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Title: The wheel of earth

Author: Helga Sandburg

Release date: March 4, 2026 [eBook #78102]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: McDowell, Obolensky, 1958

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78102

Credits: Adam Buchbinder, Jens Sadowski, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHEEL OF EARTH ***

THE WHEEL OF EARTH

the wheel of earth

HELGA

SANDBURG

McDOWELL OBOLENSKY

Copyright © 1958 by Helga Sandburg

All Rights Reserved under Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions. Published in New York by McDowell, Obolensky Inc., and in the Dominion of Canada by George J. McLeod Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 58-6506

Second Printing

Manufactured in the United States of America by American Book-Stratford Press, Inc., New York

Designed by Alfred Manso

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks are given to Archibald MacLeish for permission to reprint his poem, “What Must,” and to the Folklore Section of the Music Division, Library of Congress, for the use of their reference collection and their Archive of American Folklore.

Acknowledgments are made to the following for permission to reprint lyrics:

K-K-K-KATY by Geoffrey O’Hara. Copyright 1918/Copyright Renewal 1945 LEO FEIST INC. Used by Special Permission Copyright Proprietor.

FIVE FOOT TWO, EYES OF BLUE (Has Anybody Seen My Girl?). Lyric by Sam Lewis and Joe Young, Music by Ray Henderson. Copyright 1925/Copyright Renewal 1953 LEO FEIST INC. Used by Special Permission Copyright Proprietor.

THE MUSIC GOES ’ROUND AND ROUND. Reprinted by permission of the Copyright Owners, JOY MUSIC INC. 1619 Broadway, New York, N. Y. Copyright 1935. All Rights Reserved.

THE TURTLE DOVE. Copyright 1953 Burl Ives and published by Ballantine Books, N. Y.

Nine Songs from THE GOLDEN BOOK OF FAVORITE SONGS. Published by Schmitt, Hall & McCreary Co., Minneapolis, Minn.

To

A. D. G.

contents

part one

1

part two

117

part three

197

part four

287

part five

363

THE WHEEL OF EARTH

part one

We lay beneath the alder tree

Her breast she leaned upon my hand

The alder leaf moved over me

The sun moved over on the land

Her mouth she pressed upon my mouth

I felt the leaf beat in her breast

I felt the sun move in her hair

But nearer than the leaf the sun

I felt the love go deep in me

That has no season in the earth

That has no time of spring or birth

That cannot flower like a tree

Or like one die

but only be

1

Ellen Gaddy was gathering tart stunted June apples into a peck basket. Drifts of cloud were passive in the blue dome above, where hawks were wheeling. The late afternoon sun was warm on her tanned neck. The dog came up barking, stood close to her, tongue slavering, eager. She patted him and he went to curl under a tree. “There, Jack.” He was half shepherd, sensible in the ways of the farm. Ellen was his choice among the humans so he was restless apart. His limpid eyes were fixed on her as she hunted in the tall grass. Her hands were small and coarse, and in wiping sweat from her face she had left careless dark streaks. She was sixteen, the cups of her breasts hung firm, her belly was small. She wore her yellow hair in braids. Her mouth was facile, somewhat obstinate, and her forehead was high, its creamy texture darkened by the season’s sun. A tiger swallowtail like a falling yellow leaf was drifting by. She sighed to it, “Bear me good news.”

The old brook that fed the farm’s pond was near the orchard. Pebbles lying in the uneasy clear water were glossed, tangled twigs and leaves were forced downstream in complaining whirlpools, marsh grasses along the bank strove for footing in the cruel plashing current. Ellen was shaking tree branches, the fruit rattling about her. Today Penny was due to drop her kid. She had looked it up in the almanac. Gestation Table, She-Goat, 151 days. The kid will follow me, making small noises, wanting to play.

A question of smoke was rising from the yellow farmhouse over the hill, set among black gums, hackberries and locusts. The red barn and outlying sheds held the crest of the rise, settling more firmly with each passing year. Occasionally Anton Gaddy, Ellen’s father, must shore up a door frame or strengthen a sagging rafter, but the buildings would stand long after the people. The barn had been hammered together with hand-cut nails and wood pegs by Ellen’s grandfather in 1870. Some of the outbuildings had been raised in 1846 by his father, a Frenchman who had homesteaded this tract in the year of the Irish potato famine. Back of the yellow house, crowded about by dayflower weeds, were two beehives that would mount tall in summer as the hive supers, one at a time, were stacked upon those laden with combs of honey. There too lay rows of vegetables that Ellen and her younger sister, Frankie, kept clean. Maria Gaddy, their mother, never undertook outdoor chores unless the day were pale or clouded, for she had been sun-struck ten years ago, in 1915, “I dassn’t go out but for Sunday mass,” Maria would claim; “it makes me queer to feel the sun.”

In the valley below the hill was the orchard where Ellen was gleaning apples. Back of it stretched the small woods, where gray squirrels were hunting wild berries and mushrooms. They did this daily in the span of hours from sunrise until mid-morning, and from mid-afternoon until sunset. And overhead red-shouldered hawks would circle, sharp eyes searching branches and boles. A large male squirrel was aware now of a vixen fox crouched in hunger below his tree limb. His black eyes glittered and he lifted his paws, prating at her. He forgot his foes in the sky for a moment. The long wings of a wheeling hawk folded, like a stone it dropped. Ellen raised her gray eyes, watching it rise from the woods, prey dangled in its talons. The other hawks were screaming, “Kee-yoo. Kee-yoo!”

Ellen’s mind was on her young goat. She had warned her, “Now don’t walk under the horses’ heads or for a fact you’ll go eleven months.” Sam Offut had told her that. “So they warn a ooman with child hereabouts, Ellie. See, it takes a mare that long to have a foal and she’s got a power in her when she’s carrying.” Ellen didn’t believe him—Sam told many tales. Penny’s time was up and she was seeking a place to drop it. This morning Ellen had seen that her tail was sunken so there were sockets on either side, and the young sagged low. “There. Maybe she’s freshening now.” Ellen snatched the two baskets of June apples, running in her long skirt through high grass into a new-turned field, up the hill toward the barn. Her bare feet sank into the red soil leaving huge tracks. The dog was yapping, caught in the game.

In a corner of the woodshed she had made a stall, nailing bars and hanging a gate with a latch that the goat could not open. It blatted as she set down her baskets and opened the gate. She knelt beside it in the wheat straw to feed it an apple. Her father’s hired girl, Penny Dougherty, had given her the brown animal, then but a yearling, before going away last summer. Ellen had named it after the girl. It slobbered, chewing on the crisp fragrant fruit. Then it snuffed her forehead and ear, began to lick her face, making soft stuttering sounds. Ellen ran her hand along the curves of the slender horns. It shook its fine-boned head. She stroked the beard. “Say, I’d love a little doe, Penny.”

Ever since Penny Dougherty went away Ellen would sit talking to the namesake goat. Her father had hired Penny last summer to help his wife during a sick spell. Then Penny had left them, married Luke Dougherty, gone to the town of Weems Crossroads way off in Illinois. Because she sang so much, Anton Gaddy had dubbed Penny “that roaring ooman.” But Ellen had grieved over the end to the short friendship. She would sing the songs she had picked up from Penny, gay tunes, meaningless, and lengthy ballads that told of sudden death and unfulfilled love.

I dreamed of my true love last night

All in my arms I had her

Her yellow hair like strands of gold

Came rolling down my pillow

Ellen was lonely. Her mother gave her small heed. Her father, as well. He had turned from her at birth, waiting for a son. Then when Ellen’s sister had been born and Anton learned from his wife that she would be barren thereafter, he named the baby Frankie, and fastened himself upon it forthwith. His voice was heard now, overriding the gentle tune, “Girl, where you at? You got the apples? It’s time to feed.”

“Coming, Pa.” At the corncrib she took an armful of ears and shelling them, fed a flock of ducks and geese, the first of her chores each late afternoon. They were free to roam the barnyard, making nests and raising young at will. One wing was clipped every so often to keep them in the safety of the yard. Heads bobbing, the fowl were shoveling the grain with flat bills. The white ducks made a nasal chatter, a gray gander lowered its head and wove its long neck like a snake, hissed and raised its wings at Ellen. “Don’t you squall at me.”

She kept back one ear of corn, went to the plowed field she had raced through earlier. There she gave a call and from the pond came an answering beat of wings. A Muscovy duck was flying up the hill. It circled Ellen, flapping to a halt at her feet, gathering its wings. Its red-wattled head was cocked to one side. She scattered the corn. “Why don’t you come to the barnyard and be tamed, you wild one?” It was watching her with a wary eye, eating the yellow grain greedily.

She looked off at the Kentucky farmland stretched before her. Orange clouds were assembling behind the brush line of tiny trees. The square fields were hemstitched with stone walls and rail fences. Near the barnyard a black gum was rearing gaunt limbs. When a crested redbird’s dark silhouette dipped through the fragrant orange air into its ragged branches, she was shaken by the sudden beauty. She turned quickly, saying to the feeding duck, “I don’t know. Seems I hate every enduring thing.”

She fed chickens that congregated in the stony yard. She filled their water bucket from the pump, watched the speckled hens dip their beaks and up their heads to let the water run down. She collected brown eggs in a fold of her dress, from boxes nailed along the cobwebbed wall. A hen pecked her wrist as she reached under it for heated eggs. The bird’s breast was hot, bare where it had plucked feathers to line its nest. “You’re broody. Sam’ll put you under the pump to break you up.”

She went up the stairs to the farm kitchen and counted the eggs into a basket. “The hens are laying good, Ma. I’m just one short of four dozen. I’ll trade them tomorrow at Love’s store.”

Maria Gaddy was turning from the stove. “I allow you can get me a length of lace too, Ellie. I need a new collar for mass. My old one’s sleazy.”

Ellen’s mother wore her gray-streaked hair in a tight knot. Her body was warped and thin and stiff. It had turned from what it might have been. Her breasts were flattened and she had swathed herself in a long-sleeved, high-necked print dress that came to her ankles. Her stockings were wrinkled above run-down button shoes. Maria lived in continual retreat. She had been given to her husband with the awesome dowry of fifteen hundred dollars. With it Anton had bought his rights to this farm from his only living brother, Garland. Maria spoke now, “Go get some new water, girl.”

* * *

Ellen emptied the blue-enameled pail into the sink. The kitchen was roomy. There was a kerosene stove for summer use and a huge range for winter heat and cooking. A black-painted iron sink stood at the side away from the windows. There was no running water but a drainpipe took away the waste. Fresh water was supplied by a well a hundred feet from the house, to which Ellen went. She drank from the dipper before returning. The family was proud that the water from this well was always sweet and cold. At the windowed end of the kitchen was a long table of red oak that had been dressed with ax and adz long ago by Anton’s father, Jules. The surface was whitened from lye-scrubbing, uneven from the years’ wear. On it was a blue dish of poplar honey, a bowl of salt, a milkglass jar of knives, forks and spoons stacked handles down. A pantry was adjacent to the kitchen, where staples were kept—sacks of flour and meal, curd cheeses that hung in cloths from the rafters, milk that stood in pans and jars to be skimmed, and cream that ripened in a churn. More supplies were stored in the cellar. There dusty shelves were holding jars of jelly, jam, ketchup, honey, red and yellow tomatoes, chard and collard greens, peaches, fried chicken and beef. On the lower shelves were tins of lard. From the ceiling dangled strings of dried apples and quinces. On the dirt floor of a bin, potatoes left from fall softened and rotted in the musty darkness. Root crops of salsify and parsnips lay neglected.

* * *

From the parlor came the familiar sound of Frankie practicing the piano, scales and exercises rippling. Ellen carried a can of kerosene from the porch where Sam had placed it to the parlor to replenish the lamps. Over the fireplace a velvet cloth was framed, on it depicted the Golgotha crucifixion in brilliant primary colors. An overstuffed sofa, Maria’s knitting basket at the end, was along one wall. The chairs included a doweled high-backed rocker. A round table bore on its lace-covered surface statuettes of the Virgin Mary and Joseph, a worn Bible, a lamp with painted forget-me-nots trimming the bowl, besides dog-eared farm journals, the 1925 Farmer’s Comprehensive Almanac, and a silver-banded reading glass. Braided rugs were scattered over the oak floor, once smoothed with broadax. On a wall was a tinted daguerreotype of a stunted wiry man with heavy chin and thick lips, Jules Gaddy. Beside him posed his red-haired wife Nell, whose long face, high forehead and determined mouth resembled her granddaughter Ellen’s. While Jules had been rearing this house, the couple had lived in an outbuilding that now served for a pigstall. Back of the piano hung a representation of the bleeding Sacret Heart. Nell Gaddy had placed it in that spot long years ago, saying to Jules, “Now there, little feist, it’ll stay.”

Frankie was lifting her hands from the keys, watching Ellen pour the coal oil. She swung her pointed boots as she sat at the bench, pursing her lips. “I’m making believe folks are swooning, Ellie. Because that piece I played was so good.” Frankie was fifteen. Her red hair fell silken on her shoulders, her blue eyes were mild.

“I declare, Frankie, you’re biggity. Go get washed. Pa’ll be in.”

The family were sitting to supper then, making the sign of the cross. Anton pronounced grace. When his daughters had been little, Anton had instructed them on the mealtime prayer. Once he said to Frankie, “Tonight you make the grace, Poppet.” But Frankie had lisped a rhyme she picked up in the parochial school.

Beans, beans, the musical fruit

The more you eat the more you toot

Anton roared and the family had to get to their knees on the kitchen floor to ask the Lord God’s pardon for the blasphemy. Frankie had thrown up her supper later while Anton was talking to her. “You be a sinner, child. And the evil way and the froward mouth do I hate. So it’s said in the Bible.”

“Oh yes, Pa,” she had mewed like a kitten.

On their plates now they were piling garden greens cooked with fatback and then mixed with scrambled eggs. And chunks of beef from a platter, and green onions and radishes. They spread pot cheese on beaten biscuits, drank buttermilk kept cold in the old dry well beside the porch and pulled up at the last minute to set on the table. All the milk from their herd of cows went to the dairy for a monthly check, except a three-gallon can put aside daily for Maria’s needs. She set it out in pans for cream and made cheeses from the skimmed milk. The hogs got the whey mixed with scraps and middlings and dishwater. Anton would hold his fork in his left hand, pushing the food with a knife. But the two sisters copied their mother, forks held in the right. So Maria’s mam had told her the woman should eat.

“You make the butter up tonight, Ellie,” Maria was saying, “and take it along with the eggs tomorrow. I’ll give you some cheeses to trade, too. My last batch turned out proud.”

“I will, Ma.”

After supper, Ellen carried the churn of soured cream onto the steps. She turned the crank until butter came together in a lump. She poured the buttermilk into a stone jar and walked out to the well, the churn on one arm, the wood bowl and paddle on the other. The sun was beginning to set in a wash of red sky. She paused while it slipped distorted behind the trees. The sky was fading. A subdued light prevailed of twilight. Ellen sighed, torn by a vague melancholy. She was saying to the dog, “Seems I ne’er been so contented. And did you see that sign in the west? Good crop weather.” She pumped water into the churn, turned the dasher until the water that drained off appeared fresh drawn. Then she worked the butter with the paddle, folding and pressing. She spoke as if disputing with someone, “I love butter that’s made up proper.” One at a time bats that were peering restless from the loft of the barn across the way launched out and downward after night insects, then swerved into the treetops. Soon the air was busy with their bodies darting and zig-zagging and their squeaking high-pitched like mice. A cow lowed in the barnyard as it was kneeling, the alarm cry of a cock sounded as it was crowded off its roost, a gander hissed at a female barn rat that slunk along the wall.

Ellen returned to the kitchen, to press chunks of butter into a daisy mold and wrap the half-pound forms in sheets of brown paper. She carried them to the dry well and pulling up the bucket, packed them in and lowered it down to the cold region. Whenever she came out of doors, Jack would rise and follow her. When she returned to the house, he curled in the cool under the bushes.

She went into the parlor. A lamp was lit, the family sat in their accustomed places. Maria was knitting rapidly; the wood needles made dull clicks. She moved her lips occasionally, her eyes glancing sidewise. Anton’s squat figure dominated the room. He was smoking his nightly pipe, a farm journal unopened on his lap. Frankie brought him a terrarium she had made. In a glass bowl, a collection of bits of mosses and stones and a broken piece of mirror formed a minute scene. “Mandy York made one for her pa,” Frankie was telling him. “I noticed how it was done.”

The man’s heart beat strongly. “I’ll think a heap of it, Poppet. I’ll set it in the window of the bedroom where it’s shady.”

Ellen was leafing through the Bible. “Proverbs says here there are three things stately in their march, the lion and the greyhound and the he-goat. Hear that, Pa? It says the he-goat also.” No one looked her way. There were only the whispers of Anton drawing his pipe and Frankie polishing the glass bowl and Maria’s busy needles. Ellen dropped the book on the table abruptly. “Reckon I’ll go take a bath.”

In the half-dark kitchen she filled a kettle. She lit the kerosene burner and went to stand on the porch while it was heating. The meadows were flecked with fireflies, and along the stone foundations of the old house soft shadows sulked. Ellen was leaning against the porch rail. The summer dusk seeped through her nostrils, warming her blood unreasonably, almost to sadness. She took the tin wood-bottomed tub from its nail, went to the pump for more water. She threw her clothes aside, washed quickly, using the jellied homemade lye soap from the crock. She dried with a white towel from the porch clothesline. Dumping the water into the bushes and returning the tub to its hook, she ran naked up the dark stairs.

She shared the room at the head with her sister. The beds would stand in the center of the floor in winter, away from drafty corners. In summer they were moved to opposite ends, each under a small gable window. A trunk held schoolbooks, Catholic missals, rosaries and childhood miscellany. They folded their clothes into a low chest and hung their dresses from a pole under the slanted ceiling. She closed the door swiftly, breathing as though pursued. She knelt on the bed, arms on the open window sill. The moon was emerging as though pushed from the womb of a laboring earth. When Ellen put a hand up she felt tears on her cheeks, wondered at them. “Reckon I can’t bear for there to be such a fine sight.”

She was turning and groping in the chest for a nightgown. “Seems Pa always favors Frankie o’er me. Some way.” Soon she was sleeping. The moon without became canescent and utterly fair. Its colorless light coming through the window made sharp corners soft. It was like a pale rug on the girl.

She awoke from a dreamless sleep. “I nearly slept through.” She was putting on a dress, in haste. Jack, snuffling and leaping, met her at the door. She lit a lantern that hung from a bent nail, and ran barefoot toward the barnyard. A blank disk of moon was squatting above twisted trees. She stumbled over dry roots in the path and the lantern handle clanged, the sound harping on the night. In the woodshed she held the light high. The goat was in the corner by the wall, down in travail. She bleated to Ellen, who hooked the lantern on a rafter peg and opened the gate. The animal was straining again. The dog whined. Ellen turned on him. “Be still and lie down, Jack.”

The water bag appeared and burst. The doe staggered to her feet, trembling, head down, beard drooping. Uttering quick noises she was licking Ellen’s hand. Then she pawed the ground, urgent, folded her forelegs and went down again as the contractions came on. The nose of the kid appeared, a row of lower teeth visible through a filmy sack. It retreated, then appeared again. A foot came in sight beside the head. The doe bawled. “Holy Virgin,” Ellen was whispering, “help my dear.”

Penny arched her back, threw herself on her side with a guttural sound. Ellen grasped the forefoot, pulling until the leg and bulge of head emerged. Then of a sudden, the kid was slipping out in a pool, mouth gasping. With straw Ellen wiped the clinging mucus from its nostrils, gathered up the struggling limp body and placed it by Penny’s head. The dam began to clean it. Ellen looked under a caul-wet leg. “There. It’s what I wanted, a doe.” A thin wail stabbed the air as the kid protested Penny’s thorough cleansing. “I’ll run get your mash now.”

Ellen took the lantern and sped down the pathway spraying the darkness with yellow light. The dog ran after her. “Now I have three of my own, counting you, Jack.” She mixed wheat bran with hot water and molasses. When she returned with it, she was brought to a halt at the pen door. Another kid had been born, a white buckling. The brown first-born doe was already staggering on its legs. Tiny cries were crisscrossing and cutting the night. Penny was standing over the kids, chewing on a mass of discarded placenta, her pattern fulfilled for the moment. When the pan of mash was held out, she scooped it with her jaws, burying her nose in the sweetened food. And Ellen, rubbing the newborn twins with dry straw, was eased in a measure of her longings.

2

Mist was steaming up from the land before the hot ball of sun would drag through. Ellen was carrying the fluffy brown kid to the kitchen to show the family. “This is the least one. Penny doesn’t know I robbed her of it. She’s busy eating.” Ellen stood the kid on the floor. It looked about, gave a sidewise spring into the air, cocking its head, waggish. It leaped again, pattering on stiff hoofs to Maria who pulled at her apron and drew back with a low noise. “Oh look, Ma. She’s so pretty. If I hadn’t been there last night she might have died.”

“Haw. That’s what you claim,” Anton said. “They get born all the same.”

Frankie had relaxed, seeing her father was in favorable mood. She let the yeanling suck on her finger, stooping over it. “Say.”

“Don’t you want to hold her, Ma?” Ellen insisted. She knew it worried Maria if an animal was in the house; on cold nights she would slip downstairs to take Jack up to bed, creeping down again to let him out early. But this wasn’t the same as a dog for its breath was gently perfumed and it cried like a bird. “Come on, Ma.”

“Fetch the little thing away, Ellie. I don’t want hit to touch me. I can’t abide the fur against me.”

Anton supported her. “Your ma’s right. Hit belongs at the barn with the nanny. Your chores redded up, girl?”

“I did them real early.” Ellen was cradling the kid in her arms; she carried it to its dam at the woodshed. As she was going back to the house, she saw her father ahead on the path, striding from the barn. He shouted over his shoulder to Sam and continued his way to where Frankie was waiting on the steps. He was cutting the end from a twist of dark red tobacco leaves with his knife. He was clad in everyday garb, faded blue overalls and black sateen shirt.

Anton Gaddy was still winter-fat; by fall he would be lean. He was a short thick-set man. His flewed lips hung loose, his chin was long and heavy-jawed. When young his head had been heavily red-thatched, now at forty-eight was balding. His face was freckled and the sun already had burned his skin, despite the protection of a straw hat, toward the high bronze he would wear all summer. He was one of three brothers born and raised on this farm. He possessed it fiercely as he did all he made his own. In a similar fashion his mother had once ruled, driving her husband and denying her two youngest sons that the eldest might prosper. She had sent this favorite, Marc, to college to fulfill her plans for him. But he had run away, disappeared. Then she was notified he had died, and she had brought back the body. This son’s failure had broken Nell Gaddy. When Anton would think about his mother he sometimes confused her with the Virgin Mary. After her lingering death his passivity had evolved into violence, his brooding silence into action. He had taken over the farm and bought out his living brother’s share. His father, stringy, worn from a life of toil, had dropped dead behind the team one fall, his passing scarce noted.

“Want to ride the mare out to the rye field, Frankie?” Anton was folding his knife. “You can let the foal run alongside. You can play with it in the daisies and feverfews while I’m mowing.”

Sam was bringing up the horses, the bay mare Moll, and Blueberry, the buckskin gelding. A six-week colt trotted alongside, shy at the noise of harness on its dam.

“All right, Pa.” Frankie nodded and went toward the team. Her slight form in the shapeless green dress was moving listless.

“Pa,” Ellen said. “I’m going to Love’s now. I’d be glad to get you somewhat.”

“You can pick up two-three plugs for me. Get Brown Mule.”

“I will, Pa.” At the well she rinsed her face and hands in the rushing stream, ran dripping to the house. She dried with the porch towel and sped upstairs to change her dress.

The crow is black, my love you know

It will surely turn to white

If e’er I do forsake you

Bright day will turn to night

She was taking from its hanger a dress patterned with huge white dots. “It was a sad day for us Gaddys when peddler came to the door with this polka-dot goods that took Ma’s eye. And it purely wears like iron.” She pulled on stockings, laced her shoes, slipped into the long-waisted dress. She unbraided her hair and combed it. She tied it with a string, careless, as she was stepping down to the kitchen.

Maria had packed butter and cheese with the eggs in a big basket. She was calling in her reedy voice from the cellar, “There’s a list on top of the eggs, girl. Trade careful, mind. Watch Grady doesn’t cheat me, for he’ll try.”

Ellen put the list in her pocket.

thred, white and black, elastik, small sack salt and coffee. if enough money, sack sugar small, also tatted lace for sunday collar. cinnamon and clove sticks, pepper and spice for pikles. save back for Mr. Gaddy wants apple baccy. dont you forget. and ask Stacey Love if she has some east. Mine is worn out.

She petted Jack, told him to stay. He sat back on his haunches to watch her swing down the dusty road. Grady Love’s store, on the outskirts of Millville, was two miles away.

Have you seen the green grass

Trampled under foot

Arise and grow again

Oh love it is a killing thing

Did you e’er feel the pain

The sky was blue banners and white. Young breezes were soughing in the trees’ leaves. Her trading basket was light. A mocker-bird was quavering in a cottonwood and ahead a baby rabbit was loping down the side of the clay road. A buggy passed, whirling red dust into eddies. She crossed the plank bridge that spanned the Sweetincreek. Some of the heavy boards were loose and shifted as she walked across, her footsteps hollow. She inspected a group of lanky red flowers on the bank across the ditch. “I don’t even know your name. You got one, you know.” As she started on her way again, she half paused, as though she were losing something precious, quitting a thing but partly experienced. She wandered along, her face dreamy, the basket swinging idle. As if she were seeking something. “Everything, be it bird or flower or star, has a name of its own. No matter how small it be.”

She was nearing a faded frame store, set before a stubbled field of goldenrod and chicory. Out in front were benches where customers whiled away time or waited to hitch a ride on the milk truck going to New Hope or Bethel or away down to Seven Mile Run. Ellen pulled open the screen door and squinted at the dim interior. She entered and rested her basket on the counter. A few flies were snoring lazily in the air. There were open barrels and grimy shelves, and meal, rice, bran, seed, had sifted into the knotholes and poorly joined planks of the puncheon floor. Grady Love, spare-framed, Jay-voiced, bartered with her. “How’s this lace for your ma, Ellen? Seven and a half cents.” Grady had known Ellen all her life. He pitied the poor Gaddy brat and would favor the trade on her side.

“It’s kind of ratty, Mester Love. Haven’t you got a stouter grade?”

She was stowing the spices, lace, tobacco and kitchen goods in her basket. She consulted her list. “Does your wife have some starter yeast to spare? Ma’s bread isn’t rising so good.”

When Grady returned from his quarters in the rear with a cloth-wrapped jar, Ellen was gazing at dusty bolts of yard goods stacked on a shelf. He offered to lift some down. Her wistful fingers lingered over a filmy white cotton with tiny woven points of blue. “I’d love a length of this. What do you name it?”

“That’s dotted Swiss, Ellen.”

“If Pa’ll let me trade some strawberries, would you hold a piece back for me? We’ll be picking soon.”

“Sure, Ellen. You just send word.”

“Bye now, Mester Love.” She took her basket from the counter and pushed open the door. A fluff of cotton was pinned to the wire mesh to keep off flies, but they swarmed in the blaze of sunlight as she went out. Half blinded, she bumped into the hurrying figure of a young man. She was thrown back with such force that she dropped her basket, the contents spilling.

“I’m sorry. Are you hurt, ma’am?” He was grasping her bare arms.

Ellen pushed him from her, confused. “You plaguing bastard.”

She was kneeling, but he was swifter, retrieving the thread spools before her hands could reach them, setting straight the sack of coffee beans, the yeast jar, laughing.

“I never saw you, ma’am, in the sunlight.”

He was fair-complected with ash-blond hair. His eyes were the color of the miniature blue flowers the country folk call innocence. “You’re foreign,” she stammered. “I don’t know your face.”

“I’m the new hand at Brinker’s farm on Sweetincreek Road. I’m Christian Ay. You know of Carl Brinker?”

Dutchman Brinker was a Lutheran and a heathen. When Frankie was in the first grade of the public school, Pa had got in a brush with Brinker over the prayer the youngens recited before class. Pa withdrew Frankie and put her in a parochial school, though it meant the family had to scrimp more.

Ellen was brushing dust from her dress. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Mester. Reckon I’ll get on my way.” Her shoes were gritty with dirt; she was pushing the unkempt hair from her hot cheeks.

“Wait a second. Where do you live? I’m going back down the road.” He was persuasive. “Be glad to give you a lift in the pickup, ma’am.”

“Well.” She accepted and stepped lightly into the high seat of the battered truck. Leaning against the sun-hot leather, she waited while he did his errands. Idly she noted manure clods on the floor and baby shoes dangling by a pair of soiled laces from the dashboard. Musty farm smells permeated the cab.

Then he was back, sliding into the seat and pressing the starter. The motor refused to turn over. “Be just a minute. She likes to be coaxed.” He took a crank from under his feet and jumped down.

“Now, Pa sure would have raised sand,” she whispered to herself.

The motor had caught. He was climbing back while the engine puttered and gasped and the cab shook. He spit on his hand where a fresh cut bled. “Every time that crank slips I slice myself. Can’t get the hang of it somehow. My old man never had a car.” His cheekbones were broad and high, his mouth wide. His laughter was showing even white teeth. These with his tow hair made his face appear darker by contrast than it was. His legs were rather shorter than average, his torso powerful.

“Daddy owns a store in Louisville. It’s like Love’s place only lots bigger.” He made a grimace. “And it’s in the stinking city.”

“I ne’er been to a city yet.”

“Well, they stink. I hate the store. My sister does too.”

“Oh?”

“That Rose. She’s wild to leave, only Daddy won’t let her. They need me too, but I send money every week so they can pay a boy. What a gyp.” The truck was rattling over the bridge. Christian blew his horn at a hound trotting in the center of the road, “Oooo-ga!” It slunk into the weeds of the ditch, nose low. “Once the revenuers came in our place looking for Jake. If you drink too much it’ll kill you. We never sold hooch like some did in back.”

“Pa says Mester Bilberry hired two men who drained the rotted ferment from the bottom of his silo. Till he found out. To get drunk of a Saturday night.” Her voice trailed away.

“Well me, I always wanted to work on a farm. It’s the life.”

“Yes.”

“I’m strong as a bull. Just by luck I got this job. Mr. Brinker’s last man quit and he happened to come by our store. So I wrote him, not thinking I’d get hired.”

“Oh?” Ellen was awkward in her loss of words.

“My sister carried on when I went. She thought she’d get to leave home first. My old man told her he’d tie her up before he’d turn her loose in that sin-ridden city. That’s the way he talks. So I’ve been with Mr. Brinker a month now. Some day I’ll have a farm like his of my own.”

A bump in the road made her clutch the basket on her lap. The little shoes bounced.

“Aren’t they silly? Brinker’s crazy for his kids. Always got the littlest one riding on his shoulders.”

“I’ve got a goat,” Ellen was blurting, “named Penny. She dropped me a pair of kids last night.”

“A nanny? Gosh, Brinkers don’t have a goat. Maybe he’d buy one of yours. His boys could drive it to a wagon. Want me to ask?”

“No, I’d ne’er sell one. See, they’re mine.” She wondered whether this stranger could understand the value in which she held the sloe-eyed beasts.

At the yellow farmhouse Christian halted the truck. Dust was floating disturbed in the air above the beaten roadway. The pattern of the midday sun was weaving and shimmering in the shade of the cottonwoods. “See you, ma’am.” He laughed like he couldn’t help it, like a great joke had come to his mind. “Ellie, that is.”

She made no reply, watched the truck grow small, rumbling toward Brinker’s farm, three miles down the road. She moved to the house. Jack was thrusting his head into her fingers and she stroked it. She smiled as though she understood. “See you, Mester.” She took the cuts of tobacco from among the goods in the basket, slipping them into the pocket of her dress. Maria stood vigilant just within the doorway. “Here’s your basket, Ma.”

“Your dish be setting in the pantry, girl. Soon as you eat, there’s ironing. Hit’s dampened down in yonder basket.” The woman had hung the wash at dawn-dusk, gathered it quickly at mid-morning, wearing an outsize sunbonnet. “This trading sure looks poor, Ellie. Hit pleasures Grady to short me, knowing I can’t go trade myself.”

Ellen went upstairs, came down barefoot. She took her plate from the pantry, ate the fried piece of duck, the boiled potato, curd cheese, biscuits and honey. She was dipping from the blue pail. “I declare this water’s sweet, Ma.”

Maria was sorting the contents of the basket in the pantry. “You ne’er got the pickling spices.”

“There wasn’t enough to trade.”

“Well.”

“I want to stir up a cake this evening, Ma. Can I have white sugar for it?” When their taste for sweets became strong, Ellen and Frankie would ask for store-bought sugar to cook with, although they could get along with sorghum or honey. Flour and meal ground from the farm grain was ready for their use, plentiful as a rule, and drippings and lard, eggs and milk. “I’ll bake that white cake Pa likes.”

“Say,” Maria was frowning. “You remember Mester Gaddy’s tobacco?”

“Yes. I’ll run down to look at my new goats. If Pa’s in the barnyard I’ll give it to him.”

“There’s ironing, girl,” warned Maria. She was holding the new lace in her thin hands.

“I’ll hurry.” Ellen brought an armful of last year’s brown hay and an ear of corn to her goat. “This is all he’ll let me have, Penny. But I’ll gather purple vetch this evening, and before long your yeanlings will be grown enough so you-all can run with the cows.” The doe dug into the corn, using her lower row of teeth against the pad of upper jaw to tear the kernels loose. Her amber pupils stared distant. She seemed oblivious to her young repeatedly butting the new-swelled udder and sucking the moist teats.

“His name’s Christian Ay. Reckon he calls some girl his may? Reckon a man’ll e’er be partial to me, Penny?” She dropped the cob and went to the barnyard. “I don’t see Pa, Jack. And I’ve got to iron.”

In the kitchen she was placing the sadirons on the stove to heat. She brought out the ironing board, patched with bleached feed sacking, and laid it crosswise on the end of the table. She spit on the irons to test them, went about her work with familiar hands. The floor was cool to her dusty feet. Her mind roved to one of the songs she had learned from Penny Dougherty.

All on one summer evening

When the fevers were dawning

I heard a fair maid make a mourn

She was weeping for her father

And grieving for her mother

And thinking all on her true love John

Without the square-paned windows, the musky earth lay under the hand of summer’s sun. Garden rows were in view, rabbits and woodchucks fenced out by a wall of stones that mounted each year as more were turned from the ground. Blooming flowers were crowding outside the barrier, begonias, love-lies-bleeding, marigolds and sunflowers, cranesbills and honesty. Later sweet peas and corn poppies would flower, and nasturtiums and youth-and-old-age. Beyond were nestled the beehives, pale apple-blossom and maple honey already stored in the bottom super. In fall the hives would tower high and the men would rob them, carrying a pan of smoke. The topmost honey would be red-black, taken by the bees from buckwheat blooms. Anton would relish the high flavor, but Ellen would find it turning her stomach, like milk when the cows had eaten wild garlic.

Maria entered the kitchen, set about mixing bread, kneading and thumping the mass of dough on the long table, flour drifting to the floor. “That was good yeast Stacey gave me. It’s raring.”

“Grady said it was new.” Ellen carried starched dresses and folded clothes up to the attic room. She put them away, then combed her hair in front of the oblong mirror that hung on the door. She made her mouth soft. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance.”

She looked down. Her feet were bare, her brown ankles grimy, the dress with the big polka dots was crumpled and her hands were rough. “There. You are an ugly brat.” She flung the door ajar to hide the glass, braided her hair swiftly, binding the ends. Slowly she went down the stairs.

“Come here, girl. Slop those sows. The two that’s due to farrow. Mester Gaddy said to feed them up.”

Ellen took the pail, crossing the lane to the hog lot. “Soooooeee,” she shouted, “pig-pig-pig-pig!” Grunting and sniffing, the two laden red beasts approached, eying her under horny lids. Shoulders pushing, they vied for the whey, potato peelings, crumbs of dough and flour. Ellen watched them root around for scraps and, still squealing and shoving, move off. She rinsed the bucket, filling it afresh to carry with her. The drowsy odor of green grape blossoms drifted languid from the vines. In the garden she stooped and moved, her toes grasping the earth, her nimble fingers pulling among sprouts, making small piles of weedlings. She transplanted sorrel and mustard, poured water on them, made beds of onion sets, black radishes, corn and squash to stagger the summer yield for the table.

Later on in the afternoon Frankie came to the stone wall. “Pa thinks I’m practicing. I vow it’s hot.” Her sunbonnet was shading her face, her forehead was moist. “Sam’s at the barn drenching Maisie with coal oil. She took sick. Sam says it’s the clover. Hit’s too rich for the cows.”

Ellen stretched her arms and left her work. She washed at the pump, splashing her feet, face and arms, wetting her dress.

“Hurry,” Frankie urged, “you’ll ne’er get a cake baked before evening chores, Ellie.”

“If you’ll keep your eye on the stove, we’ll make hit. How’s Pa?”

“He’s plagued about Maisie getting the bloat. But the rye’s cut and drying good.” She was plaintive. “Wish Pa’d let me go with you sometime to trade at Love’s. Why won’t he, Ellie?”

Ellen was touching the packets of tobacco in her pocket; she would use them to bribe an approving glance from her father. “Hit’s his way.” She sensed the familiar stab of rejection.

They stood idle a moment before Frankie started. “Ellie, we’ll ne’er make it.”

They sped to the house light-footed in the dust and heat. “Oh yes, we will. I’ll use Tinie Bilberry’s rule for a white one. You beg Ma for more sugar to frost it.”

They laughed breathless. The younger girl swung her sunbonnet in her hand. “Show me how that one’s stirred up, Ellie.”

The kitchen was cool, the shades half drawn. Ellen lit the burners under the oven. Frankie went to wheedle sugar from Maria, who was in the bedroom making a new shirt for her husband from a bolt of stiff black sateen. The woman was hunched over, concentrating on perfect stitches in the light from the small windows. In this room two babies had been born and one miscarried. Over the gray-painted iron bedstead hung a heavy crucifix. At the farther wall loomed a commodious wardrobe closet, smelling of camphor and holding Maria’s Sunday dresses and Anton’s black suit. “I’ll spare a teacup, Frankie. I’d rather you’d use sorghum. You girls are wasteful.”

Frankie measured the sugar and was sweeping the kitchen. Ellen was leaning back in her father’s chair, the long apron draped over her stretched-out legs as she turned the batter. “Did you heed what went in, Frankie?” The enthusiasm of her young years lifted her so the breath nearly knotted in her throat.

My true love

Is a blue eyed daisy

She won’t work

And I’m too lazy

The batter had been poured into the pans and they were set in the hot oven when into the kitchen their father’s voice rapped, “Feeding time. Where’s that girl?”

“Keep your eye on the oven, Frankie. Don’t forget.” Ellen was running out the door and down the steps after Anton who strode toward the barn. “Here’s your tobacco, Pa.”

He stopped to take it from her. “Now can’t you e’er get to your chores, girl, without me hunting you out?”

Inside the house, Frankie was turning quietly to the parlor. Soon scale notes rang precise against the ancient paper-covered walls. Maria put her sewing aside, went to the kitchen, pinning a sack apron about her. She kneaded down the bowl of warm raised dough, forming loaves and biscuits, greasing them with soft butter. She put them near the heat of the oven to rise.

In the hills about the farmland the sun-drenched late afternoon air filled with Sam Offut’s voice pleading full and deep, “Sooo-cow. Sooook, sooook, sooo-cow.” Winding up the lane came the line of milkers, chewing cuds, dispassionate, hip-bones swaying, udders distended. Jack tailed them, head down. When one halted to crop a clump of grass, his sharp bark sang and he nipped the bony fetlocks. The old duck flapped its wings, splashed the pond water so crawfish and turtles dove to the muddied bottom. It was lifting its heavy body from the pond, and then circling Ellen on the hillside.

