Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/107

 he thought mechanically, certain that those had been her exact words.

It had been fun fixing the place. Hanging paper, putting curtains over the small glass panes, painting the woodwork. They had even hung a new door on the outside privy. He remembered her words.

"Darling," she had said one afternoon, "that sack looks awful … let's put a door in its place."

"Then we'll have to open and shut it," he had grinned back. But the new door had been added.

He recalled her saying, "Darling, don't squeeze me so tight. Remember?"

She stood there in his vision, a travesty of the slim willowy girl he had possessed … the girl who was soon to become the mother of his son. It would be a boy … it had to be.

While she was pregnant, he had been going out quite a bit, playing poker with "the boys." In fact, he had been on a spree the night his son had been born. He had rushed to the hospital soon afterwards. She had been kind and sweet and when she had told him the name she had selected and asked if he liked it, he had answered in the affirmative.

Then suddenly he had hit. He had bought an oil lease very cheaply and it had rewarded him with a big profit. He bought more. Each one turned out just a little better than the past ones. He was on his way.

Clayton and Carol Le Claire had arrived in Cotton with their son, unknown to many in the sleepy town; but that was before he had drilled a well close by … a well that had gushed in, the best producer in the county. After that the Le Claires were well established.

From the big chair, Le Claire looked at the ceiling, at the rich draperies, at the room's expensive furniture. Gosh, Mom, I wish you were alive … I wish you were here so I could give you …

He thought of a face darkly tranquil in the Louisiana earth. He recalled in a clear vision the living face of his mother, Marguerite Le Claire. And with this vision, there came to him, like a sound of cool stillness, the events of his days in Louisiana. The old days came back; the days of his childhood on the low, swampy lands of his home. Clearly, he saw his mother bending over an ironing board. She smiled 97