"

"I think it sounds like you're trying to keep me from having to cook."

"Is that alright?"

"Yes."

Ruth stays with them for a week, serving as Livy's surrogate house cleaner.

". . . cute but don't tell Mama."

With strict instructions not to talk or bother too much.

"Does this boy have a name?"

"Oh, uh, it slipped my mind at the moment, Uncle Ray."

That she mostly abides by.

The P&Ps have resumed their weekly cake offerings to the little family.

". . . ?"

"Yellow, I think. Chocolate icing. Would you like some?"

"I really would. Just a small slice."

There is more snow, more brutally cold wind.

That whistles through the cracks in the floorboards.

And sends a chilled Ray scurrying back inside with the armful of fireplace fuel.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes. The cow asked to shelter in our dining room."

"What did you say?"

"Only if she was on the plate."

And they abide on.

Christmas arrives and with it, small gifts from friends who always seem able to give even when they have nothing.

Dear Livy,

We don't know what the baby will be so Florrie and I have chosen yellow for the garments we made.

We hope you will get good use of them and they will remind you of the butterflies we used to see flitting across the fields when the days were warmer.

We are in Oregon now and trying to set up shop as seamstresses but people still see the shape of our eyes and the color of our skin and chose other seamstresses even when our prices are cheaper and our work is of better quality.

Merry Christmas to you and we pray for blessings in the new year to come.

Your friend,

Rose.

Little Danny takes a cold that seems to set up house in him and slows his determined ways.

He coughs at night and cries.

His breathing grows raspy and thick and Ray and Livy worry.

The doctor is summoned and rules out polio, more of a summer terror.

Scarlet fever, since the child is without rash.

Diphtheria is considered since the child's cough rivals Franklin's canine verbalizations.

Whopping cough is finally the diagnosis and there are nights when the child coughs so long and so hard that he vomits and his mother and father must either clean him up or become baby bile baseball star catchers.

The Singletons fear the new baby may become an only child come spring if Little Danny's sickness does not release him from its gasping grip.

Livy prays, she prays harder than she did when she was first with the child. 

Harder than she did with Mama.

Harder than she ever has in her whole life.

Ray finds sleep eludes him and he becomes drawn and haggard in appearance rather quickly.

Martha May sets up shop in her old bedroom.

Ray and Livy continue to pace the floors, Martha May and Ray both urging Livy to stay off her feet as much as she can, eat as much as she can, drink as much as she can.

Only for Livy to secretly wonder if Little Danny's sickness is her punishment for spending so long not wanting the baby at all.

She confesses this one night to a bewildered Martha May, crumpling to her knees and burying her face in the woman's skirts and crying like a child.

Martha May reminds Livy that the New Testament God is a much more benevolent God than the wrathful one of the Old Testament.

She reminds Livy of the love, the acceptance, the forbearance that comes with true belief and Life Everlasting.

And in the end, the child heals, grows stronger, and though he continues to take longer naps than usual for some time to come . . .

"Danny, you okay?"

"Ma-ma."

"Yes, darling. Mama."

"Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma."

"Yes, darling, yes, my sweet boy."

. . . all is, by bits and pieces, . . .

"Ma-ma."

. . . well.

"Yes."

"Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-"

Once again.

Chapter Text

The new baby comes.

With much less drama and fanfare and stolen trucks and fleeing German soldiers than did Danny.

Livy simply wakes up one morning and . . .

"Ray? Ray?"

. . . finds her water broken and her contractions coming at irregular, but increasing, intervals.

The fact that this is not their first song and dance of labor and delivery is of no consequence to Ray.

The fact that his and Livy's long awaited newly burgeoning and professed love is more than a year into the past is of no consequence to Ray.

The fact that this new child and its older brother is the only one of the two borne to him by blood is of no consequence to Ray.

He is elated. He is overjoyed.

He is . . .

"I'll call Martha May!"

. . . a brand-new parent all over again.

And very, very . . .

"Hank, Livy's having her baby!"

. . . excited.

"Livy, what should I do?"

"Get Danny, he's crying."

Martha is resourceful and calm, an old hand at babying.

But she does bring Hank in the truck, along with Ruth.

So they can take Little Danny back with them . . .

". . . crying baby and not two, not if we don't have to."

. . . to play with their cousins and have a sleepover for the day and night.

The child goes without a fuss . . .

"Bye Ma-ma, Bye Da-deee . . ."

. . . leaving the three remaining adults . . .

"How are you feeling?"

"Did you bring the same medicine as last time?"

"Yes. It's right here in my bag."

"Then I'm sure I'll be fine eventually."

. . . to take care of the business at hand.

"Would you like me to call the doctor?"

"No. Martha May did it all last time. If that's okay?"

"Whatever you want, dear, I am here to provide."

Of bringing Ray and Livy's second bundle of joy.

"Thank you, Martha May. I am s- oh- so grateful for you."

"Of course, my dear."

Into the world they have prepared for him.

Which takes a lot less time . . .