3

A few days passed. Lily Garrett, who lived on the other side of Millville, stopped by to make lavender sticks with Ellen and Frankie. Lily brought a pale fresh honeycomb, for the Garrett family robbed their hives all summer long, not waiting for a fall harvest like the Gaddys. “Mama says she’ll send a plate of basswood honey in July, Mrs. Gaddy, when the bee trees are busy.”

Lily was fat, and soft as custard; she would rearrange her blond curls constantly, her thick white arms uplifted. She was nimble-minded, giggling often, her chins trembling under her small red mouth. She was as abandoned as a puppy untied from a cord and it may have been because of this that Lily’s father bade her lie across her bed each Saturday night while with a locust limb he whipped her well, saying, “The one who loves his daughter chastens her.”

Lily arrived in a clear forenoon before the high heat of the day. The lavender was in full blow as the girls walked beside the bed, plucking them long-stemmed. “Say, Frankie.” Lily was stripping the leaves away and drawing the blooms into a tight bunch. “I remember Ellie and me were in the second grade when I first braided lavendery wands with you-all. Your papa had just put you to the nuns.”

“I know.” Frankie was tying the flowers into a ball with soft cotton yarn, winding and braiding it among the wilted stems. When the flowers were cured they would fasten on ribbons, keep back a few for scenting their clothes chests, and trade the rest at Love’s store. “What’ll become of us all,” Frankie cried, “in the time to come?”

“You’ll be a famous pianist, Frankie,” said Lily, “you’ll see. And Ellie and me’ll visit you up north.”

“Ellie will marry a rich farmer,” Frankie said, “and have a flock of youngens.”

“Not me,” said Ellen. “I won’t be called Mama. And I’d ne’er do a man’s bidding.” But she was thinking of Christian, dwelling on him like a lovely secret.

“Well,” Lily giggled, bold, “if a man liked me, I’d have him. I wouldn’t be biggity.”

“Lily.”

“Say, I sent off for a thing,” Lily whispered, “to catch a man.”

“What?” Frankie pressed.

“A bust developer. That’s how the farm journal named it.”

“Why do you want that? You’re big, Lily.”

“It said men like you that way. I’m going to try it.”

“Your pa’ll find out.”

“I don’t give a care. It comes in a plain brown wrapper, they claim. He might not see.”

“You’re brazen,” Ellen said.

“If I do catch a man I’ll ne’er have a log cabin chinked with clay like ours. Nor cheesecloth curtains neither. And I’ll have no squalling babies to whip.” Lily sweated in the sun, raising her pillars of arms to her hair. The shy scent of lavender enveloped the three of them.

“Reckon we’ll e’er disremember making these lavendery wands?” asked Ellen.

* * *

On Saturday she went to appraise the strawberry bed bordering the fence line of Sweetincreek Road. Through the mulch of old straw the creeping plants were flourishing. “The berries are swelling good. Give them a week,” Ellen said to the dog beside her. “I’m going to brave Pa to let me trade a basket when they’re ripe.”

“Hey, Ellie Gaddy, how’s your nanny goat?” Christian Ay, in blue shirt and overalls, was leaning on the other side of the rail fence amid scraggling hollyhocks and high ditch grass and mullein on the road bank. “I brought you something.” He was leaping the rails, his teeth flashing in his broad tanned face. There was a bundle under his arm. Jack growled, running toward him. He patted the dog and it trotted after.

“Hey.” She waited, the red gathering in her cheeks.

“Brinker gave me the evening off. So I walked down the road. Is this your dog? Here, it’s for you.” He was setting the feed sack he carried on the ground and opening it. A rabbit wriggled its nose and slowly blinked dark eyes upward, grain dustings sifted in its blue-gray fur.

“My.”

“I guessed you’d like it.”

She took it from the sack, holding it in the crook of her arm. She brushed the dust from it and stroked the wiry ears. “It’s trembling.”

“It’s tame. It’s not afraid. Rabbits always do that.”

She sat in the grass, bearing it carefully. “I ne’er had one.”

“Don’t pick it up by the tail. Its eyes’ll drop out.” He grinned, looking down on her and putting his hands in his pockets. “You always lived here, Ellie?”

She nodded, bending over the pet beast, disturbed by the looming stranger, charmed.

“I figured you weren’t tenants.”

“Pa owns this farm outright,” she whispered.

He kicked at the grass turf, idly flexed his arm muscles, feeling them with his broad hands, one and then the other. “You know what Mr. Brinker does, Ellie? He pens his pigs under the horse barn where it’s raised off the ground. And he puts chickens in batteries up in the loft by the hay. Beats me. I never saw the like.” Christian was plucking a grass stalk to chew. “Made his boys a windmill. A little one. Grinds real corn for their banties and rabbits.” The young man was excited by the girl. There had been her coarse words thrust at him in spite when he jostled her as they first met. And now her ease, snuggled in the grass by the strawberry bed, her face slightly flushed. “It beats me, that way Mr. Brinker does.”

In the silence that drew down, the hum of bees working the young weed blooms vibrated. The dog scented an animal trace and darted away in pursuit. The careless voice of a male thrush was dropping like liquid pebbles in the sweetened air, then it ceased. Ellen was holding clover leaves for the rabbit to chew; she was content.

“I thought you’d like a rabbit, Ellie. It wasn’t much bother getting it for you,” he bragged. Christian had inquired of Brinkers about her family, heard they were unfriendly, cut themselves off from most of their neighbors. Mr. Gaddy kept a close hand on his two daughters. That was what Mr. Brinker had claimed. I’ll bet she’s never been kissed.

Ellen was lifting her eyes, gray, gold-flecked. “I’m beholden for it.”

He spoke as though he had practiced what he said, deliberate. “I’m kind of sweet on you, honey.” He tossed aside the grass blade quickly, leaning down, his tan face darkened. He was laying a hand on her soft cheek, putting his mouth taut and firm against hers.

Surprised, wide of eye, she looked at his closed lids. The strangeness was repellent but for a moment curiosity snared her. Then she remembered Maria’s veiled hints and Anton’s heavy predictions. She spilled the rabbit from her and shoved the young man so he stumbled back. “Now get away.”

“Come on, Ellie,” he was crying, “bet you’ve never been kissed.”

“Yes, I have,” she lied.

“You got a boy friend?”

“No.” She was getting up. “And rabbit’s lost. Jack’ll get him.”

“Let him go. I heard your daddy won’t let you out. Is that so?”

“I’m going to find rabbit.” She hunted in the brush, coming on the tame creature nibbling timothy by the grapevine posts. She lifted and caressed it, stony-featured.

“Goodbye now,” he was calling.

She breathed, motionless, “My pa would so let me out.” She turned to see him walking to the fence, watched while he laid his hand on it. She called suddenly. “Here he is. I found him.”

Christian leaped the fence and laughed, shouting, “Should I come next Saturday?”

“I don’t care.” He waved as he was disappearing, and she shrugged. “Who cares?”

* * *

The week moved forward. She asked Anton, “Could I trade some of the strawberries to Grady Love for a dress-goods piece? I’d like a new one. Of dotted Swiss.”

He frowned. “What foolishness, girl.”

“I’d make Frankie one, too. With ruffles. For mass.”

Anton was caught and reconsidered. “I suppose you could. Crops are doing well without hit don’t get dry. When you pick, hold back five-six baskets.”

The next Saturday a thunderstorm held sway. Ellen was pacing restive about the house, at last ran through the storm to curl up drenched by her three goats. “I don’t care if he doesn’t come. What’s he to me? And we need this gully-washer for the fields.” Rain thrashed afresh on the woodshed roof. “Reckon he might walk down next week, Penny? If he’s not forgot by then.”

The storm cleared in the early evening. As she was hurrying through the delayed feeding a rainbow emerged, spanning the hills. She stopped in her chores, forgetting all but the opalescent arch in the setting of summer green. “There. That’s a sight. I set my bow in the cloud for a token between Me and the earth. Everlasting, He said.”

In the moist heat that followed the downpour, the strawberries began to ripen quickly. Ellen bartered with Grady Love and showed Frankie the ribbons the storekeeper had thrown in to match the two lengths of cloth. “That’s a dollar forty cents worth if you had the cash.” Ellen cut and stitched, Frankie set up the ironing board to press.

That night Anton nodded as the younger girl was standing before him in a yellow-dotted dress, a deep ruffle flaring around the boot tops, a yellow ribbon plaited into the round neckline. Anton pulled her to his lap. “This redheaded poppet’s so fair. Makes me wish I was her beau come courting.”

And Ellen, holding the image of Christian, felt a lesser pain as she watched them frolic. The next day though, she was wearing her drab gingham. “He won’t come. It’s been two weeks. He’ll ne’er think to come.” She walked out to the berry patch. “I’ll just see if they’re still plentiful.”

Christian was astride the rail fence. He waved, “Got rained out last week.”

“I came but to look at the berries.” She was approaching the fence.

He had a red-painted can that held a plant, the heart-shaped leaves mottled white along the veins, the flowers purple. “Here.” He was offering it. “Old lady Brinker grows them. She called it a primrose. Her kitchen’s full of flowers and vines. Too many for me. She even had her old man and me to nail up boxes outside the windows and fill them with rotted manure. And us with hay to cut. And corn to work.”

Ellen was undone by the gift. “It can live in my loft window.”

“I never saw such folks for decorations.”

“It calls to mind the shooting-stars that grow in swamp spots. You know them?” The flush lay upon her.

He jumped down from the fence, began to tell stories he’d gleaned over the past days. While he was speaking he looked away and took her hand in his. She kept her hold on the red can. They leaned back against the wood rails. He was telling about the studhorse Brinker had just purchased. “It’s a red roan Belgian. Stands near eighteen hands. I never saw a stallion to beat him for class. And light on his feet like a little filly.”

“There. I’d love to see him,” Ellen whispered. She let her hand lie soft in his.

As if it were a usual thing he put his arm on her tanned neck, under the yellow hair. She stirred restless, the plant in one arm. “Tell me about your folks, Ellie. Where they come from?”

“My great grandsir was from o’er the waters. My Uncle Garland tells how he traveled across the east Kentucky mountains. He killed elk that lived in the forests there in olden days. He saw giant eagles too, and poison scorpions.”

“What’s your old man like?” He withdrew his arm, threw himself on the grass, his head against the lowest rail. He was frowning.

“Oh I don’t know. Say, I near forgot. I made my sister and me each a new dress this past week.” She looked down at him. “They turned out proud.”

“Why didn’t you wear yours?”

“I didn’t want to. Pa might see. I’ll wear it to mass though, tomorrow.”

“What’s your old man like, Ellie? Does he still spank you?” He slid down in the grass, staring skyward. “I’d just like to meet him. Sometimes those crabby old fellows make me sick.”

She saw his eyes that were gazing at the clouds angrily, his fair hair and new-shaved face. She sighed.

“I could have killed my father,” he was saying, “trying to chain me to his store. Before I’d run that place for him, I tell you I’d go to jail.”

There was his stubborn wide mouth.

“There’s a circus coming to New Hope next week, Ellie. I heard it’s got an elephant. Want to go? Mr. Brinker’ll give me the pickup to use.” He stood up from the grass. “Let’s go ask your daddy now. I’m set on going,” he warned.

“We’ll ask Ma,” she said quickly. “Pa’ll likely be in the field at this hour.”

“Wait a minute.” He was reaching for her hand again. “Look, what’s the matter with one kiss?”

“Well.”

“You’re afraid. It’s true. You never have been kissed.”

“Yes, I have too.” So she let his rigid wide lips bear upon hers. His nose was in the way, and her arm that hugged the primrose. He pressed against her. She was staring at his eyelids, cold. I don’t see as that’s such a great thing. To write songs about and to whisper on.

“Now you like me, Ellie. Don’t you?” He was triumphant.

“Oh my, yes.” But she felt cheated. He thinks it’s a great thing.

They were crossing the field to the farm lane, walking up to the house. Maria was inside the screen door, peering at them. “I thought it was peddler. He’s past due,” she muttered and turned to go.

“Wait, Ma. This is Christian Ay. He asked me to go along with him and the Brinkers to a circus at New Hope next Saturday. Can I go, Ma?”

“As far as I care you can.” Maria was disappearing into the house recesses.

Christian looked at Ellen, demanding in a low tone, “Why’d you say Brinkers were going, Ellie? I’m taking you.”

“I’ve got to own I was afraid she’d say no.” Her eyes glowed.

* * *

When Frankie learned Ellen was going on an outing, she waited until they were undressing for bed. She spoke in the fluttering candlelight, her voice a child’s, “You got a beau?”

“No.”

“Yes you have, Ellie.”

“I’m just going along with the Brinkers.”

“Pa ne’er liked Brinker.”

“I know.” It was a spear of pain.

“What’s that boy like?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does he do?”

“He talks to me.”

“I hate there being boys and girls and e’er a thing jumbled. Why can’t it be smooth and all the same?”

“I don’t know. It’s the way of it. Like the priest says, God made it so.” They sat on their beds rebellious, disturbed. “I don’t like it either.” But Ellen was looking over at the new plant in her window.

In her heart a small edge of terror would reign throughout the week. But Anton paid her no heed; he ignored her proposed trip in his concern with the successful cutting and hauling in of the first hay, with the sows that each farrowed a basket of tiny piglets. When Christian drove the pickup into the yard, her father was at the barn. Ellen sped down the porch steps, Jack barking wildly. Christian wore a red shirt, store-creased, and black pants held up with worn green suspenders. His hair was slicked damp, the strong artificial odor of violet pomade pervading the cab. His face was haughty and alien. He seemed somehow shorter and broader. She sat back with a satisfied sigh, smoothing the fullness of the new blue-speckled dress. Her shoes were buffed and had new laces. She had on her best white stockings. Her hair hung down loose and in her handkerchief, scented with sweet fern and balsam needles, was a small comb. They spoke little. Christian kept his arm on the window ledge. He said, “That your new dress?”

“Yes.”

“You sew good there.” He wheeled the truck into a great dusty lot. They drove under a pasteboard sign, CURCIS PARKING HERE. Christian paid an old man a nickel. They hurried toward the huge colorful entrance arch. “Let’s go, Ellie.” He strode to the ticket booth, she followed, and they went in.

Through the noisy carnival air, hand in hand, they were wandering. Christian was devouring peanuts, sack after sack. Ellen licked a mound of pink spun sugar in a paper cone. “It’s like eating a cloud. It melts to nothing.”

He was laughing at her, glad he was with Ellen after all. They went to see the tent show, sitting on hard benches in the close-packed crowd, the dust soft under their feet. He held her hand in his lap. In the ring horses thundered by, rifles cracked, the King of the Cowboys on a graceful white horse, waved his flapping hat. A baby elephant followed by a tall one with a torn ear and an odorous camel, ambled around the ring and out again, their progress accompanied by spasmodic hand-clapping. A cage with a sleeping lion was trundled by a pair of brown oxen. The ringmaster bawled through a megaphone. In smoldering heat aerialists soared and swung as band music softened and swayed the crowd’s amazement. Ellen leaned forward.

They roamed the grounds later, eating grilled hot dogs, drinking mugs of high-foamed root beer drawn from an orange barrel. They stood before the limp-maned lion’s cage. “Sure looks mangy, doesn’t he, Ellie? He’s twenty years if a day.”

A group of boys came up to throw stones and poke through the metal bars with striped circus canes, after a while meandering noisily away. “Poor soul,” said Ellen, “those youngens shouldn’t ill at him that way.”

“Now there’s the midway, Ellie. Come on.” He was pulling her with him to the wide grassy passage bordered with peep shows and circus sights. A sinuous middle-aged woman was wriggling on a platform beneath a glaring sign, EVENING IN PARIS. A barker coaxed, “Ten cents. One dime! See the girlies. Imported from Pah-ree. Ten cents to see them revealed in their natural beauty. Hurry. Hurry! One dime. They take it off. The Parisian beauties.”

“Let’s see the strip tease. I dare you.”

But Ellen was shaking her head. “Double dare you to see the two-headed baby instead.”

“Double dares go first. All right.”

They viewed an albino raccoon, a six-legged sheep, the tallest dwarf, a mass of twining poisonous snakes. They stopped before the India-rubber man and the fat lady. “Oh Christian, my teacher, Talithie Gentry, was bigger than her. Easy.”

Christian paid the armless man a penny to write their names on a card in elaborate script, holding the pen in supple toes. Christian was pocketing the card. “This’ll remind me, Ellie, after you’ve gone.” He hitched his suspenders cockily.

Then they were in the high-seated cab of the truck again, the narrow tires jouncing in the hot dust. Christian was whistling above the racket of the motor. He was warbling, partly off pitch:

When the m-m-m-moon shines

On the c-c-c-cow shed

I’ll be waiting for you by the k-k-k-kitchen door

His spirits were high.

I’ve got a cute little husband

Who’s just twenty-three

He’s just three years older than me

He goes out every night

And gets on a tight

And leaves the dear baby with me

He was pulling her to his side, driving with his arm about her. He was caressing her hair and moving a hard palm from her throat to her breasts, yielding and white under the stiff cloth. She was leaning into the comfort of his body in the heat as they droned over neglected clay roads. Clumps of black-eyed susans lined the ditches, and butterfly weeds bearing ragged clusters of orange flowers. No birds sang in the hot afternoon sun. Her thoughts began to drift. Without fear she considered, Pa’ll beat me, it’s away past time for chores. “Is it late, Christian? Penny must be watching for me.”

“Is that your sister?” He spoke, absent, his hand pressing upon her breast.

Ellen shook her head. “It’s hot.” She drew away from his hold, moving to lean out the window.

After a pause he said, “You tired, Ellie? Want me to stop in the shade along the roadside?” It came thickly. He reached for her hand, slowing the truck. In back of them a horn sounded and a red automobile with an open top swerved around them to disappear in swirls of dust.

“You better take me home. My chores are waiting.” Her face was a soft oval, her hand lay snared in his, feeling the rough calluses.

“All right, then. I only asked on account of Brinker milks late. Said he wouldn’t look for me back till after six.” There was silence. Then he said, “Naturally you do what you please.” He laughed, dropping her hand. “Sure do like Mr. Brinker. Not a whit like my daddy. The other day I hollered down from the top of the silo, how much feed do I give them and he says, fork her down till you get tired twice.” He spoke animated, striking the window ledge.

“Why don’t you like your pa?” Ellen asked.

“He’s a skinflint. You bet we had a fight when I said I was going to work for Brinker. Had to promise him half my pay.” He snorted. “Me, a man grown. Over twenty and turning a part of my pay to him. That sonofabitch.” He lapsed into thought. “Say, I didn’t mean to swear before a girl.”

“That’s all right.”

The truck was stopping before the yellow farmhouse. Ellen opened the door. “I’m obliged, Christian. I won’t forget the strange beasts and the people on the high swings. And everything.” She sensed the finality of the afternoon.

He had her hand all at once. “Look, I’ll walk down to see you Saturday, Ellie.” He was tender again suddenly, as if the magic of the day moving already toward nostalgia smote him.

She went to the house, that final gesture lingering. The spotted thrush winged to the grapevines where it hid its nest. Jack came bounding up, tail wagging, neck arched in pride over the wild rabbit in his mouth. “I see you caught your supper,” she whispered.

The town teacher’s buggy was in the lane, his mare hitched to the post by the well. Every Saturday he came to give Frankie a piano lesson. Anton had gone to his rooming house two years ago, waited in the hall, a round black hat atop his balding head. “I be Anton Gaddy,” he had mumbled. “I’ve heard there are ladies that make a name for themselves playing before crowds that come to her. I’ve heard tell those kind are honored and not deemed lightly in the eyes of rich folk. My daughter is to play a piano I bought her in such a wise. Can you give lessons? I got the money.” The town teacher had found his task difficult. The girl was contrary in a sly way and had but small talent. She simply obeyed her father’s will.

Ellen was listening to the piano as she mounted the steps. From the kitchen wafted the acrid odor of pot greens Maria was canning. Ellen stepped within the screen. Anton’s figure towered from out of the fawning shadows. “To your room, girl. Hum.”

“Am I late, Pa?”

She was ascending the stairs, flagging, slow. The man’s footsteps coming after were soft as the sweep of an owl’s wing, gentle in pursuit. “You’re late.”

She stalled halfway. “Pa?” The pain was there, starting, in her throat.

“Thou shalt beat them with a rod. I’ve said it. Mind, girl.”

“You knew I was going.”

She went up. He was closing the door. He gripped a belt, the wide leather strip dangling by a brass home-fashioned buckle. He would wear this belt on Sundays with his black suit. “There. Town teacher met the Brinkers trading in Bethel.”

She waited then, mute, and the hurt was high in her throat. She had trained herself to silence since she was a small child, pitting herself against his spirit, persuading herself he did it for love. He wants me to be good.

“So they weren’t at that gauded circus. It’s e’er so. You be a liar.” He was striking her, whispering harsh, gray eyes narrow, “Be you whoring so soon, girl? Here’s a generation not washed of their filthiness. I’ll set the priest at you. Hear?”

The door shut sharply. He had gone. Ellen was standing anchored as her throat ached. His violence directed against her, aside from the cut of the strap, would make her sicken and she was ruling it down until she would be at peace with herself. She waited, finally moving to hang her crumpled dress on the ridgepole and put aside her dust-grimed shoes. Her stockings like white moss, were in a heap on the floor and she caught sight of the pale pillar of her body moving in the mirror that was fastened to the door.

She was hurrying to the barn then to linger over the pair of suckling kids and tend the round of her chores. Clouds were lowering in the moist ether that rumbled before an advancing evening storm. She remembered lines from a song Christian Ay had said people sang in Louisville.

When I go toot-toot-tooting

Down the street

In my little Ford automobile

All that night rain fell on the receiving earth. The morning was humid and portentous. In the earth’s vitals, seeds were bursting in slow presage and primeval animal movement was rife. Above ground, bees were snoring, working their hoards, minute midges piped thinly, bottle-flies glutted at dung heaps or in company with spotted orange butterflies savored rotten things. In the pond the duck had struck and killed a fragile peeper frog, while from the woods edge a red dog fox looked on at her, his button eyes bright with greed.

In the kitchen while dawn faded, Ellen was slicing bacon with a long knife whetted to a narrow blade. She had brought the molded slab in from the smokehouse. Peeled potatoes were boiling in a pot, a pan of biscuits rose and browned in the oven. She started bacon frying in a spider and measured coffee out of a jar unscrewed from the grinder on the wall. She spooned it into water bubbling in a chipped tall pot. Frankie laid out plates, plum preserves, buttermilk, ketchup, a stone jar of butter. Both girls wore sleeveless petticoats, white stockings and church shoes. Later they would get into the new dresses. “Ellie, did you notice if that camel swallowed like a horse or chewed a cud?”

“There, I forgot to look.” Ellen went to the well for water. She met Anton coming from the barn with Maria’s pail of milk. She held her hand over the dark welt on her upper arm though his eyes weren’t on her. She followed him to the kitchen, lifting out the bacon, breaking eggs into the iron spider. She crumpled an eggshell in the coffee to settle the grounds and dumped the hot potatoes into a brown bowl. The Gaddys and Sam Offut grouped themselves at the stout table. They poured ketchup on the potatoes and eggs, drank steaming cups of coffee, ate heavily, for the workdays were arduous. They would arise by candlelight, seldom were done by nightfall with the wheel of chores.

Then Sam brought the buckwagon around, Blueberry and Moll hitched to it. “Hurry up, ooman,” Anton was saying to Maria, “we’ll be late to mass.”

His wife climbed up to the narrow seat edged with an iron rail, and sat beside him. The girls were hiking themselves on the end of the wagon bed, sitting on a rug, backs to their parents, feet dangling. As they swung out onto Sweetincreek Road Anton spoke over his shoulder, “Your nannies can go to the meadow and graze with the cows, girl. Those yeanlings are old enough now.”

“I’ll take them down tomorrow, Pa.” Joy surged within her at his words, and the hotness of the season swung in to ripen grain in the favored fields and bring flowers to bud and bloom as the fragrant undulating grace of the farm lands moved toward harvest.

4

The sun beat down like a scourge. Men moved listlessly, driving themselves and their draft beasts. Fowl with panting beaks crouched in dusty bowls they fashioned in yard corners with their fanning wings. By flickering lantern light before the sun rose, the milking was completed. Ellen and Frankie were called upon to help at stripping the udders of the overabundant animals. The first streams on the pail bottom would whine high, the tone lowering as the pail filled, becoming deep and sonorous until foam ran down the pail sides. Then it was time to pour the milk through squares of flannel into ten-gallon cans that would be placed in the hewn-log water trough to cool, awaiting pickup by the dairy truck. In the half-dark the cows shuffled to pasture, Jack nipping their heels. Ellen would follow and close the gate. The sides of the bovines were oily, their breath fragrant, eyes moist. By early morning their stomachs would be distended with lush summer grass. Then throughout the sweltering day they would lie in the shade of the woods, chewing their cuds.

Anton and Sam would down a heavy breakfast, eat plates of eggs, Ellen cracking a dozen in the skillet for them. They reached for more coffee cake and bread and slabs of cold meat. After they ate they walked stolid to the fields, working corn rows with cultivator and team, mowing and raking and hauling in towering wagonloads of timothy and soybean and clover hay. They mended fence lines, repeatedly repaired harness and machine, sharpened saw, adz and ax, scythe, knife and cutting blades. They would throw from the fields the larger stones that cropped up under the bite of the share. Some fields had a rock outgrowth too large to be removed and it must stand bared and alone, machines and men circling it. At mid-morning and afternoon Frankie would search until she found the men in a field. She brought them a stone pitcher of water spiced with vinegar or a ginger stick. They mopped their rough-bristled faces with red kerchiefs, and drank. Sam was shirtless, his overall straps cutting his scrawny sunburned shoulders. Anton, powerful upper body covered to protect his freckled skin, had soaked his black sateen shirt with perspiration. His large arms shone red and glistening. The odor of sweat and earth rose strong about the men.

“Before God, Sam. Can’t figure how a little fart like you can put in a day’s work alongside me. Haw.”

“E’er watch a banty cock, Mester Gaddy? It’ll outlast your Barred Rock rooster any day of the week. Not so much of me to get wore out.”

The Gaddy women were laboring too, bringing in grapes and berries, beans and tomatoes by the pail and bushel. They canned and dried and sugared down the procession of largess that moved through the kitchen. There was more milk than the dairy would buy and Maria would skim the surplus for cream, send Ellen to trade the butter she churned. It was dirt cheap in this season. The remaining thin milk was thrown to squealing young pigs in wood troughs, foul-smelling in the reek of heat. Milk would sour swiftly, spots of yellow-green milkstone forming on the sides of pails. Ellen was directed to scrape it clean with a knife. Cheeses were made, some to cure amber and hard, hanging in the smokehouse, others to be stirred daily in stone crocks until the white curd turned yellow, the strong odor left, and it became bland. There was an abundance of cottage cheese with clabber cream and chopped green onions stirred in, or a seasoning of herbs that grew by the houseside. Maria had a lavish hand when it came to seasoning.

“I reckon I got such a heavy hand because my mam always was put to it to get enough for us to eat. She’d dig chicory roots for coffee and gather wild thyme and herbs. Pap cut lumber to sell to the railroad and worked tobacco. He saved e’er a penny he was paid and gave her none.” Maria sighed, “Mam found out I ate stones once. Seemed there was a satisfaction when the food was gone, to a white pebble, smooth like a bit of lard. I just recollect.”

Christian would come on Saturdays at dusk. Ellen met him covertly at the usual place and they ate a few lingering strawberries from the burned-out plants, then went to lie in the shade. He was boasting about the gigantic machine that Brinker had rented to harvest his wheat. “That combine’s some invention. Finished the whole field in a day. The bags are stacked in the crib. By heck, Brinker grows good wheat. We counted twenty grains on some ears. That’s forty bushel to the acre.” He was browned, his white teeth were flashing and he swaggered. “In the afternoon old lady Brinker drove the pickup out to the field with a freezer can of ice cream and three new-made cakes. Tell you, that woman’s my ideal of a wife. Spread a white cloth and brought silver and plates and a tin can of lemonade. We sure polished it off.” He reflected. “In the lemonade she had a chunk of ice floating.”

“Wish I had a piece of ice big as my head. Purely I do.” Ellen looked away, sighing in the stifled air scarce cooled by the setting of the sun. “It seems like all that’s to be garnered is trying to ruin before we can get hold of it to store it against the winter.”

Christian would stay with her only a short while because he was roused now while it was yet dark to begin the long day. Ellen spoke softly with him but when he laid his hand in the hollow below her throat or upon the dress over her thighs as he had done in the truck, she was afraid and made him laugh with her foolishness and coaxed him from his wont.

Sam Offut had failed to appear for milking one morning. Sam lived with his wife a short way down the road in a shack he owned; he would take his first two meals with the Gaddys and supper at his own table. Anton was hard put this morning, even with the help of the girls, to finish the chores on time, and sat down late to breakfast. As he was arising, the hired man appeared in the doorway, bleary-eyed, with an air of not having washed or slept. Sam was saying evenly as he took the chair across from Anton, “Ran my old ooman off last night. Those two were laying there still when I came home. On my bed. That whorish Eadie. I ne’er saw that particular peddler before. I could have killed them but I only ran them off.” He speared a slice of ham with the sharp knife. “I’ve doubted many a year now, since my youngens are grown and gone, if I be the daddy to more of the six than the first-born.”

Anton said shortly, “If you’ve got a mind after this, Sam, you can take supper here. Come on to the barn when you’re done.”

“I’m beholden.” Sam was eating like one famished.

During that day Ellen marveled at little Sam Offut, middle-aged, leathery-skinned, smoldering as he went through the days at his wife Eadie, bedding with other men. She wondered at how it took the white heat of August to kindle him into action.

When Jack was driving the cows in from the pasture one night, the white kid was missing. Penny and her young would always be in the lead in their anxiety to reach Ellen, who would have an evening tidbit set out for them in the woodshed—apple peels or bread crusts or carrots. Penny and the brown kid were standing in wait at the woodshed door. As pangs smote her, Ellen bolted down the lane to the field. The dog barked, running ahead. She searched the fence lines, from afar spied the bit of white, the buckling strangled in the fence where he had tried to slip through. He had hung himself. Ellen, extricating the stiffened body, met death for the first time intimately. She fought over her loss in the solitary field. “Oh you were my dear droll poppet that followed me.”

Ever in coming weeks when she thought of the clownish yeanling, tears came and her throat caught in anguish so complex it was nearly joy. She never forgot the death of the white kid. Its impact made a mark on her like scars she could point to on her body. “Here the sickle cut into my leg when I cleaned the path one day. And here that spotty hound bit my wrist when he had that fight with Jack.”

In her new-found anxiety for her two remaining goats, she kept them from the field, penning them in the barnyard and bringing them kitchen scraps and meadow grass. In their cleverness, though, they slipped through the fence to nibble in the garden and wander at will. Anton discovered them girdling bark from a stripling peach tree with their sharp teeth. He threatened, “To pasture with those tormented creatures where they belong. And if they be the cause of further botherment, girl, I’ll knock their heads in gladly and butcher them. Mind now.”

So Ellen went down the lane, Penny solemn at her heels, the doeling trotting last. Laughing at their comical air, the girl began to run. They snorted and sprang after her abandoned, striking their little hoofs sharply on the dry ground, unconscious of dignity or the heat of August. She left them blatting disconsolate at the meadow gate. In days to follow she would go to the barnyard fence, straining her eyes for a glimpse of the two small does amid the drove of cows.

* * *

There came the hour when Christian and Anton met. Though Ellen would slip out to see Christian when he walked down the road on his afternoon off, she had not mustered the boldness to bring him to the house. Anton never spoke of the young man though he knew Ellen met with him. One time he had watched them for a while from behind the oak by the berry patch. He saw his daughter talking while she switched flies with a branch of leaves, and the young man, brooding, leaned upon the fence. Anton could see nothing amiss and pulling on his pipe, went to listen to his favorite practicing at the piano.

Ellen had joined Christian in the orchard near the brook. Her goats finished browsing and lay back to back in the grass chewing their cuds in their rapid dainty way. Ellen was sitting on a fallen log. She wore an old dress that fitted her budding form too tightly. She laid in her hair white meadow rue and yellow oxeye daisies. She bowed her head to one side over the field flowers in her hands and knew, dreaming, how fair she was.

Christian lay on his stomach in the grass by her, catching her mood, knowing he’d never seen the girl so fetching. The lines of her long face were soft in a frame of flaxen hair. He spoke suddenly, “I got another letter from Mama.”

“Oh?”

“She mad again. My sister had a chance to get married and she turned it down. Mama says Rose wants bigger fish.”

“Fish?”

“Mr. Johnson’s only got a house and money. That’s not enough for my sister. He’d have to be a millionaire.”

“Well.”

“And she says Daddy gets pains nowadays. Has to lie down. He won’t see a doctor.”

“He’ll be all right, don’t you reckon?”

“He hates to pay a doctor bill.” He reached over to cover her bare foot with his palm. “You’re so sweet, Ellie.”

“Sweet as Miss Sabatha Withers, boy?” Anton was standing before them in the long grass. His overalls were ragged, the sleeves to his black shirt had been cut below the shoulders so his heavy biceps showed. His chin was thrust out, his body pulled erect in the habit of short men. A straw hat was settled upon his sparse hair. He was chewing a quid of tobacco.

Christian jumped to his feet. The two of them were the same height. “Hello, Mr. Gaddy. How do you do? I’m Christian Ay.”

“So hit seems.” The man spat, looked about as though searching for someone. “Hum. You didn’t bring your lady friend with you?”

“What’s that?”

Anton tilted his head. “And how be Dutchman Brinker these days? Haw. He still got the notion to stall his beasts on all the storeys of his barns? I heard he penned some shoats to fatten in his loft and they grew so grand and big they broke clean through the planking. Is that a fact?”

“I never heard of it, sir,” Christian was cold. “Mr. Brinker’s a fine farmer, I can tell you. But you got a nice place here, sir.” He was nodding, appeasing, as he flung his hand in a rude movement.

“This place was here, boy, being worked by my sir when Dutchman’s pa was setting on his ass in the old country.”

Ellen dropped her head, repeating over and again the Nicene Creed for her lover snared in Anton’s rough hand. Like an enchantress she evoked the only charm she knew. From whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead.

Anton squirted the brown juice again and was moving away. “Feeding is in an hour, girl,” he threw over his shoulder.

“All right, Pa.” She closed her eyes. Holy Virgin it had worked.

Christian eyed her, rebellious, scorn in his young face. “What a dirty crabby guy even if he is your old man. I’d just like to push that bristly smart-aleck face of his in. I can’t stand a bossy fellow like that.”

“Hush.” Ellen got up with sudden despair. “Now what’s he talking of Sabatha Withers for? Who’s she?”

“A girl I happen to know in Bethel. I’ll go see her or anyone I want.” He shouted it, striking at her father. And at himself for his intimidation. “And any time I want.”

A quarrel had uncoiled before they were aware. Ellen leaned back on the log, whispering, gray eyes slitted, “I don’t give a neinse. Run to that poor-trash thing.”

His short legs spread, his high cheekbones pale, he was storming, “And if I never see you or your stupid old man again, it’ll be too soon. I’m going to see someone who appreciates me.” He threw back his head and stalked away, cutting across to the road.

Ellen stayed awhile in the tall grass. As she wept the fury shed itself. Bereft, she went up the hill through the field where the boar was now penned. Her goats and Jack were trailing after. The old red boar regarded her from a little distance, his distrust palpable. “There’s a mean hog, Jack,” she whispered.

She neared the barnyard and heard Anton, “Hitch Blue and get him out here, Sam.” A spotted heifer was stretched neat a group of slender walnuts, bawling intermittently. Anton was bent over her. She had been due to bear her calf any day, was a daughter of his best milker, a pride to him. While Ellen watched, her hand resting on the yard gate, Sam was running from the barn, leading Blueberry. The harness jingled as the buckskin came at a trot. “Whaw,” Sam cried roughly.

The two conferred. The horse waited on them, head down, hipshot, a hind leg at rest on the tip of the hoof. They hitched the tugs to a rope looped about the head of the unborn calf just within the dam. Anton drove the horse forward slowly, dragging the cow. Then he halted, took off his straw hat, scratching his head. “Hell, hit’s drying out. I vow, Sam, the first one’s always too tight. It’s like the wine corks in the kegs. Once get them started and they come out easy. Let’s try those trees o’er there, now. Gee-whup.” Again the traces tightened and the tired young cow was hauled through stones and red dust in the broil of heat. They untied the lines, rehitched them through a gap between two walnut trunks. “Haw-there,” ordered Anton and while the beast bellowed, wedged upon the tree boles, her calf was torn from her womb, limp and wet.

Slipping through the gate, Ellen skirted the barnyard and hurried to the house. She changed her dress and spoke quietly to Maria, “Spotty had her calf. Pa had to take it from her. It’s a pretty one.” She returned, saw the heifer was on her feet, placenta hanging. Delicate head down, tossing her well-formed tiny horns, she guarded the calf she licked nervously.

That night the heat lifted slightly. Ellen was wakeful within her loft-room. She slipped downstairs into the sultry dark. Barefoot, she walked with Jack to the woodshed, freeing Penny and Rhodie. They wandered across the fields, through gates to the orchard. She sat on the log again. In the night sky the blue whiskers of cloud were backing off. And the moon in absolute radiance was speeding forth. There was not a sound anywhere.

* * *

As the year moved on, the heat abated and winds started out of nowhere, rushing. Christian stayed away from Ellen over two long Saturdays. Then one evening she was standing beyond the low garden wall watching the bees work the hives. He appeared, jaunty in a blue shirt freshly pressed by Brinker’s wife, his blond hair damp, comb-marked. “Hey, Ellie. A penny for your thoughts.”

“Not wasting them on you, I’ll say.” Her temper shifted in her and she colored. “I’m thinking Sam will be robbing the poor bees soon.”

“Come on, take a walk with me, Ellie. Down to the woods. Say, you’re blushing.” He grinned.

“Go to your true love in Bethel.”

“No.” His blue eyes were bold. “I broke off with that one.” They were starting down the hill. When out of sight of the house, he took her hand.

She pulled away, unwilling. “I don’t care for you.” But in time he won her from her anger and it was with Ellen as though the quarrel had never been.

They were hand in hand in the dry reeds by the pond where the lone duck was paddling in circles. He was vowing strongly, “I’ve left Sabatha Withers for good, Ellie.”

“Well.”

“She’s cheap.” He laughed angry, for the young fires lay hot in him still. “You never have seen Brinker’s place, Ellie.”

“No. I’ve heard tell he’s got fancy barns.”

“You’d get a kick out of them. Want to go there next week? I could show you Baker, that Belgian stud. He’s a sight. Like I said, he beats anything I ever saw.”

“I’ll come, then.”

“Kiss me, Ellie.”

“Listen at that sound, Christian.” The faint cry of geese was audible, “Kwonk, honk, honk, kwonk.” Far above the earth the long-necked wild birds were heading for northern nest grounds, their massive bodies two wavering lines of dots making the letter V. The call of the leaders sounded shrill, and as they moved overhead there came the deep responses of the rear guards. It seemed to Ellen that she had no desire for the way of the roused child-man beside her. Ahead stretched the long filament of her life; she was pierced by the pain of the earthbound that is made up of longings. She was voiced vicarious from the throats of the wild birds. She turned to Christian, dissatisfied. Their eyes were almost on a level; she was crying, intense, “Don’t you wish you were that leader?”

“Say, I’d rather be me than some bird.” He laughed at her, pressed her hand. “Come. Kiss me.”

* * *

In the last week of September Ellen slipped down Sweetincreek Road to where Christian had brought the truck around. The Brinker family were in Bethel doing their weekly buying, and Christian acutely felt his proprietorship. He drove up his employer’s graveled drive and into the huge garage. He led her to the farm buildings, proud. “Take a look.”

