The Magic of Ordinary Days Read Free Page A

“We have the car parked nearby. Quite a little drive ahead of us,” he said with the smile that now I remembered. Although they shared the same profession, Reverend Case’s face and expressions lacked the hard edge that marked my father. While in Denver for the yearly conference, he had stayed in our guest room and had tolerated the spying games and antics of three young girls. Twelve years ago, even then I had wondered how this gentle man could have once been a close friend to my father. Or had my father perhaps been softer in his youth?
    â€œDo we need to use the station services?” he asked me.
    I nodded. “Please pardon me.”
    In the ladies’ room, I removed my hat and pinned away feathers of hair that had escaped from the French twist hairstyle Bea had assisted me to put up for my special occasion. I checked my suit jacket from neck to waist, straightened my skirt, and smoothed out the lines that had creased my hem from hours of sitting in one place. And I regretted that because of rationing, I hadn’t been able to purchase nylons to wear.
    This man, Ray Singleton, didn’t look anything like my sisters’ husbands, but then again, I didn’t look like my sisters. My body was lean and firm over the bones, not the sort that had ever lent itself to wolf whistles or men’s admiring comments.
    I pulled out my compact and powdered my nose. I ran the puff three times over the birthmark above my upper lip, which softened its color. But until I started to pin the hat back in place on my head, until I began dropping hatpins that clinked and bounced on the concrete flooring, until I crouched down to retrieve the pins, I hadn’t noticed what I’d done to my shoes. On the train, I’d crossed the heels of my pumps over each other so many times that I’d worn ruts into the leather.

Two

    Upon my return, Reverend Case advised Mr. Singleton to carry my suitcase, and then he led us to his aged DeSoto motorcar, a square-looking vehicle with balding tires and torn seats. I sat on the front bench seat beside Reverend Case, and Mr. Singleton sat directly behind me.
    Just as a troop train was steaming into the station, we pulled away and headed east on the two-lane dirt and gravel road out of La Junta toward Las Animas, passing through the rural, nearly flat farmlands of the Arkansas River Valley. I’d come here once before, on a field trip to the old Bent’s Fort, arguably the most important trading post in U.S. history, but hadn’t taken much notice of the surroundings. With the windows down and the wind taking those loose hairs out from underneath my hat again, I gazed out at land that appeared more akin to Kansas than to the state that boasted the highest mountains on the mainland. We passed by straight rows of fields irrigated by canals, herds of cattle in numerous shades of brown and black, and shallow livestock ponds. How different from the clipped campus of the university where I had spent so much of my time before leaving to care for my mother. Reverend Case kept up a running description of every well, farm, and outbuilding we passed along the way.
    â€œNow, Olivia, you should know this. The Singletons,” he said, nodding toward the man in the backseat, “have some of the best acreage in all of Otero County. Held it in the same family since the homesteading days. Isn’t that right, Ray?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    The reverend smiled and nodded to himself as he continued. “Out here we grow sugar beets, vegetables, and a bit of grains. And what with the war going on, farmers are held in highest regard.” He tapped the steering wheel with the heel of one hand and glanced my way. “No gasoline shortages for farmers. They get all they want. Right, Ray?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œFarming,” the reverend said. “Feeding hungry mouths.” He wrapped his hand around the steering wheel now and nodded. “It’s a