"Martha, Martha, I think I need to push!"

"Already? Well, let me s- yep, you're ready!"

. . . than before.

Hours, still and of course.

But not quite so many.

Almost by half.

And Ray . . .

". . . okay, Livy, it's okay, I've got you. Right here."

. . . does as instructed before.

"Push! Push!"

And Livy does as instructed before.

". . . he's out!"

And Martha May delivers unto them . . .

". . . a boy!"

Another bouncing baby boy.

"Oh . . . another . . . boy . . ."

"Is everything alright, dear?"

"Yes . . . Ruth . . . is going to be . . . so disappointed."

"She'll get over it. We'll get her a kitten."

Of their very own.

Ruth is disappointed. Though she finds the good grace not to complain about it too much.

The kitten helps.

Martha May stays, cleans, cooks.

Provides the best 'medicinal' care Thresher & Co can provide.

At least until it is time for Bayer Powder take its place.

Livy heals.

Ray loves.

There is decidedly less sleep had by all.

"Danny, this is your little brother, James!"

"Baa!"

"Yes, your little - no, not the eyes, we must care - no, not the nose - Dann- D- Ray-"

"We'll try again later."

And . . .

". . . of blue . . ."

. . . it's all . . .

". . . fingers too . . ."

. . . alright.

". . . love this baby . . ."

"I love you, Livy."

"I love you, Ray."

Evenso.

Chapter Text

Just because she is truly, honestly in love with her husband and, completely differently truly, honestly in love with her growing baby boys, doesn't mean Livy Singleton always finds life in Otero County, Colorado brimming with excitement and contented fulfillment either.

She still becomes bored from time to time, drained of the unending trod of life.

Cooking, cleaning.

Washing, drying.

Cooking, cleaning.

Washing, drying.

Cooking, cleaning.

Was-

She's more considerate now of the gasoline she uses, the time she spends away from the farm.

Instead of fleeing away from it, she tries to find purposeful intent in her travelings.

Accomplishment.

Taking her freshly separated cream and freshly gathered eggs in The BeetBox into Wilson to sell to the grocer.

The babbling, cooing, bright-eyed Danny bouncing along in the baby seat, hooked over the backrest of the seat next to her.

Little James Robert in his own beet box nestled safe in the floorboard.

Talking to them both of whatever is on her mind, ancient Egypt, Greek mythology.

And yes, on occasion, . . .

". . . going to find a book in the library to help you potty train. Sooner rather than later."

. . . gentle remonstrance of the recent state of the cloth diapers they provide to her delicate senses.

Both her children seem at ease in her presence and she joys in theirs.

The fears of motherhood and possible bonding failures have fled entirely from her mind ever since the moment she laid eyes on Danny that snowy Christmas eve.

And had never reared their ugly heads at any time during the development and delivery of James Robert.

She wants them now in her life, no matter the way the beginning started.

She adores them both completely and unabashedly.

No unwelcome nicety that the elder grocer of the day, . . .

". . . fine young men you have with you this morning, Mrs. Singleton."

"Thank you, Mr. Stanton."

. . . seems to give her an even more than fair price . . .

"You take good care of your momma now, boys. She's a fine woman."

. . . since she started bringing the children along on her jaunts.

"Thank you, Mr. Stanton."

And he has learned . . .

"Say 'bye', Danny."

"Bye, Danny."

"Say bye, James Robert."

"Baa . . ."

"Well, I'll be."

. . . to smile.

Despite the shaky beginning of their partnership, wherein Danny tried to poke his newborn brother in the eye, pull his nose off, and stick his fingers into the baby's mouth . . .

"Danny - Dann- D- Ray?"

"I've got him."

. . . the boys have begun to grow together very well.

Little James Robert has more than just a shaggy Presidentially named canine to encourage his mobile pursuits.

When he begins to crawl, his favorite pasttime is . . .

"Baaaaa, baaaaaaaaaa . . ."

. . . crawling behind his toddling brother.

"Baaaaaaaaaaa . . ."

A hitting his still diapered bottom . . .

"Danny, would you like to potty?"

"No!"

. . . with his head.

"Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . ."

And Ray and Livy . . .

"James Robert, stop that-"

"Baaaaaa . . ."

. . . cannot stop laughing.

But they play. They do play.

Nicely.

Kindly.

In a loving, brotherly fashion.

Livy and Ray see Danny pick up toys, hand them to his babbling, baby brother.

Sees him hand him food, talk to him . . .

". . . doggie. Inna boo!"

"Bsaa!"

"Gambot."

. . . in a way they both understand.

They see their boys love hold each other's hands.

"Look, Livy, look."

"Oh Ray. They're beautiful."

"Yes."

As they discover the whole wide world.

"Yes. They are."

Laid out before them.

Every so often, besides regular church, Ray and Livy Singleton and the other residents of Otero County throw a church social.

In the early days of Livy's time with Ray, she had found herself displeased at the mundanity of the event.