The great white barn was trimmed in red, a gigantic portrait of a black-and-white Holstein bull had been painted across the expanse of one side. There was an iron bull weather vane centered on the roof; it wheeled with the breeze. “I ne’er saw such furbelowing, Christian.”

“This isn’t the half of it.”

In the shed just off the chicken house he was showing her round-bellied puppies. She fondled them while the gentle bitch watched alert-eyed from a straw bed. “Nothing smells as soft as a little whelp, Christian.”

He was pointing to a miniature windmill, and to bantam chickens and white and gray rabbits in screened hutches. Out in the pasture were shining Belgian mares. Ellen was stroking their sleek faces. Christian caught a cobby black filly by the halter and led her to the girl. “This one’s Doll. She’s pedigreed. She’s to be bred to Baker as soon as she comes in heat. Mr. Brinker’s ordered it. We’ve been watching out for her.”

“Look at those dark eyes, Christian. Here, Doll.” Ellen was offering a handful of oats. But the mare threw up her head, nickering toward the farm buildings. There was a responding whinny from the distance. The mare swished her tail, holding it high.

Christian’s eyes kindled. “You know, Ellie, I think she’s in season. Let’s try her. See if she’ll take him.”

“You’d best wait for Mester Brinker.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not. Only I’d wait. If she’s a thoroughbred, he’d lay the blame to you should it go amiss.”

The mare was shaking her head so the halter rings jangled; she cried again, shrilly. Christian was opening the gate. “Come on, Ellie. Look, you want to ride her down the lane? I’ll lift you to her back.”

“You dassn’t ride her. Sam told me,” she said, dallying, “that a mare in the heat mustn’t be ridden till she’s been bred.”

“All right. But come on,” he urged. He led the prancing Doll through the gate and down the lane toward the stallion’s paddock. Ellen was following, reluctant. “You hold her while I lock up Baker,” he called.

She came to take the mare’s headstall from him. “Well.”

At the yard the huge seed-horse was observing them, restive, aware of their business. He squealed, striking at the fence bars with his huge hoofs. Christian laughed, catching Ellen’s eye. “What you scared of, honey? I can handle him easy.”

“So what?” she whispered to the mare, who was tossing her mane, jerking.

Christian had skillfully snared the halter of the red roan beast and secured him in his stall. “Turn her in the lot now, Ellie,” he was shouting.

But she tarried and cried, “I’ll wait for you in the truck.”

“Come on, turn her in. It’s only Baker.” He was flushed and he laughed at her from the half door of the stable.

Ellen loosed the black mare in the paddock where she curved her neck and cantered like a gust of wind. The stallion could be heard clamoring angrily, rearing and knocking the walls. Christian turned the handle of the stall door to release him, and then vaulted the fence. He came to stand with Ellen. “Why did you want to go to the truck?”

The magnificent horse was trotting out, neighing. He minced past the filly who was dwarfed by his size. He lifted his shaggy fetlocks high without effort and his tawny mane streaked. He wheeled, snuffed noisily at her neck, bit it softly and pawed it in a dynamic graceful gesture. Then he leaped the mare, falling on his side with powerful elegance. He recovered, mounted her again. His beauty was like a thunderous battle, his piercing voice rose and fell on the stilled air, waking the valleys of the farm, rushing through tree boughs.

Christian was turning, urgent, “Ellie?”

“Let’s go to the truck, Christian. I’m going to wait there.” She turned.

He grasped her arm. “Come on, Ellie.”

“No, Christian.”

He was shoving her under the lean-to by the stable where summer wheat straw was stacked for the stallion’s bedding. He was struggling with his clothing, bruising her. The coolness dwelled in the shadows there, it was quiet and made itself separate from the noise in the dust of the lot outside. His youth was adamant and awkward, his knee entreated silent between her virgin thighs.

Surprised, she was fighting. “Liar,” she gritted.

He held her in the straw. “You’ve led me on, Ellie. I won’t wait.” His arms were muscled from a hard summer, his blood thrusting purposed.

She had read of Absalom, how none was so much praised as he for his perfection. From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him. So the Bible said, and so she had dreamed of Christian moving in a lawful pattern she laid. She was unprepared for the painful shattering of it, betrayed. “No,” she was weeping. “Liar.” It whistled in the coolness against the pant of him.

“I have to, honey. Take it easy. I’ll be careful. I can’t wait.” His voice was blurred and hot, stabbing, overridden by the tramping hoofs and shrill neighs like a storm without.

Ellen closed her eyes. They ran tears because of the hurt there was, the receding terror.

He spoke softly then, “Don’t cry.”

“Go away.”

He stood up and went into the sun. He led Doll back to the pasture, threw a forkful of hay to Baker who was docile now, obedient. After a while he came back and looked at Ellen. “Don’t be mad.”

She wouldn’t hear him.

“Come on, Ellie. We’ve got to get back.”

She was rising, brushing back her hair. He leaned toward her, tender, and pulled a straw caught in the yellow strands. She struck, savage, at his fingers. In the truck seat she remained unspeaking until he reached for her hand. Then she unleashed at him, injured, “You think I’m that Sabatha Withers. I ne’er want to see you again. Hear?”

Christian was resting his elbow on the window; he looked down the road. He gunned the truck so dust eddies rose like a whirlwind in the wake. He slammed the brakes on the road just above the Gaddy entrance. “Come on, Ellie. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. Please.”

But she hurled the cab door shut. Her head was high. For her world that had had a sort of ingenuous beauty had disappeared. And it was never the same again.

5

October came to pass in fog and tones of droning rain. Muffled trees stood in wet leaves along farm paths. Ellen, a gray shape in the mist, was moving from clinking house lights to the obscurity of the woodshed and barns. Christian had not come for three weeks. At first she had waited in profound anger, eager to renounce him. But in the autumn sun of following days, while the two ringing notes of the partridge called back and forth, loneliness tempered her wrath and she loved him indulgently as the source of her pain and its witness.

Today she was going again to the rail fence along the road where joe-pye-weeds drooped coarse-toothed leaves. She was wearing a red stocking cap, her long coat had pendulous lapels and a wide belt that fastened on her hips with two heavy buttons. As she passed the grapevines where leaves hung chilled, a flock of crows arose, making nasal resentful barks. She waited an hour. Unending rain was falling and small gusts wove about. Finally she went to the work Anton had set, sorting and shucking corn. Later she absently stroked the alert ears and silken hair of the kid Rhodie, nearly as large as its dam now. “Reckon he’s with Sabatha Withers. Pleasuring as he did with me.” She clothed her wrath, embellished it. “Happen she’ll drag him to a priest. All his days he’ll dwell on me and what he forfeited.”

Her mind turned to when she was nine or ten and, living in fantasy and wishes, would try new ways to walk through the sun-washed fields where grass stood high. It would seem that crowds of people lined both sides of the way she took. They came to see how grand she held her head and to talk among themselves of the noble way of Lady Ellen. “I aim to hold me high and wed a rich man.” She spoke aloud in the stable. But she didn’t believe it and the anger burned. She went to the house where lamps flickered in the gloom, and Anton stacked a fire in the parlor, filled the woodbin and split lighter-wood with a deft hand.

Ten days passed. On a splendid windy morning in November, Ellen was clearing garden debris and gathering cabbages and root crops in heaps for winter storage. She faced her dilemma, rebellious. “If it be so, I’ll drown myself or it in the pond when it’s born. And if he’s run off, I’ll seek him out. I’ll knife him, I will.” She piled cabbage heads in a bushel basket and dumped them in the cellar storage bin. Her secret dwelled within her like a hidden wound. “I say, Jack, what will I do?”

That afternoon Amanda York came up the porch steps and knocked. “Hickory mast is laying thick in Bailey’s Woods, Mrs. Gaddy. Can Ellie and Frankie come nutting?”

The three girls walked a mile down the road to the woods, carrying empty baskets. Amanda had black eyes and black shining hair. She was rosy and lively. “Ask your pa if you can go once to the husking bee. This Saturday.”

“He ne’er would brook it, Mandy.” Frankie was shaking her head.

“There’ll be a sight of folks. From Bethel way and down from Seven Mile Run.”

“Because Pa don’t favor us socializing,” Frankie added.

Amanda tossed her braid. “And a fiddler and a spread of eats.”

“You know Sabatha Withers?” Ellen flushed in the asking.

“I’ll say I do. She’s wild. Boys flock after her like dogs on a rabbit.”

“What?” cried Frankie.

“She sleeps around. Things like that.”

“My.”

“What’s she look like?” asked Ellen.

“Oh, light-set, and got yellow hair like yours, Ellie.”

“Why doesn’t she have a baby,” Frankie asked, “if she sleeps around?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“It’s a mystery,” Frankie sighed.

“Did that Lily Garrett tell you what she did?” Amanda asked.

“You mean sending for that stuff to make her breasts grow?”

“Yes. And what happened.”

“What?”

“Well, she wanted it,” Amanda whispered, “for she’s boy-crazy, Lily is. She’s terrible.”

“I know. She told us.” Frankie giggled. “Men like you big, she said.”

“Well, she waited all summer to hear. We couldn’t figure why it ne’er came. I studied that her pa had got hold of the package some way.”

“Say. Did he?”

“No, last week it came. Just an old envelope. And there was a picture on a card of a man’s hand. It said underneath, Try This. Lily got scared.”

“She should ne’er have sent off, Mandy,” Frankie cried.

“Say, has that Withers girl got a boy friend?” Ellen was asking.

“She’s got plenty, Ellie. There’s always one to take her to doings.”

“Now what if Lily’s papa’d seen it,” Frankie said. “That picture and those words.”

“Wish I could go to that husking bee,” said Ellen. “I’ve got a deal of a desire to go. I might cross my pa and slip out this once.”

“Oh Ellie.” Frankie’s voice was the cheep of a frightened bird. “Don’t say that.”

“Obey thy father and mother.” Amanda spoke cheerfully as they were entering the woods. “Now maybe he’ll say yes this time, Ellie.” They began to gather hickory mast that carpeted the ground. When the baskets were full they walked to Amanda’s home, a saddlebag log house set in an apple orchard. They left two baskets in the passageway between the cabins and climbed to an upstairs room. They shucked Amanda’s nuts, spreading them with brown-stained hands on a carpet of straw. From the rafters hung strings of small ear corn with white pointed kernels that would pop over a fire. And there was a drop cord overhead with a carbon bulb, for the Yorks had electricity.

* * *

The sisters took their leave and walked home with the laden baskets. The evening whippoorwills were starting their spasmodic carping. Ellen said, “I’ll make a way to go to that husking bee.”

But at the end of the week Anton brought news so she forgot all about it. He had hauled grain and surplus root crops, Hubbard squashes and pumpkins to Bethel, returning in late afternoon with ground flour, meal, and kitchen and farm supplies. “Saw the new smithy, Troy Hatfield, and got the welding done. That share will hold now. And he gave me outright a great piece of hide for leather stripping, just for that heap of pumpkins Frankie planted. Shaw.” The man was growing genial, his journey a success. He pushed back his chair and strode to the door, spit his quid into the bushes. He wiped his face with a powerful arm, came back to sup coffee noisily and consume chunks of Ellen’s brown dripping-cake. He was turning to her. “Troy gave me news for your ears, girl. You mind that froward young fellow hired to Dutchman Brinker? The one that sassed me? Well, he took off in a sudden. Dutchman had a time finding a new hand. This one’s brought a wife with him, so he’ll not be traipsing about with young maids. Hum.”

“Did smithy have an idea where he went, Pa?”

“You pining after that poor trash Brinker hires?”

“I’ve got a right to ask.”

“You trifling with me?”

“No, Pa.”

“You have to put in your two cents. The fellow’s pa died. Troy says Dutchman was right plagued at having to pay wages out on a Sabbath. That’ll put a good Lutheran in hell, I allow. Haw.”

“He ne’er liked his pa nor that kind of city work.” Ellen was by the door, lingering.

“You got any more on your mind? Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

* * *

Ellen went to take from its pen the gray rabbit Christian had brought her. She carried it to the edge of the field and put it down. “Go fend for yourself like I’ve got to. Look out for the hungry foxes and weasels.” She watched it hop away, then went to her upstairs room. She hunted in the wood trunk for paper and an envelope.

Dear Christian,

Smithy told Pa you left these parts. The sky is heavy and gray. Maybe it will come on a snow. I call to mind the hours we spent by the strawberry bed. Now I think winter is come. I would that you wrote me how you are getting on.

Ellen Gaddy

She sealed the envelope, addressing it to Mr. Christian Ay, Carl Brinker Homestead, Route 4, Bethel, Ky., send to new address.

Down in the woods the air was still and weighted. Pinched clouds were banking above the swollen land. The red dog fox crept to his post overlooking the shadowed water. His eyes tensed as he spied the old Muscovy duck napping, head under wing, amid brown rush stalks. He struck noiseless. Thrashing wings lashed in a frenzied struggle but the needle teeth found the jugular and blood was spattered on the rushes. Later Ellen called again and again and there was no answering rush of wings. “You’d ne’er come to the safe yard. Reckon some varmint caught you.” She tossed the ear of corn to the tame fowl in the chicken yard.

Her letter was returned by the mail carrier. She hid it under her apron. On its face was scrawled: return to sender, no address known. C. Brinker. She took it up to the attic and laid it unopened in the small trunk. She stood looking out the gable window as drifting snow made the world grow small and old familiar shapes became strange and new.

* * *

Down Sweetincreek Road in mid-December Anton was driving the wagon to mass in Millville. The lightweight buckboard was unsuited for these winter days and the women rode in the wagon bed shrouded with rugs. A crowd of frightened birds moved and swooped across the sky like a giant amoeba. The pale sun was melting the snowfall into slush. The horses snorted, exhaling a vapor, tramped in the ruts of the road, hurling red mud in clods from their iron shoes. Anton was complaining, “Wish hit could have waited till Monday to thaw. This is a rough piece of road.” He clucked to the team. “Reckon we’ll be late again to mass, Frankie? Here it is Advent time once more.”

“Christmas is but two weeks off, Pa.”

Ellen was praying silently, “Holy Queen, keep him from remembering to send us to confession this week. I’ll not tell it to a priest. I’ll go to hell and burn first. I’m in a sorry strait, now.”

Anton was fastening the team and preceding his family into the square clapboard building half filled with people and heated by a huge black stove at one side. He took one of the rear pews. The heavy clothing rustled, the plank floor creaked. Anton tugged his bulky fur cap off, thrust it behind him on the seat. The women were kneeling at the low bench in their long coats, their caps and boots. They crossed themselves. The priest was murmuring at the altar, his server on his knees. Intimidated by habit and example, Ellen inclined her head. She heard the sonorous chant, “O Thou that leadest Joseph like a sheep, alleluia. Stir up, O Lord, Thy might and come to save us. Who art Thou? I am the voice of one crying in the desert.” She made the sign with her hand, desolate. The priest began to tell off the canon of the mass. He washed his fingers, incense drifted, the signal bell tinkled. Folk shifted and whispered; singly and in groups they left their winter covering on the benches, came with bowed heads to the altar, hands in ancient attitude of prayer, to receive from paten and cup the Body and Blood. Say to the faint-hearted, fear not. It chafed within Ellen, uncomforted. She arose with the rest when it was over. And in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness grasped it not. The holy man was striding away, the people began to depart in a disturbance of noise and bodies. Ellen touched the water in the granite basin as she walked after her mother and sister.

Anton dipped his head, curt, to those he knew, stopped without the door to speak with N. J. Bilberry. The women waited, Maria whispering to Mrs. Bilberry, fleshy-faced and cheerful. At Anton’s nod they climbed back into the wagon and he took the reins. They jolted down the road. The earth lay dank-sweated, old furrows exposed. Black cottonwood trees were guarding the ditches. “N. J.’s wheat froze out,” the man commented briefly.

“Tinie says there’s chills and fever going about,” Maria told him. “And Ioway Ashby has married a man from the south. He’s thirty-one years old. Ioway was but twelve last June.”

“I heard,” Frankie cried, “he sent off for a poppet doll for her, dressed in a bride veil.”

“Ioway Ashby’s not inclined to give up her dolls yet,” Maria said.

“Now dogwood roots are near as good as quinine for chills and fever,” Anton was saying.

“Ioway’s ma told Tinie they’d begged at her since summer to let them marry. So she figured they just as well. I say, that’s a sight young for robbing the cradle.”

Under cover of the wagon’s rumbling, Ellen whispered, reciting, “Mother of Mercy, our life our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.”

Frankie pulled the rug about her boots. “It’s powerful cold. What you doing, Ellie?”

“I’m thinking. Sam says if you have a blade of five-finger grass to carry about no one can deny you what you ask. I don’t believe him. Wonder if there’s some in the fields now?” Ellen turned her eyes uncertainly to the future, where somehow she must form a plan.

* * *

Anton received a letter the next day. “Hit’s from your Uncle Garland. Says he’s coming in a week’s time for Christmas this year. Hum. We’ll see what he thinks of your piano-playing now, Frankie. And how you’ve grown so fair.”

“Oh Pa.”

The man straightened his back, looked out the window. “Bear in mind, one more Christmas and you’ll be going up to that city with him. That’s Anton Gaddy’s youngen, folks’ll say.”

“Chicago sounds so far off, Pa. Will Uncle be glad for me to come?” Frankie smoothed the brightened hair that hung about her narrow shoulders.

“We’ll butcher tomorrow. Hear, ooman?” Anton said to Maria.

“Yes,” she assented, “and it’s just come on the dark of the moon. It’s right to butcher.”

“You know I don’t hold by that. But my brother dotes on your blood pudding and peppered headcheese. Sam and I’ll fix to prepare right away.” He marched out.

“If you butcher in the light of the moon,” Maria told her daughters, “it’ll all drindle away while it’s frying. Just cracklings’ll be left. The grease’ll go rancid till you’ve got to make it up in soap.”

“I know,” tittered Frankie, “and that soap will turn the clothes yellow.”

“That’s a fact,” said Maria. “Don’t you laugh. My pap and mam e’er went by the moon. It’s natural.”

“Will Uncle Garland say I’m fair, Ellie?” Frankie appealed to her.

“I reckon.”

“Are you cross, Ellie?”

“No.”

“Well you sure act sick then. Doesn’t she, Ma?”

Ellen, who found tears started easily now, who was wary of her sudden sieges of self-pity, was running from the room. Again she dipped the pen.

Mr. Christian Ay,

There is a need for me to speak with you. I wish you were still hired to Brinker. I fear you have forgot me and this is but a striving after wind. Could you make a way to write or send word?

Ellen Gaddy

Millville, Ktcky.

This she addressed, Mr. Christian Ay, Care of Ay’s Store, Louisville, Ktcky.

She mused, near suffocating in the loneliness. Had she led him on as Christian had declared? Had she sinned? Her brows contracted and she searched again the halls of memory for meanings. Surely she had known to fear that which befell. Here in the countryside tales were constantly bruited and old songs sung of fallen virgins and light young men. The Bible related dire warnings and horrid punishments meted out to defiled maids. She had led him to their sin then. But that wasn’t so. I didn’t knowing lead him on. I wasn’t a wanton. There came to her mind the woodchucks Anton trapped. A shotgun often didn’t penetrate the small thick skulls so steel traps were set in their underground paths. If a creature blundered and felt the sudden grip, it would strive with its greatest strength. And if it could not tear free, it backed into its den, pulling the trap after. There it gnawed its own leg above the metal jaws. It destroyed a part of its flesh, knowing it was a way.

When the next morning was just made, two scalded hog carcasses were hanging from the sourwood scaffold. The blood had been caught in a bowl and taken to the kitchen for boiling and seasoning. The great white wrinkled heads were on the porch in a red-daubed washtub. “If there was a ooman with child about,” Sam grunted as they were hoisting the scraped bodies by gambrel sticks thrust through the hamstrings, “we’d have to take care to cover this mess. Butchering blood on the earth marks a child.”

“I don’t have those worries any more.” Anton tossed the liver and kidneys and sweetbreads in the pan Ellen brought out to them.

The fire was dying under the iron cauldron. Soon hams were piled in a heap along with the sagging shoulders and sides on a lye-scrubbed plank. The sausage-making began. Sam was scraping the inverted intestines preliminary to stuffing them. He stopped to hone his knife on a whetstone he carried in his pocket, spat on it for lubrication. “My old ooman came back last night. First thing Eadie did was boil up hot mustard water and set her feet in it. She chewed up a sourwood twig to make her a snuff brush. Give me a dipping, Samuel, she says, I’m tuckered.” He sat back thoughtful. “For Gawd, my house was a lonely place against that old hen’s return.”

Anton sliced chunks of meat savagely, the razor-sharp knife whipping close to his finger tips. He held his silence, fed the pork into the grinder.

In the kitchen the women were preparing in their fashion for the celebration ahead. Anton had given Ellen coins with which to buy sugar when she did her trading, and for spices and raisins to put in the holiday cakes. In this season when his brother came for the annual visit, Anton would have no stinting. “Girl,” he said to her, “my ma used to make a pale holytide cake. There were whites of eggs beat in bowls and it was thick with nuts and sugared fruits. Not black like those strong sorghum ones you-all make. Hum.” He nodded, complacent.

Ellen was assenting, eager. “I’ll ask Mrs. Love. Could be she’s learned the rule of such a cake, Pa.”

“And when you’re trading, go down of an evening when priest is holding hours for confession. Your uncle be due on Saturday, and I’ll have you all at the communion rail when he’s here, proper pious.”

Before walking the muddy road to Millville in the cloudy darkened late afternoon, Ellen went to her room. She was binding her waist tight with a length of cloth. “I can’t see nothing yet, but Stacey Love might.”

In the confessional box, she whispered to the young priest. “Bless me, Father Tompert. I confess to God and you that I’ve sinned. My last confession was Easter.” She despaired. It’s all made up of falseness. I’ve no right to be here.

“Confess your sins since then, child.”

“I took God’s name in vain. One time I did truly hate my pa.”

“Have you had any impure thoughts, my child?”

“No.”

“If you have any of these kind of thoughts you must do your best to banish them. Are you truly sorry for your sins?”

“I am, Father.”

She went to kneel in a pew, forbearing to recite the penance prayers the priest had assigned to her. Instead she asked the Virgin to have pity, to understand why she was mute to Father Tompert for the sake of Anton’s pride. She was thus driven, with a measure of courage, to rejecting the rituals bestowed on her since a cross was hung about her throat as a baby, since she first held the beads and lisped the Credo. And praying to Mary, Ellen emerged with her as a personal god. She grasped the blue-gowned symbol in her need as if it were flesh and blood and could wield an influence on her fate. She denied the immense father figure of God without debating it.

* * *

In coming days she would meet the mail carrier in his Model T, take back her second letter and place it with the other in the trunk. She at last put aside the hope of finding Christian Ay.

By Friday, cakes and tarts, breads, cheeses and dried fruit pies were overflowing from the pantry shelves. Hams and sidemeat were curing in the smokehouse, sausages strung lavish from the shed eaves. There were crocks of fried meat packed in white fat, as well as headcheese, liverwurst, and tins of fresh lard. In the hot kitchen, Maria was baking breads and biscuits in the newly-blacked range, vaguely wakened in the prospect of a visitor. She spoke to Ellen, “Get wax candles when you go by Love’s next time, girl. The tallow ones ain’t suited for Mester Garland Gaddy.”

Frankie was at the long table, a basket of butternuts and walnuts on the floor by her. She was cracking them on a sadiron with a blow of an old hammer head. She looked up, “You’re right peaked, Ellie. Are you ailing?”

“I’ll hunt out some of that bloodroot tonic,” Maria said, “if you got the complaint. It’ll make new blood.”

“I’d as lief you’d sing again,” Frankie was saying. “And you used to cut up so. Seems you’ve given it up.”

Ellen, startled, burned her hand on the iron pan she was taking from the oven. She shook her wrist to ease the seep of pain.

“Go smear yellow soap on it,” her mother said, “it’ll draw out the heat.”

Ellen rubbed on the soap, blinking her eyes. She sang to hide the tears and to hold her tongue from blurting her trouble.

If I had known before I courted

That love had been so hard to win

I’d have locked my heart with the keys of golden

And pinned it down with a silver pin

“That’s too lamenting, Ellie. Sing that one Penny used to. About that Minnie.”

Hush little Minnie and don’t say a word

Papa’s going to buy me a mocking bird

It can whistle and it can sing

It can do most anything

They were making ready for the guest coming. Calico was hung across one end of the downstairs bedroom to form a separate chamber in which Garland would sleep. A chair was placed by the bed and a stone-topped table. In its base was a chamber pot, and on top a crockery pitcher with pink roses glazed on its surface set in a matching basin. A cake of store soap lay in a dish, a towel folded beside it. They ripped the bed tick open, removed the old stuffing, and filled it with soft wheat straw. The one feather pallet was aired and placed on the mattress, and over all they spread muslin sheets and their best quilts.

That night Ellen was in a chair in the warm parlor, her back aching from the long hours, a piece of mending in her hand. Dark had come on, the lamp was throwing feeble quivering shadows. Anton was holding the Bible and his lips moved. He raised his eyes, studied the image of Joseph alone on the table. He spoke, abrupt, “Where’s the Virgin Mary that stood there with Joseph? She be broke, I vow.”

Ellen looked up in alarm. “I took her to the loft-room, Pa. What with holytide, I thought it would please you if I prayed to her, pious-like.”

“Well, I allow you can keep her for a spell. But she’ll not be broke, girl.”

“No, Pa. I’ll take care.” She arose. “Reckon I’ll go to bed. Coming, Frankie?”

He stopped them. “I’ll say the prayer to Michael once for this family. Get down, you-all.”

On their knees the women were waiting, their shadows cast like gentle giants on the wall. The man knelt by the lamp and his specter engulfed theirs. “Holy Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our safeguard against the snares of the devil. Thou, Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all evil spirits that wander through the world seeking the ruination of souls.”

The temperature dropped in the night. As they were beginning the morning chores, whitefrost covered the land. The remote stars were cold and challenging. Ellen shivered, feeling her frailty. “What does it matter? One soul like me. I’m but a grain in a field of wheat. Who’s to heed if I be lone or have a sin to burn me?”

She was closing the woodshed door. Her two goats got up in the half-light by the stone wall. Their beards twitched as they chewed in unison, their hair stood out woolly. “Why did I e’er take up with the careless love of Christian Ay?”

She was putting bread crusts and salt and soybeans from her pocket in the wood trough. She laid her hands on the animals’ soft necks. “Here’s some linseed meal for richness. You feel the storm coming?”

She went to get a bucket of tepid water that had stood by the kitchen range all night, carried it to the barnyard fowl. They were huddling together, feathers ruffled, on the pole roosts. She threw cracked corn on the dirt floor of their shed, and the birds hopped down one by one to eat, singing and crooning over the food. “Tonight I’ll mix a sprinkle of red pepper in your wet mash to warm your craws while you sleep.” Tending the creatures of the farm, Ellen took comfort and so forgot herself.

6

Garland Gaddy, in a new green Ford, was returning to the home of his youth. As he drove up the lane, Anton was in the barn on his knees while the old cow Bramble, delivered him twin heifers. But Garland’s nieces bade him welcome. They showed him the feather bed and he was well pleased. He took Ellen in his arms. “You’re a handsome wench, hon. Last Christmas you were a child and here you’re nearly a woman. What does Anton say when the young men come sparking?” He pinched her thigh, smiling warm.

“You’re plaguing me, Uncle. But he’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t he, Frankie?”

“Oh he is.”

At night when the festive meal was over they sat in the parlor. The wind growled, and above the alders at the pond the moon bobbed like a ball on a chain while water-shadows trembled. Anton kept a fire roaring, carrying armfuls of oak logs from the kitchen and piling them on the hearth. Garland brought out a fifth of contraband whisky, setting the bottle on the round table. The two men tasted from the heavy kitchen glasses. “This be good moon, Gar.”

“Well, it beats needle beer. Place I get it has all their hooch analyzed and tested by a registered chemist. Ought to be good. Cost fifteen dollars a bottle.”

“Christ.” Anton was impressed. “Smithy sold me some Jackass Peach Brandy from Virginia. Fifty cents a pint jar.”

“Better watch out for that junk. Break you down inside. Internal bleeding. I wouldn’t drink a thing made down here in the Bible belt.”

Ellen was sent to the cellar for a bottle of pale sweet wine that Anton made yearly from his scuppernong grapes, the vine of which had been planted five decades ago by Jules Gaddy, the father of the brothers. Ellen had put a scarf at her neck and it became her. She poured the wine, and came behind her uncle in his chair. When she put her head against his while he was talking, her hair fell on his shoulders. And she loved him.

Garland Gaddy was the middle one of three brothers, a bachelor. He was a head taller than Anton, overweight, not yet fat. His small eyes were light blue, his once-blond hair had turned gray, he trimmed a neat mustache. His jaw was square, his lips full. He wore hand-cut dark suits, vivid ties. As a child he had shared with Anton their mother’s neglect, had run away from home at nineteen to prowl the states from coast to coast, brawling and scattering his seed. Then when he was twenty-nine, Anton offered him the sum of fifteen hundred dollars in cash, Maria’s dowry, for his half the farm. Garland had accepted, hitchhiking to Chicago with the bills sewn into his belt. He soon was co-owner of a thriving burlesque house. Now, over twenty years later, from his office on State Street he handled a set of neighborhood theatres where vaudeville and the silver screen vied for public approval.

Anton was affected by the abundance of festive food, the polished house, and the women’s raiment. Maria even, had laid aside the sack apron she usually pinned on and was wearing her churchgoing black dress and an ecru crocheted collar. Anton nearly begrudged the honor they paid Garland, although his pride assured him that the tribute was to himself. “Say, Gar, I call to mind when we were youngens, and Ma was honing for that black driving rig. You recollect? Our sir had but two gold dollars. So he went to Trader Bocock. Said, Bocock, you can have this gold and all the rocks you can haul out of that rye field if you’ll trade that rig to me.”

“She get the buggy, Pa?” asked Frankie.

“Bet she did, hon,” Garland said.

“What did the trader want of rocks?”

“I don’t know. But Bocock had the field cleaned before spring plowing,” said Anton.

“Ma managed to get what she wanted pretty near every time,” Garland said.

“Hum.” Anton packed his pipe, pushing with his thick thumb. “Had her hands full. Say, Frankie, play for us, and sing the prayer you learned.”

Frankie obeyed.

Angel of God, my Guardian dear

To whom his love commits me here

E’er this day be at my side

To light and guard, to rule and guide

“That’s a special prayer, you know, Garland. Priest says it’s worth a hundred days’ indulgence. Sing it once more, Poppet.”

“I better learn that one.” Garland kept time with his hand. He got up to stand by the upright piano, tapping his foot. “You know the old one—Captain Jinks?”

“I don’t think so, Uncle.”

“Goes like this.” Garland made several false tries before he sang in off-key:

I’m Captain Jinks of the horse marines

I feed my horse on corn and beans

And court the ladies in their teens

For that’s the style in the army

“That’s a new one, Uncle,” Ellen said.

Garland was pulling her hand, drawing her beside him. “You sing with me.”

When they had finished, Ellen offered, “Want to hear one of Penny’s tales?”

“That roaring ooman,” growled Anton. “Tell you, Gar, she couldn’t cut an onion or hold a scrub brush without she was screeching some foldilay.”

“Let’s hear it, puss.” Garland sat back in his chair. Ellen stood behind him to sing while Frankie played. Anton bit his pipe in his yellowed teeth and the smoke wreathed. Maria knitted, her lips moving occasionally with an inner thought.

I courted pretty Pol the livelong night

Then left her next morn before it was light

The song told of how Pol went riding off with the man and then,

They went a bit further and what did they spy

But a new-dug grave and a spade lying by,

Willie, O Willie, I’m afraid of your way

I’m afraid you will lead my poor body astray

Pretty Pol, pretty Pol, you’re thinking just right

I dug on your grave the best part of last night

And Willie stabbed the girl and put her in the grave.

He threw a bit of dirt o’er her and started for home

Leaving no one behind but the wild doves to mourn

“Now, if that ain’t a dumb fool story,” Anton snorted.

Ellen looked down at Garland and he patted her hands, placing them on his shoulders. “I liked it.”

“You e’er hear,” she asked quickly because of the tears that were trapped by her father’s scorn, “it will strengthen a man’s eyes to have a mustache?”

“Well,” he laughed, “I’ll keep it then.”

Uncle’s so kind. It came on her as he was stroking her wrists.

Anton lifted his head. “My sir said his grandsir in France owned a sporting hog one time. You mind that story, Gar?”

“He called her Slut,” Garland said. “He was a gamekeeper in one of the king’s forests. Bred his own dogs, taught them to stand and back game. They say he was watching the men and saw the pups weren’t responding. Little black shoat went by, not a wild hog, she was the kind that ran loose in the forest those days. Made a wager with the men, he could train and break the shoat faster than they could the dogs. He penned her, taught her to come to her name. She pointed small game and partridge. After awhile she’d retrieve rabbit and pheasant, careful, too, she didn’t harm them—all sorts of game. Did better than his dogs. And backed them when she saw them point. That hog’s nose was so true she’d point a bird fifty yards away. In a straight line. That’s the story anyway.”

“He win the bet?” Frankie asked.

“Oh sure, hon.”

“Came when he hollered,” said Ellen. “Wish I could have seen that.”

“Did she run good or was she too fat?” asked Frankie.

“She was trim. She’d come at full gallop. Excited like the dogs when she saw a gun.”

Maria said, “They must have set store by that beast.”

“You bet,” Garland turned to her, “and you know, Maria, when Slut was ten years old she weighed half a ton and they still hunted with her.”

“Ain’t that a tale, Frankie?” Anton demanded. “Those were the olden days. Then there came the time of Napoleon the Bonyparty. Pa’s grandsir had to soldier under him. He’d watch o’er the old country and if some land like Germany was trying to conquer a scroungy sort of a country, why Napoleon the Bonyparty, he’d say no. He’d get in front of his army and go lick Germany or whate’er land it happened to be. He stayed in France between wars and our great grandsir belonged to his company.” Anton shrugged with pride. “That fellow wasn’t the king, he worked for himself. He made his living that way, watching o’er the old country.”

“Say, my great great grandsir,” claimed Frankie, “knew Napoleon the Bonyparty.”

“Well,” Garland was laughing, “tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. Let’s hit the hay.”

Ellen stayed awake far into the night. The wind was tugging at her window and the lonely dark pressed down. Her lips were dry and her mouth became as cotton. I’ll tell Uncle tomorrow for sure. At length she lapsed into a fitful sleep while in the parlor below the fire died to coals and field mice came from the walls to nibble crumbs and nut meats fallen on the rugs.

* * *

At breakfast Maria was stirring a pancake batter while the girls fried sausages and potatoes, set out slices of blood pudding, crocks of jam and sorghum. “I favor lacing griddle-cakes with hot sausage fat,” Anton said. “Sweetening takes the taste out.”

Garland, clad in a red shirt, new hunting pants and shining engineers boots, beamed. “Good old country sorghum for me. Well, pusses, what’s new? Anyone dream about a pointing pig? Or poor Pol? Or Napoleon?”

“I ne’er,” giggled Frankie, “but tell another story.”

“Well, you know that same great-great-grandfather of yours that trained Slut, went to Russia with Napoleon’s army. There was a bad winter and Napoleon beat it back to France. He let most of the troops die in the snow without food.”

“I don’t take much stock in that,” said Anton. “I doubt Bonyparty did that.”

“Now, Anton, you know Pa used to talk about it. How they conscripted all the men of the village, twenty-three of them. And only his grandfather came back.”

“He must have been strong. They say he was a good-looker, too,” said Anton. “Finest in the village, a proud one.”

“Doesn’t look like you or me inherited much from him,” laughed Garland.

“Reckon Marc took after him,” Anton said, “for he was the dandy of us three boys.”

“Well,” Garland asked, “what you pusses got to report this morning?”

“One of the barn cats brought in a little mole yesterday,” said Frankie.

“You didn’t know I lost my white kid last summer, Uncle,” Ellen said. “He was but two months old.” Lines still edged her eyes when she spoke of it. “You ne’er got to see him.”

“I was telling about the mole, Ellie.”

Garland listened to them, then said suddenly, “Now An, here’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up. Been thinking a lot about Frankie here. About her coming up to the city next year. You see, I want everything to go right. She needs to make a good impression from the start. Now you folks don’t realize it, but you practically talk like first settlers with that old-fashioned country dialect. Think Frankie could take lessons in grammar or speech this coming year to correct some of that?”

Anton had been spearing sausages and pancakes with a fork. He paused. The blood was leaping to his cheekbones, his freckles stood out in vivid specks. He made a guttural sound and scraped his chair back. He spat the food from his pendulous lips on to the table before him, hurled the sausage and fork to the floor. “Hit do be my sir’s tongue and my ma’s and before God, hit’ll be that girl’s. She’ll go forth with hit and no more farting teaching mesters will I suck upon.” He flung himself from the house.

Ellen began to weep. Maria was taking up a cloth to clean the table and the floor. Frankie looked at her uncle and her eyes were wary, her voice small, “You’re not afraid?”

“Jesus Wept, no, puss. Have another flapjack and I’ll talk to him when he cools off. That squirt always had a hot temper.”

* * *

Ellen snared the largest of the geese by a stout pink leg. She bore it to the stump, placed its head between the spikes and cleaved the neck just below the jaw. She threw the beheaded bird from her to flail its wings and flop about. She handed the head to Jack, eager and knowing. “I see you licking your chops.” She tore the down from the breast, stuffing it into a sack. She brought a pail of boiling water, scalded the carcass and finished the plucking. She gave the entrails to the chickens to pick, washed the heavy bird under the pump, hung it near the sausages dangling from the eaves in the shed.

In the kitchen, Anton was tipping his chair back. He took from his pocket a twist of tobacco leaves and sliced the end with his jackknife. He thrust his short legs in front of him, balancing. “Hell, Gar, might be it’s as you say and Frankie’s speech is queer to city folk. But what matters her way of speech if she’s to make music? If you say so, why I’ll get her a grammar mester. But hark at me, Gar,” and his eyes were glinting, “don’t ne’er speak again such as you did there before them oomen-folk. Like what I say ain’t gospel.”

“Chrissake, get off your high horse. They know you’re boss.” Garland ground his cigarette butt in a plate and laughed. He ran his little finger across his mustache, touching his sensuous lips. “I was always big enough to lick you if it came to that, now wasn’t I?”

“You’ve tried hit.”

“I always give you good advice. Now here’s another bone I want to pick. Indoor plumbing.” He hit his fist on the table. “You think you’ve progressed because you dug a new privy ten years ago. Maria and those young girls haul water from the well like pioneers. This is December nineteen twenty-five. The century of progress.” Again the fist.

“They got a sink and a clear drain that our ma ne’er had,” Anton drawled, tobacco juice staining the corners of his mouth, “and she ne’er had a deep hole like our shithouse but just a board and a shed. Nor that sweet-water well that Witch Lufty found. I see you’ve gone soft in the city.” The farmer was pleased, for now the ground was familiar. He backed down only when there was jeopardy to his younger daughter’s future.

“Yes, guess I was going soft, Anton, when I got you that loan back in the war when times were bad. So you could buy good milkers and get shed of that worthless herd you were supporting. Guess it’s soft to buy a good breed of chickens or thoroughbred hogs.”

“Hell, those are beasts where we make our living. Hit’s not the same.” Anton stumped to the stove and lifting the round iron lid with the poker, spat on the coals. They sizzled. “And I paid that loan back, Gar. Hard cash from crops and milk.” He replaced the lid with a violent noise.

“I give up. Chrissake, you’re stubborn.” Garland arose. “I suppose you’d declare you’ll never run in a line and wire the farm for electricity?”

“I was born by lamplight and I’ll see that I die by it.”

“Well, I’ve got two or three Christmas packages in the Ford.” Garland was going to the door. “Good a time as any to bring them in. Frankie,” he shouted, “call off that practicing and come with me. Jesus Wept, this is a holiday.”

