Clay's Quilt Read Free Page A

just for a little while.”
    Clay’s house was so close to the water’s edge that when the river rose in spring, the stilts under the porch stood right in the water. He liked the splash of the river and the night things that gathered there: katydids and crickets, frogs and cicadas. At night the smell of the river overtook his house. It smelled of everything it had passed on its way to him. It smelled of homes with families in them; of girls that sat in stiff chairs, painting their toenails and dreaming of far-off places; of boys who skipped rocks on the river’s surface to break up moonlight. The river at night carried the scent of untamed mountains and long, cool fields where dew settled first and sunlight hit last in the mornings.
    Clay pulled off his muddy boots and placed them beside the mat. On the porch, he slipped down his jeans and stood in his underwear a minute, stretching with bones popping. The air wasmomentarily cool against his bare skin. He ran his hand over his tight chest and felt the grit of coal dust on his palm.
    He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and stepped into the shower, using the hottest water he could stand. He let the water sting the top of his head while he drank the beer down. He crushed the can with one hand and sat it on the edge of the tub, then watched coal dust gather and disappear down the silver drain. He washed slowly, feeling the hot water open up his skin. He closed his eyes and let the water pound his face, tap at his eyelids. It was his birthday, and that always set him to thinking far too much.
    E ASTER RAN THE can opener around the top of the salmon can, drained it in a steady stream down the sink, cracked an egg, splashed it out across the fish, crushed up crackers in her pink hands, and cut up a whole onion, all in a matter of seconds. She mashed it all together with her hands, smoothing it and moving it around until she had a round patty that sizzled and popped when she slid it into the skillet full of hot grease. Steam rose as she took the lid off the potatoes. She moved the spatula under them fast, flipped them over, and replaced the lid.
    Easter did everything quickly. She moved her arms fast and forcibly. When she wiped off a counter, she pushed down on the rag with her full strength.
    She had devoted all of her time to her home since she finally quit her job at the school lunchroom last year. Sometimes, Easter walked slowly from room to room in her house, admiring what all she had. She ran her hands over the furniture, stroked a photograph, folded her arms and studied her home. Her granny used to say, “We’ve always been poor as Job’s turkey and most likely always will be.” Easter was amazed at how well they had all done for themselves.
    Easter didn’t like to leave her house, even to go into town. On Saturday night, she and El went to Black Banks to shop and always stopped at the Root Beer Stand for a foot-long and a peanut butter milkshake. Besides that, she hardly went anywhere but church. Easter was the lead singer there, and her voice was known throughout the county. People drove from all over to gather at the Free Creek Pentecostal Church on Saturday nights, when they had all-night singings. On Sunday nights, sinners that lived near the church sat out on their porches in the evening just so they could hear her voice float down the valley to them.
    She had gotten up at daylight this morning and cooked El a big breakfast before he left for the road again. He was a truck driver for Appalachian Freight, gone for five-day stretches. As soon as he had lit out, she had lit into the house, cleaning it even though it didn’t need it. Then she started in on Clay’s favorite meal for his birthday.
    Sometimes Easter looked at Clay and felt like lying down on her bed and crying her eyes out. He was just like his mother, up and down. Some of that was not good, in Easter’s eyes. Anneth had been wild, maybe the wildest woman in