Women sitting at folding tables, trading ration coupons, trading recipe cards.

Engaging in circular small talk, the weather, the crops, the children, the weather, the crops, the children, the weather-

Ripping up worn sheets, rolling them into bandages for the war effort.

Filling paper bags with shaving goods, packs of cigarettes, chocolate bars for convalescing soldiers.

Talking all the while, discussing cooking, canning, cleaning, cooking, preserving, cleaning, cooking, freezing, cleaning-

Children running amuck, inside and out.

Chasing and arguing and fighting and making up.

Probably more than a few young love teenagers finding a moment to awkwardly socialize with each other within ear and eye shot of their parents.

Men working on cars, machinery.

Chatting about the weather, the war.

And, always, always the crops.

Smoking, and more than a few passing flasks.

Livy had been absolutely bored to tears by the repetitive, commonplace nature of these events at first.

No one discussed books, philosophy, history, real ancient history, not just, you remember what so-and-so did three years ago-

No one discussed anything meaningful and serious.

Save for teary-eyed conversations regarding the "boys gone off to War".

Just . . . the daily ruts they all inevitably found themselves trodding to and fro in.

It had exhausted her, it had fatigued her, it had wearied her.

How they could live so, day after day after day.

As if it were perfectly normal for all there was to be life, this.

The outside world with its people and relics and thoughts and lifestyles completely and utterly alien and unconsidered by any of them.

And she had mourned it.

And then, after her heart had been opened to Ray, to Martha, to life here and what peace could be, after she had allowed herself to accept the forbearance and love she found herself generously offered here, she looked upon these gatherings with new eyes.

She brings ambrosia salad now for the potluck, meat coupons, trades them for canned goods coupons, nylons.

These coupons will be phased in the coming years.

But for now, still of value and she finds sneaky ways to give more than she receives.

Ray's farm provides the majority of their meat, their vegetables.

His position exempts them from sugar rations, gasoline rations.

Very well off are they, not like some of the others.

And so Livy finds ways . . .

". . . whole points!"

"Oh, are you sure?"

"Absolutely! But I'll need a new pie recipe to try out, what do you say?"

"Well, I suppose my . . . pumpkin would be alright . . ."

"Sounds delightful, thank you!"

. . . to give unto others.

And she learns that it is the togetherness, the warmth, and welcoming that is the point of these trivial conversations.

". . . bewitched men with her voice. She also used magical potions and mixtures to drug them, control them."

Not the actual conversations themselves that truly matter, necessarily.

"See, these Greeks, they knew the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, isn't that right, Gale!"

Though Livy thinks her mother would be secretly proud of her growing storytelling prowess.

"What else did this . . . Circe . . . do, Livy?"

And the passing on some of the more positive family traditions.

Of the daring, darling Dunne ladies . . .

"Well . . ."

. . . of distant Denver.

As time passes and the boys grow, there is more to do.

And less.

And Livy Singleton, ever industrious and resourceful and history-passionate, finds ways to fill it.

Visitors come to the house every so often.

"Appointments" she sets with them. To come to see what she has procured.

To see what they might have interest in.

Private collectors, historical society members.

Curates of Colorado museums.

To see her artifacts, her treasures.

The things she and her family have unearthed around the hundred and sixty acre farmland that surrounds them.

The ancient things.

The forgotten things.

Some things these visitors take, add to collections to be kept safe for future generations to peruse, to pore over, to wonder over.

The past, no longer forgotten.

The past, kept in respectful care by those so fascinated by it.

They sit and muse and they discuss and they abide.

Politely partake of her offered refreshments.

And then they thank her.

Take their chosen items, if there are any.

And go.

Forward.

Into the . . .

"Did you have a good day today?"

"I did. Mr. Tennant came by. He was very interested in the arrowheads we found over in the east field."

"Oh. That's nice."

. . . awaiting future.

Dear Livy,

It is colder and windier here in the winter in Chicago, more than anywhere I have ever been.

But Roosevelt University has accepted both Florrie and I in the name of 'promoting equality in higher education and a more democratic approach to learning'.

I work in the library in the evenings and Florrie in the college commissary.

Hopefully one day, you will be receiving letters from Bachelor of English Literature Professor Rose Mahara.

Florrie has met a man, he also works in the commissary in the evenings and though she declares she is here for her studies, I still worry for her and her future going astray.

Thank you for the picture of your family, your boys look just like their father.

Take care and please write soon.

Your friend,

Rose

And always, always, at the end of every day, no matter the blessings or turmoils they face, the victories or trials they address, Olivia nee Dunne and Raymond Singleton, remember to smile, embrace, even if sometimes only briefly.

And strengthen . . .

"I love you, Ray."

"I love you too, Livy."

. . . their most important bond.

Because it is . . .

"Would you like to . . . stay up tonight?"

"I'm awful tired, if that's alright."

"Of course. I love you. Sleep well."

"I love you too."

. . . their most important bond.

". . . blessing, Livy?"

For as long as they both shall live.

"Amen."