Anton was sawing his fist in the air, exhorting, “Remove not the ancient landmark which thy fathers have set, says the Word. Mind, Gar.”

That evening an austere meal of bread and cabbage soup was consumed. By custom the family semi-fasted before communion. They would wait to eat of the festive food when they returned from midnight mass. After supper the girls popped corn and cracked nuts to put on the table. Ellen boiled up a pan of taffy at Garland’s suggestion. She buttered her hands and pulled it with him until it cooled into long pale sticks. But all his jokes and laughter did not rouse her from her lassitude.

At mass she moistened her tongue to swallow the dry communion disk. It seemed to her that now truly the door was closed on her childhood. As she returned to the pew she grieved, weighing what she had read in her Bible. If thou hast done foolishly in lifting thyself, or if thou hast thought evil, lay thine hand upon thy mouth. For as the churning of milk bringeth forth butter and the wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood, so the forcing of wrath bringeth forth strife. I’ll have to find a way to leave my home, a place to go and drop this wayside colt.

Garland drove the green car back down the road to the farm. He was talkative and his mood had passed to his brother. “Tell you,” Anton was yawning, “I’ll ne’er forget that Christmas I passed shivering and repenting while sleeping up against the cows, and thinking of you and Marc warm in the quilts. I’d been whipped on my knees for leaving the cow gate open. You remember it? That was one.”

The car lights beamed down the corduroy road. The night was parted like great doors swinging open on hinges. I haven’t told Uncle yet. A light fall of snow was starting and the wind hushed.

The store-wrapped gifts that Garland had laid on the table in the parlor were opened Christmas morning. Anton was puffing at a hand-rolled cigar. “If you be setting and your hands be idle, hit’s a good enough pleasure,” he said, stinting. “I even heard they’re rolling cigars now with a machine.”

Ellen opened her package, took out a hat of crushed blue satin, a silk rose on its soft brim. “My, that’s fair.” Her voice was tremulous because of his care for her.

“Put it on, hon,” he was saying. “Ordered it special from the milliner. You know, satin’s the thing this year. Say, when she wears that to mass, Anton, you’ll have to keep the beaus back with a shotgun.”

Maria smoothed her fingers over a black crepe de Chine dress. Frankie ran to try on one of pink wool, to fling herself upon Garland while her father smoked in his chair, tracing her movements with a jealous eye. “E’er see the glass bowl-garden Frankie made me last summer, Gar?” he asked. “Hit’s setting in the bedroom window.”

* * *

Ellen was drying the breakfast dishes when Garland came into the room. He had on a bright striped jacket and brown corded jodhpurs. His gray hair was neat, his square jaw shaven. “Don’t you ever get tired of all this work, puss? You never get a change, hidden out on the farm here by yourself.”

“It’s my home, Uncle. And I love the earth and its doings. Sometimes in the summer it comes on such an hour like when the Lord God walked in the garden of Eden. Sometimes a wind passes o’er the earth that’s fair and all its bounty is spread before.” The wetness stood in her eyes as she was blurting it.

“I know, but you’ve got your future to think about. You should meet people. Get around. Your father dotes on Frankie too much, never gives a thought to you. It’s not right, you know.”

“It’s his way.”

“You got a boy friend?”

“No.” Water filled her eyes again.

Garland tapped the table. “It’s your father. Keeps you kids cloistered like a pair of nuns.”

Ellen was stacking the dried silver in the milkglass jar. She turned to him, desperation fringing her tones. “I would as lief go from the farm awhile, to see the world outside.”

“Course you would, sweet.” He was hearty. “That’s only normal. Now what chore comes next?”

“Tending my goats.” She was taking her coat from its hook. “Want to come?”

With the dog trailing after, they took the path over which Ellen had sped light in the summer past. She fed her does and was standing at the gate while they ate, her eyes absorbed. Garland smoked his cigarette, observing her a while. “How would you like to visit me in Chicago, sweet? Work’ll be light here till spring. They can get along without you.”

She breathed soft, “Pa’d not have it.”

“He doesn’t need you. Got your sister to keep him company.”

“He does so need me.”

“Well then, he can let you have a vacation.” He smiled. “Does he ever strap you now you’re a grown girl?”

“No, but I call to mind when I was a child and once Ma said I picked at a rhubarb pie from the pantry shelf. I ne’er knew of it being there. Pa cut a hickory, length of his arm, and beat me. Made me kneel. Said I lied. I won’t squall and that gets his back up.” She rubbed with her finger the area between the black stub horns of Rhodie, veiling her eyes. “Reckon I’d love to visit at your house.”

“Well, it’s high time. I’ll throw a party when you come. I’ll talk to Anton this afternoon. Tell him it’s only logical for you to be first since you’re the oldest. He’ll let you. You’ll see.” He was putting his arm around Ellen. She leaned against him with a sigh. “You’re a sweet girl, hon.” He kissed her, lingering on the young mouth.

Ellen decided not to say more to him now. I’ll wait till I’m at his house to tell him he must help me.

Anton wasn’t averse to Ellen’s journey. Garland had emphasized how he was making ready for Frankie’s arrival the next year, and he spoke of the money he planned to spend on her.

Maria said suddenly, “Who’ll do the trading if Ellie goes off?”

“Enough jawing on this,” cried Anton. “I’ll send Sam, ooman. Ellie’ll not be gone two-three weeks.”

Garland laughed, “Her turn comes first. You don’t mind, do you, Frankie?”

“Oh no, I want her to go. Maybe I could do the trading, Pa? Just while Ellie’s gone?”

“No, Poppet. Say, is she riding back with you in the auto?” Anton inquired.

“I guess not. No, I’ll be going by way of St. Louis. I’ve got some business to look after. Then I’ll drive on up and get the house in order. I’ve never gotten ready for one of these young ladies before.”

“She’s taking a train then?” Anton was persistent.

“This is my treat. I’m giving Ellen the ticket money. It’s an extra Christmas present.”

“Well. If you want,” Anton said, relieved.

Ellen stood by them pale, her eyes fastened to her uncle. He nodded, “Come the middle of January, puss. Leave here on the fifteenth. I know the train. There’s only one out of New Hope that goes to Chicago.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“It’s foolishness.” Anton walked out.

Before Garland left, he came on Ellen alone, slipping her an envelope of money. “No need to mention this to your father. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Just tell him I gave you enough for your ticket.”

“All right, Uncle.” She held the extra money tightly in her apron pocket.

On the morning after New Year’s Day, Garland was jaunty in his yellow driving cap and raccoon coat. The girls were helping him carry his bags out to the Ford. Then he unfolded the hood, examined the interior. “That’ll do.” He fastened the hood down, removed the figured radiator cap and dipped a finger. “Water.”

Frankie brought a pail from the pump. “Can I do it?”

“No, this is fine.” He poured until it flowed over, replaced the cap, and opened the car door. “Here goes one more year.”

“Wish you’d stay on a while,” said Frankie.

“There,” Maria said, “I love that dress. I ne’er had a silk one before.”

“That’s crepe de Chine, Maria,” Garland laughed, “it’s the style.”

“It’s not silk, ooman,” Anton said, “that stuff’s too dear.”

“Yes, is it,” Garland said. “It’s one kind of silk. Well, here I go.” His gloved hand was waving from the window. The exhaust rose in a fog, dogging the car in the chill air.

The days sped. It was time for Ellen to leave. She had bought a length of dark heavy cloth with some of the money Garland had given her. She made it into a dress, cutting so it hung in loose folds on her hips. “I can feel where it lays hard in me. Soon the cleverest stitching won’t hide it.”

She had given Frankie the primrose bulb from Brinkers’ kitchen. “Hope it fares well. Keep in mind to feed it cold tea. And do tend my goats, Frankie.”

“You’re only going for a week or so, Ellie.”

“Uncle said I might stay a little longer.”

Ellen was bringing salt to her two does. They licked her hands, leaning affectionate against her. She knew the places they liked best to be rubbed, along the withers and between the horns, on the silken spots behind their small pricked ears, on their throats below the beards. “Frankie’s promised to care for you.”

Maria said, “Bye now. When you reckon Mester Gaddy’ll be back from taking you to Millville? I’m out of coffee.”

Frankie was kissing Ellen fondly. “It’ll be right lonely with you off there. I’ll miss your singing, too.” Frankie’s qualms for her own leavetaking a year hence were exposed when she viewed Ellen’s breakaway. “There. I’m that eager to go to Uncle’s myself.” But she whispered, plaintive, “Wish I was little again. What if it’s not fun like you think it’ll be, Ellie?”

“I ain’t afraid,” Ellen spoke stoutly as she stepped down to where the team waited; her tan coat was covering her new dress, she wore the blue satin hat. Jack was flattening his ears and going to sit amid the weeds on the bank to await her return.

Anton drove the buckwagon, Ellen on the railed seat beside him. At Love’s she would wait to catch a ride on the milk truck to New Hope. “You be a credit to me, girl. I don’t favor your idling about in that Zion. And you’ll not lust after young men, mind.” He was nodding. “So I told my brother.” He reined in the team outside the store. Ellen went in for Maria’s coffee. She handed it up to him. “I’ll see you in two weeks’ time. You can write and I’ll make a way to get you home.”

“Yes, Pa. Goodbye.” Ellen watched the buckboard until she could barely make out her father’s round hat.

In Love’s store, she was peering through the wide window. Stacey Love rocked, vigorous, by the stove. “Hit’s a far piece where you’re going.” Grady was chopping wood and the report of his ax was heard. “I always thought a heap of Mester Gaddy’s brother.” She placed a pinch of snuff between her lower lip and teeth. “Though I ne’er had no truck with another Yankee.”

Ellen kept silence, sickened with excitement and fear.

“You’re sure looking seedy, Ellen. I was telling Grady you seemed kind of pinched this winter.” Stacey swayed back and forth.

There was a noise at the door and Lily Garrett was pushing in, her curls springing about her soft face. “Well, hey you-all.”

“Wish I had a rich uncle,” Stacey went on quietly.

“Why, Ellie Gaddy,” the fat girl cried, “where you going all smartened up? And you got a new hat. Look at that rose.”

Ellen kept her back to them. She continued looking up the road, the pulse in her throat throbbing.

“Ellen’s leaving us poor folks, Lily. Going to the big city.”

“Oh, Mrs. Love,” whispered Ellen.

“My goodness,” cried Lily, “you ne’er told me.”

“Wish I could go visiting,” Stacey said, “lie around in bed of a morning.”

“You-all heard,” Lily called to Ellen, “Buck Lemmon and Sophie Goode wedded? Kept it a secret. It was at the husking bee they met up. How come you didn’t go to the bee, Ellie? Mandy declared you were going.”

Ellen looked around. “My pa wouldn’t suffer neither me or Frankie to go, Lily. That’s all.”

“I calculate Buck Lemmon seen Sophie a sight before that husking bee,” Stacey said flatly.

“Whate’er you mean?” Lily was giggling.

“I ain’t saying,” Stacey smiled. “But you e’er see such a funny-looking girl as Sophie? I marvel at her catching a fine fellow like Buck. I can see she’s wearing stays and binding herself so it won’t show. Guess she allows she’ll fool somebody that way. Buck told me himself she’s been to see Doc Trumbo. Lazy old sow.”

“There’s the milk truck.” Ellen turned to flee. Lily was kissing her extravagantly at the door while Stacey waved a hand and renewed her wad of snuff. Ellen hailed the truck. “Can I hitch a ride to New Hope, Mester Durley?”

“Sure thing, Miss Gaddy.” Those were his last words until they reached the New Hope station.

“I’m beholden, Mester Durley,” she said as she was taking her bag.

“Sure thing.”

In her valise was the plaster of Paris image of the Virgin Mary, and Ellen was somewhat fortified by its presence.

7

The whistle was shrieking as the train coursed into the suburbs late in the night. The cars slunk past small sharp-angled houses, massive factories belching fire, streets of lighted stores and cafes, slow-moving people and streetcars, trucks, wagons and horses or mules, buggies, automobiles. The coach cars were strung with yellow window links that curved on the track ahead into a tunnel. Ellen saw muffled groups of people under bright station lamps. Her journey was done. She reached the cold cement of a pillared runway, stood impotent, bewildered, jostled by passengers on their separate ways. She was clutching her bag in one hand, the other in her coat pocket held her handkerchief in which the money was knotted. A familiar voice spoke in her ear, “Well, here’s the little country wench.”

It was Garland, suave in a tight-fitting suit and spotted tie, a derby on his head. He carried a fur coat, his face seemed old and yellowed in the glare of the platform. He kissed her mouth and she felt the mustache, clung to him. “I thought I got lost, Uncle.”

“Porter.” Yellow taxicabs were waiting in a line. They got in one and drove a long time. She was asleep, her head limp against the hard leather. Garland was waking her. “This is it, sweet.”

She stumbled after him up granite stairs. He stooped over to unlock a door, pushed it open and they went into an unlighted hall where a staircase reared. “How about something to eat? Some hot milk?” He flashed on a light overhead.

“I reckon I’d better just sleep, Uncle. I’m beat.”

“Your room’s up here.” He was climbing ahead on the broad uncarpeted steps, carrying her valise. A musty odor lingered about them.

“My, you’ve got a big house, Uncle.” Her voice was loud in the echoing vestibule.

“It’s big all right.” He preceded her down the hall and opened a door, stepped in and snapped the button of a wall lamp. An orange bulb glowed faintly. “If you want more light, there’s one by the bed.” It was a high-ceilinged room with a dark red rug. The wide ornate bed was covered with a heavy magenta spread and on the wall was a round mirror in a gold-scrolled frame. Through the mesh curtains hanging in front of the windows Ellen saw lamps in the street underneath and tree branches twining still and soundless. The doorbell grated below. “Goodnight, hon. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He was gone.

Ellen attempted to draw the heavy drapes that hung at the sides of the windows, but discovered they were fastened there. She was fumbling at window shades, drawing them down. She heard voices raised below, stiffened to listen. Through the floor boards came a woman’s faint thin laughter. Then all was still. She pulled the chain of the bulb over the bed; in the sudden whiteness dust balls in the corners were exposed, and stained paper on the walls. She put the light out. Below all remained quiet. She folded her dress on an armchair. Cautious, she left the room, found the bathroom around an angle in the hallway. When she turned the spigot, water spurted and roared. Shy of disturbing the household, she washed meagerly, then hurried back and turned off the orange wall light. She crept into the cold foreign sheets. And when she slept it was as if her fears backed off. In dreaming Christian Ay was taking her hand in his. In his way he was laughing as if there was an old joke between the two of them.

When she came downstairs in the morning, her footsteps resounded in the vestibule, at the end of which was a door. It opened into a large green-carpeted room. Somber-colored chairs and sofas were flanked by trivial tables bearing bric-a-brac and crystal and cloisonné ash trays. On a corner table, in a ponderous silver frame, was a daguerreotype of Nell Gaddy, garbed in a ruffled shirtwaist and a wide straw hat tipped with an egret’s wing. Beyond she could see the dining room and her uncle at an oval table, his breakfast and a newspaper spread before him. He waved his hand, called out. He was shaking a little silver bell. She crossed the expanse of the green carpet to sit at the table by him. She sensed the odd odor of his house. It was the strangeness of another lair.

“Mrs. Quimby.” Garland was speaking to an aproned bulky woman at the swinging door. “This is my niece, Ellen. She’ll be visiting here.”

“Pleased, be sure,” said Ellen.

The woman turned away, grim, reappeared with a plate of bacon and eggs and a cup. Gray-black hair wisped about her face, a formless dress was belted on her full hips and buttoned down the front under the apron. Her eyes were colorless. She set the food before Ellen and withdrew.

“Don’t let her ways bother you, puss. You’ll get used to her. She’s a gem. Been with me years.” He was pouring her coffee. While Ellen ate he spoke rapidly, “Sleep well? You do what pleases you. The house is yours. I’ll tell Mrs. Quimby you’re mistress. Like that?” He was tapping the chair arm with his finger. “Want to go for a walk? That’s Redding Street out front. Pretty district here. Old. Want me to invite some friends for a party?” He drank the last of his coffee in haste, jingled the bell again. The housekeeper instantly opened the door, her mouth a penciled line. “Make my niece at home, Mrs. Quimby. Fix her a good lunch. Don’t know what time I’ll be back.” He hurried to the vestibule, returning in a raccoon coat and black spats. He was holding a cane and a black felt derby together in one hand. He looked down at her. “Not much to say, puss. You like my house?”

“I do, Uncle.” Ellen couched her words with care, “Be my speech queer like you told Pa my sister’s was?”

“Well, of course you talk the same as her, hon. But I don’t want you to change. Frankie’ll be living here in Chicago. So that’s different, see?”

“I’d fain live in Millville all my days.”

He kissed her and she smelled the perfumed lotion. He eyed her quizzically. “Such a little innocent. Don’t ever change, sweet.” The outer door was slamming after him.

The hours passed, the first ever spent away from home, away from the ritual of farm work. Ellen saw how mealtimes were varied to suit the whim of Mrs. Quimby, how Garland was blind to the management of his house. He was gone for many hours in a day, often returning after she was in bed. He had little time for her. She would wander through the house to sit in the sun-bright bay window in the dining room, to tune in the cumbersome radio set on the marble table in the other large shaded room. Her plight and its urgent solution lay untamed, twisting in the back of her mind. She went upstairs, past the closed doors of the hallway to the blue-and-white statuette she had placed on the highboy beside the bed. “Deliver me,” she prayed.

On her third day in the house she came to the kitchen, seeking companionship, and pushed the door. Sarah Quimby stared from where she sat reading a paper booklet. In her hands was a steaming mug that she set on the galvanized table top with a sharp click. Behind the dour-faced woman was a double-doored wood icebox trimmed in bronze, and above it swung three or four canary cages. The pale yellow birds were silent, heads cocked, alert. On the sink was a disarray of food and newspapers and opened cans. The hard-wood floor was littered with crumbs and dust. “There’s many a fine secret Sarah Quimby knows, miss.” The housekeeper’s voice was high-pitched and her finger wagged. Ellen let the door swing shut. “I know goings-on,” the woman was shrilling behind it.

Confused, Ellen went to sit in the bay window. “Old witch,” she murmured, laying her hand on her cheek. Frown lines were drawing across her forehead.

Don’t place your affections

On the green sycamore tree

For the leaves they will welter

And the balls they will fall

If you can’t love arightly

Don’t love none at all

In the round mirror in her room, Ellen was deliberately examining her figure clad in a flannel chemise. It was evening, the wall lamp burned. She placed the strip of cloth about her waist, making it firm. Then she put on the dark dress she had made for this visit. To the figure in the glass she breathed, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mester Ay.” The hurt eyes looked back from the white oval face. The breasts even now were swelling so in five months’ time they would grow hard and full, the pink nipples brown. She touched her girdled waist, bitter. “I’ll bind it tighter and maybe it’ll strangle.”

There was a knock and Garland appeared in the doorway, remote in a severe black suit and bow tie. “You put me in mind of my mother there.” He looked at her heavily and turned, drawing the door shut with a dull sound. She stood a moment, then moved to the windows, pulling up a shade exposing the windy lean night. Yellow street lamps bloomed stark and shorn tree boughs swayed. She was weeping after a while, darkly.

Later she glided down the long staircase where the echoes lived, and into the big room. A score of people were milling in the blue mist of tobacco smoke and the vague sensuous odors of perfume. In their hands were stemmed glasses and morsels of food. The air stayed hot and unreal, the voices an undulating drone above the clicking and chinking of dishes. Garland came across the room, ruddy-faced, waving a glass at her, his breath strong. “This is my niece. The one I told you about. The little goat-girl from the Kentucky hills of home.” He took her arm. He was like somebody else; fine wrinkles were etched about his soft-skinned jaw and across his brow. He spoke loudly to a white-haired tall man. “This is Ellen.”

“Mester,” she whispered, and she said, “Lady,” when it was a woman as he took her around the room. Her head throbbed, she wished the night done. Garland left her and she stood apart, waiting. Then he found her again, urging her to sing. “This niece of mine can do the old-time songs up so prettily. Go ahead, puss. Any tune.”

Her voice was high and steady while the women’s gems glistened and the men turned murmuring to each other, puffing long black cigars.

E’er a night when the sun goes in

I hang down my head and mournful cry

True love, don’t weep nor mourn for me

I’m going away to Marble Town

“Say, that’s good. You know any faster ones like ‘Bam, Bam, Bamy Shore,’ Miss Gaddy?” cried a modish blond young woman. “We could dance to that.”

“No.” Ellen’s voice was small. “Reckon not, lady.”

“Well, how about ‘Alabamy Bound’?” called another female voice. “That’s from the South.”

“I don’t know it,” Ellen said.

“It’s got rhythm.” The blond girl tapped her feet. “Come on, Nadine, let’s dance.”

“Vo-do-dee-o! Whoopee!” They raised their hands as though to pat-a-cake, swayed and juggled their feet, short skirts exposing slim legs.

Five feet two, eyes of blue

Can she hug

And can she woo

Garland was setting his glass down. He began to wail too. He shuffled, linked arm in arm with one of the bejeweled women.

She says that

She’s my little baby

My little jazztime baby

There was dancing, noise, laughter, squeals. Ellen, afraid of the strange faces, the clever women, conscious of her unfashionable attire, had retreated to a chair in a dim-lit corner. Mrs. Quimby opened the dining room door. The woman was austere in a white starched apron, a ruffled cap askew on her hair. “The dinner is served, sir.”

When the last guest had gone, Ellen turned to the broad staircase and put her hand on the balustrade. Her skin was transparent, a blue vein beat in the temple. She was holding herself tense. Garland looked at her a moment, his little eyes flickering. “I should have made you rest, hon.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“You sang so pretty.”

“No, Uncle. It’s no song for city folk.” She flushed, near tears. “It sounded queer, for a fact.”

He glanced, curious, at her. “Where did you pick up those songs?”

“Well, Talithie Gentry of the grammar school used to sing to us. But I learned the most from Penny Dougherty. Pa hired her two summers back when Ma took sick.” She sighed, aware of her plainness.

Garland was laughing, “Did you like the party?”

“Pa still calls Penny that roaring woman. He couldn’t abide her. Thought I’d die when she first went. It was so lonely.” And she added, “I remember ary tale Penny sung.”

“Not homesick are you?”

She went up a stair, avoiding his sharp look. “No. It’s the late hour makes me gossipy. Home we’re ne’er up this late.”

“Oh yes, want to ask you about church tomorrow. Guess you’d say I’m a pretty bad Catholic. Manage to make Christmas mass and send a big check to the cathedral and that’s about it.” He wagged his head, looking up at her. “But I know Anton brought you girls up strict. Bet he used a switch like our folks taught us.”

“He did.”

“Want to go to mass?”

“I’d liefer not.” She rubbed her forehead, reflecting. “If you think it’s not wrong to cross his will?”

“You mean Anton’s will? Chrissake, I’m all for it. I wouldn’t tell him. Now, sleep in the morning. Get a good rest. I’ve got some business so I’ll likely be gone.”

“I ne’er knew you to be such a rich man, Uncle. When you came to the farm.”

“Good night.”

As she entered her room, she heard the rasp of the doorbell and a woman’s voice that cut off when the door shut between the vestibule and the living room.

The next day large flakes were floating soundless beyond the cold bay window. Ellen heard a crash in the kitchen, knew another dish had slipped. Over the trill of the canaries came a loud grumbling. The swinging door was opening. “I can tell you a secret, miss.”

“I’ve ne’er a wish to hear it.” Ellen stood up from her chair.

“Don’t put on airs, miss. Your family’s not much account.”

“I reckon I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mr. Gaddy’s the one amounted to something in your family. You’re a poor relation.” Mrs. Quimby smiled slyly. “You know Mr. Gaddy keeps a woman? A bad woman. On the east side. You know what they are, miss? He keeps her for his pleasure.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Ain’t you the fool. Where you think he goes nights, looking like Douglas Fairbanks? Think that’s on business?”

“Hit’s proper to have a lady friend.”

“And not make her his missus? Keep rooms for her. Pay her to wait for him. Give her gold. All these years he’s kept one. Different ones. I tell you he’s lucky to find a respectable woman like me to run his house.”

“I won’t listen. I won’t listen,” Ellen was repeating to herself, running through the house, over the green carpet, away from the voice. She turned the key in her door, threw herself on the magenta coverlet, her hands over her ears. “He doesn’t want me or need me any more than Pa. I’m like some contrary varmint that no one’ll have any truck with.” Her self-pity was like wind to a fire. She got up, sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs, trembling in wrath.

“I put a curse on Christian Ay who did this to me. Forever, take away his joy, Mary Virgin. For what’s been wreaked on me. Make him suffer.”

Suddenly she was rising. She had seen it in an instant. “It just came o’er me. I’ll go there.” She was lifting down the traveling bag, opening it on the bed. She packed her few possessions. “I lay a curse on him. Virgin my witness.” She counted her money, folded it in the handkerchief. The feverish tenor of the past days was sliding away and she was cooled again. She rested, and in the night as she was going out, she stood a letter on the highboy.

Uncle, I’m beholden for all your kindness. I am going to St. Louis to see someone. If Pa asks after me will you tell him I will try to be home in summer. Please don’t try to find me.

niece Ellen

At the station she purchased a ticket, sat for a few tired hours on a bench, her shoes and satin hat wet from the falling snow. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Her hand rested on the valise. She boarded the train and found a seat. Through the window she watched the red coal of sun lift itself. The landscape was evolving into farm lands, far-stretched, and sleeping villages. The snow began to melt as they rumbled southward into Illinois.

She was dozing. Out of memory sprang an incident involving Anton. It stirred no warring of anger in her, only the same wonderment she had experienced at the time. The way of women had come on Frankie, catching her unaware one night when she was eleven, frightening her, so she whimpered to Ellen, “I’m dying. Ellie, don’t let me die.” Maria had kept a pristine silence on all matters pertaining to the body, as her own mam had done with her. It was a secret, never articulated. Ellen had whispered to Frankie and they planned. All the while in their whispers lay a thrill of dread, for it was a field of unknowns. The morning was Sunday and the girls were dressing for mass. Anton opened the loft door upon them. “What’s going on here? We’ll be late again. Now move, you two.” Frankie was nude and gazed, naive, at him. Ellen plucked a garment from the bed and laid it before her sister. The man ripped it from Frankie’s hands, threw it at her feet. He turned on Ellen, “Not so froward, girl,” and stalked out while the two stared. They had dressed swiftly, mute. But nightly, for many years, Frankie would have an urgent compulsion to look under her bed before she went to sleep. And Ellen developed a fear of something skulking and concealed when she was sent to the cellar on an errand.

She was unburying this, mulling it, half asleep. By noon she became wakeful and light-headed, bought a sandwich from a vendor who came shouting through the stuffy car. The train was halting before a gray clapboard station house bearing the flecked inscription WEEMS CROSSROADS. Bag in hand she walked the deserted streets. The air was less chill, the sky a high blue. She was questioning a storekeeper, then turning down a muddy road leading into the country. She passed farms and came to woods where black trees dripped. Brash crows were cawing somewhere out of sight and neglected clouds floated in fresh winds. By a fenced-in burial ground, melting snow outlined gravestones. A Mason jar full of sticks tipped on its side and a withered wreath lay on a plot enclosed with a black iron paling. Gray granite markers were graven with dead names and dates. A cow leaned over the cemetery fence in the distance to crop grass inside; it was bearing heavily with its soft neck on the sagging wire.

Ellen came to a dilapidated mailbox set on a stake under a bare-branched catalpa. She read, Luke Dougherty. She went up the mire of the lane. A flock of speckled guineas were trotting in the wet meadow. She knocked at the door to a narrow weather-washed house set beside a shed where bearded goats were lolling. A hen began to cry in the way they have when they have just laid an egg, and somewhere back of Ellen the guineas screamed. A small pretty-featured woman with clear eyes was there in the doorway.

“I came to you, Penny. Will you have me in?”

8

In a few minutes Ellen was seated in a wood armchair, a blanket about her, a heated soapstone under her feet. A pot of beans on the range was giving off a warm strong odor. There were two rooms in the tiny house. Into this one were crowded the cookstove, a table, a woodbox, two scratched chairs, a stool, a cupboard, a low cabinet. Washing of dishes, clothes, and baby was done in a dark-blue enameled basin, the water thrown out the door. From under the table a child was peering; in his teeth he gripped a piece of bacon rind, in his hand was a metal mixing-spoon which he beat on the floor.

“This is Clate,” said Penny. “He’s a real noisy one.” As Penny bent to take the rind from him and lift him, Ellen saw she was great with another child. The little boy squealed, laughing as he was swung high, and his mother held him for Ellen to see how well formed he was and how red his cheeks were.

“He’s fair, Penny,” Ellen said quietly, “but I’m afraid I’m too young for bearing one. I had to help my goat with hers.”

“Ellie, you hush. It’s a long ways off. I’ll be here. Birthing’s nothing. It’s too short to remember. And look what you’ve got.”

“I hate it. I hate what’s in me. I ne’er want to see it.”

“I’ll make coffee. Luke’ll be home. He’ll be glad you came, Ellie. He knows how I’m one for company. There, I’ll have a new baby in March.”

“You know, Penny, I studied all this time. On a sudden I said, why there’s one.” Ellen was made helpless by her gratitude. “You’re so good.”

“We got ten acres here,” Penny laughed. “Luke’s pa signed this place o’er to us last fall. The soil’s right clayey but it’s rich enough. We’re getting by. I look for spring to come. I’m going to eat boiled greens every day.” She planned, “There’s an attic where you can sleep. I aim to put Clate up there when he grows a bit. It’s hot in summer.”

“I missed you at home, Penny. When you went.”

“We had times, didn’t we? How about when we gathered those sponge mushrooms in the woods and spread them to dry on your pa’s hog barn roof?”

“You were singing ‘Charlie’s Sweet’ and we ne’er saw Pa there.”

“We had the times though, Ellie.”

“All on a sudden it came to me there in the city.” Ellen was earnest.

Penny was holding Clate while he drank milk from a mug. She wiped what he spilled and sat him in the training chair, handing him a piece of corn pone. “He’s waiting till I lift him out. Then he’ll go pee on the rug. Such a small man.”

They drank coffee adulterated with chicory. Penny got up to mix cornbread, stirring in a handful of crumbly cracklings. Ellen felt how the woman listened and waited while she talked, gathering herself. At last dusk assembled and a bird began to call. A step was heard outside and he came. “Look here, Luke. Ellie Gaddy. She’s come to bide a while with us.”

And love lay in the corners of the house. Penny, her apron high over her unborn child, moved more gracefully than before. Her face softened and all the while she hummed and sang. “Now Luke, you visit with Ellie and I’ll catch the milking.” She threw on a shawl, ran out light-footed, a lard pail in her hand.

“Be glad to see this thaw come,” the man said. “I’m that eager to lay out our garden.” Luke was mindful of Penny’s signal with her finger on her lips and so he made as though Ellen had been somewhat expected. He put logs in the stove, and lit candles, telling of the farm where he was employed. “They name it Webster’s Stock Farm. He’s got a dozen of us hands to help all winter. He’s a rich man, got a big white house. He owns these shorthorn cattle. And he’s got little old Jersey cows that he shows at all the state fairs. He brings home ribbons and silver cups and sets them in a fancied-up room. Sometime I aim to go along to one of those fairs.” Tall, black-haired, round-faced, his virility charged the room. He sat in his mild way on the stool, holding his son, who played with the shiny suspender clasps on the overalls and then made water on his father’s leg.

Then they were eating cornbread and beans and thick chunks of fatback and soft onion. Penny would feed Clate from her plate. The smell of tallow candles burning was sweetly pungent and they made a ruddy glow over the faces. Afterwards Penny held a light while Luke went up to the attic by the ladder in the bedroom. He was carrying gunny-sacks of hay, stooped over for the roof was low. Penny handed quilts up to him. Then Ellen took her clothes from the valise and hung them on pegs in the beams. She put her statue of the Virgin beside the pallet and slept well.

Below in the bedroom, Penny lay in Luke’s arms. “I’m proud she came to us, Luke.”

“So good you are, and then my bright-eyed little wife,” he murmured, drowsing.

But Penny was wide awake. “All the world and she thought of us.”

By mid-February they were making a garden. They cut potato eyes, planting them in deep rows, mulching them with litter and leaves against frost. Luke strode up whistling, bearing onion sets and seeds in brown paper bags marked in pencil with the name of the plant that would come up. They spaded, put in lettuce and onion beds, rows of radishes, turnips, parsnips, peas and Swiss chard. Penny came to Luke where he knelt. “This one’s new. Tendergreen Mustard. How come you got it?”

“I saw it was a new kind, only forty-five days to mature. I knew how fixed you were on an early garden.” They gazed at the grains of seed.

“I sure am honing for greens,” the woman sighed.

The next week thunder was rolling, thumping, across the gray sky. They waited for the downpour. “In a month it’ll come on twister weather,” said Penny. “There was one here last fall. Lady down the road had just boiled up water for her tea. The wind pulled off the roof and sucked the kettle up. Her and the least youngen got scalded.”

“Friend of mine,” Luke said, “was in the barn. Tore the door off and him holding on, flying through the air.”

“Was he hurt?” asked Ellen.

“Not as I know. He lived.”

A thunderbolt pealed directly over the house. Ellen said, “Thunder in February prophesies frost in May. That’s what I’ve heard Ma say.”

“I’m afraid,” said Luke, “we’ll lose our garden. This one’s a gully-drencher.”

Rain was falling day on day. The sprouting seeds washed up, water collected undrained on the clay of the garden bed. Pairs of rubber boots were always standing muddy at the door, for the privy was set far back from the house. The dirt-floored cellar, reached by a trap door in the kitchen, was flooded. The jars of preserves that stood on slat shelves were immersed. Their lids rusted and the labels soaked off. “If I hold it up to the light I can see some what it is,” Penny said cheerfully, “but you’re liable to get blueberry jelly, Luke, when you ask for blackcap.”

In time the clouds spent themselves. The water seeped away, the sun was brilliant and refreshed, the earth warmed. The people went out to make a new garden.

Luke was walking up the lane one night leading a gray donkey by a rope. “Mester Webster gave it to me. It was for his daughter, Star. She tired of it and so she’s got a pony instead.”

“How come he let you have it?” Penny was pleased.

“You mind that cow I told you of a while back that had milk fever? Well, I nursed her. He claims it was my hands that pulled her udder around. This morning he says, you can have this beast if you’ve a mind. Thought I might rig a plowshare and maybe work him.”

“That would be a sight,” said Ellen.

Luke tied the beast in the shed to a ring in the wall. Ellen was petting one of Penny’s seven goats. “Hey there, Tiny.” She wondered how her does Rhodie and Penny were making out, if Frankie was good to them, or whether they blatted in the woodshed pen. Frankie was ever apt to be careless.

In the stable, fastened apart from the does, was a shaggy buck goat with a long beard. His rank odor dominated the air. He baaed affectionately at Luke who was scratching his back with a stick. “Good old Brownie.” The animal turned to lick the urine he excreted in the habit of the rutting male goat.

“I’ll be glad when it gets nice so Brownie can live outside again,” Penny said. “I’m always afraid that smell will make the milk taste.”

“That smell’s healthy,” cried Luke.

“Penny, how come your goats are muley?” Ellen was asking. “My two have got horns.”

“Well, most of them were born that way. But Luke knows how to stop the buds if they start to push through.”

“You rub a stick of this strong acid stuff on, Ellie. I learned it at Webster’s. It hurts them a bit.”

“You have to do it careful,” Penny said.

“Seems like the horns are so pretty though,” Ellen sighed, remembering.

Days were going by. Ellen felt her waistbands tighten. She found it hard to grasp that a living child would come from her, believed it would die. One day she was in the shed where a dozen hens ran loose, their nests known, a few porcelain doorknobs kept in them to lure them back. “Poor things. Giving them a mock egg.” Ellen pitied the innocent fowl and she would turn rocks over for them in the yard so they gathered to peck the crawling life beneath. When she was bending to collect the eggs from a nest under a hay manger she felt the child kick. She arose, leaning against the side of the stall, frightened. She knelt again to take the eggs, walked to the house slowly. In the evening she said, “I felt it move.”

“That’s nothing.” Penny was turning to Luke. “Why don’t you see if you can get a good rooster from Mester Webster for me? I could raise a flock this summer off those old hens.”

“He’s got White Rocks,” Luke said.

“That what I’d like, a blooded rooster of a heavy breed. Then I could trade eggs, too.”

“I was in the shed,” Ellen said, “when it happened.”

“Just wait, Ellie,” Penny was jogging Clate on her lap, serene, “till it starts getting knobby and takes to rolling o’er all the while. Wait till it gets a little bigger.”

“I’ll wait.” Ellen was bitter.

At breakfast Penny asked Luke to buy chicory and soda at the store. “And get me a piece from that bolt of blue-check flannel, Luke, for Clate’s outgrown his nightdress.”

“I don’t get paid till the fifteenth.” Luke put on his straw hat. “Now I doubt the store will credit us any more.”

Ellen got up hastily. “Wait, Luke.” She climbed the ladder to the attic, came back to put nearly twenty dollars on the table. “My uncle gave me this.” She was eager. “You’ll know how to use it. It’s yours.”

Penny picked up the bills and turned them over, her eyes downcast, her lower lip in her teeth. She laughed, “Get shed of that store bill first, Luke. Then buy that length of cloth for Farmer Clate. And if you see some, get pink muslin too. The new one could be a girl.”

“I’ll look if there’s a little share at the store to make a turning-plow,” said Luke, “like I wanted to get for that little ass to pull.”

So they thanked her. For the first time Ellen sang when she milked Penny’s goats.

Mist was rolling heavy in the hollows between hills one morning. March gusts had blown in the night, seeking cracks, but Luke had banked the foundation well with straw and manure so the family was snug within. Ellen came carefully down the ladder. She smelled hidden odors, saw Penny asleep in the bed, and from the crook of her arm came a mewling sound. There was a black-haired child wrapped in flannel, born while Ellen slept. She turned quickly to the kitchen where she heard Luke talking to Clate who babbled in reply. Luke looked over at Ellen as she came in. “That bugger’s going to feel awful silly in pink muslin, Ellie.”

“It’s a boy then?” She was fearful.

“Sure is. Clate’s pleased with his little brother.” Luke gave the boy a drink of water from a tin cup and then handed him a piece of corn pone. Clate crumbled the food in a moist hand and threw it on the floor, shouting. Luke was sheepish. “Can you take him, Ellie? I’ve got to get to work.” He hurried from the house, his whistling ebbing.

Ellen wiped Clate’s hands. “Wish things would hold still while I study to understand.”

Little by little, she was taking upon herself the care of Clate. She would bring him to the shed and sit him in a pile of hay while she milked. “Swap ends, Tiny,” she turned the goat about, “let’s give some supper down for Farmer Clate.” The child crowed in glee, kissed her with his wet soft mouth, pulling at her braids. In the house he crawled from under the table to trail her. She had to tread carefully, watching out for him.

But Anse, the newborn one, she avoided. Penny would lay the naked red body on the bed to change and dress it while it clamored thinly in an indifferent way, fists clutching in protest. “Why doesn’t he hush, that ugly brat?” she whispered to herself.

Clate she took to see the garden coming up, sang to, confided in. “When I tell the song, I see the picture of what happens. Like ‘Red River Valley,’ that’s where the river’s muddy with red clay and always there’s summertide.” Clate was gripping Ellen’s apron; he staggered beside her. “Hold on to me, now. You should have seen me once in Chicago, when all the fine gentlemen and ladies listened to me sing.”

She came to feel her safety here, gradually putting aside the old terror. She packed the figure of the Virgin into her valise when she made order once in the attic. Waiting the months out, she left it there.

