The Well and the Mine Read Online Free Page A

earning a man’s paycheck.

    Leta I USUALLY WOKE UP A MINUTE OR TWO BEFORE THE rooster crowed. I hated that rooster, and many a morning I thought of twisting his neck and turning him into soup. That little bit of meanness shoved at me and got me out of bed. My braid was long enough to twist into a bun and I could sleep on it without it coming loose, but I’d usually sleep with my hair completely down. Albert had a foolish liking of how it covered my pillow. I obliged him, even though I’d wake in the middle of the night and have to yank at my hair and push at my husband to get free of his weight. Before my feet hit the floor, I was plaiting it again, twisting it into a bun, and grabbing a pin from the nightstand to hold it in place.
    My green housedress hung in the wardrobe, and I slipped it on without a sound louder than cotton sliding against skin. Albert stirred at the splash of water from the pitcher hitting the porcelain basin. Spring and summer, he’d sleep past me, not needing to build the fire to warm the room before the children woke. I washed my face, patted it dry with the towel, fingering a hole that needed to be patched. I hated using the pot on the porch unless I couldn’t wait—instead, I stopped at the outhouse on my way to feed the animals.
    Opening the door softly, I walked the eight steps to the kitchen without needing a light. The stove fire was my doing. I stoked it, then drew a bucket of water to fill the girls’ pitcher so they’d have fresh water for their faces. But instead of taking it to their dressing table, I poured it into the stove reservoir. Albert would lay there another ten minutes, and the children would sleep until the rooster crowed, probably another thirty minutes, about 5:30. I didn’t ask the girls to help me with breakfast—it gave Albert and me a few minutes, a little silence before even the sun joined us. His coffee—tasted like poison to me—would be ready by the time he dragged himself over to his chair by the stove. I preferred to work by firelight in the kitchen instead of turning on the overhead bulb. Electricity’s too harsh for early morning. Even the sun knows to start gentle. After I got the fire built in the belly of the stove, I measured out the grounds and set the coffee on to boil.
    Albert walked in while I was kneading the biscuit dough, flour up to my elbows, fingers grasping and pressing. Flip, punch, mash mash. Flip, punch, mash mash.
    “Never understand how you do that in the dark,” he said from just behind me. He tucked a stray hair behind my ear.
    “Same way you know your way round Number eleven.” I nodded toward the fire. “And it ain’t dark.”
    I knew without looking that he’d picked up the girls’ pitcher where I’d left it on the table, planning on filling their washbowl himself, and I caught his arm when he stepped toward the porch. “Take it from the reservoir,” I said, pointing him toward the stove.
    He looked puzzled, then nodded and walked over to the side compartment of the stove where the water heated. It couldn’t have been too hot yet, but I felt better for making the effort.
    “Ain’t no need to heat the water,” he said. “It ain’t gone bad.” But I only handed him a dipper, and he went on. By the time he came back from the bedroom, the coffee on the stove was boiling. I pulled his coffee cup from the cabinet and poured over the sink, with the heat from the cup warming my fingers as the brew rose to the top. Just a ground or two floating. Black as night, so hard looking it didn’t seem right that a spoon could move through it.
    “Must taste like coal,” I said under my breath, stopping up the pot’s spout with a bit of cloth and setting it back on the stove to keep warm.
    “Coffee?” He took a sip, smiled, and closed his eyes as he leaned back. “No, ma’am. Tastes like daylight.”
    Since I was twelve, I could make biscuits in five minutes flat. My oldest sister taught me, and it took me a while to get