She witnessed the ways of birth around her. When Anse was born, Luke brought home a White Rock rooster as a present from Mr. Webster. It strutted like a lord before the flock of hens, scratched after fake food to bring them scurrying. Its sickle-shaped tail feathers were silken and the crimson comb trembled and folded over with its weight. Ellen picked him up to stroke the long wattles that dangled below his handsome head; he breathed coarsely through open beak. When she put him down he made staccato noises and scuttled after a hen, fanning his wing until it squatted and submitted to the embrace.

In the crab apple tree a pair of robins had fashioned a nest. Each day she held Clate up while he peered in at the four miniature blue-green eggs. The time came when he shouted to see bare nestlings just hatched, all gaping beaks. “Don’t touch them, or the mother’ll smell you and not come back to feed them.”

In the barn the does dropped their kids. Ellen ministered, impersonal, put them to the teats to nurse the first thick yellow milk. It would alter in a few days to become the familiar white fluid. Then she would milk a share out for the family.

The white cat ran from her one day and she saw a strange tom in a tree branch nearby. That night she heard them shrieking in the yard. The next morning the white cat lay sly in the haymow, licked a scratch on her paw, cleaned herself and purred.

She witnessed the ways of procreation and birth, the willing and unwilling, the casual and violent. “It’s ugly. All those ways are ugly.”

At night she lay unwieldly, turning restless to find an easy way to lie now that her body was so increased. The child rolled within and she sighed, “I’d as lief you came before your course and perished. I’m too weary to fret about it any more.”

Penny was asking her to watch Anse while he slept. “I want to put in a row of those flat white bean seeds, Ellie. They say Good Friday’s the day to put in beans and it’s way past.” When Penny returned, the baby was wailing in his basket hoarsely, small face wet with sweat and crying. Ellen was at the kitchen table, her head on her arms, Clate playing at her feet. Penny comforted the infant, cleaned him and laid him against her shoulder where he moistly hiccuped. She came in the kitchen to sit in a chair and put him to her breast. She asked mildly, “What’s wrong, Ellie?”

“I can’t seem to touch him, Penny. I looked and it seemed I wanted him to cry.”

The woman said sharply, “You’re not the first girl with a trouble, Ellie. Nor the last. You’ve got to take hold and plan. You’re not a child any more and you’ve got to act past your years, and study on the ways of your turning.”

From her quilt that night, Ellen was listening to Luke and Penny. “Shh, is Ellie asleep?” The sharp notes of love fell in the room below. When Anse whimpered they brought him to their bed. Their gentle voices came and went. “Poor thing. And it all ahead, Luke. That father, strict and always preaching the Old Testament. I got no use for him. He’ll like to kill her if she goes home.” Luke’s voice rasped faintly and Penny said, “No. Her mother that should be standing by is like a child herself. No marvel Ellie got taken in by some straying man.” Their voices made Ellen weep.

* * *

In June they were whitewashing the narrow house. Penny was climbing the ladder, Clate upset a bucket on himself, and Ellen, moving heavily, misshapen, was painting low spots. Anse was asleep in a blanket under the crab apple tree. When he cried, Penny would put him to a hard-filled breast while from the other, milk wet her dress as it flowed. “Let it go. There’s plenty more I reckon.”

Luke came home for supper and shouted out, “Say, look at that there rich man’s house. Who’s the master of this house?”

A pink June rose was crawling heavy-blossomed over the door where it had been trained. Bright flowers were flocking by the path, and the yard grass was green. The scene was framed and they stood about to admire it.

Then a shower was washing the whiteness into gray streaks and soon the house boards were drab as before. But Penny was satisfied. “It was a sight if only for a week. I’ll remember it clear till next spring, Luke.”

In the first of July, Luke was saying, “Webster’s in a hustle to get the buckwheat in. Says Fourth of July, wet or dry.”

“Why doesn’t he wait till the light of the moon when it starts waning?” Penny was dressed in her best, the babies were clean, their pinafores starched. One of Luke’s fellow employees was driving by in his car to take the little family to the stock farm near Hidden Creek. Penny looked forward to the outing. “Hey, Farmer Clate, come set on your potty before we go.” She turned to Ellen, anxious, “You going to be all right? How do you feel?”

“I don’t feel a thing. I might pick some berries for supper if I can haul myself down the lane.”

“Well, don’t tire yourself, hear?” Penny paused. “Maybe I oughtn’t to go, Luke. Ellie might get taken.”

The two turned in protest. “Now, you know yourself it doesn’t happen that quick. Ellie wants you to go. And Clate and me too. Even Anse is saying, Mama show me those little Jerseys that give all cream.” So the woman was persuaded and the party left, waving from the car window, disappearing down the dusty road.

Ellen sighed in the fresh morning that moved on toward the hot noon sun. Partridge repetitively whistled in the woods down the road, “Bob-white. Ah. Bob-white!” A small warm wind stirred and settled, puffs of cloud drifted very slowly, and the sky was vivid blue. Like a fall aster. Wish it was over. She was going down the warm dirt of the lane in the late morning for blackberries. She dropped the first heated ones into the tin pail; they made whining thumps until they covered the bottom. Juice was staining her fingers. When the pail was filled she toiled back up the path. At the pump she washed the dust from the berries and hung them in the well to cool. She threw water on her flushed face and arms, pumping more over her bare feet. Refreshed, she was seated in the open doorway, leaning her head against the frame. The child under the blue apron turned itself. She drew shallow labored breaths, closed her eyes. “I’m nigh to smother. Will I e’er take a full breath again?”

At noon she was restless about the kitchen. She brought fresh water in from the well, ate a square of corn pone, listless, while a bluebottle fly churned at the glass of the window. She walked to the field, carrying a bucket of water to the goats and donkey staked there. The goats drank slowly, raised mournful yellow eyes while their beards dripped. The little ass sucked noisily, slobbering, jerking his overlarge head. He took a button of her dress gently in his teeth. The girl laid her hand on his woolly shoulder and looked away to the languishing farmlands where hot air shimmered.

The flock of guineas had not come in to feed the night before. Ellen knew some of the pairs had been hiding out, setting their clutches of small strong-shelled eggs. “Some of the chicks could have hatched,” she told the donkey, “and are keeping the hens and cocks from feeding. A skunk or snake might get them.” So she took grain in her apron pocket and went past the orchard, seeking in the farthest places, calling, “Wee-wee-wee-wee. Come, wee-wee-weeeee.”

It was by a lone scraggled locust tree in an open field that a great pain smote her. She leaned upon the tree while it was subsiding. She attempted to reach the orchard and stumbling, fell. The onrush of spasms was far past her imaginings. In the intervals of withdrawal she crawled, pulled her racked body through the field. “I will not lie out here.”

A pair of guineas, followed by a stream of peeping spotted keets, flushed from a covert as she neared the orchard. She but dimly gave them heed. She was grunting, face fired red, wet from the sharp throes that came in the scorched air, in the sweet crushed grass and the round-shaped white clover blooms. She cried out hoarsely, biting her lips, detached from her sore body where the child sought its way out of darkness. Her mind was apart in a red torment where she strove unbelieving to endure. When a seizure would lapse she lay a moment supine, freed, while above in the sultry blue, a cluster of twittering goldfinches were bobbing in the Seckel pear branches.

The hand was laid remorseless again upon her. Muffled at first, it was graduating into cruel wrenching. Then she evoked the holy Virgin, swore in agony many bonds, until distracted she knew not of her body as it was arching itself. In time, from her laden womb the child had its way and was brought out upon the meadow grass. Thin wails fell on the stifled afternoon air. And overhead the finches chirruped brightly.

After long, Ellen heard the faint piping and lifted herself to see the limp warm child. She wrapped it in her blue apron and laid it at the base of the old tree. Resting weary on the grass, she waited. When the evening star showed itself hovering above the horizon as the sun began to set, her joy caught in her throat. “I came through. I’m unfettered once more.”

The Doughertys found her as the evening birds were beginning their songs. Ellen’s pallet was brought from the attic to a corner of the room below. She ate milk and berries and bread. In the early part of the night Penny put the child by her. “You got to nurse him, Ellie. He’s hungry.”

Ellen suffered the feeble seeking mouth. “Say, another setting hatched off, Penny. I saw them in the field back of the orchard. You want to go get them in?”

“Now I think you care more for those chicks than your own newborn son.”

In a short while Ellen was about the house again. Penny had Luke bring home a few yards of pink-and-white striped material and Ellen was holding her needle light. “Oh, but I’m a slim one. Look at me,” she demanded.

She told them she must go, trying to say the other thing that was in her mind. “I’ve been studying. I can’t come home dragging it. Pa’d turn me off. Could you-all find it in you to take it for your own? I’d send money for its needs.”

“It’s true what Ellie says, for I know Mester Gaddy.” Penny looked up at her husband.

“It’d be a twin to Anse,” he said.

“We’ll love your baby, Ellie. But you mark me, he’s not our blood. The day’ll come you’ll rue you didn’t make a way to keep your first-born. You can have him then.”

But Ellen was turning away. “Not me. Though I’m beholden.”

She would walk in the morning down to the Weems Crossroads station. While they had breakfast, Clate sat on her lap, kissing her endearingly with his small mouth. “Luke, I reckon it’s the hardest for Ellie to leave our Clate.”

“Oh I love him that much,” Ellen sighed to the brown-haired child.

“We named your boy last night, Ellie,” Luke said. “Simon.”

“And we’ll call him Simon Gaddy,” said Penny. “We’ll tell him you’re his ma. So we decided in the night.”

“I love him that much,” Ellen was saying to the child she held.

Jaybird up an acorn tree

Shaking acorns down

Little Clate in a sugar tree

Shaking sugar down

part two

Take it up in your arms I said

Let it lie where it must

At your side on your breast

Let it rest

Love has life not of love

But of us I said

Let it lie where it must

9

A flicker was piping a thread of shrill notes as it flashed in flight before her. She looked back to where Penny waved from the lane end, a child on her arm. Then Ellen turned and strode down the road, carrying the valise. The heat of the July day was still far off, the morning was new-made. The stiff skirt of the striped dress brushed her legs. She had combed her hair from her high forehead in the old way, tying it loosely with a ribbon. A hot morning wind rippled along the dust of the road, interrupting for a stitch the stilled cool air. Wild morning-glories were twining on ditch banks, and in a distant field a boy drove a diminutive span of black horses through verdant corn rows. It came over Ellen how comely she was and she made her feet light. “I’m thankful for this day and for all that lie ahead.” Her life ran out before her harmonious, like a shining thread. All about there was a singing and a beating of wings and the sun glowed whitely. She was young and there was no ending ever. “Clear through the whole enduring ages, I’ll be.”

My true love up on the mountain

Bowing up and down

If I had my broadax here

I’d hew that mountain down

O get around, Jenny, get around

All on the summer’s day

On the train, she saw the countryside flowing past the window. The milk from her breasts was dampening her dress and in her discomfort she thought of the child once more. She turned her mind from him easily. She got off at New Hope and hitched a ride with a farmer from Seven Mile Run.

“Those are fine mules, Mester,” she offered.

“Um. They’re Norman mules. They’ll ne’er balk without cause. I got a brother can start a balky mule. One time him and me came on two niggers with a load of straw and a cold-shouldered mule. Well, they were plumb desperate. Built a fire under it, but it only moved up the road a piece. Far enough so’s the wagon began to burn. They had to unhitch the mule and back the wagon off to put the fire out. They were setting there when we came on them. Brother went up to the mule, took hold of its ear and whispered in it. Well, that mule walked right off. The niggers hitched up and went down the road. Told everyone Brother talked witchcraft. Um.”

“Wonder how he did start it?”

“Um. Said he twisted its ear and blew in it. Said that dazzles a beast. Brother can do it just so.” He lapsed into silence, his head drooped in the heat of the afternoon. The mules switched their tails and shimmied their skin to fight flies. Unguided, they were following the road.

When they reached Love’s store, Ellen thanked the farmer, climbed down from the wagon seat to the pike where the clay baked in the molten sun. Stacey was in the screened doorway. “Ellen? I thought you’d left these parts. Grady,” she called. “Looky here. How be you, now? Sam Offut’s taken o’er the trading for your ma. They had a time when first you ne’er came home. Where you been?”

Ellen was smiling and nodding. Grady came around the corner of the frame house; she sought his kindly tight-skinned face. “Hey, Mester Love.”

“Hey there, Ellen. I swear. Come have a glass of my ginger beer. The yeast’s working good now. Two bottles exploded all o’er the place yesterday.”

She followed him, and Stacey came after. Ellen was eager. “I visited my uncle for a spell. Said howdy to you both.”

“That so?” Stacey asked. “He kept you long.”

“Then I went to stay with Mrs. Dougherty while she had a baby.”

“Thought she had hers last year.”

“You remember Penny Dougherty?” Ellen urged. “This is her second. It’s a boy too. A likely one.” Ellen felt Stacey’s eyes searching her for the truth. “I came home to help Pa with the summer work.”

“He’ll be glad to see you,” Grady said.

“Penny wanted to be remembered to you both, Mrs. Love.”

“That’s kindly of her,” Grady said.

“Well,” said Stacey. “You’re looking right pert again, Ellen.” She was fanning herself with Grady’s hat.

Ellen sipped the ginger beer while the woman talked. “Mester Gaddy and that Sam ne’er would say where you were.” Ellen was afraid of Stacey’s tongue, conscious of the milk dried on her dress, and she wondered if Stacey could tell it was there. “I reckoned,” said Stacey, “you met up with a rich Yankee man who made you his wife.”

“Oh, Mrs. Love.”

“Now Stacey,” Grady cried, “stop greening Ellen.”

“I’m beholden for the drink.” Ellen went to the door. “I was parched.”

“Your daddy know you’re home?” asked Stacey.

“Oh yes.” She was hurrying out and down Sweetincreek Road, unconscious of the weight of her bag. Then her gait slowed. A small verging of anxiety had begun and she pushed it back with her will. She changed hands with the valise, passed over the wood bridge where the Sweetincreek flowed, and on the other side, in the swampy earth, was plucking a green-white flower. “I know this one. It’s the lily of the valleys.” She breathed the perfume, studying the stony well-worn road. “Reckon he’ll beat me?”

She turned into the familiar lane, which seemed shrunken now. She heard farm noises. A cow mooing softly in a far place, pigs grunting just off the path, a duck squawking somewhere in sudden protest. The house seemed smaller and the yellow paint was peeled; it was ugly. Hesitant, she went up the sagged steps. The towels on the porch line were muddied, the tin tub was turned carelessly over, the egg basket was torn. She was opening the screen door. There was no one, no sound there in the kitchen. Beyond in the bedroom she saw her mother in a chair under one of the little windows, bent over some work. Ellen looked at her a moment as though she were a stranger. From the parlor came Frankie’s stripling voice in singsong, “I do, I did, I have done. I draw, I drew, I have drawn. I eat, I ate.” The small voice sighed audibly as Ellen entered.

“Sounds right brave, Frankie.”

“Ellie! You just came. I missed you. Was it fun in Chicago?” As they were embracing Ellen saw Frankie’s eyes were dark-shadowed, but her skin was smooth and her hair glistened. She was asking about Garland. “Is he kind, Ellie, in his own house?”

“Of course.”

“I heard Pa say you ran off and left Uncle. Did you, Ellie? I wanted to brave Pa to ask. But he gets riled when we name you. Reckon he doubted you were coming home.”

“I was visiting someone.”

“Where? Where’d you stay?”

“Is he on the outs with me?”

“Pa? I reckon. You went to St. Louis, didn’t you, Ellie? I heard him say it to Ma.”

“You learning grammar again, Frankie?”

“Tell you true, I hate it. Whate’er I speak, teacher stops me and changes it.” She shrugged, resentful. “He’s daft.”

“You let Pa know it?”

“No, I’m in thick enough with Pa now. He’s e’er raising sand. I got to practice all morning now and I’m only to help with housework. Not to milk or hoe the garden.” She looked away. “Wish I was little again.”

Ellen frowned. “You’ve got to study ahead. And watch the ways of turning. That’s a thing I learned.”

The two were silent. Looking back to the freedom of childhood, they chafed at the fretful boundaries, the responsibility that seemed to mark maturity. They went forward because there was no other way. Frankie was looking up, doleful, “Missed your songs, Ellie.”

“Say, how’re the goats?”

“The old one dropped two kids. Reckon it was in April. Sam found them in the morning; one died, the other was a buck, a black one. Pa had Sam cut it. Said they’d butcher it in fall.”

“What about the little doe, Rhodie? She drop one too?”

“I don’t know. I can’t keep it in my head. I think Sam said he took her to a billy. You ask him. Tell you true, Sam’s been doing for them.”

“Oh, Frankie. And me pining for them all this tormented time.”

“I’m sorry, Ellie. I’m a poor thing,” Frankie laughed, pleading.

“It’s hot. I’ll go unpack.”

* * *

In the attic room, Ellen made her bed up for the night, put away her clothes. All the while a thing was waxing heavy in her, leaden, as she thought on her father. “One thing, I’ll ne’er cry. Wish I could make out not to fear him.” She took the statuette of the Virgin to its old place on the round table in the parlor. She could hear Maria and Frankie in the kitchen preparing supper. Loneliness swept Ellen like an empty cloud as she stood, uneasy. Anton came upon her there. Looking at his face she recalled when Blueberry had balked starting a wagon and Anton lashed him coldly about the head with leather lines. Ellen had watched secretly from a barn window, heart pumping, waiting until the rearing horse lunged and moved the load. She was going up the stairs without a word. He climbed gently after, his breathing becoming strident on the way.

He held the belt. His voice shuddered hoarse. His lips were trembling with their weight. “You e’er were froward, girl.” He was hitting her again, holding the strap with a relentless hand, feeling the easing of his own sharp flesh. “I’ll teach you yet. Get on your knees. You were walking and mincing in that seat of whoredom, weren’t you? Did you know my brother Marc died rutting there in St. Louis? And that’s what killed my ma?”

She was enduring the hot bite of the striking leather. She fought within herself as since a child, to hold silence, pinning her will on it.

“How do you reckon Sam favored doing your trading? How do you reckon your chores were done up these months, you plagued dummy?” His voice was a heavy cold whisper and his gray eyes were half closed. “And you stole the Virgin image.”

Ellen was breathless in the sting of tears. It’s his way. It’s for love he does it. He’s trying to teach me what’s right. He must.

“Now, you’ll not go off this farm again,” he was warning in the doorway, “lest I marry you to someone proper.” He paused. “I allow I’ll kill you before you’ll stand against my will.” He was rolling the belt up around the home-forged brass buckle as he went out.

Ellen followed down to the evening meal. She went to Maria eagerly, kissing her, forgetting, in her need, her mother’s preoccupied ways. “How’ve you been, Ma?”

“Tormented, Ellie. He knows.” Maria looked upward with vague eyes.

“I’ll be here to do for you now, Ma. You glad I’m back?” she pleaded swiftly.

“I took count,” Maria said. “Hit’s been six months July fifteen. Mester Gaddy’s been fretted.”

“Quit jawing, ooman,” Anton said. “Set and eat.”

* * *

After the meal, though the air was close, Anton directed the family to go to the parlor, bade Ellen, “Fetch my Bible.” He took the book from her, leafed the pages. He looked at Frankie, sitting by Maria on the sofa. “Even as these oomen fared, so will hit be with you, Poppet, if you don’t pay me heed.” They watched him take the silver-banded reading glass, peering through it at the page.

“Down on your knees,” he told Ellen, and she obeyed. “Because the daughters of Zion are haughty and walk with stretched forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet, therefore the Lord will smite them. And the Lord will discover their secret parts.”

Ellen was tired. She was kneeling by the doweled rocker, her head on the arm of the chair. She closed her eyes and thought about the man who could start balky mules by blowing in their long ears, twisting them so they forgot their orneriness.

“In that day the Lord will take away the bravery of their tinkling ornaments about their feet, and their cauls and their round tires like the moon, the chains, and the bracelets,” Anton cherished the syllables, “and the hoods and the veils. And it shall come to pass that instead of a sweet smell there shall be a stink and instead of a girdle a rent, and instead of well-set hair, baldness, and instead of a stomacher, a girding of sackcloth.”

* * *

Under the attic window she was lying sleepless, the uncertain moonlight washing over her bed. The cockerels in the chicken shed were crowing intermittently, confused by the unseemly moon’s glare. Her body ached from the beat of the strap. Her breasts were swollen because she had tolerated the child to nurse her over the past days and the milk had not as yet subsided. She would wait and in a week the discomfort would be gone, then she would be done with him. Her mind circled on Penny and Clate, on the Dougherty beasts, the donkey and Brownie and the doe Tiny. She was overcome by devotion to them all. She went further back to the autumn of despair, and to the summer preceding that was fading now as the separate incidents blurred and blended. The night stretched brilliant as she rose and leaned at the window sill. The quavering of the young cocks’ chorus was heard again.

She slipped into her dress and went down. Jack met her at the door, hurling himself upon her. She sat on the steps to pluck burrs that were tangled in his hair. She was listening to the sounds the wind made that sometimes has a business in the high branches, spurning the ground. In the warty-barked hackberry there was a rustle as the leaves resisted the wind, and in the spruce by the road fence an indistinct whisper came and went as many tiny needles rasped gently one on another. The wind sounds were all different in the varied trees. In the black willows by the Sweetincreek there would be a swishing and a swaying, and in the stiff leaves of the catalpa nearly no noise at all. The mockernut was so tall and straight that the soughing was disguised and far away. I might know the particular tree just from the voice of the wind through it. The cockerels were piping again in the moonlight, foretelling the dawn just coming.

* * *

In the early morning she hurried out to find none of her goats at the woodshed, nor any trace they had been stabled recently there. A setting goose was peering from under the cobwebbed manger; it hissed a warning, hovering over warmed eggs in musty straw. For a moment Ellen stood in the doorway, then she went to the barnyard. Sam was pouring foaming milk into tall cans. “Your nannies are at the field.” Sam looked her over quietly. “Your pa says leave them there.”

“I’m taking them up to the woodshed right now. There’s a silly old goose setting in there.”

“Better ask your pa if you can, Ellie.”

“Well, I’ll help you-all milk first.”

In the barn she drew the first streams onto the ground to clean the udder. Then she was milking steadily, her hands efficient. She pressed her head into the joint of the young cow’s back leg.

“That Sal’s a real kicker,” offered Sam.

“Watch you don’t lose her milk,” Anton said, coming in.

“Ho, suckey.” Ellen would know if the nervous heifer were about to strike out. She stripped the front teats and began to milk the tight back ones. “Ho, Sal.”

Anton gave her leave to take her goats in from the field when she brought the cows. “And you help with the milking hereafter, girl.”

Ellen discovered Penny was thin and her udder flabby, for she ran loose with a black yeanling. Rhodie was slick-haired, rounded with a kid Sam said she would drop next month. They were skittish and Ellen coaxed them to her. She sat in the grass with corn in her apron until they could not hold their greed and curiosity. Penny licked her ear, bleated softly on her neck, remembering her all at once. The black wether was timid and handsome but he came under her hand too. She resented his castration though she knew it was necessary. They were munching the corn grains, pushing against her.

Go through my window

My sugar lump

And buy molasses candy

Blue bird, blue bird, go through my window

And buy molasses candy

10

The fiery sun of August labored in the sky across the languid procession of days. In the evenings, by the light of kerosene lamps, the women still were finishing canning of peaches, tomatoes, berries. They clamped glass lids on by wire bails and stood filled jars on a rack of laths in the wash boiler. Pits and peelings were heaped in pails in the yard where flies gathered, and gnats and yellowjackets. They put up salt-and-sugar beans, selecting green-tinted jars to protect the color. They dried peppers and sweet corn. They made brine for gherkins and green tomatoes, packed a ten-gallon crock in the pantry with cucumbers and branches of dill. Ellen added horseradish roots to the salty brew, and mustard seeds. On top she placed grape and cherry leaves. “To get a good brine you got to add salt just right,” she said, “till it gets the power in it to hoist a fresh egg from the bottom of the crock and float hit.”

Ellen was making jelly. She strained the cooked fruit through flannel bags and then added sugar or sorghum and boiled the juice. She tested the hot purple syrup. “It doesn’t want to sheet off and tear proper,” she told Amanda York who came to keep her company. “I’ll just wait on it.” She wiped her forehead with a perspiring hand.

Sometimes Lily Garrett, in a shapeless flowered dress, walked up the road to sit in the kitchen heat and visit awhile. “You make such pretty jam,” Lily said. “Why don’t you take some to the county fair at Seven Mile Run? Mama does. She got a prize last year and hers was clouded.”

Ellen held the jar to the sunlight; the jelly glowed. “I do favor redcap jelly.”

“Well, you should go, Ellie.”

“What color’s the first prize?”

“Blue.”

“You going to, Ellie?” asked Frankie.

“There’s no harm talking.”

“Get it out of your head, girl,” Maria was speaking. “I begged Mester Gaddy ten years ago. He said it was foolishness.”

“I know.”

Lily was showing Frankie how to make a special kind of cherry preserve. “The receipt named this Barrier Cherries, Frankie. Takes apple vinegar and strained honey.”

Maria’s face was sweated and reddened in the heat of the stove fire. She reached back into the dimness of her memory, to when she had run in crying to a grayed old woman, “Mam, there’s a booger scratching my eye.” The woman had licked the eye with her soft tongue to remove the foreign substance, then set Maria on a three-legged stool outside the door to work the dasher of the churn up and down. “Stone churn ain’t good enough for you, girl,” she said to Ellen, suddenly.

“What did you say, Ma?” Ellen was startled.

“Old-timey days we had a stone churn. And when Pap was home sometimes he’d bring us a runty possum, or maybe a coon. Summers now, we ate good.”

“Did you store up like we do against winter?” asked Frankie.

“I like to lay up when there’s plenty,” Maria admitted. “But the most Mam did was to dry corn and herbs. Folks didn’t figure to eat then like now. Once or twice a day was all we sat to table.” She reflected a moment. “I allow I didn’t miss hit. And my folks thought a heap of me till Mester Gaddy came along.”

“Tell, Ma. Did you pine for love of him when you saw Pa?” Frankie cried.

“Mester Gaddy gave me a fine snuffbox. It was mother-pearl. And a deal fair to hold in the sun.”

“I ne’er saw that box, Ma,” said Ellen.

“Show us.” Frankie was eager.

“No. Mester Gaddy was forced to sell hit once when he was short cash. I always regretted that.”

“When did you start honing after Pa?” persisted Frankie, slim and frail beside Lily, stirring the kettle at the stove. “For love.”

“He rode a big gray mare and there was nothing so tall as he. See, I was a tedious plain girl and my folks were old already when I was born. They hadn’t looked for me. So they fretted on what was to come. Mester Gaddy rode o’er to Seven Mile Run and talked to Pap.”

“And then Mester Gaddy courted you?” Lily inquired.

“Go on,” Frankie pressed.

“Pap had scrimped for a dowry that was to come with me. Pap was bound to care for me proper. You’d ne’er have thought it the way we lived so poor-like while he was putting by.”

“I ne’er thought about Pa being young once,” said Ellen. “Was he different from now?”

“No. Except his hair was red and thick. I came with him to this farm. Here I been since. He hitched that gray mare to a two-wheel cart and I set up beside him and figured I was a lady.” Her dull eyes sparked. “E’er do as Mester Gaddy says, girls.”

“There was Pa on a horse,” Frankie said. “I’d just as lief have seen that.”

“Oh, all the folks rode horses those days,” said Ellen.

“That’s right,” Lily assented.

“Don’t go talking to Mester Gaddy about those days,” Maria was warning. “He’s disremembered them. Watch your cherries don’t burn there, girls.”

“They’re doing right, Mrs. Gaddy,” Lily said. “You were gone a powerful time in spring, weren’t you, Ellie?” Curious, Lily was sniffing after gossip to brighten her wishful youth.

Ellen took up the basket, leaving the table where she had been stoning cherries. “I’m getting in some corn for supper,” she called as she was going down the porch steps.

“Ellie’s so contrary.” Lily watched Ellen stride down the field. “She won’t talk with me proper-like.”

“That’s her for you,” Frankie said.

“I reckon she doesn’t like me.”

“Oh she does, Lily.”

“No.”

“Ellie’s just bossy that way.” The two girls embraced abruptly. The pot boiled. The sugary odor was filling the kitchen, seeking darkened rafters where smoke from years long past dwelled.

“Would you be best friends with me, Frankie?” The big girl was effusive.

“I will. Ellie doesn’t tell things to me ever.” They clung, whispering, comforted, sharing their trepidations. They returned to their stirring of the Barrier Cherries.

* * *

Ellen had made the land to her since she returned, and the creatures and birds spawned upon it. In hot night she would hear hoot owls ululating in the oaks, and sometimes a mocker-bird would hang on the stones of the garden fence, quavering through marbled moonlight. I came through. The fear is past and I’m home. She stood by while Rhodie was yeaning a kid. The doe stamped her little hoofs nervously, pawed the straw and crouched, straining. With a worried blat, she expelled a spotted kid. Ellen was tearing the caul lining to free it in a flood of water. She cleaned the mucus from its gasping mouth, gazed on the odd-looking animal with ears like a hound. “Where’d you find the buck?” she asked Sam.

“Well, I says to myself in March when she commenced to wag her tail, Ellie’d want her caught. So I took her over to a pied billy the other side of Millville.”

“I ne’er saw a skewbald goat, Sam. And those drooping ears.” Penny’s maternal instincts were aroused at the sight and smell of a newborn one; she vied with Rhodie in cleaning it. Rhodie was stretching her head and yawning as animals will do in discomfort. The kid staggered up to nurse the tiny nipples. “I’ll call it Pie,” Ellie decided. “There, Pie.”

In the mornings when she left her goats at the pasture, she took the path around the farm pond. Tiny green frogs were camouflaged in the reeds and grasses, and blacksnakes lived among haw and alder roots along the marshy bank. One would slip into the shadowed water, head crooked like a twig held upright as it moved across the unbroken glass. When the speckled thrush was buzzing and flapping by the path, she ran to find a snake twined around a sapling cottonwood. Its head was in the nest and the mother bird was darting at it, crying shrill. A single fledgling remained, beak gaped for food. Ellen seized a stick, striking the reptile until it twisted dying from the tree. She crushed its head, slit the body with her pocketknife to see if there was life in the swallowed birds. They were limp and she dropped them in an open field while the bird continued the alarm clatter. “You’d as well feed the one you got left if you can find your way to go back to that serpent-smelling nest.”

Afterwards buzzards wheeled. Ellen knew they were scenting the dried rotted nestlings. One huge bird descended and sat hunchbacked on a rail, glassy eyes fixed on her. “Stinking brat.” Jack stalked it until it made grunting low sounds and flapped away.

Only once since that day in late July when she had come home did a sharp edge touch the smooth progression of Ellen’s hours. She awoke in the night to hear Anton speaking to Maria in the hall below. “What’s amiss with your daughter? There’s no young men coming to the door.” Maria whispered to him and they were gone. Ellen lay awake a long time. But in the morning when it came to her mind, she thrust it from her. “It’s not my fault if they don’t come.”

Anton stepped aside on Sunday to speak with Craig Hedrick and his widowed mother about a boar he wanted to buy. On the way home he looked over his shoulder at Ellen. “That Hedrick boy’s got a motorcar.” He was shouting above the cart’s rumble, “And he’s done proud with that farm since his old man was killed. He says, Ellie’s a comely thing.”

She felt all her being grow still, watching the dusty road glide from under the wagon. Craig had been one of the bigger boys in the grammar school, a few years older than she. His father, Moses Hedrick, had had a cleft palate and though the boy had no actual reason for a speech impediment, he would talk in nearly the same tongue-tied manner that had characterized his father. Craig had been good-natured, his dog followed him to school, he was big enough to force the smaller boys from their torturing of turtles and frogs and insects that fell into their hands. But while Ellen’s pity made her kind, her nature had been revolted by the boy’s way of speech, his dirt-ingrained fingernails and pocked face, the sour odor that arose from his unwashed winter clothing. She did not reply to Anton now. The blood rose hot in her face and her pulse beat heavily when he said, “You’re seventeen, Ellie. Where’s all those young men?”

“You’d best take hold.” Maria wagged her head while the wagon jolted. “Lest you be caught an old maid. Get your man while you’re still blooming, for you’ll be a rag soon enough.”

“Young Hedrick’s a Catholic, as well,” said Anton.

Their words rang with finality. She closed her ears to them. Her hands were folded in her lap on last summer’s dress of blue-dotted Swiss. She clenched them tightly. The steel-rimmed wheels turned in rhythm, hate and hate. Wish I was dead like old man Moses Hedrick with a pitchfork tucked between my shoulder blades.

* * *

There came, early on a sultry afternoon, the yellow-billed cuckoo’s moan, “Kow, kow, kow.” Ellen lifted her head from her churning, spoke to Frankie going by with a pail of hog slop. “Raincrows. Hear them cry? Reckon it’ll come on a storm?”

“I ain’t scared.” Frankie laughed high. “Teacher Peyton’s coming and I got my lesson ready.”

An hour later the sky began to darkle. Ellen walked down the lane to look toward the pasture. She could see her goats, hoofs upon the gate bars. The cows lay in their usual spot, chewed their cuds, complacent. Almost imperceptibly the air was taking on a greenish cast. A fresh-smelling wind yawed and swept the field of rye grass. Green beyond green under the sky mass, the grass was weaving, bending to it. Over all heaved the blooming sunglow, golden and omnipresent. A rumble was sounding faint, a flash of light flicked in the west. The wind was subsiding, the heat smoldered oppressive and in the gloom of the sky the sun withdrew. Darkness ruled. Sam appeared at the lane head, waving like a tiny distracted spider, his face grimaced. “Afore Gawd, get the cows, Ellie. Could rile up a twister.”

She was running to the field. The dog rounded up the cattle, drove them in at a lope, milk-sacks swinging about their skinny legs so the white fluid spurted. Ellen took Pie in her arms. The others bounded after as she ran to the woodshed. Rhodie snorted and jumped sidewise stiff-legged, her bearded chin tucked in. The girl laughed, “You daft one.” She shut them in the pen. Lightning streaked, a thunderclap crashed upon the ground. “If you were out in a storm, you’d be safe beneath a cedar or a white birch. So Sam says. Beware the ash and the oak for it’s their nature to tempt lightning.” She was wending up the path to the house, searching cloud drifts for a down-sucked tail that could betoken the birth of a tornado. Thunder drummed, light cracked the horizon. The sweeping wind had ridden off the burdening heat.

The topmost branches of the hackberry lurched and swayed and she felt her heart catch. “It’s so fair. So enduring fair a storm be.” Tears drew into her eyes from the gladness. The wind reeled upon her so the flimsy gingham clung flattened along her young hips and the hard nipples of her breasts. She sensed her strength quicken, fathoming for an instant how she, eternal, would through the ages walk the long green soul of man.

Standing there, she heard Frankie’s scream. She turned to the porch steps. “It can’t storm. I got my grammar lesson.” The voice was protesting, “I’m afraid, Pa.”

Anton mocked her, soothing. “Haw, Frankie. Now you ne’er seen a twister.”

“I’m afraid. Afraid.”

The wind shrieked, the loft door slammed. In the kitchen a pot of scented geraniums on the window sill was spun across the floor. The noise crackled. Anton, from the parlor door, was roaring at Ellen and Maria. “Get the windows shut, you oomen. And draw those shades. Open windows are what sucks the bolts.” He was lighting a lamp in the parlor, pulling the shades. He looked at Frankie in the subdued light, drawn up rigid and white in her chair. “Hit’s just an old-timey commotion out there now.”

There came the splintering noise of a falling tree. In the instant Frankie sprang up, shook her fists helplessly, shut her eyes and clenched her teeth. “Everyone’s against me. Hit’s coming to get me.” Under the storm’s tension, her inhibitions mounted to the surface. She was sobbing in her reedy voice, “I’m going to die. Really I hate you, Pa. I hate you. I don’t want to go off to Chicago.” Maria and Ellen had come in. Frankie turned her tear-drenched face to them. “Everything’s Pa’s fault. What’ll I do, Ellie?”

“All I can say,” Ellen told her, “is I’d as lief it would rain and get it o’er. This thunder’s souring all the milk.”

Lightning sizzled, then cracked, a flare skirting the window shades. Behind came the bolt, reverberating through the hollows of the house. The young girl lamented in desperation, her breath spasmodic, “I don’t want to get those lessons. You’re hateful, Pa. You’re fore’er pushing me.” The voice was a pale shriek. “I’m afraid!”

“Here, girl. Hold your sass. Those are baneful words.” Anton’s eyes were slits. “Want I should set you on your knees and whip you? I’ll do it.”

“No.”

He turned to a chair, taking up a journal. “I mind,” he drawled and settled into the low seat, “when there was a storm like this two-three years ago. Twister came flailing through Bethel killing four.”

Ellen stayed by the door. Not for long had she seen him so wrought up. Maria had taken up her sewing, pursed her mouth over it in the lamplit room. Anton was directing his words to his younger child who cried now in abject penitence. The convulsive sound came sadly into the still of the room as the noisy gale tottered and staggered upon the vegetation of the earth.

“Three old Chester brothers were batching with their ninety-year-old ma. Folks say it was because they were terrified of the storm but all three went off their heads and murdered one another. The old lady too.” Anton smoothed his palm over his balding hair. Dry tobacco juice marked the edges of his mouth, his long jaw thrust upward. “The plumber man came to fix the pump next day. Found them lying about in a mess of blood. Old ooman’s throat ripped with a razor. One batch was gored, the other two were filled with shotgun holes.”

Heavy drops slammed on the windowpane and Ellen spoke in timid relief, “There’s the rain, Pa.”

“Still fixing to die, Frankie?” prodded the man.

“Hit was the dread, Pa,” she pleaded and in time was drawn to sit shrived on his knee.

“Now tell, would her pa let harm come to her that’s my pretty poppet?”

The rain was beating strongly, steadily, washing down banks along the road, mingling with dust and traveling through stones and suckling earth until it gained the water pan far below. Over the pond a silver sheet was draping until the water rose over the sides to flood the meadows. The swaggering wind was in full strength. Moisture softened the earth about the roots of a giant basswood that had matured before the father of Jules Gaddy built his lean-to and set up a rail fence for his mules and hogs. A sudden blast slammed into the aged trunk; it fell sluggish, reluctant, upon its side with a wounded noise, gashed roots exposed. Tree branches grappled and fought the gale and were broken, some borne by the wind and slung against the house roof, making staccato sounds.

“When you were just a mite, Frankie, I told you thunder was a potato wagon going across a bridge. Wasn’t any fear in you then.”

“Will Mester Peyton come at all, Pa?”

“Roads are so bad he’ll likely be hindered. Do what I tell you, Frankie, for that’s what’s right.”

The orgasm of the tempest was done. In the clearing sky, white fluffs were drifting in remote wind tides. The man went to survey the destruction left in the wake. His daughters were sent with hatchets and string to gather fallen branches for kindling and to fagot the twigs.

“My sir used to recount,” Anton said, before he walked out, “how in the forests of the old country they were given leave to break off all the boughs to the height a standing man could reach. For firewood. There wasn’t any rotted trash like in this new country. And it was soft as carpeting underfoot.” He took his ax and wedges and went to join Sam, who was bringing the team up the lane, hitched to a whiffletree. Sam was balancing on his shoulder a bucksaw and a two-man crosscut. They headed toward a yellow locust spraddled across the road past the farm entrance.

“Locust does right smart for fence posts, Mester Gaddy.”

“I’m glad that tree came down. I was minded to cut it anyway, Sam.”

By the pond frogs were shrilling, in the field near the orchard a buzzard sat hunched on a stump, the black dampened wings held motionless, outspread to dry, the naked head tucked into the wrinkles of its bare neck. “I ne’er meant what I said,” Frankie was telling Ellen. “For I love my pa and he’s good.”

“You carried on like you were taken with a fit,” admitted Ellen. “Makes me puke to see you that way.”

“Thinking of me always, he is.” Frankie tied a bundle of twigs and threw it to a pile they were making at the field’s edge. “Poor Pa.”

Ellen heaved a rock at the buzzard and watched it soar effortless. “The wind’s flattened that cornfield. There’s a mort of damage been done.”

* * *

The leaves had been touched by the first frost and nearly overnight strident colors were emerging on the countryside. Ellen and Frankie were cleaning the musty litter from nest boxes, stuffing in fresh oat straw. “Wonder how come we ne’er tried a doorknob in the nests, Frankie? A porcelain one might coax them to lay. I’ve heard of it.” She harked back to little Clate hanging to her dress hem.

The cows were restless, feeling the new season, the sluggish summer shaken off. On dark mornings Ellen would wear her rough brown sweater, torn in the sleeve, against the chill. The cows heaved themselves to their knees, then to all fours. She put her bare feet in the warmed straw where they had lain. A heifer plopped her hoof in the fresh foam and held it there, stubborn head low, flanks whitened with the splash. The lantern light blinked and Sam was shuffling in. He gazed at the white-spattered wall, belched gently. Ellen caught the whisky scent. “Don’t ill at her, Ellie,” he advised, “or she’ll fore’er mistrust you.”

“Who’s illing?” She carried the pail to the pump to clean it.

He was following, garrulous. “My old-old-old man always said, don’t ill at a creature which does your work,” he nodded, sanctimonious, “and fills your belly.”

“There’s the milking to do, Sam. You’re late. Pa’s waiting on you.”

“Old-old-old’s sort of a byword with us Offuts. When Pa was getting on in years, I sassed him once. He’d started in to say I shouldn’t talk back at my old man. He commenced to say old and he couldn’t stop.” Sam cleared his throat, spit phlegm into the cold bushes. “I told it on him after that. Old-old-old, we Offuts always say.”

Ellen sighed. Sam’s milking would wait on his tongue.

11

The car was puttering up the lane, a trailer hitched behind. It was a day in early October. Ellen drew back from sight, hearing Craig Hedrick’s high-pitched halloa. Anton was coming from the barnyard where, with Sam, he had been forking manure onto the wagon for broadcasting over the fields. Ellen fled along the fence line, down to the pond and the tranquil woods beyond. “I aim to get a mess of shaggy-manes to stew for supper,” she was promising herself. Most of the afternoon she stayed in the woods, finding few of the big mushrooms she hunted although there were some overripe ones. These she kicked to see the sootlike powder billow as they split. Jack ran a rabbit and barked at squirrels and woodchucks. Ellen was leaning idly on a fence rail, looking over the tawny sedge grass of a neighboring field. A red-shouldered hawk circled in flight, uttered its squeal like escaping steam. She mocked him, “Kee-yoo! Get you a passle of crawdads, you old hen-thief.”

She put her chin in her hands. A mass of midges vibrated in the sunshine, minute wings whirring swifter than eye could follow. You take a flower now. When it goes to raise out of its leaves, it stirs everlasting slow, unfolding. It’s a case of time, it would seem, and man’s caught between. How quick we must appear to the trees, and how draggy to the midges.

Back she walked in the late day up the fallow hill field, new-plowed for autumn wheat. “Wish I was an earthclod, nary a care.” She stubbed her shoes against turned furrows.

In the wagon bed that was rumbling in from the field her father swayed, standing spraddle-legged. His face was shadowed with a beard, his sateen shirt was open, baring his chest. The dun horse shook its mane and the mare nickered to its yearling colt trotting in the pasture beside the lane. “Whaw,” Anton was shouting. The chomping of bits and movement of harness on the sweating animals made tinny bright noises. “You’re a great one for roaming, girl. Where you been?”

“I took a notion to gather shaggy-manes for supper, Pa. I hunted but there weren’t any.”

“Hit’s a sight too dry for mushrooms. I could have told you.” He looked down from his vantage on the wagon. The muscles swelled on his freckled forearms and he was holding the reins careless. “You just missed young Hedrick. He came to visit and trade off our old boar for a thoroughbred one I wanted. It’s more than twice the size of the old one.”

“I’ll take a look at it, Pa,” she told him.

“He asked after you. That young man.” He shrugged with satisfaction. “Whup.” The wagon was rolling by her.

She replaced the pole barriers. “There. That hammer-tongue Craig.”

The next afternoon she was gathering herbs and seed pods for drying. It was warm while she worked, for the garish sun heated the withering earth. Craig Hedrick’s Model T was turning into the yard. He came up, throwing himself forward as though there were many miles to go before the end of the day. His sandy hair curled woolly and his small nose turned up, his upper lip protruded slightly, which gave him a hounded expression. “Hey, Ellen.” He stood ungainly as she nodded. He was hitching the belt to his blue serge slacks, adjusting the knot of his purple rayon tie.

“Good-looking hog you traded to Pa, Craig. What do you call those spotty ones?”

“He’s a Poland China,” he said in his tongue-twisted way. “They’re bred for lard. Not what you call a bacon pig.”

She laid aside her seed harvest and came to sit on the porch steps with him. Anton walked out. “Hey, Hedrick.”

His presence eased the younger man. “Bought me a manure spreader, Mester Gaddy. You own one? Chops straw and dung up and sifts it like my old lady straining wheat flour on her bread board.”

“Hum.”

There was a long pause. All three watched the progress of a flicker hammering up one side of the hackberry trunk. Craig was lifting his arms slowly as though he held a gun. He sighted the woodpecker on the red band across the back of its head. “Pow.”

Anton grunted, appreciative. He lit his pipe with a match he struck on his overall pants, drew the smoke into his lungs and exhaled. “There. I allow you got that high-hole.”

Craig was adjusting his position on the step, uncomfortable. “Well.”

Anton asked, “Heard the comical one about the hen that laid the oversized egg?”

“How’s it go?”

“It wasn’t comical to the hen.”

The young people were still, uncommunicative. “Come on, see my Ford, Ellen.” Craig was going in his springy stride to the black two-passenger automobile. He held his gait down to match Ellen’s. She was conscious of the smell of the man, could scarce speak for her contempt. Yet there were the pleading eyes and the wounded way of a beast about him. “You know where I live, Ellen? Just a piece from Tomkin’s Ditch.” He fought with his flaw of speech. There was a rich section, he was confiding, adjoining his, that he hoped to buy and add to his own. He had many plans.

Ellen knew it was because of the way he looked upon her that he was pushing out his chest and leaning awkward against his polished automobile. He was tall in his shining shoes and Sunday wear. Her dress was torn. All the while though, she felt he was the pitiful one. She stood apart from her own body and watched this Ellen Gaddy, her forbearance, her dignity. She was gentle. “I got chores to do now.”

“Well then.” He started the motor, drove hastily off.

In days to follow Craig would stop to talk with her. Ellen, aloof, would listen as he rambled. Her mind would stray on whether Pa would remember to get the sorghum syrup or whether Sam had mended the split butter paddle as he promised.

The fields were being prepared for winter wheat, the horses and plow working over the land. The disking and harrowing were now in progress and the blended figures of man and team moved over the horizon to disappear and return again. Ellen could see them from the potato patch. She was digging in the rows with a fork, and she stuffed the tubers into towsacks. The dust rose; her nostrils were clogged with it. A bluebird, lingering before it flew south, was beading its sad autumn cry, “Far-away, far-away!”

It was then that the days of a summer came upon her and she thought of the man on whom she had laid a curse. She wondered if she could remember his looks and ways, if meeting him she would know him. It’s past and done. He can’t ever hurt me more. Down the row slowly she worked. It’s past. She was testing it. But then it was as if Christian Ay emerged from the shadows and stood by her in the row. She ceased digging, there in the ragged dress, her hair bound by a bit of twine, her feet dirty, black outlining the toenails. The north wind of late October was blowing and the shadow fell across her. It seemed he was broad and strong, he laughed greatly and she loved him in a way that her being ached. She was trembling, water flowing down her face. She stood a while in her surprise, frightened by the issuance from what she had thought a safe memory. Its pain stirred her.

In that night the wind was changing. She heard it, felt its veering. And the whippoorwills came up, calling in the cool caves of morning.

* * *

The next day Craig hunted until he found her in the orchard where her goats were grazing on crisp fallen leaves. She was leaning against an apple tree, listless. “Hey, Ellen. Hit’s Indian summer.”

She made no reply. He stood restive before her. A yellow insect hovered whining about his tight-curled hair. “There’s a news-bee, Ellen.” He reached out to catch it and it flew off. “Wonder what it came to tell, Ellen?” The fragrance of the girl’s blown hair as she leaned on the armor of the old tree, brought him yet again to speech, his face on fire. “I’d get two-three nanny goats if you’d a mind for them. You could have honeybees too, and by the doorside I’d set out petunia flowers.”

She turned to him, absent, her face wan, her gray eyes sorrowful. “Think I’d have a poor rake such as you?” After a time she looked up from where she bent her head to see he still was standing there. He wore a bruised look and his underlip sucked in. “I ne’er meant to say that. It’s because I’ve no notion for marrying, Craig. It’s nothing against you.”

“E’er seen my farm, Ellen? Out by Tomkin’s Ditch? You’d only to see hit to change your mind. I was fixing to paint the house, too.”

His dreams left her unmoved. She was watching two winging birds come to settle in a tree. “There’s a pair of doves.”

“I might even build on a porch and put up screening.”

“If one dies, it’s mate’ll mourn till it dies too. E’er find a dove lying dead, no mark on it?”

“I’d set out young shade trees, Ellen, to put a chair under.”

“I came on a dove in the path one time. It ne’er had a sign nor wound on its body and was still warm.”

They returned to the house. Anton was under the hackberry, pulling on his pipe. “Set to dinner along with us, Hedrick.” He was poking the young man with his elbow. “Ellie made a wild-plum pie this morning. She’s one for kitchen chores.”

After their first hunger was spent, Anton was talkative. “A sight of my corn ruined in that summer storm. Might have to buy a load come spring. You lose any crops?”

“I reckon I’ll make out. I’ve got a herd of steers. I’m going to take them to the auctions in Louisville.”

“You fattening steers? Well.” Anton pushed his food with a knife onto the fork he held in his left hand. “I call to mind my sir gave me two matched bull calves when I was a youngen. I set store by them, made them a little yoke and learned them to drag a stone-boat and mind hawp and gee. My sir waited till they were two-year-olds to cut their balls. That was to allow them to get a good crest.”

“What did you name them, Pa?” asked Frankie.

“I mind the off one was Brown. I disremember the near one’s name. I was proud of them for a shirt-tail brat.”

“What happened, Pa?”

“My ma sold them under me. She needed cash for my brother Marc, who was getting his learning. I hunted the barns and meadows, came in squalling someone stole them. What do you mean, your ox-team, Ma says, cash is cash.” Anton pursed his thick lips. “Now, they were so slick you could hunt for a loose hair. I used to file the horns and grease them.”

“Your maw give you a cut on what they sold for, Mester Gaddy?”

“I ne’er seen hit.” He asked Craig, “Have you worked oxen?”

“You couldn’t law them on me. I’m one for mules. Steady, and easy keepers. But to tell you true what I mostly hanker for is a tractor. I aim to get one some day.”

“And where’ll your manure come from then?” Anton gloated.

They were pushing back their chairs. The two men went out on the steps while the women cleared. Frankie was drying plates and laying them upside down, ready for the evening meal. Ellen took the butter and milk jars out to the dry well near the porch. “Go to mass in my auto tomorrow, Ellen?” Craig asked when she passed on the step.

Anton answered, “She’ll go. Be pleasured to.”

Ellen would give them no glance though Craig murmured, “Ellen?” as she was going by up the stairs and into the kitchen. She heard them. “I aim to take a drive later, Mester Gaddy, if it makes no nevermind to you. Ellen’s not seen my farm and my maw’d be proud to meet her.”

“That suits.”

“How’s that seed-boar I traded you?”

“He’s a crapping mean sonofabitch, Hedrick. Set on rutting up his fence all the time.”

“I noticed he liked to do that. Always breaking through. But I wouldn’t say he was mean. That’s hog nature.”

“Maybe so. I call him Luther.”

“That’s a foreign name. Spot would fit him more.”

“After Martin Luther. A crapping bastard Dutchman Brinker worships. Heathen.”

“Say. Bet that’s the first hog e’er to go by that name in this county.”

* * *

“Ellie, how come Craig’s pa got killed?” Frankie was asking as they lay in their beds in the muddled dark of their room.

“Oh, it was in hay time. Craig and him were working with a watch-eye hand. Craig and that man were in the loft stacking hay back. His pa was down on the wagon. Well, that watch-eye man was fixing to jump down and pitched his fork ahead of him. It stabbed Moses Hedrick in the back between his shoulders. There he was, holding to the hay frame and the handle sticking out of his back. They said the prongs came out in front. Said he died standing there before he fell down.”

“Oh my, I’d think a one-eye man would guard against such a happenstance.”

“I reckon he couldn’t gauge distances so good.” They lay awhile in silence. Then Ellen was speaking in the dark, “Craig took on the farm then. You can say that for him. And he was still going to the grammar school.”

Ellen wore the blue crushed-satin hat that Garland had brought her last Christmas. In Craig’s Model T, she was heading for the Catholic church. She kept her eyes straight ahead on the little ivory crucifix fastened on the dashboard. Under her feet the carpeting was torn; the car smelled of dust. The young man was voiceless, his tension exhibited in his handling of the machine. His collar was starched; the ill-fitted suit constricted him. “Here it is.”

They were walking in stiffly. When his arm touched her, she moved away. At mass when the bell rang, Ellen knelt by him. But while heads around her bowed in the incensed air, she was staring about. Anton was with Maria and Frankie in a back pew. Pa’s trying to trap me with Craig. She held her head rebellious among the bent ones. What’s all the begging and praying about? I don’t care for this way of loving Him. I’ll get my peace out on the fatness of the earth that is His footstool. And the dew and the smell of the fields.

“Stand up, Ellen,” whispered Craig.

Father Tompert was reading out to the people in the clapboard church the beginning of the gospel of John. Ellen listened, brooding. They can’t make me marry him. “Thanks be to God,” said the priest and the people moved to go.

Craig was driving a mile or two along a cart-rutted road on the other side of Millville, unfamiliar to Ellen. “There’s Tomkin’s Ditch,” he nodded to a joint post office and general store by the deserted roadside. “And here’s that section of land I’m fixing to buy. I aim to rent it the first two years to make the payments.” He halted the car, gazed upon an overgrown field. “Hit’s all virgin. A virgin piece. Ne’er a plowshare been put to it. Corn’ll grow ten feet tall with not a handful of fertilizer.” He moved the hand throttle and the car was lurching forward. He steered down a winding approach to a weather-beaten red house set barren of trees before a barn of the same color. “Let me point out the sights. Then you can meet Maw.”

Ellen left her blue hat on the car seat. She came to where Craig leaned on the lot fence. Steers, deep in muddy manure, idled around troughs of corn. A yellow hound wagged up to her, sniffed her dress. She patted its smooth head; it wriggled, threw itself with a grunt on its side in the rutted road, waving its feet, ingratiating.

“That’s Sooner.”

“Hey, Sooner.” She was stroking it.

“Sooner stay as come.” An elm grew by the fence. Craig cut a twig from it and offered it to Ellen. She shook her head. “Hit’s a slippery elm.” He was picking his teeth with the little stick. “Keeps off throat trouble.”

He hung his coat on the fence, rolling his sleeves, uncovering blond hair that grew long on his arms. He walked with caution around the mire of the lot and climbed into the shed loft. The steers licked at the dry stalks he was forking down; they gazed at Ellen with deep-lidded eyes. Craig shouted, “Nothing to do but eat, hey, Ellen?” He was strutting over to her. “Rather watch them eat than feed my own face. You know?”

“Well.”

He spat out the twig. “I took on a man’s ways when I was yet a stripling. I dragged this farm up from a poor bit, starting the day Paw was killed. It’ll make some folks set up.”

“Your ma take to it out here?”

“Don’t you study on her, Ellen. Maw says the day I bring home a wife to do my cooking she’ll go to live with my sister up Indiana way.”

“Craig,” Ellen warned, “I’m not marrying. I told you. If you will talk so, you can take me home.”

“But I figured on it, Ellen.”

“I’m not beholden to your figuring.” A thrill of fright ran through her, seeing he had raised up tall and pulled in his lip. He was looking upon her as though she were changed. He leaned over, gripping her upper arm, swathed in the winter coat. “I told you no, Craig.”

“I heard a girl was taught to say no to lead her sweetie on hotter. You playing games?” His hand was tightening.

“Craig, Pa’d kill you if he saw how you’re acting.”

“Mester Gaddy’s thirsting to foist you off on me.”

“But I got ne’er a liking for you, Craig. You have to give me time.” If she could but stave him off until she was safe at home. Home was distant and dear.

“Don’t you e’er get hot, Ellen?” He was thrusting his hand within her coat, roughly hunting her breast.

She pulled from him. “Maybe I would if you were good and waited.” She tried to soothe him. “Let’s go meet your ma now.”

He was dragging her to his pock-marred face with an arm that was a band of steel. “You virgin, Ellen?” The scent was there, an odd mingling of moth balls and urine and hair oil. His lips were striving upon hers while she struggled. His hand was pressing her back, holding her against his body that was a rock. She felt the hard prod of him and a streak of flame ran through her, overlaid with disgust. I mustn’t go wild, it’s like with a mean boar, like Luther. You have to deal easy with him. She forced her body to slacken and felt him relax. She drew her mouth stiffly aside. “Give me a chance to breathe.” She smiled, forcing it.

“There, Ellen. You do like me. See?”

She twisted like a snake, darting free. Upon her heels she heard him, his breath an angry roar. The five-tined pitchfork was leaning against the fence bars where he had placed it after throwing hay to the cattle. She grasped it, flailing with the prongs turned backward. It smote him across the face, leaving white streaks. He stumbled, gasping amazed. She swung again.

“Bitch,” he hissed, “I’ll prick you yet.” He grappled for the tool.

She tore it loose, driving at him strongly. He was staggering backward, tripping in a road rut, falling. He threw up a protecting arm, blood oozing from a tine-mark on his forehead. Mud covered his Sunday vest and pants and striped shirt. She turned, speeding across the stubble field toward woods beyond. The hound, Sooner, was pattering alongside. She clawed her way through underbrush, aware after a time of a hurt in her throat where the breath was sobbing. She looked about. The hound had disappeared. She took the direction that seemed true, cutting across country, skirting the few houses. She climbed a rail fence and her dress caught, ripping. She shook her head, “I’ll have to mend that.”

The afternoon was wearing on. A chill breeze was born. A faintness enveloped her. She startled when a twig cracked. She stopped to consider, speaking into the stillness. “It’s the fright makes me light-headed. I must have got my bearings turned. I should have come on the pike by now.” She was going at a slower gait; she remembered, “Now my hat’s in his car.”

She was following a stony path bordered by thimbleberry bushes. It led onto the Millville Road which she recognized at once. A mud hen ran stammering before her, “Butbutbutbutbut!” It vanished in a field. The rail-birds were seldom seen; Sam Offut claimed that in winter they changed into frogs and hid in the marshes until spring. Ellen walked swiftly, head down, as automobiles and later a buggy came from behind and passed. Then she was at the house steps and slowing her pace.

Anton was in the kitchen with Frankie who sprang from a chair. “Hey, Ellie. Is your beau with you?”

“I’ve got no beau,” Ellen said stonily. She stood a moment plucking beggar’s-lice from her coat while her fingers shook. She turned to her father. “That was a whoreman you set on me, Pa.” She began to weep freely as anger overcame her.

“You greening me? Speak up.”

“You were bound and determined to sic that Hedrick on me, weren’t you?” Ellen whimpered.

“Speak up,” shouted Anton.

“He wanted to show me his farm. Then he came after me. I said let’s go meet your ma, but he wouldn’t.”

“Tell what he did,” Anton threatened, fear glowing in the gray pupils of his eyes.

“I grabbed a dung-fork and hit him. Then I ran.”

“You seem to be safe enough, girl. The Lord God takes care of you.”

Anger caught her up again. “It’s not that. With you it’s always root hog or die for me, and you know it.” The words fell biting as her tears washed. “It’s not because of God’s help I be home again.” She was running to her room.

Later she appeared, pale and sullen, to do her chores and help with supper. When Anton came to the kitchen, she whispered, cold, “I ne’er meant those words, Pa. I was unsettled, I reckon, by all that walking.”

“Were you out walking then, Ellie?” asked Maria. “I thought you were with that young man.”

“I don’t take trifling from a youngen,” said Anton, contemptuous. “Got worries enough hanging from my neck without you laying more on.”

“I ask you to overlook it.” She strove against the alienation.

“Root hog or die, such talk after all that’s done for you. And taking God’s name. Whoso curses his father, it’s said, his lamp shall be put out.”

“I ne’er cursed,” she breathed.

“I saw you holding your head haughty in church this morning at the canon of the mass when all good souls were waiting on God. Now bend your head proper, girl. And don’t disgrace me. Mind.”

Before they blew the candles in the bedroom that evening, the sisters were sitting in their shifts on the beds. Ellen looked out the window where the curved horn of the waning moon bobbed in scuds, and the wind coursed high upon it. “It’s wild out there tonight. The Indian summer’s on the decline.”

“Ellie, what did Craig do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“I’d ne’er let a man touch me. I’d hide like Ma in the wardrobe closet first.”

“I’ll see that come the time.”

“Well tell, did he kiss you?”

“No.”

“Tell about girls, Ellie. Why are there girls and then men?”

“Go to sleep. Why can’t you let it be? You’re always going on.”

“I want to know if a man’s secrets are more like a ram or a stallion. Wish I knew.”

“You say more and I’m going to tell Pa you’re asking such stuff. He’ll whip those notions from you all at once.”

Frankie lay restless, drawing the quilts up to her chin. She sighed. The candles by the bedside flickered, and upon the slanted roof beams shadows were wavering like wings of pinned moths.

Ellen slept. She was dreaming of Christian Ay. And in the dream he had knowledge of her. It seemed this time she was willing. She came awake wondering at the vividness, sheltering its guilt. Maybe it all befell in another world as Miss Gentry the school teacher had claimed. Once Ellen had related a childish nightmare to her and she had replied, “Some say the soul is freed while you’re asleep, Ellen. And that’s when evil’s got its chance. And there’s some can prophesy from a dream. Now others go against those old ways, holding modern notions such as dreams showing up your real wishes, and you having a hidden mind with its own thoughts. I don’t hold by any of that. I maintain those fancy notions are much the same as prophesying.”

It was another strangeness to dwell on. Then she recalled the child she had borne in the Dougherty orchard. She put the memory away with distaste, separating its being from the love she had held for Christian Ay as if there were no connection. She closed her eyes again, weary from the long day.

* * *

The spotted boar that Anton had obtained from Craig Hedrick rooted up his fence in the night, wandering into the lot where the cows were penned for the winter months. He weighed over half a ton, had an untrusty temper, an insatiable appetite. Anton and Sam would view him in his pen when he fed. “Haw. Luther. Old bastard stinks, doesn’t he, Sam? Luther.”

“He’s ugly, Mester Gaddy. I want to see the pigs he sires to fatten for market. Say.”

The brute’s jowls below his dish face were touching the ground. His ears flapped over tiny vacant eyes. His back was arched high and powerful, his larded sides shook when he trod on his small cleft hoofs. His screw tail was twitching with excitement. He roamed, investigating the new territory, growling. He nibbled at the corn he rooted from cow droppings, at hay fallen under the racks. But he was seeking a tastier morsel. The heavy milker, Maisie, had been due to drop a calf, the men examining her judiciously every evening for signs because Anton wanted to raise it. Now she was down in straw at the corner of the shed, groaning, pushing forth a heifer calf. As Luther rounded the shed side he smelled it, half born. He fed his hunger, ripping at the moist caul-swathed fetus, his eyes glittering.

In the morning Anton had to shoot his mutilated cow. The men strung it up to skin it and dress out what meat could be salvaged. Anton was scooping the foul-smelling entrails into a washtub. “When we finish trimming this carcass, before God, Sam, we’re going to drive locust posts four feet deep. Build that murdering bastard a barricade that’ll hold him.”

12

Near the last of November there was a circle around the moon foretelling the wet weather. The downpour held for ten days, the pregnant sky slate-colored, the deluge continuous. Muck and soggy manure were deep now in stables and yards and paths. When Ellen went out to her chores she would wear Anton’s discarded rubber boots. Maria and Frankie had sickened when the rain first began. They were lying together in the big bed in the downstairs room, Anton sleeping nights in the guest bed. Though the fever of the invalids was abating, their harsh coughs were hanging on. Anton soaked inner bark of black cherry and elm, boiling it down to a thick brown brew for them to sip when the seizures came on. Ellen’s eyes were on him as he was moving about the kitchen, preparing the medicine. His loose lips drooped in concentration. “Feed a cold and starve a fever. Hear, girl?”

“Maybe we ought to get a doctor, Pa?” She whispered it, confiding.

“Nary a satchel doctor has set foot in this house, even when your ma bore you youngens.” His voice surged, “I don’t work with charms and tie papers on the sick. The way heathen folk do. I use herbs and healing trees. Like my folks before me and theirs before that.”

“A doctor might know of something new.” She was persistent.

“Now what do you reckon a doctor be? He uses the same herbs as me. He puts them in fancy bottles and gives them new names. The Word tells, remove not the ancient landmark which thy fathers have set. That goes for all old-timey ways.”

“I know, Pa.” The sharp-scented steam was filling the kitchen. Ellen took a bowl of spongy warm dough, overturning it into a bed of soft flour on the bread board.

Anton set the jar of warm liquid on the table by her. “Hum. Now, that’s ready for those two.” He pulled on his heavy jacket and fur cap, departing into the drizzle.

Ellen worked the dough down and covered it with a towel. She would prepare flannel bags of heated earth when the chills came on Maria and Frankie, heaping blankets high. Then their fever would be reborn and take possession again. “Mam,” Maria whispered hoarsely to Ellen once, “tell Pap he better make up another sweater tea if the back of this fever don’t break soon.” Red-faced, Maria threw back the covers. Pity moved in Ellen. When she came from the barn, she would leave her muddy boots on the porch and wash herself. She wore a fresh apron into the bedroom. She would bring the invalids a bowl of pudding and a plate of toasted fresh bread, walking softly.

“There’s a bit for you to try and eat, Frankie. You got to have food, Pa says, now the fever’s waning.”

“Wish I had ice,” complained the girl. “Go get the chamber pot for me, Ellie.”

No action, no word or roughness disturbed the tranquil edge of Ellen’s spirit. She was gentle-spoken. “It’ll be clearing off soon. The red cock crowed on the fence this morning. First time he’s flown off the ground.”

Frankie was sighing. “Christmas is less than a month away. And I’m missing all my lessons. I might ne’er get to go with Uncle Garland to the city.”

“Sure you will, now.” Ellen took them warm water to bathe their faces. She scrubbed bed linen in a tub on the kitchen floor, wrung the clothes out, pinned them on the lines she strung through parlor and kitchen. All the while she bore herself proudly and carefully, feeling her necessity and how they were all leaning on her. Surely her father saw she was keeping his house alone now, cooking for Sam and the sick ones, besides her work out of doors.

At length a fragment of moon reappeared in the daytime sky, and the sun was there too, embryonic, feeble. Maria came out of the bedroom to grind beans for breakfast coffee, a long maroon sweater draped over her flannel nightdress. Anton wrapped Frankie in a quilt and sat her in a chair at the table. He was filling her plate. “Now you got to eat.”

The slender girl laughed, her skin pallid, her red hair seeming to prosper unnaturally under the illness, lying abundant. “Do tell at her,” said Maria, “and my hair’s falling out. When I was a youngen I lost hit all in the epidemic. Pure bald. Had to wear a string-knit cap for nigh on a year. He knows.” Her lips continued to move.

“I was thinking, Pa,” said Ellen, striving to keep her newly won role, “I’ll start cleaning the candlesticks outside after this to get away from that mess in the sink.”

“This little old thing.” Anton touched Frankie’s hair, beaming. “Just look at her, you-all.”

The tears stood in Ellen’s eyes. And days that she had made full became empty once more. She felt her pride and her beauty fall away.

* * *

She was cutting down a few of the hard cheeses from the rafters in the smokehouse. Grady Love would take them in trade for the staples they needed. There was little to carry in the basket these days. In the unseasonable weather the hens had nearly stopped laying. She used water-glass eggs to cook with, put down in a crock during the summer. There was no cream or butter, the dairy taking all the milk that was produced. It was late in the day before she got started. She put on her heavy coat and boots. “I’ll be back in time to fix supper, Ma. So don’t fret if it gets dark. Days are so short now.”

“Can’t you wait till tomorrow?” Frankie was asking. “Don’t go.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, Frankie. I’m strapped for salt and soda. Pa’s out of tobacco. You try to nap.”

When she finished her trading and was on the way home, Ellen took the short cut by Bailey’s Woods to visit Amanda York and to warm herself. She knocked at the door of the double cabin. Amanda was wearing a bright red dress, her hair made into a gleaming braid down her back. She drew Ellen to the fire that hissed and sparked. “You know I got a beau, Ellie?”

“No. Who is he?”

“Jerome Hatfield. Smithy Hatfield’s son. He’ll be coming by soon. Stay to meet him, Ellie. He’s real nice.”

“You going to marry him?”

“He’s asked me.”

A car was heard approaching. Then doors were slamming outside, and male voices shouting. “Mandy?”

“Ask your maw can we come in?”

“We got a present for you-all.”

“That’ll be Jerome,” laughed Amanda. “They’ve been drinking, this being Saturday night.”

“This one’s a heavy basket,” called a twisted voice that Ellen knew. “Rome Beauties are right solid apples.”

Three young men came in. Craig Hedrick was carrying one handle of a basket. He hesitated, seeing Ellen, his face frozen. They set the basket down. She saw a dark scar across his forehead lit by the dancing fire.

“Oh, you boys been tasting bootleg,” cried Mrs. York. “Come have some soft cider to cool you off.”

Amanda was running to fetch glasses. Ellen followed, whispering, “I’ve got to go, Mandy. Ma and Frankie are sick in bed and it’s dark by now.”

“Oh, Ellie, I wish you could stay. Craig,” she was crying, “take Ellie Gaddy home in your auto.”

“No,” Ellen breathed.

Amanda whispered, “I’ll make a match for you, Ellie. He’s a nice fellow. Got an eighty-acre farm all his own. But he’s afraid of girls.”

“Hurry up with the glasses, Mandy,” called Jerome. Ellen saw him pushing Craig’s ribs with an elbow. “Take her home, Craig.”

Amanda brought the tray and Ellen hung behind her. “Ellie, you know Craig here? And Jacob Haas and Jerome Hatfield.” She was pointing them out with a nod. “The last is the meanest.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The silence was awkward. The three men leaned on their legs abashed, their faces heated by the fire and the liquor they had drunk.

“Ah, here we are.” Mrs. York was pouring the cider. Ellen shook her head, turning away.

“Well, Craig,” persisted Amanda. “Cat got your tongue? Thought you told me you knew Ellie and went to school with her?”

“Craig took her for a drive once. I heard about that,” crowed young Haas.

“Did you, Craig?” cried Amanda. “When?”

“Come on, let’s hear. When?”

“I’ll walk,” whispered Ellen. “I’d rather.” The young men were shuffling near the fire; someone spilled cider on the stone hearth and Amanda was bringing a mop. Ellen found her basket and boots by the doorway. Outside in the dog-trot the adjoining cabin was dark, unused in winter. She was buttoning her coat. The night was chill.

As she reached Sweetincreek Road the wind gathered itself and whirled strongly about her, up the sleeves of her coat. There was just light enough to follow the road. She drew her coat to her, fought the wind. The way was endless, the few dried leaves still cringing in the trees rattled and the wind had its way with them. In a darkened corn field an animal was slipping along rows of shocks. She heard a distant car engine. It became louder, lights were shining faintly behind her. She was turning into the ditch at the roadside, stumbling down the incline to crouch there. Headlights beamed close at hand. The car stopped by the ditch, a voice was calling thickly, “Ellen? I’ll drive you home.”

“I want no help from you, Craig. I’ll walk.” She climbed out and started up the road.

The car was following. “Get in, Ellen. I’m not going to hurt you.” He swung the door open. She stepped up and into the seat. There was the tart whisky trace. With a jerk the car started. He drove fast down the road, the thin tires bumping over hardened ruts. “Thought you were a new field of daisies, you whore,” Craig was saying. “You’re nothing but a brush field where a plowshare drove through. I found that out.”

She held a frightened silence.

“E’er a man in the county has slept in that field. So I hear.”

He’s blind drunk. She stared ahead where the road crouched dark before the car lights.

“Why won’t you sleep with me too, Ellen? Why did you hit me with that dung-fork?” He began to sniffle.

“You’re stark crazy.” She put her fingers on the door latch.

“You ran off with a rich fellow, I heard. And got knocked up. Had a brat off some’eres.” He was making gruff crying noises.

“You’re just simple crazy.”

He was swerving the Ford into the lane of her home. He braked so that she threw her hands against the dashboard, bruised her fingers on the tiny crucifix screwed there. Her basket slid across the floor carpet making a rough sound. “I’m just drunk. Worthless drunk. I’m sorry for what I said, Ellen.” He was leaning to her and she remembered his hairy arms.

“Get away from me.” The handle turned. She ran to the house, the basket swinging wildly. His car remained where it was; she glanced back from the porch. She was pushing the door open, the kitchen was warm and smelled of security. She went to the bedroom door, taking off her coat.

“You were gone so long, Ellie,” Frankie whined.

“I had to put the potatoes on,” Maria said.

Ellen tugged at her boots. “I tarried a while at Mandy’s.” She was busying herself with supper, making a clatter with the dishes. She hummed and when she sliced the ham she closed her eyes, blinking tears. He called me a whore.

“I thought I heard a car drive up,” Maria said.

“Someone out on the road, I reckon.” She heard the motor start then. Craig would drive back to the York cabin. He and the others would sit around the fire, eating apples and popping corn in an iron basket. They would laugh about that queer Ellen Gaddy.

Anton came in, his long-jawed face ruddy from the harsh wind. “I brought your twists of tobacco, Pa. I set them on the shelf o’er there.” I hate them all. Men are a pack of tormented hogs.

* * *

Christmas 1926 was approaching. Preparations were under way for Garland’s annual visit. Frankie told Ellen with enthusiasm, “I’m just going to sit and study grammar. So don’t look for help in the kitchen from me.”

“Oh Frankie, stop worrying about it.”

In the evening the younger girl was arranging dried everlasting in the parlor vase, the thistle-like blooms shaking palely in her hands. She turned to Ellen, blithe. “I’m that eager to see Chicago, you know. Pa says I can get dresses from the catalog. You help me.”

Ellen brought it out and they selected. “You’re like a wild one, Frankie. Setting such store on the times you’ll have. Just do as Uncle says and it’ll come out well.”

Frankie had suppressed her misgivings. By her lively chatter and protestations she covered the small voice of panic beneath.

Anton came in to where they sat. “Order stout, hear? Not cheap. I declare this is the day. Get her new boots too, girl.”

“She’ll more need pretty slippers, Pa.”

“And get chills-and-fever? She can be warm and comely too, I say. Just spend it. I got it,” he said recklessly, and went to paint the black sink in the kitchen in honor of Garland’s coming.

Ellen enjoyed the readying for the holidays. “Where are the straws I pulled from the new broom you got, Ma? I’m bent I’ll find them to judge if my cakes are done right. Frankie,” she cried, “stop studying. Come beat this icing for me.”

“I don’t know, Ellie.” Frankie entered the room, reluctant. “How do I sound when I talk?”

“Why, you sound like a lady. Whip this up, will you?”

“All right.” Frankie poised the spoon, reciting, “The deluge drowned, the earth around.”

“That’s real clear, Frankie.” Ellen took pride in her cakes, liked to start the batter with her hands, feeling the fresh lard blend to the sugar. “I despise to waste making a cake with fat-drippings. They should be delicate and light.” She was washing her hands, beating the eggs to a froth with her mother’s wire whisk. Her health and good will surged strong from some inner store.

After mass on Sunday, Anton left his women-folk to speak with Joe Burwell who pressed him, “Borrow my new fence stretcher, Gaddy. Hit beats a crowbar and pliers to a fare-thee-well.”

“I’ll try it one time. All my fences are rotting on me. Hell, I’d rather set up rails any day than stretch wire.”

Joe Burwell’s son Dyke was approaching the sisters and Maria on the church porch. “Hey.”

“Hey, Dyke,” Frankie cried.

The boy was nineteen or twenty, fleshy and large. He was smiling weakly at the girls, in anguish. Frankie blushed, Ellen looked down, scowling. Anton was calling them to the waiting wagon.

“He’s cute,” Frankie whispered and looked back.

“You can have him. I heard he does dishes and washes and scrubs for his ma.”

“I wouldn’t mind. He’s tall. But how come he does her housework?”

“She’s a one-leg. She hitched a horse up without the blinders and it scared off and ran the spring-wagon o’er her. They had to cut her leg clean off above the knee.”

“Say.”

“She wore out three wood legs till she took to pushing a chair before her. Had a baby too,” Ellen concluded luridly, “couple of years after.”

“Well, all the same he’s tall. I’m not so particular.”

In the cold clear weather the cows would seek sunny spots in the barnyard, at night crowding into steaming groups. The goats found a plank leaning against the chicken house. Ellen came on the younger ones bounding madly on the corrugated tin roof, their hoofs rattling. The daring skewbald Pie snorted and leaped skittishly from the high slanted roof to the ground. She was galloping back to the plank, short tail erect, up on the roof again, sure-footed. They seemed like wild animals Ellen had come on in the woods, unable to contain their spirits. Penny, who was heavier and not inclined to frolic, stood on the ground, ears flattened in worry. Ellen patted her and she tossed her beard, fretful.

The girls were gathering walnuts and butternuts. They shucked them and threw the hulls in the kitchen stove. Dyke Burwell drove up in a buggy with his father. Ellen saw them through the window. Dyke sat helpless, holding the reins, while the men met and walked to the barns. Joe Burwell turned his head, bellowing, “Hitch Blacky to the post, you dang fool, and get in where it’s warm. You got a corncob for a head?”

At the kitchen door Dyke was rapping, timid. Ellen opened it, her hands stained with walnut juice. She was blocking the entrance. “Well?” He cast his eyes to his hobnail shoes. She saw the two men disappear in the distance. “We’re busy baking.” Cruelly, she closed the door on him.

“Ellie Gaddy!” Frankie was running quick-footed after the stout ungainly boy. She led him to the parlor where she gave him black and white beans to string clumsily for decoration. Ellen heard her vivacious voice and later the piano tinkling and Frankie’s falsetto.

When I was a lady, a lady, a lady

When I was a lady, a lady was I

And this way and that way and this way

And that way

And when I was a lady, a lady was I

“That makes two geese in there,” Ellen told Maria briefly.

* * *

On the evening Garland was to arrive, the Gaddys were waiting in vain. Anton took out the letter that had come from Chicago, studied it again, squinting through his reading glass. “Hit’s today for sure. That’s what it says here. Lay down that red carpet on the twenty-second. That’s his way of saying it.”

“You know, Mester Gaddy,” Maria said, “today the sun entered Capricornus. First day of winter.”

Anton reflected and went for the almanac. “Hit says unsettled here. I’ve noticed these folks will often hit it right. Could be he’s run up against a storm.”

The roast was kept on the back of the stove, reheated until the juices dried. The chores were finished. The family had dressed for company. Late dusk set in and Anton grumbled, “Put it out and we’ll eat. I’ll say grace.” They picked at the food by lamplight. The man spoke suddenly, “This meat’s not fit for hogs.” He pushed his plate and got up, began to pack his pipe.

Frankie made sniffing sounds. “He’s not coming, that’s what. I can’t bear waiting and not knowing.” She ran up the stairs, her footsteps fading; the loft door slammed mildly from afar.

The next forenoon Garland was wheeling a yellow Reo into the lane; he pressed the horn, “Ah-roooooo-ga!” Frankie flew out to greet him. Ellen was hesitating at the door, her hand shielding her eyes from the winter sun. She saw the familiar derby and Garland’s arm about Frankie as Anton came from the barnyard. “Broke down at Minetta, An. Had to stay overnight. Why the hell don’t you have a telephone installed like everyone else?” Garland was waving at his car. “How do you like it? Brand-new touring style. The latest.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Had her up to forty miles on route sixty-six.”

Anton preceded them into the kitchen. Garland was looking at Ellen as he came to the steps. “Well, puss?” He pinched her thigh, his small blue eyes gay. “How’s the wandering little wench?” He wagged his finger.

“Reckon I was a poor niece to you last winter after your kindness.” She gazed at him, candid. “I ne’er meant it so.”

“Put on weight, haven’t you, hon? You look good. Pretty.” The color rose in her face, relieved that he would let the past rest. “Got a boy friend yet?”

“No,” she was smiling. He met her eyes. At the sight of the clipped mustache in the squared smooth face, a part of her loneliness had drawn away. They walked into the house, his arm on her shoulder.

Maria was in the bedroom doorway, twisting a towsack towel in her hands. “Who be you?”

“Ooman,” roared Anton, “it’s my brother then.”

“Not peddler.”

“Ooman. You’re plaguing me.”

“Shut up, An. She hasn’t seen me for a year. Hello, Maria, I brought you a present, too. It’s in my car. A pressure cooker to save you work.”

“Now I forgot it was you coming today.” Maria was suddenly complacent. “Tinie Bilberry’s got a bread-mixing outfit. Hit’s made to save work too. The handle turns like a churn and the dough comes out ready for the pans.”

“Does hit shape the loaves too?” asked Anton grimly. “I allow men are turning from the Lord God’s ways with these contraptions.”

“Next year I’m going to bring you a sewing machine, Maria. I saw a treadle one you could use, seeing as your husband won’t put in electricity till doomsday. You got to look to the future, Anton. Rural electrification. Let machines do it.”

“Next you’ll say get a newfangled automobile,” Anton predicted.

Ellen and Maria laid out the noon dinner. Ellen was warmed in her uncle’s love. In the evening she sat by him on the sofa. Or if he was standing, she linked her arm in his. When he laughed and said Frankie’s way of speech wasn’t a whit altered from last year and that Anton had got a reaming on the grammar teacher, her jealousy was assuaged.

But Anton angered, “That fellow’s been coming for a year. And there was one we had before him that quit on me.”

“Hold on,” Garland was crying easily. “Chrissake, Frankie’ll be all right. You did what you could.” He nodded kindly to the girl’s stricken face. “Let’s hear you play something, sweet.”

The next morning Ellen was in late from her barn work. She stopped in the hall at the parlor door, hearing Garland’s emphatic voice within, “She’s not well, I tell you, An. You’re so used to her you don’t notice. But she acts downright queer.”

“Shaw.”

“She needs psychiatric care. Mental aid. Look, I’m worried about her. Your attitude doesn’t help, God knows. You’re as enlightened as a bushman.”

Anton laughed, “You modern city folk. Such know-alls.”

“I’m not sure if I should have brought that pressure cooker, either.”

“Well, that’s a fact. I wouldn’t have any truck with it. What’s it got o’er a good fire for cooking? You tell me.”

Ellen wandered into the kitchen to look at Maria with new eyes. She saw the two men going to the barn, her uncle clad in one of the country costumes he affected, jodhpurs and boots, a dark red turtle-neck sweater. And Anton wearing stiff new overalls and a fresh-made black shirt.

When the time had arrived for midnight mass, Ellen was taking her place at the communion rail with the others. She waited while the priest stopped at Garland and then Anton and Maria. Then Father Tompert spoke in Latin above her and in the cold church all became quiet. The fleeting fear washed over Ellen. Am I lost? Pa thinks I’m a pure maid. But his God knows I’m not. When she was going back to the bench, she fortified herself. They that stumbled are girded with strength. She had read it when she searched in her father’s worn Bible. I’ve done no wrong. I have my God. And she rebuilt her peace.

They were driving back to the farm in the Reo. The girls tucked their feet in the narrow floor space, sniffed the new interior. They savored the luxury of the shallow seat. Frankie was giggling, “We’re like soft city ladies.” Ellen laughed into the dark.

Anton was pulling at his pipe, the fragrant smoke mingling with the fresh biting wind that whipped from the open windows into the back seat. Garland inquired, “Where’s your fancy blue hat, hon? With the rose on it, that I brought you last year? I see you’re still wearing that old cap.”

“It’s cold tonight,” Ellen was evasive, “so I wore this warm wool one.”

At home, they ate from the laden table. Then the women came into the parlor, leaving the kitchen in disarray. They sat by the fire that was cracking as the dry wood caught. “I’m going to help you girls do those dishes in the morning,” Garland cried. “You’ve got to keep me company. I used to be in demand as a dishwasher in the old days at some of the best hotels. Now I insist.”

“Such foolishness,” Anton mocked, lighting one of the fresh cigars and settling in a chair.

Ellen brought a bowl of wrinkled sweet winter apples. “Have a russet, Uncle?”

“Ellie, I’ll play if you’ll sing.” Frankie was at the upright piano.

“Go ahead, pusses.” Garland had produced a bottle of bootleg rum; he poured two glasses. He waved his hand until they finished the tune.

I don’t want no more of your weevily wheat

I don’t want none of your barley

But I want some more of your pretty white flour

To bake a cake for Charlie

“I vote for Christmas!” Garland’s face heated. Ellen was remembering the party in Chicago where he had seemed a stranger. Here he was his old self once again. When he came yearly to the farm, the tenor of the home would be transformed, and Ellen esteemed by him above her sister. She wondered if Anton ever noticed. I’m strong like their mother, that Nell they talk of. And Frankie’s not.

Anton finished his glass, set it down. “If you-all want to hear about it, we saw a crowd of doves once so thick they blacked the sky.”

“Turtledoves?” Frankie asked.

“Passenger pigeons,” said Garland. “I remember them, too. Extinct now. That was when we were boys.”

“They sounded like a twister when a flock came o’er,” said Anton. “Our sir took us three youngens to see them. That was in eighteen-eighty.”

“Not that far back.” Garland was yawning.

“Yes it was. For Ma named it time and again. Eighteen-eighty.” Anton was animated by the memory.

“Well, if you say.”

“You and me were still wearing shirt-tails, Gar. Marc was in pants. He’d have been about ten. It was down where Maria’s folks lived.” He nodded. “At Seven Mile Run. They shot them down and left the squabs to die. They shipped them in barrels till the market was so glutted they had to feed them out to the hogs.”

“How many you reckon were in that skyful of doves, Pa?” Ellen was asking.

“Well, when they settled, the flock stretched forty miles long and ten deep. Then one day they all flew off at once. We went to look at the giant trees stripped and ruined.”

“I’d fain have seen them,” Ellen said, “darkening the sky.”

“I notice they caught some rumrunners,” Garland said, “sneaking it in from Canada in a carload of hog carcasses.” He mourned, “No more booze.”

“Prohibition’s nothing to me,” said Anton, “I make what wine I need. I’ll give you some to take back if you want. Dandelion’s the best, I’d say.”

“I’ll take you up on that. So they don’t catch me, I’ll label it perfume for the ladies.”

Frankie was tittering, Garland stretching, and the family found their beds.

Ellen remained awake. Life, it seemed, was a long quest for love. The wind was whistling low around a corner of the house. Her mind went on what Garland had said about Maria being ill. The wind sound was bringing to memory a fall evening when Ellen was a child and a whippoorwill began to call near the porch steps, first in low-pitched chucks, then shredding the night with its cry. Maria had shrieked, “Get him off the porch, girl.” Ellen ran to open the door, the song ceased as the bird winged away. But Maria had wept, “When the whippoorwill sings on your doorstep, it brings bad luck. Hit sung on the night I lost my betimes baby. It was a little boy.” Ellen had vowed then, it’ll not be so with me. Life won’t break me whatever comes. The wind was growling, hunting. She remembered that in Illinois there was a small child of hers. She had a vague wish to see what he was like. And then, nostalgia like a memory of the dead drove through her, constricting her throat, for what dwelled between Luke Dougherty and his wife.

* * *

On Christmas, Anton was baffled to find his brother had given him a battery radio. “Hit’s a contraption, all right.” He was tuning the stations. Static clattered in, a rasping voice and a sudden blare of music. Anton was hunching himself over the instrument on the table. “Don’t help me, Gar. Leave me run hit myself.”

The girls opened black velvet boxes. Ellen was turning a gold chain over in her hand; she laid it cold about her throat. There were matched pearls for Frankie who wore her new yellow dress and flitted between Anton and Garland. “Now, gather ye rosebuds,” Garland was quoting, “while ye may. Old Time’s still a-flying. The same flower that blooms today tomorrow’ll be dying.” He thumped the round table with his palm.

“Tell more about Chicago, Uncle. What’ll it be like for me?”

“Oh, Anton thinks you’ve got such a talent,” he was chucking Frankie’s chin, “he can’t cheat the world of it. You’ll like it, sweet. I’ll let you take it slow. Afraid I gave your sister too big a dose.” He looked at Ellen, who gravely returned his gaze. “Remember how busy I was, hon? Now that’s what I like about Christmas down here. Takes my mind off my problems.”

“Give me that old-timey religion,” the radio pealed.

“Listen at that,” Anton shouted. “No telling where those barbarians are singing from.”

The holiday week wore on. Frankie in high excitement, was easily given to laughter, as easily wept. On the second of January, it was planned, she would drive in the Reo to Chicago. The sisters were washing milk buckets in the kitchen when Ellen said, “Be good for you to part from Pa for a spell.”

“Oh, you just want him for yourself,” Frankie wailed. “He’ll ne’er romp with you like me.”

Ellen tightened her lips, threw back her head, marched to her goats in the woodshed. “Scroungy brat,” she sniffed. “That’s not so.”

They were all seated before the fire in the parlor at night. A knock came at the kitchen door and Ellen went to answer it. “Why, Lily Garrett. I don’t know when we saw you last. Want to come in?”

The fat girl was encased in a bulky coat, the figure of a youth rearing behind her. “We want you to come with us, Ellie. Frankie too. We got a wagon of hay and there’s a moon to see by. Come on, Ellie, ask if you can.”

“No. Pa wouldn’t let us. Who-all is there?” She leaned forward from the security of the house.

“A whole wagonload of us. Papa let me go. Said I’d be whipped anyway so I’d as well. It’s a deal of fun.” Lily was bouncing with energy. “This is Jacob Haas.”

“Hello,” he said.

“Reckon we can’t go, but I sure thank you for asking. And Mester Haas, too.” She nodded to the dark figure.

She came back into the parlor and Garland said, “That was your fellow, wasn’t it, sweet?” His blue eyes were admiring her.

She stepped lightly across the oak floor, containing her gestures. “Oh, it was only Lily, Uncle.”

“She’s my best friend,” Frankie said. “She told me when Sophie had those twins.”

“Yes, and those brats came five months after the girl married Buck Lemmon,” Anton said. “A loose crowd.”

“They’re young, Anton,” cried Garland.

“Rakes and loose girls. Defiling the unwedded has no excuse. I’ll keep these two chaste.”

On New Year’s Eve, Ellen was putting peas to soak in the iron kettle. Garland came looking for her. “What are you doing, puss?”

“Don’t you know it’s good luck to eat black-eye peas and sowbelly the first day of the year?”

“What really happened last spring in St. Louis, hon? It was a man, wasn’t it? I knew something was going on with you.”

She looked to her work, her fingers trembling. She felt mature, controlled. “Nothing. I ne’er reached St. Louis.”

“What I can’t figure out is how you managed to get away so quietly. I searched the stations in the morning for you. Kept it from Anton as long as I could.”

“Wish I was like you, Uncle. You got all you want.” She said it unexpectedly. “Purely I’d admire to be you.”

“Seems you could have told me your problems. You’re growing up so fast. Maybe I could have helped. Why did you run away like that?”

“I wouldn’t be Pa. But I’d be you, if I were a man.” She said it passionately, won to him by his approval of her, by his broad opinions, awed with his worldliness.

“There’s no one like you, Ellen,” he was smiling, shaking his head.

Anton called from the parlor door, “Go out and take a look at that Gladys heifer, girl.”

“I’ll go with her,” Garland shouted back. He took Ellen’s coat from the hook and held it for her. He was lighting the lantern awkwardly. He wore a fur-trimmed jacket and was pulling on kid gloves. His esteem seeped over Ellen, making her movements supple, her youth a fine thing.

The path to the barn was a river of canescent moonlight drowning the lantern glow. They walked silent until Garland said, “You know how much like my mother you are?” He reflected. “There was a way she had though, that came out sometimes. Like she really hated me.” He was speaking softer. “I’d try to make her notice the way I could work quicker and do things better than Marc. He was older. She always doted so on him.” Ellen’s quiescence encouraged him in the cover of the night. “I remember her sitting with her head up stiff in the seat of her little rig, driving her pony. Beg her to let me harness it for her, or curry it.” He murmured, “You know, you’re just the spit of her sometimes, puss. Except for your hair. Hers was more the color of Frankie’s.” He took her arm.

Ellen felt him shivering. It’s me, causing him to do that. “Venus and Mars and Jupiter are the evening stars now,” she told him. “Jupiter’s still up, he doesn’t set till about eight these days.”

In the barn, by fragile lantern light, the pregnant young cow seemed quiet. They were turning to go. Ellen noticed Sam had stuffed a burlap sack in the broken window to keep the wind out. Garland spoke again, “You know I’ve always had a thought about Marc that I never told anyone.” Ellen was listening in the near dark, amid the pungent animal odors. “He had brown straight hair and his face was different somehow. Handsome. He wasn’t like any of us.” He lit a cigarette, leisurely. “You in any hurry, sweet?” He put his arm about her and she waited to hear the secret about her dead uncle, Marc. “I don’t think he was Pa’s son at all. I think my mother married Jules Gaddy because she got caught and needed a father for her child.”

“Reckon your sir knew of it?” whispered Ellen.

“No telling. He thought the world of my mother, that I’m sure of. She got her way on everything.” He was blowing the smoke, stamping the cigarette into the musty bedding. He breathed broken, “Oh darling.” And his dry mouth was on hers, his old mouth, in desire. He was pulling at her skirt, fumbling on her thigh with his soft fingers. She tore her mouth swiftly away, turning her head.

“And Lot went up out of Zoar,” he whispered, holding her to him. “He dwelt in the mountains and his daughters with him. Didn’t know I could quote from the Bible, did you, hon? The first-born went in and lay with her father. Book of Genesis.” Hotly he held her but gently withal.

She was pushing him from her with violent hands. “Come to the house, Uncle. Now.”

Wordless he followed her up the path where moonlight bloomed cold. In the kitchen she hung her coat on its hook. She went upstairs to lie in the chill air, while the dying candle made a puddle of tallow on the table top. Ellen’s loneliness was an ache, for his kindness had garbed her. He was aged and knowledgeable. Despair had laid her bare. It’s not for love of me. He’s got no enduring need of me. His imperfection, his weakness, had come to stand between them.

* * *

In the morning Garland was jovial in a bright yellow shirt piped in red and a belt with a European clasp fashioned like a horse and rider. Ellen dawdled over her barn chores, came tardily to the breakfast table. She didn’t wear a fresh apron, she ate stolid, uncommunicative. Anton was rapt in the radio, the nasal twang.

She’s pure as the rose, like the lamb she is meek

And she’s never been known to use paint on her cheek

Ellen went from the room unnoticed. She decided to clean in the parlor first. She lifted a heavy chair, viciously dropped it thudding into its accustomed place. “Can’t those old fools leave things in order? It’s clean and redd up, mop and scrub. And then they mess it all up. Hogs.” She was piling rag rugs in her arms and striding to the porch. The door slammed after her. She stood on the steps and shook the rugs, snapping them with loud whacks. The dirt whirled in the cold air. “Dust and more,” she was muttering.

Garland opened the door. He was holding a cigarette, and traced his mustache with the small finger of his hand. Behind him she could hear Frankie’s high inquiring whines and the radio.

“Well, puss?” She continued her work, her soft mouth set in a line. He came over to her. “You know what you mean to me? Joie de la vie. Now that’s right. I’m past fifty, hon. If I’d have met someone like you earlier things might have been different in my life.”

She let a rug drop and in a deliberate movement took up another with a sigh. “I got a tormented lot of work to get through today, Uncle.”

“Just wanted you to know that.” He was tossing his cigarette away; he lit another and went inside. She heard him in a few minutes.

It’s beefsteak when I’m hungry

Rye whisky when I’m dry

Greenbacks when I’m hard up

And heaven when I die

The Reo was packed, and it waited to carry Garland and Frankie away the next day. Ellen was instructed to wake the travelers early in the morning before going to the barn. The household sought their beds not long after supper. Frankie was protesting in their room, “The particular thing I’m afraid of is meeting folks, Ellie. Wish you were going to be there.”

“I’m out of patience with you. You’ve not done a lick all day, flitting about like a twitting chick.”

“All the same, talk to me.”

“Hush and leave me be. I’m asleep.”

Before dawn Ellen went into Garland’s partitioned chamber to rouse him. The light of the candle wavered across his face. For the instant she was confused, thinking it wasn’t her uncle with mouth pulled in withered upon the gums. She drew her breath sharply, and he was opening his eyes. “Ell’n?” he quavered, reaching for his false teeth in a watercup on the stone-topped bed table.

“Are you awake? I have to run.”

When she returned from the barn, Frankie had dressed, her new pearls were at her neck, her lips pale, her eyes blue-shadowed. “Must I really go, Pa?”

“It’s what we planned. And it’s for you to do. You know it be my nearest wish.” He warned her, “Don’t start up.”

“I won’t, Pa.”

He took the girl on his lap. “Look here, Poppet.” The battery set was clanging to the beat of a banjo, “Off with your coat and wet your throat with that real old mountain dew.”

“Shut it off for Chrissake,” Garland demanded, and the women started. “We’re going in a few minutes and then you can listen to your heart’s content. By God, An.”

The man switched off the radio and they sat to breakfast.

“Gladys isn’t letting her milk down so good, Pa.” Ellen leaned toward him.

“Tell Sam to let her calf bump it some. It can stay with the old one awhile. I aim to veal hit anyway.”

“Did you e’er tell Uncle about old Full-pail, Pa?” Frankie was preparing to prolong the mealtime. “That Dyke told of?”

“Listen at this, Garland. Joe Burwell went to look at a milk cow. The farmer hadn’t but led it out when his old ooman came squalling, don’t sell old Full-pail. Pray, don’t sell Full-pail, Mester. Joe’s ears pricked up. The old lady kept hollering so first thing Joe knows, he’s shelling out thirty dollars cold cash and hauling the cow home. That evening he couldn’t milk a teacup. Joe was fit to be tied. Went back and the farmer said to him, ne’er said how big the pail was.”

“That’s good,” Garland approved.

Before the sun rose much higher the bags had been put in the car. Garland returned to the porch for the pasteboard suitcases of Frankie’s things. “Away we go,” he cried.

Frankie was clinging to Ellen. “Reckon I won’t see you-all till next Christmas.”

“You’ll be too grand for us then, Frankie,” Ellen said.

Garland was getting behind the wheel. “These Reos are demons. Did I tell you I had her right at fifty on route sixty-six?”

“You take care of that girl, Gar. Don’t drive so reckless.”

“Statistics prove a car’s lots safer than a buggy. You know that?” He was looking at Ellen, “Goodbye, hon.”

“Goodbye, Uncle.” She waited for them to be gone, for routines to be reestablished and the ways of peace to come over the farm. She yearned toward spring, sick of winter’s hanging on.

“So long, Maria,” Garland was calling. Maria waved, walking back to the house.

“Bye now, Ma.” And the small figure promised, “I’ll write once a week, Pa.”

The yellow car was going down the lane and turning onto the road. Stillness descended until it rang like wounded thunder. Anton went toward the porch where Maria, in her dark red sweater and a discarded broad-brimmed hat of his, waited to follow Anton into the house. Ellen walked over to the well, putting her coat collar up. She sat on the damp covering board and shivered. From her pocket she was taking the gold-linked necklace Garland had given her. She dangled it where the sun collected to glint and catch the luster. She held it over the well before letting it drop.

13

Song sparrows were murmuring. Deep in burrows, woodchucks blinked and closed their eyes again. Brave white-carved flowers unfolded wearily and narrow spires of pokeweed started from the debris of winter. A green-striped butterfly emerged misshapen from a chrysalis and pumped wet wings. Cows bawled, feeling the season, and rutting male hogs screamed. Jack carried traces of skunk musk. On Ash Wednesday Father Tompert marked the foreheads of Ellen and her parents with a cross of ashes, saying, “Remember man, thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return.”

From cover of the woods Ellen was watching a dog fox in a fallow field. It was hunting white-footed mice, repeatedly leaped stiff-legged above the weeds, brush high. She rested her hands on the thick winter coats of the three goats at her side. She put her mind on Frankie, who wrote abrupt letters from Chicago. They brought lines to her father’s face until Ellen would feel the compassion heating her. She climbed a stile in the rail fence and her does were clambering after, the spotted kid leaping, shaking its long ears. Her thoughts had turned to Garland, and the secret about Marc. Wish I was wise. There were him and Pa both, grieving as youngens after the love of that mother of theirs, that Nell Gaddy. And her honing all the while for Marc’s true daddy that had left her. None of them satisfied. And Pa’d never study out that secret the way Uncle did. Pa would never think Nell could get caught with a brat the same as me. Her mind touched on the money she had sent last week again to the Doughertys. I put the child to a good mother. I never wanted him. Poor thing. The goats followed as she went up through the budding, winter-bare woods.

* * *

And three years would pass, years of time merged and woven in a pattern on an endless loom of chores. The color in Ellen’s life would break in snatches on the cloth of the drab days. By summer the radio Garland had brought was growing dim. Anton laid his ear to it in the evenings to catch the feeble sound. “It’s that far off,” he whispered, intent. Then the batteries were exhausted and the instrument was stored away in the wagon shed to gather cobwebs and mold. Maria’s pressure cooker would blow up, rending a gash on the rafter beams. Maria hid in the clothes press, staying there until Ellen had picked up the torn metal parts and thrown them out. She wore the same clothes day on day, her light-colored dresses hanging unused on the ridgepole in her room. Mud daubers constructed a nest over them, soaring in summer with damp balls dangling from their legs, in and out the two small windows.

At first Ellen missed her sister, her shrill voice and dependent ways. She told Lily Garrett, “Frankie would always be after me to stir up a cake or mend for her. She’d lean on me in her way.”

“Hey, my fudge party was the most fun,” Lily was giggling. “Looks like you being nineteen now, Ellie, your papa’d let you come. And we shelled corn too. Craig Hedrick found a red car. There. He kissed me.”

“Is that all he did?” Ellen was picking through a pile of cornhusks, looking for flat strips to splice and braid into mats. “He talk about petunia flowers?”

Lily’s carefully arranged curls shook. “I ne’er been kissed so. Reckon I could catch him, Ellie? Think of me with a baby and a man calling me wife.”

* * *

Changes would take place within Ellen over these three years. Going to church, following her parents in, she came to feel that those whom she had seen as pure in the time of her transgression were not so. They hid their sins, she dared to think, and dressed themselves a poppet God. When Anton stepped into the confession cubicle and she heard him mumbling ever too loud as he pled the venial sins, she allowed herself to think he made his shrift complacently. When he dipped the holy water she pitied his narrow habits and more than before devoted herself to his will that he might see she knew her duty.

The God that was hers was not enclosed where the crowd gathered. She set her mind on it. Hers stood above when she was on the land and alone. His feet were the hills, his hand the wind that quivered, his eyes those of the meekest birds. “This one’s my Lord,” she said, solaced.

She was stirred to confide in Anton once. They were standing on the porch on a summer’s night while a storm was breeding in the south. Lightning flicked and the hot earth panted for the coming water. “You can feel the hands of God now. All the unknowing. You feel it, Pa? How we’re just naught?” She was leaning toward him.

“If you’d take the time, girl,” he said heavily, “to read His word, you’d know that He formed man of the dust of the ground and you’d know of the Day of Judgment and the opening of the graves. The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood.” He left her sitting on the stair. Large drops began to fall and the wind swept in a deep sweetness.

Sometimes a young man would look on Ellen as she was standing with Maria in the churchyard, or when bartering at Love’s. Or one would offer her a lift in his wagon and would look at the gold-flecked pupils and the ripe figure. Then she cast her eyes down, surly, or stared at him, bold, until he turned aside. She was guarding herself against a hurt. Dyke Burwell came to call, waited on the divan in the parlor while she slipped away to watch the winging bees, honey-dripped and golden, working the hives. Anton ferreted after her and bade her keep the young man company.

“But I’ve no mind for him, Pa,” she protested.

He roared, “What’s awry with you and you won’t be courted? I’ll not put up with your foldilay ways.” He was thrusting his chin, “You do as bid, girl.”

So she sat sullen with Dyke. But she baited him slyly and he went away and came no more.

At Love’s grocery one time, while she was debating on thread and needles and picking out salt and coffee, a thing happened. Carl Brinker’s hired man was bartering with Grady. Ellen had seen the new green pickup outside. He was a dark fellow with a heavy face and fists. “You see, Ay was my boss’s hired hand before me, Mester Love,” the man droned. “Now, haven’t you got a bigger clevis pin?”

“What size you want? So his baby died?”

Stacey’s birdlike eyes were on Ellen. “You feeling ill?”

Ellen sensed a danger as she felt the flush rise. She laughed sharply, “No. I allow I’ve got all Ma needed. Excepting yeast. You got some fresh sponge?”

“I’ll see if mine’s still working good.” Stacey disappeared.

Ellen’s heart thudded, hearing the laborious speech of Brinker’s man. “That Ay’s had a tedious run of bad luck. First his daddy passed on, then his sister ran off. Rose Ay.”

“So?” said Grady. “Tell your boss I got new bridle rosettes in. White and blue.”

“That Ay’s sister was comely. Biggity but comely.”

“Ay wasn’t much.”

“No. I ne’er knew him well. We used his store some. I’ll tell Mester Brinker about those gaudies. He’ll buy some for that stallion. You e’er seen that horse?” The man was slowly scratching his head. “Now what about the Lord taking that little child?”

“He gives and He takes away,” sighed Grady.

“That’s so.”

Ellen put the warm jar of yeast in her basket, hurried past the two men. Grady was nodding, “Here’s someone seen an old beau of yours in Louisville.”

“I ne’er had a beau.”

“Took you to the circus in New Hope, a bird told me.” Grady’s eyes flickered while he grinned.

“Morning, miss.” Brinker’s man touched his cap, doleful. “You know Mester Ay?”

“I’ll be getting along now.”

That had happened in the first of the three years. Ellen would ponder on it. Christian was gone out of her days for ever and all of eternity. She faced it. He had taken some woman to wife, his sweetheart, his may, for the rest of their enduring lives. She twisted it and the sharp hurt was dead.

* * *

In that first year too, Garland and Frankie had driven down for the Christmas holiday in a factory-fresh five-passenger Oakland. Ellen saw at once that the year in Chicago had altered Frankie. Her old gaiety was shed. She wore a modish yellow cloche pulled over her brow, her jacket was long, belted at the hips. Her bright hair was bobbed. Anton was beside himself, fascinated at Frankie’s apparel and her new manner. “I declare she’s a little swell, gar.” He scratched his head. “How do you like city life, Poppet?”

“Very well, Pa.”

“How’s your learning coming on? Are folks setting up? I vow. Hum.”

“Very well. I’ll unpack now, if you don’t mind.” She was going coolly up the stairs and he watched, silent.

“What happened to that radio I gave you?” Garland asked. “Hell, I’ve got six in my house now.”

Ellen had dressed the house with holly and bought red candles for the table. She was making her sister’s favorite desserts. “I threw together a blackberry cake, Frankie. We haven’t had one since you’ve been gone.”

“I never noticed Ma was so simple, Ellie.”

“Should I top it with boiled white icing or jam?”

“Was Mrs. Quimby at Uncle’s when you were there?”

“How come you ask?”

“I hate that know-all.”

“Does Uncle treat you good, Frankie?”

“He’s different there.”

“I mean, does he make o’er you a lot?”

“No, he’s not much for romping like Pa was, Ellie. He thinks me a little child.”

And Ellen was satisfied about Garland. “Reckon I’ll use icing and jam both, Frankie.” Ellen was constrained if Garland came upon her alone, but in the family group he would seem her familiar uncle. When she thought of his incestuous overture of the last winter, she would shove the episode into a cupboard of her mind.

Around the fire in the evening, Anton had poured his tales, overweening, on the younger girl. “Used to be the only tools a man needed were made of wood, Poppet. A plow and a harrow and a wagon. Your grandsir used a peg-tooth harrow with a hickory-wood frame. When a tooth broke off, he fitted a new one from the woods. Haw. No running to the Bethel Hardware for a broken piece of this or that. Just like the old country.”

“Speaking of the old country,” said Garland, “you girls know about truffle hunters?”

“What’s a truffle, Uncle?”

“Grows on roots of oaks. There was an old woman hunted them in this village in France where your ancestors lived. She’d take a basket and spade and a pig on a leash.”

“Slut?”

“No, puss, this wasn’t a trained pig. Truffles have a strong odor that any pig can scent. He roots under a tree and then she drives him off and digs them up.”

“Such uses for hogs,” Maria was saying, “as you’ve heard of.”

“Sometimes they use dogs, but this woman used a pig. She chained him at night or he’d slip out and get the truffles.”

“Christmas makes you remember, doesn’t it, Uncle?” said Frankie suddenly. “Why don’t you tell stories at home?”

“This here’s your home,” grumbled Anton.

Garland was filling glasses with the “imported” Scotch he had brought. “Now, Frankie,” he cautioned.

“Want to hear more about hogs?” asked Anton.

“All right.”

“When our grandsir came homesteading all he had was a few razorbacks. He fattened them on oak and buckmast, said it beat corn any day.”

“I don’t see how a pig could be fatter than that spotted boar you’ve got,” said Garland.

“Luther. He’s ornery, spoiled my best milker and her heifer calf.”

“Say, Frankie’s practiced a Christmas song for you, An,” Garland said.

“Play it, Poppet.”

“I don’t feel like singing now.”

“I ask you to,” Anton glowered.

“She’s got a new singing teacher,” Garland was saying as the girl went reluctant to the piano. “Makes the third one now.”

“She had two grammar mesters before she went with you,” said Anton. “One walked out on me and Peyton tried to quit when I fired him. How come they do that?”

The girl played accurately, accompanying herself in a reedy tone.

I heard the bells on Christmas day

Their old familiar carols play

And wild and sweet the words repeat

Of peace on earth good will to men

Ellen was bringing in a split-oak basket of persimmons. “I ran onto them yesterday, Pa. I don’t know why the possums let them be.”

Anton took one of the soft orange fruit. “Used to be they made ’simmon beer in this county. It wasn’t sharp like city beer, Gar. We used to roast ’simmon seeds too, when coffee was scarce.”

Garland bit into the mellow sweet fruit. “They’re good. The pucker’s gone out.”

“The frost seasons them,” Ellen said.

“I know. Used to hunt them when I was a kid.”

“A ’simmon tree’s got a black heartwood in its center,” Anton said, “with layers of yellow sapwood outside it. It’s the only tree I know like that.”

“Those rings, now,” said Ellen. “You can count the rings to tell the age of a tree.”

“Is that black heartwood in the young tree?” asked Frankie.

“And if there’s a drought,” Ellen went on, “the ring’s scarce to be read, it’s so narrow.”

“I want to know about that heartwood, Pa.”

“Well, you don’t find hit in a sapling, Poppet. It comes of itself as the tree takes on age.”

“I think it’s there in the young tree,” Frankie said.

“How come you to worry on that, Poppet? It’s no consequence.”

“But I want to know.”

“Now there,” said Garland. “It’s getting on bedtime. I can tell Frankie’s sleepy.”

“Ellie never sang a song yet,” said Frankie.

“I’ll sing in the morning. We’re wasting coal oil. Come on.”

The girls climbed from the fire-warmed parlor to the loft where winter rain reeled on the roof. Under dank blankets they were waiting for the warmth of their bodies to overtake them. Anton’s disputing voice came up the stairs, “Why’s she act so? Like a highborn one? What are you doing to her there in that city?” Garland’s voice was heard in murmur. And again Anton’s rude shout, “Be she e’er seeing men?” And in a moment, “Well, that don’t mean a thing. N. J. says all his sister e’er did was set on a fellow’s lap one winter. Said his pa watched them courting by the range and thought no harm. They hardly spoke but only set there hugging. Now before God, she came by a child and his pa had to get them married.”

In the melancholy dark from her bed, over the sound of the sleet whipping the shingles, Ellen whispered, “You like a fellow?”

“No, I’m a poor country girl there. I hear them laugh. I came on my singing teacher snickering with Uncle. It was about me.”

“When do you think you’ll start playing in public like Pa wants?”

“I’m the most alone person. It’s because I’m queer, I think. Maybe Pa made me so. Or else I get it from Ma. The way I talk and act.”

Anton’s voice was audible through the doorway as they came into the hall downstairs, “And then I heard Ma saying, I’d fain have been a lady but I married you, little feist. We dragged her down, Gar. We gommed her desires.”

“Hell, An, you’re drunk. Forget Ma. Like I did long ago. Let’s get back to the subject. As I see it, Frankie’s doing the best she can. She’s not got much gumption and she’s plenty like you when she gets stubborn, but I think she’s beginning to adjust. This is the first vacation she’s had, what with lessons. I hope I can keep her present teacher. Says he’s got his hands full. Costs a mint, you know.”

“Hum. If there’s anything I can do for you.”

“You’re my brother.” Garland’s familiar slap on Anton’s back was carried up the staircase. “Covers a multitude of sins. We’ve got to stick together.”

Ellen thought Frankie was asleep until she heard the voice threading the dark. “Seems I got a black heartwood core same as that ’simmon tree.” The girl’s voice was sated with self-pity. “People can tell it’s there.”

* * *

The next day Garland came to the barn where Ellen was cleaning the goats’ stable, heaping the soiled litter outside the shed with a heavy fork. An acrid stench hung in the air and the flock of five moved about her. “Keep you company awhile, hon?”

“If you like.”

“You have quite a bunch of your own here.”

“I set store by them.” She was forking fresh bedding in the pen and the animals crowded in to lie down, nosing and chewing the straw. She fastened the gate and leaned to watch them.

“Long time ago,” Garland was saying, “old man Alden used to keep a pair of nannies in his shack with him. Wonder if he’s still alive.”

“Ne’er heard of him.”

“Lived a few miles up the road. Us boys would sneak over to peek in his windows. Watch him suck the milk from the udders.”

“Is that a fact?”

Garland watched her intently. “You’re wonderful, puss.”

“That’s a silly thing to say.”

“Well, you make me feel like a boy again. I always said it.”

Ellen laughed at him. “Reckon I best get to the kitchen. I’ll race you to see if you’re still a boy.”

“Now there’s a cruel wench.” He trailed after her.

At the steps she waited. As they started up they became aware suddenly of a commotion within the house, of cries and Anton’s growls. Ellen was running up the stairs. “I’m afraid it’s Ma.”

But the shrill cry of Frankie pierced, “I won’t go back. I won’t. I hate you. You can’t make me.”

And a sound was heard so that Ellen turned to Garland. “He’s beating her. He’ll not be gainsaid. What’ll we do?”

“I’ll show you what. He’s always got to lord it over someone.” Garland sharpened his wrath, ran into the hall, flinging open the parlor door.

Anton was red-faced, and Frankie, in a despair of tears, was shaking in a corner of the sofa, her knitted skirt pulled above her knees, her bobbed hair tangled. She hid her face. “I don’t care about nothing. I don’t care.”

Garland caught Anton’s arm and while they shouted, Ellen bade her sister come into the kitchen. Frankie laid her head on the table and wept. Ellen walked about the room at her work, finally coaxing, “Now these fruits have to be cut up for the cake. You always were good at it, Frankie. Here’s the knife and bowl.”

Frankie pushed them from her. “Ellie, I do hate Pa.” She fled up the stairs.

The angered voices in the parlor rose and fell until the milking hour came. Then Anton, black-faced, strode to the barn. Garland watched him from the porch stoop and then followed. “There,” said Ellen to Maria who came in from the bedroom, “things are in a state. Pa ought to let Frankie stay here where she belongs.”

“Don’t beard Mester Gaddy,” Maria advised. “Let him be.”

That night by the fireside it was as if a ghostly thing stood amid them. Ellen sighed. Maria, feeling the trouble, gestured to herself. Garland smoked one cigarette after another. And Frankie was white, holding her head erect. “Reckon I’ll go to bed,” she said at length. “Good night all.”

Anton bent his scorn-washed face over a farm journal. “Well, I see here it tells about them foreigners in the old country using artificial insemination. Now I reckon that’s a sin against a beast. It’s sodomy.” He pulled furiously on his dead pipe.

“Chrissake, An.”

But in the morning Ellen caught sight at the stairhead of Frankie and Anton. The thin words came, “Forgive my willfulness, Pa.” Frankie’s face was hard. She had purchased her peace, before leaving her father again, kneeling in the short skirt she now wore.

* * *

On the second Christmas of these three years, Frankie brought her contradictory ways again into focus, so that Anton stalked about in dudgeon, lying in wait for her open rebellion. She would turn him though, in a new cunning way she had learned, “Beg your pardon, Pa.”

The holiday evenings were drawn short and quiet by the hickory and oak-fed fires. After midnight mass, all but Garland ate sparely at the table, disheartened. The sliced meats and cheese, the sweet cakes and peppered blood pudding, were spread forth. “Have some Barrier Cherries, Uncle,” Ellen pressed him. “Frankie and Lily Garrett made them once.” Ellen, who knew her father and sister so well, felt the sadness of it. She knew the man was like a willful child and here was his only beloved set against him.

Frankie went back to Chicago then. Before they drove away in Garland’s Oakland sedan with the high-squared top and the yellow leather seats, Garland announced, “Frankie’s been engaged for her first recital. March the sixteenth, nineteen twenty-nine. Frankie Gaddy enters the lists of the immortals.”

“Shut up, Uncle,” Frankie sighed.

“You greening me, Garland?” Anton was suspicious. “You going to play before those folks?”

“Yes, I am, Pa.”

“Hell, An, she’s booked,” Garland shouted. “In one of my theatres.”

“I vow.”

“My,” Ellen said, “I ne’er thought Frankie’d be so bold.”

* * *

And time moved, weaving a tapestry. On radiant summer nights moonlight laved the meadows and frogs dripped shrill tones. Ellen would slip down the stairs to wander where flowering honeysuckle presaged the passing of time. Longings waxed in her. She lay in the honeyed grass and wept easily. The moon shone and she bared her white body, wondered at the restlessness clutching her. She dwelled on the summer she had met Christian Ay, for at that one time the even cord of her life had risen to such a gleaming line that she doubted on it ever after. I’m bound and thralled. The pleasure and the sadness are too close together. She went back to her attic room to wait for dawn.

Now and then she thought of the child, Simon, developed a curiosity, now that she counted the passion buried, to see if this relic bore any resemblances. “I have a notion to visit Penny Dougherty,” she was saying to Anton. “She’s invited me. Says she’s got guineas and we can have a clutch of eggs if we want. I could raise us a flock. Set the yellow hen on them.”

“Guineas. And that worthless ooman,” he scoffed.

“Guineas are no work. You turn them loose and they pair off and care for the eggs by themselves. When you want a meal you catch them where they’re roosting.”

“It’s a far piece to Weems Crossroads but for guinea eggs. And I declared you’d not set foot off this place save to be married. So I said.”

“I’m twenty. And I’ll be gone o’ernight. I promise, Pa.”

“I don’t like it. You’re a froward one. It costs a mort of money going on the train. All to see some poor trash.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Pa.”

“You be back in a day, girl. You got beans to plant, and the cabbages to set out now the killing frosts are gone.”

“I’ll do it, Pa. Day after tomorrow. Soon as I get back, I’ll set them out.”

So she found herself walking up the lane to the familiar small house. Penny greeted her, and her fine features seemed a little thinner. She was laughing, “You came for Simon.”

“Oh Penny, let me see that baby girl you wrote about, Blossom.”

“She’s in here, Ellie.”

While they looked at the sleeping child, Ellen whispered, “I can’t take Simon. Pa doesn’t know.”

“That’s all right. We love him, Ellie.”

“I brought more money.”

Three little boys were trooping through the doorway, shouting. The baby awoke, began to wail. Ellen saw Simon, nearly three now. He was dressed in a blue-checked pinafore, and his small bottoms were bare. He was smallish and fair with round blue eyes. He looked at her soberly and never smiled. Clate had forgot Ellen, and Anse, thin and dark, clung to Penny. Simon was leaning on the wall, his fat thumb in his mouth. Luke arrived amid the bedlam and the children shouted to see him, “Da’s home.” Ellen saw Simon squealed and leaped with the rest.

They took her out to the field to see the goats and the old donkey. Clate was prompted to recite, lisping.

When the elm leaf

Be big ath a mouthe’s ear

Then to thow barley

Ne’er you fear

All the while nearby was Ellen’s son, gazing dumb. His foster mother called him to her. “This is your own ma, Simon. Like I told you.”

In the morning Ellen was returning on the train. She had a setting of spotted guinea eggs in a box. Her mind was on the beans to be planted; she wondered whether Love’s would have flats of young cabbage plants in yet.

* * *

The country seemed prosperous. But among the farmers were muffled noises of protest. Anton Gaddy growled when he got ninety-eight cents for wheat that had brought two dollars and thirty-four a bushel after the Great War. Corn dropped to seventy-nine cents, though it used to be good for a dollar to a dollar-fifty. He spoke to Sam, “Reckon you could get by with a little less a week? I’m pure strapped for cash. You could take a hen maybe.” He shrugged nervously.

“All right.” Sam scratched his back.

“Pick one of the old ones with a yellow beak and ears.”

“Now Mester Gaddy. I wouldn’t take a good layer.” Sam was squinting up, his eyes sharp in his leathery face.

“I hate it, being strapped, Sam.”

While they were talking, restless, the stock market was plunging. The depression was on. When Anton heard next week from N. J. Bilberry of the crisis, he said, “Now there’s somewhat for those rich folk to fret about. It’s no worry to us.”

Anton felt vindicated in his way of life, wondered idly if Garland had been affected. And he wished Frankie would write again. Her piano recital of last March had been a failure, the few letters she had written since ignored the subject. The flame in Anton’s life that burned through this daughter dimmed, bewildering him, causing his dream to lag. “Hum. Frankie’s going to make that music yet before the crowd. I’ve got to send her some money again, come the evening mail.”

Then a letter arrived from Chicago.

Dear Father,

It is not necessary to direct any more checks to me. You need money worse. I moved from Uncle’s house a while ago to an apartment. I’m going to get a job. Uncle is sick so we won’t drive down. I will spend Yule in Chicago. Uncle lost his Oakland. The government men took it away. He had a considerable loss in the market. He has real worries. One of his friends jumped out of a window.

I will come to visit next summer for sure, and maybe bring a friend with me to see the dear farm and meet the old folks at home. Then like the song goes, I’ll tuck me to sleep in my old ’Tucky home!

daughter Frankie

part three

Let it be what it is she said

Let it wait as it must

It will choose soon or late

Let it wait

Love has life not of us

But of love she said

Let it lie where it must

14

Ellen was cutting across the field to the York cabin in the late May morning. Amanda York had married the smithy’s son, Jerome Hatfield. The couple lived in one side of the cabin. Jerome and Mr. York cared for the apple orchard surrounding it and worked in the Bethel Stone Foundry. During the winter and spring Ellen had watched Amanda grow heavy with child, taking vicarious pleasure in the young wife’s joy. “If it’s a boy,” Amanda had claimed, “we’re going to call it Junior. Wonder if it could be baptized Junior, Ellie? I doubt it’s a Christian name.”

At the cabin door Ellen called, “Hey, Mandy. Anybody home?” She heard the hoarse pained cry from within.

Mrs. York was shuffling out of the bedroom. “Ah, hit’s you, Ellen.” Her face was yellowed with fear, eyes staring with wakefulness.

“Mandy’s been taken?” Ellen asked.

“Doc Trumbo’s here. It’s not coming right. Ellen, you think somewhat could happen to her?”

“Bearing’s not so bad,” said Ellen, uncertain.

“I put the ax under the bed. She ought to have had it by now. She’s been at it since noon yesterday. She’s giving out. She’s quit trying.”

Then there was a scream from the room beyond, animal-like in travail. Ellen was recalling a spotted heifer that couldn’t bear its calf; Anton had hitched the team, and taken it from the womb. The scream circled the room and after it, like a splintering of glass, a thin cry echoed. “Ah, Doc’s got hit now.” The woman was scurrying away. Ellen followed slowly into the blood-odored room. Amanda lay oddly flat on rumpled stained sheets, her eyes shut in a white face. On the pillow her dark hair flowed. Ellen took her hand.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch the bed,” the face whispered strangely.

“It’s o’er now,” Ellen said.

Amanda’s eyes came open with an effort of the heavy lids. “Have we got our baby?”

“Yes, Mandy.” Ellen was frightened. “You rest.”

“I want to see it.” The words were barely discernible.

“All right.” Ellen went to the table where the doctor was binding a cloth about the infant’s navel. It feebly squirmed its thin-skinned damp red body and wrinkled its face. “She wants it, Doc.”

He glanced up at Ellen. “Let’s see, you must be one of those Gaddys. Your father hasn’t much use for satchel doctors, either, has he? You know these women never called me till an hour ago?”

“Mandy wants to see her baby.”

“They call me in at the last minute. Think they can do it all themselves. Like Indian squaws.” He wrapped the child in the warmed flannel that he took from Mrs. York and laid it by its mother’s face. “Lie still there, girl. I’m going to look at you now.” He spoke softly, disappeared into the kitchen to wash his hands.

“She’s fair, Mandy,” Ellen whispered, “your baby.”

“Ah, she is,” said Mrs. York, “with it all.”

Amanda’s breath rattled. She was drawing strangled gasps as if she had run a long stretch. Her eyes became fixed on the hewn-log walls, the cracked calking. She shuddered, the labored breath struggle faded and ceased.

Mrs. York sucked in her words, “My girl.” She put a hand out to touch the tired face, screamed, “Ah, Doc.”

Dr. Trumbo stumbled on the threshold in his haste. He was lifting Amanda’s wrist, laying it down, speaking sharply to Ellen, “Good Christ, where’s this girl’s husband?” He picked the sleeping infant up.

“I’ve got to cover the mirror,” Mrs. York mumbled, hurrying indecisively about the room. “So the baby doesn’t die as well. And stop the clock hands. Now what else must I do?”

“Jerome works at the stone foundry, Doc. Same as Mr. York. I can call them from Love’s store.”

“First take the child here. This old one’ll be no more use.” He turned to Amanda’s body again. Ellen laid the baby in the cradle. It was sleeping, its face like an inflamed pansy, lost amid ribbons and ruffles.

“Ah. You did it, Doc,” Mrs. York keened. “You were busy with yourself and your washing and you let it happen. I didn’t want you here. It was only because Mandy made me. She’d have come through but for you.”

“Now, Mrs. York,” he began.

The woman appealed to Ellen, “Don’t ne’er have a child, Ellen Gaddy. Don’t ne’er get caught with a child.” She grasped her arm, the tears squeezing from her old eyes, watering the wrinkles of her face.

“I’ve got to go, Mrs. York.”

Dr. Trumbo continued, “She’d been hemorrhaging. These things will happen. I packed her, did everything humanly possible. I came too late.”

The woman was taboring on the discolored sheet. “Ah, now what have I got?”

“You’ve got the child.”

“I don’t want hit.”

Ellen stood a moment in the cabin passageway before starting up the road toward Millville. “There’s a thing I keep trying to remember.” She spoke aloud, dazed. At the store she cranked the iron handle to the wood box that hung on the wall. “Central?”

“You’ll have to speak up, Madam.”

“Give me the Bethel Foundry.” When she had told Jerome, and heard the click at the other end, she walked out slowly.

Stacey called after, “Tell Maria Gaddy that eggs are down three cents again. They’re hardly worth trading.”

Ellen didn’t hear. A light mist of rain had begun and a sweet smell like the breath of cows was coming from the red plowed fields. The thing that had slipped her mind was back. It was the struggle to bear her own child, the way the throes had struck her in an open field and how she’d dragged herself to the shelter of the pear tree. The sweet heavy scent of crushed grass and blood and the fluttering of goldfinches were mingled into the memory.

After a week Jerome Hatfield came to speak to Anton. “Our baby’s ailing. Doc says she might hold down goat milk.” His face was haggard, his form stooped in exhaustion.

“My daughter’s got the goats.”

“I want to buy one from her.”

Ellen went to the woodshed and tied a rope to Rhodie’s collar. The doe had a little female kid at its side. “You keep Rhodie for as long as your baby needs the milk, Jerome. And raise the kid for the baby’s own.”

“I’m beholden.” He was lifting the goats into the wagon, fastening them there. He drove away, Rhodie baaing plaintively. Ellen watched them go. Here’s the land flowing over with milk and honey. The spring grass is pushing through the red land until it’s all pink and green. And Mandy’s dead. All about was death. The early dark of morning sometimes would be interrupted, awakening her, by Jack’s bark, followed by shotgun blasts and her father’s gruff tones. Ellen would know he had gone down in his mackinaw to kill some varmint in the barnyard. There was no escape from death, no way you could forget it was waiting. Ellen was resentful, disbelieving that some day her own strength would wither. I’m glad it wasn’t me when I bore that child back there. I recall I saw the evening star. And when Luke and Penny came, I got up from the orchard floor and walked to the house myself while Penny carried him. But then I pushed him from me, turned my back on my first-born.

* * *

She spoke up that night after the Gaddy supper had been eaten. The May rain was falling weighted, somnambulant, the air was close. “I hid it from you, Pa. Before I came home that summer when I’d run off from Uncle Garland.”

“You played the harlot.”

“I went to the Doughertys and had him there.”

“You were in St. Louis.”

“No. I went to Weems Crossroads in Illinois. I was afraid of you. The boy’s there now. I saw him when I went to get that clutch of guinea eggs that turned bad. Now I want to bring him here, Pa.”

Anton was stumping into the hall; he returned with the wide belt that he held by its buckle. “Before God your lying tongue is an abomination. Name the times I’ve said it.”

Ellen looked at him stony-faced. “Reckon I’m too old to whip, Pa. I’m twenty-one and the mother of your grandchild.”

He paused. “The father of a fool has no joy.” His heavy mouth was shaking. He drew the strap repeatedly through the palm of his hand, the harsh sliding noise rippling into the corners of the room like stones tossed in a pond. “My brother Marc, lusted. You be bound to do the same. He ran off from the college where my ma sent him. To a whorehouse. At St. Louis. And there’s where she went to get him. Dead. Now I’ve always claimed you had his blood, girl.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed and shone. “You know what Marc was to your ma?” Her nerves shivered to their ends as her temper swung on her. “I know what that Nell did.”

Anton halted at bay. “Don’t say her name. She was a saint, girl. She sits at Mary’s right hand even now.”

Ellen was helpless, found she couldn’t strike. She kept silence.

Anton slapped the belt limply against his overall pants. He turned to a thin-legged doweled chair that was by the wall. “A harlot,” he said softly. “Upon e’er a high hill and under e’er a green tree, thou wanderest, playing the harlot. So says Jeremiah.” He let the strap drop, lifted the chair by its rungs, crashed it violently, splintering, to the floor. “Defiled.” He went from the room.

Ellen was looking at Maria. “You heard, Ma?”

“You got a child, Ellie?”

“A little boy, Ma. Named Simon.”

“I had a boy baby once. But he was a betimes child and had no life. I named him after Mester Gaddy for he wanted it. But they took him. He’s moldering out some’eres. I ne’er liked rain some way. Seems a boy would be unhappy and turn about in a wet place.”

Anton fumed as days passed. “Who’s its pa?”

“I don’t want to say. He’s as good as dead.”

“What’ll they speak of me when it’s told up and down the county?”

“Tell that I married a Yankee, Pa. And he left me.”

“No, the damn fool foreigner was killed. His folks have raised the child till now. And you’re fixing to bring it here.” He paused to eye Ellen with scorn. “Does it favor the Gaddys?”

“Reckon so, Pa.”

“What’s hit called?”

“Simon Gaddy.”

Then he said, “You’ll tell it to the priest, girl.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You’ll tell it Sunday. Before you can go for the brat.”

“I’ll tell it in the priest’s house, but not in the confessional.” She said bravely, “I’ve got a mind to leave the church.”

Impotent in frustration and wrath, Anton turned away. He was heard bawling commands to the team as he plowed up and down, making ready for the corn-planting.

They were standing before Father Tompert in the parlor of the rectory. Ellen, emboldened by her first successful stand against her father, spoke candidly to the Jesuit priest. “It’s like the church wants to boundary God, Father. And He is thus and so. And if you say at such a time such a prayer you’ll get off so much sooner to paradise. This is false to me, Father.”

“Hold, girl, you blaspheme,” roared Anton.

Father Tompert said, “I’ll speak with your daughter alone, sir. Wait outside this room. If you please.”

Then Ellen told the priest what was in her. And she added, “In the gospel of Matthew the Lord himself says, don’t pray where you’re seen of men. But enter into thy closet. And when you’ve shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret. And use not vain repetitions.”

The priest saw she loved God. He saw her mind was bright and she had thought this thing out. The wise Jesuit was not uncommon among those consecrated to the cross of his faith. He spoke to Ellen. “It’s not your kind that need the mother church, Ellen. We’ll wait till you’re ready to come again to us. Till then, the Lord be with thy spirit.”

He was walking to the door. She laid her hand on the sleeve of his cassock. “Father, is it wrong to lie to the neighbors and say I had a husband?”

He looked at her while a bell tolled somewhere outside over a stitch of time. She saw his eyes were an indigo blue and the pupil in the center was a dormant coal. “For the sake of the child, perhaps not. In the eyes of God it may have been a marriage. I don’t know.” He folded his arms, went to the door. His face was smooth, his body moved ageless below the black frock. “Don’t worry about your daughter, sir. She’s in no danger of damnation. God is with her.”

Ellen put on the faded dotted Swiss dress in the morning. She combed her hair, plaiting it tightly in a new way she had. Anton counted money into her hand. Maria was concerned about the census taker whom Tinie Bilberry had reported was coming and no telling at what hour. “Now, whate’er will I say to him? He be the government. I’m that fretted. Do you have to go now, girl?”

The train coughed and clanged into the Weems Crossroads station. The road to the Doughertys seemed longer than Ellen remembered. She was passing the burial ground. A group of black-clad people were ringed at a fresh grave, cars and buggies were parked by the roadside. She hurried by. Amanda had been laid in the ground like that, for rain to rot and worms to suck until she would be as earth herself, her rosy face and gleaming braid living on in Jerome Hatfield. And a day might come when his daughter would ask, “Now tell, Pa, what was Mammy like?” And Jerome would say, “Seems I can’t remember. Appears to have fallen from me some way.”

Ellen reached the mailbox, went up the lane and heard a guinea cry. It came to her on a sudden that she was terrified, as if she had been sent to the dark cellar for supplies again. Something lurked there in the shadows. She lifted her skirts and fled toward light and Penny and the gray-streaked house with door open and unscreened.

Ellen studied her son that evening. They took the meal out under the crab apple tree. Its leaves, not yet green, were coated with soft white hairs. Its pink flowers were like the wild rose, their spicy odor hovered where the five children gathered to be fed. Penny’s smallest child, Melinda, climbed on a stool, reaching her hands to the food. Blossom stood by Anse, who was four now and tall for his age, his dark head looking down on Simon’s blond one. And Clate was the leader and spoke what they all should do. “If it wasn’t for Clate,” Penny said, “I’d ne’er get this troop together. And we’ll have another Dougherty come Christmas. Seems I be e’er in this strait.”

Standing about the table, the children were eating corn pone and bacon and beans. There was milk and a honeycomb. Melinda sucked her sticky tiny fingers and crumbled the pone. Penny was cleaning the child’s hands with a damp rag, laughing, “I got plenty of pullets now, Ellie. Luke built a hen house. I trade eggs just like you Gaddys now. But say, the store’s paying low this spring.”

Ellen saw that Simon’s cheekbones and hair were like those of Christian Ay. He had Anton’s long chin. But there was the look of Christian about his eyes and high cheeks and broad mouth. “I wonder at him, Penny.”

“You’re thinking of his pa, aren’t you?”

“I allowed I’d forgot what he looked like. Time goes so fast. But Simon calls him back to mind.”

“Soon you won’t see it. It’ll just be little Simon.”

“I reckon.”

“I see Luke coming. We’ve been lucky. Webster laid off most of the hands when times got bad, but he kept Luke on. He’d let them all go before Luke.” Penny’s look wound itself about the man moving up the path, her love like a warm wind.

“He’ll be short and stout. Strong like a bull.” Ellen was watching Simon, who leaned against the table, his cheek on one fat hand while the other spooned beans unsteadily into his mouth.

Luke slept in the mow of the shed that night so there would be a place for Ellen. The women lay in the narrow bed. The baby girls were in cribs, the three boys in the attic room. “If you should have a trouble sometime, Penny,” Ellen said, before dozing off, “or there’s a sickness or a way I can help.”

“We’ll miss Simon. He’s quiet. He can milk Tiny even. He coaxes me to let him. He does real good for four years.”

“Those little hands.”

“And he’s one with the donkey. Why, I missed him once and hunted till I found him sleeping under it and it standing like a rock.”

Ellen awoke after midnight; she lay still until it came to her where she was. An owl called, deep-toned, “Whoo-whoo-tooo-oo-oo.” She went into the yard, walking down the lane in the warm dark. The owl shrieked suddenly from the catalpa by the road, in a voice like a woman. On noiseless widespread wings it was flapping toward her and passing. “There he’ll be, following me about the farm.” She stayed in the night until she reached the end of her fears. “Whate’er comes, it’s right to bring him home and tell he’s mine.”

In the morning Simon had on bleached canvas pants, well patched. The sleeves to his nubby sweater were too short. They were waiting for Luke to come in a truck to take them to the station. Simon’s eyes were wide. He shrank from Ellen. Penny was washing his face again. “Take your ma’s hand, now.” But Simon shook his head, threw himself upon his foster mother. “You can have this. It’s Anse’s.” Penny was handing him a yarn ball she had made by winding bright colors around a piece of cloth. “If you’ll go now with your ma.” So then Simon took Ellen’s hand. She led him while he dragged his feet, gazing back to Penny and her brood.

“Where’s Simon going,” asked Clate, “with Anse’s ball?”

“It’s his ball now.”

On the train the boy clutched his toy and looked away. At last Ellen took a piece of string and showed him how to play cat’s cradle. He was lifting the twine from her hands and biting his lip. He cast his blue eyes on her. “I like that.”

“I do too, Simon.” The sun fought through the streaked sooted windows. The train rushed through the greening land, coming into the valleys and hills of Kentucky.

Anton was there with the buckboard. He ordered them into the high seat. He had laid his faded kerchief under his black round hat to catch the sweat from his balding head. The corners of the red cloth were draping about his florid face. “Whole county can get a look at Gaddy’s youngen toting her bastard home.”

The horses trotted down the macadam main street, past store-fronts, out onto country roads. Ellen spoke timidly, “This is your granddaddy.”

“Quit jawing.”

As they neared Millville, Ellen spoke again. “Penny said to tell you howdy. Her husband told me about a dog that grinds axes and things.” She spoke too rapidly, lines drawing on her forehead. “This man’s got a treadwheel. He runs a belt from it to his grindstone. The dog runs there in the big wheel, grinding sickles and knives too. Luke said the dog waits for the man to whistle.” She appealed to Anton.

“Haw.” They had passed Love’s store, turned down Sweetincreek Road for a mile.

She broke the silence once more. “Luke heard of a cat too.” And holding Simon in her arm, she felt him press close. He laid a chubby arm across her lap. “It turned a churn, treading a wheel for the lady of the house. Now think, Simon.”

Jack met them barking. The dog’s eyes were nearly on a level with Simon’s; the child laid his face in the fur. When Anton drove the team to the barn, the boy watched him covertly. Maria was coming on the porch in her shapeless Mother Hubbard dress. “Now here’s your granny,” called Ellen.

Maria glanced at the boy, felt her bun. “The census taker came, Ellie. I had a day. I told him all he asked. I wish he’d come again.”

“I’m glad it’s o’er, Ma. You know if Sam did my chores?”

“I gave him a cup of tea and some of that butter-cake you made. I told him all he asked.”

15

June dawdled by. Lilacs faded and roses unfolded. Simon went behind Ellen, dropping pumpkin seeds in the young corn rows. He wore new overalls that she ordered from the catalog, and shirts she made for him. He ran barefoot at her heels. In his pocket he kept the colored ball that had been Anse’s. He spoke seldom, but Ellen would hear his piping voice when he was with the geese or with Jack and he had no fear of the heavy work horses.

Frankie had written, “We’ll be down Independence Day. My friend is coming with me for two weeks’ vacation. Oh, the dear farm and dear Ellie. Why didn’t you tell me I had a nephew, Ellie? I can’t wait to see him. You cunning sister.”

When Joe Burwell told his son that Frankie was coming, Dyke drove up the Gaddy lane in his Oldsmobile to offer the use of his car to meet the train. “It’ll be a pleasure to see Frankie again, Mester Gaddy.”

“Stay for supper with us, Dyke,” Ellen invited him, cordial.

The two men went to the station. Ellen had hung the calico curtain across her parents’ bedroom to make the guest chamber. Simon had taken over Frankie’s old bed upstairs. She was placing a vase of catalpa blooms by the bedside on the marble-topped table. A heady fragrance seeped from the spikes of creamy scalloped blossoms specked with purple and yellow.

The car was returning. Ellen and Simon were going into the yard. Frankie threw her arms about Ellen. There was perfume in her hair, her face was accented with eye-shadow and penciled brows, her lips vivid. She was kneeling by Simon. “I’m Auntie! See what we brought you.” She took his hand and they went to Dyke’s car.

Frankie’s companion was talking with the two men. Her black hair was shingled. She was heavy-hipped, her face appearing almost delicate above her squat body. She wore no make-up and held her head back to eye the men squarely. Anton waved his hand while talking, and she nodded again at him. They came toward Ellen. “This here’s Genevieve Wheeler,” Anton said. “Did I get that name right? Haw. And from the way Frankie wrote at first I thought it was a fellow.”

“Pleased,” Ellen said shortly. The woman’s hand was warm and dry.

“Certainly do admire your father, Ellen. The farmer’s the backbone of America.”

“Haw.” Anton was shrugging. “Go on in and get settled, you-all. We’ll be back when we finish the chores. Coming, Dyke?”

Frankie opened the screen door for Simon. She called, “Ellie, he’s cute.”

Ellen followed the men to the barns. Dyke, in his black suit, was feeding the cows. Later Simon came out. He stroked the big shoulder of the brown cow that Ellen was milking. “I like Auntie, Mama,” he lisped. “She brung me this.” He wore a stiff yellow visor cap. He straightened it.

“Let’s go tend the goats, Simon.”

The boy strutted beside her, looking up. “I’ll milk Leona for you, Mama.”

“See if you can get it all this time.”

Leona had a high round udder and gave her milk down easily. “How come Leona’s white, Mama?”

“Because her daddy was a white one.”

Simon sat on a stool, leaning into the goat’s side and squeezing the teats so the milk came in little squirts. The animal turned to sniff the new cap and lick Simon’s neck where the tow hair curled. Then it wheezed as it brought up its cud.

Ellen meanwhile milked Penny and Pie, set out their hay and grain. She stood over Simon. “Want me to finish her?”

He sighed, turning the three-legged stool over to her. “I most got her clean, didn’t I, Mama?”

“Just about.”

“That Auntie’s comely, Mama.” He was leaning against her while the white liquid purred in her bucket, foaming, hot.

“Ne’er know her for my sister, would you, Simon? Like a peacock sister to a hen.” Her gray eyes were level with his blue ones. She was stirred. He’s a fair boy.

“You’s a little hen, Mama.”

“You’re my chick, then.”

“Peep. Peep.” He took her hand as she picked up the pail. Nearing the house, they heard the piano and voices raised. Genevieve was carrying the alto.

O Robin, Robin Redbreast

O Robin, Robin dear

O Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year

“Mercy.” Ellen set the pail in the kitchen, began to help Maria with the meal. Simon stationed himself beside the parlor door to listen to the singing. He was discovered and with cries and kisses they drew him to them.

After supper Frankie remained in the kitchen with Ellen. Simon went up to bed. From the parlor came Anton’s deep voice and an occasional question from Genevieve. Maria was knitting and Dyke listened while he smoked a cigar. Frankie polished the plate she was holding. “Don’t you like Gen, Ellie? Don’t you like her? We’ve got a flat, you know.”

“You wrote you left Uncle.”

“I left last February. The market crash changed him, Ellie. He wouldn’t eat and stayed up nights going over papers. He got real crabby. Stingy, too. You’d never have recognized him. I stopped all my lessons. I was glad.”

“I see.”

“He turned Mrs. Quimby out on the street.” Frankie was smiling, prim.

“Oh?”

“When I left, he closed the house up. He went to a flat he has in East Chicago. You know he’s bad, Ellie?”

“How?”

“He keeps a woman,” she whispered. “He’s had that flat for years.”

“For lack of wood the fire goes out, Frankie.” Ellen was stiff.

“That’s a cute saying, Ellie. Where’d you hear it?”

“You’re so scatterbrained, Frankie. And I ne’er had any use for whisperers.”

“You like my hair, Ellie? Gen says I look like Janet Gaynor.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ellie. A movie star.”

“When did you first meet this Gen?”

“She’s my best friend.”

Dyke stepped into the kitchen. “Hey.”

“Hello, Dyke. Wouldn’t Gen let you talk?”

“No.”

“She’s like that. She has no use for men. Except for one like Pa there. A good farmer.”

“You sure are different, Frankie. You’re plumb pretty.” Dyke stood his ground, blushing.

“I always liked you, Dyke,” Frankie was bold. “Remember how we used to argue about him, Ellie? I said he was tall and he’d do because I wasn’t particular?”

“Frankie,” Ellen cried.

“Come out and look at the stars, Frankie. Please.”

“Go on, you two. I’ll finish up.” Ellen went into the parlor after a few minutes. She sat down by Maria.

Genevieve looked up alert. “I thought Frankie was with you, Ellen.”

“She went out with Dyke a spell ago.”

“Oh, dear,” the woman laughed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Gaddy. I’ll be right back. I want to hear more about what you were saying.” The heavy sound of her shoes was heard on the porch.

“Why doesn’t she leave Frankie and Dyke be?” Ellen asked.

Anton was filling his pipe. “She sees the case I’ve got here farming.”

The two came in noisily, hand in hand; Dyke followed. “Here’s your little girl, Mr. Gaddy. I’m afraid this young man was hiding her from us.”

“What do you think, Genevieve,” Anton was asking, “of my daughter becoming a fine musician?”

“Well, in time she could be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She’s got talent. And she’s a beauty. When I get more money saved, I’m going to get her the best teacher I can find.”

“I just love you, Pa,” cried Frankie. “And this dear house. And Ma and Ellie and everyone.”

“Tsk, tsk, such a little girl,” said Genevieve. She stood by the piano.

Woodman, spare that tree

Touch not a single bough

In youth it sheltered me

And I’ll protect it now

Ellen was pressed to make fudge and coffee. Dyke was left in the parlor with Anton and the visitors came into the kitchen to help. While the two cracked nuts, they chattered in steady rapport. Ellen stepped into the hall, put her hands on her ears. “That ox.” Obscurely, she resented the older woman, missed the old way in which Frankie would turn to her for approbation and counsel. She could overhear Anton in the next room.

“Yes sir, boy, this fellow had a dog to run his treadmill. He sat in the shade and ground axes and knives for folks on the grindstone that dog turned for him.”

“I ne’er heard of that being done before, Mester Gaddy.”

“Hell, I even knew a man that fixed a treadmill for his old ooman’s cat to run her churn.”

* * *

They gathered at breakfast. Ellen had set potatoes to boil, fried bacon, and sent Simon to refill the blue water pail. Frankie and Genevieve were coming in sleepy-eyed, clad in gray twill skirts. The girl appeared frail and willowy beside her companion whose broad buttocks and ample breasts were constrained by her clothing. As they were sitting at the laden table, Anton and Sam hurried in. They were late. “The colt’s gone,” Anton worried. “Must have jumped the rails where it’s rotting. Jesus Wept, they’re all falling apart. We’ve got to string fence wire all o’er now.”

“Red horse tired of the meadow,” Simon piped. “He set out for to see the other side.” The child looked through the square-paned window, past the low wall of the garden, to the day that had cast off the shawl of night.

“I tell you, let’s organize a search party,” Genevieve said. “We’ll go get our hats. Don’t you agree, Frankie?”

“All right, Gen.”

“It’s up to you-all to find him. Sam and me can’t help. We got the rails to mend and the hay field to cut. Come on, Sam.”

They left Maria cleaning the kitchen, for she refused to stir without the door. They searched woods and adjacent fields. There was no sign of the missing colt. At noontime the three women met outside the house. Genevieve was bramble-scratched, the smell of perspiration thick on her as she sat with Frankie on the porch steps. “I think I got poison ivy,” said Frankie, “and I tore my stockings.”

“I brought some bug stuff with us. It’s in the bags somewhere. These mosquito bites itch.”

Ellen was bringing water from the well in a dishpan and they got up to wash. The woman grunted as she dried herself. Frankie was laughing at her, wrinkling her nose. Suddenly Ellen said, “Where’s Simon? He was with you, Frankie.”

But Frankie denied it. “He got tired. He said he was going home to get a drink.”

A hand twisted within Ellen. She was running. She heard the calls behind her. “Wait, Ellie!”

And Genevieve, “Let’s be calm.”

But Ellen ran and ran, Jack barking beside her, to fields stretching past woods, and past that, to places she had wandered before her son had gained this hold on her. All the while she cried, “Simon. Simon.” And the dog’s staccato answered.

It was late in the day when she returned. They had all assembled in the yard. “We’ve been looking, too, Ellie,” Sam told her.

“Maybe a snake’s bitten him.” An empty place trembled in Ellen. “And he’s lying some’ere.”

“Nonsense,” said Genevieve.

“He’s too little.” Ellen’s mind tried doors that were barred. “He doesn’t know the country well.” She looked at the ground.

Sam said, “Don’t fret, Ellie. He’s a steady youngen.”

The group was wavering, uncertain. “Appears you could look after your own youngen.” Anton bent for his pitchfork. “That hay’s got to be turned.”

Genevieve took a deep breath as the men went toward the field. “I’m not concerned. He’ll come home. Why, he’s a big boy.”

“Quit jawing,” Ellen said savagely.

Then they heard the men’s shouts, their distant figures were pointing. “There! Look there.”

The blood-bay colt was ambling up the lane, the boy on its back, his short legs spread, a lock of the mane in his stubby hand. His cap was set visor backwards. “I got lost, Mama.”

“Where did you find him?” Ellen ran to take the colt’s headstall.

“Down the road a ways. I got turned about.”

Ellen was leading the horse to the barn. “Well.”

Simon slid to the ground. “I lost Anse’s ball.”

“Should I make you another?”

“No.” He was petting the tall colt’s shoulder. “Mama?”

“What do you want?”

“I’d like a horse to name my own.”

“Maybe someday.”

“Mama?” He stroked the horse, looked up at her, mute. His eyes were wide. He smiled slowly, waiting.

“Fancy you finding the red colt, Simon. When none of us could.” They turned to walk to the house. He swaggered behind her, pleased with himself.

Little Tom Tinker

Got burned with a clinker

And he began to cry

What a poor fellow am I

Anton nearly shot a dog fox a day or so after. The fences, lined with stones and weeds, had furnished ambush for the daring fox. In broad daylight even, it would slip to the hen house, kill three or four, and escape, slinging its latest victim across its shoulders. Anton would smoulder, viewing his dead hens. He told Genevieve, “Years back I had a flock of pullets just starting to lay. One morning I found a heap of thirty dead under that oak. Next week there was eighteen. I’d hear the varmint barking at night. Times he’d screech like a wildcat. I didn’t sleep till I got him. Ne’er did find the earth where the whelps were hid.”

In the hour he was free before milking, Anton had taken his gun. He set out, Jack at heel. He plodded through likely spots, and as he came up out of the woods he heard a crow call, signaling. He glimpsed in the distance the fox they hunted. Its summer fur was scraggly and yellow-red; it was digging at a woodchuck hole on the edge of the field. Jack had seen it too; he fell behind the man, who was slipping noiseless through the high orchard grass.

Then Anton had stopped short. He had come upon Frankie and her friend, sitting with hands about their knees in the grass. The older woman was leaning over to kiss Frankie on the lips. Frankie laughed, tossing her shining bobbed hair. Anton forgot his quarry. Jack whined and growled as the fox clawed at the earth. The man moved in dourly upon the women in the afternoon sun. He stood before them with legs set like trees in the grass. “What’s going on here?”

Frankie lifted her head. “We’re singing, Pa.”

Her companion was getting up. “We were just enjoying ourselves out here, Mr. Gaddy. My, your Frankie’s a pretty thing.”

Anton strode from them. They saw him spit amber juice into the weeds. Jack galloped, yapping, for the fox had slunk off. Frankie giggled, “Oh, Gen. You shouldn’t have.”

That evening the man was stalking restive between kitchen and parlor. Genevieve sought to draw him into a discussion. “I was reading about a new commercial fertilizer, Mr. Gaddy.”

“Shit,” he growled and went to stand on the porch. Car lights glared as Dyke Burwell’s Oldsmobile arrived in the yard.

Dyke called from the darkened window, “Hey!”

“Come in, boy.”

The lights cut and Dyke walked toward the porch. “Frankie home?”

Anton saw suddenly that Dyke was a man now, bulky and tall, stooped somewhat from the weight of his awkward upper body. “Hum. She’s here.”

They stood together, embarrassed by the companionship they felt. They were looking off into the half-dusk of the yard. “Getting hot.”

“Hum.”

“Could rain, Mester Gaddy. Ma says if she can feel toes on her missing leg, it’s rain for sure.” They were leaning against the porch posts. The older man stirred, unhappy. Dyke was talking in a soft monotone, relating a joke.

Anton interrupted him, “I’d like to shoot that varmint.”

“Well, like I was saying, Mester Gaddy, a bird came o’er then and muted on him. Hell, he says looking up, now you know, Lord, this is just going a trifle too far.” Dyke snickered, hopeful, but Anton remained glum. The young man scratched his neck. “You say Frankie’s home?”

They went into the house. Anton’s voice was cold, “Dyke, I want you to take Frankie here to the movie house in Bethel. That way Miss Wheeler and I can talk about the farm.”

“You are sweet, Pa. But I don’t care to.” Frankie yawned, getting up from her chair. “Here we are on this old Kentucky home and why go to the flickers? We see them all the time in the city. But you’re thoughtful, Pa.”

So instead Frankie coaxed Dyke to sing with them. Ellen saw how Genevieve’s black eyes glinted when Dyke spoke to Frankie. She saw Dyke’s confidence wither as he appeared a poor thing. Genevieve was saying, “Frankie told me you keep house for your mother?”

“I help her, Miss Wheeler.”

“I think it’s wonderful you mop and dust like a daughter. That’s an accomplishment.”

Ellen walked out of the room and onto the porch. A shadow was drifting by the hen house fence. “There’s that fox, Pa.”

Anton grasped the gun that stood by the loft stairs. His body mingled with the shadows. His face was vacant-eyed, as he slipped past Ellen, like a cat that spies a bird flutter to its nesting bush. After the family was in bed and Dyke had driven away, Anton returned. He flung the yellow-furred carcass at the base of the porch steps. The dog worried it until Sam arrived at dawn and dragged it into a field for buzzards to pick.

Simon came in dirt-stained to where the family and Sam Offut sat at the noon table. His hair was over his eyes and he brushed it back. He held a box-turtle he had found. He was clutching it to his shirt and standing within the door. Ellen said, “Go clean up. And put that turtle away, Simon. You’re late. Now run.”

But Simon went to stand at Anton’s side. The man continued eating, pushing his food with his knife, his head bent in hunger. Simon spoke so that Ellen knew he had thought how he would say this all the way to the house, ever since he caught the turtle. “Da says they’s seven kinds of meat in a turtle. E’er heard that, Granddaddy?”

“Who’s Da?” Anton threw his knife with a clatter.

Simon was staring, open-mouthed.

“Who’s Da, boy?”

“Da,” Simon blurted, cradling the turtle, the spiny legs scratching his soft flesh.

“Pa, that’s Mester Dougherty,” cried Ellen. “The youngens called him that.”

“Don’t speak his name again. Mind, boy?” Anton picked up his knife. Genevieve and Frankie exchanged small knowing smiles.

Ellen pleaded, “This is a land turtle, Simon. The kind you eat’s a water turtle. Go wash now.”

* * *

Later on, the women were clearing the dishes. Anton was puffing his pipe. From the direction of the hog pens came a squealing. Through the screen, Ellen saw a score of young pigs spreading out toward house and barn. After them stumbled Simon, trying with aimless movements to round them up. His face was worried, his body blundering. She pushed the door to go and help him. Anton spoke behind her. “Stay there, girl.”

Ellen knew what had happened. Simon had been sent out as soon as he had eaten, to move the twenty yeanling pigs to new quarters. Anton had directed him to move them one at a time. But the child had tried to shoo them in a drove, the way he did the geese or cows. The baby pigs were fractious and ran out like wheel spokes. Sam was hustling from the barn. Ellen watched the two men break sticks, then shouting, gather the pigs into their new pen. The little boy’s shoulders were rounded, hands dangling helplessly. Sam returned to the barn. Anton called the boy to him. He cut a switch from a locust tree. Simon was moving slowly across the yard. Ellen came out on the porch. “Get in the house, girl. Lest I switch you for your brat to see.”

Ellen went up the stairway to her room. “He’s bound and determined to have it out. But it’s because he’s plagued at Frankie.” She sat dry-eyed on the bed. Her head was throbbing.

* * *

Afterwards she found Simon in the field with the goats. He held his hand on the neck of one doe and scratched under its beard. His face was streaked and dirty. “I was bad, Mama.”

“You sure could use a bath. Come on, let’s get the tub down.”

* * *

On Sunday the two Gaddy sisters were sitting on the porch. Lily Garrett walked up to them in her shapeless Mother Hubbard dress. “I’ve come to make lavendery sticks for the last time with you-all.” Lily was sweating through her padding of fat.

“What do you mean, last time?” Ellen got up to greet her.

Frankie and Lily kissed. “You haven’t met Gen yet, Lily.”

“I’ve got news for you.” Lily’s face was shaking as she laughed. “Craig Hedrick’s making me his wife.”

“Ellie went with Craig once, didn’t you?” Frankie asked. “I remember.”

“Just to mass,” said Ellen.

“I can’t ask you to a wedding.” Lily was raising her large arms to her hair. “We’re only going to the priest. The bans have been read and we’ve got no time for fancy doings. Craig’s bought the farm next to him. He’ll be working o’er a hundred acres this summer.”

“My,” said Ellen.

“We’ll drive straight home from the priest and go to work, he says. He’s going to get a tractor with lights so he can work nights. Law, he’s a goer.”

“Calling him a goer makes me remember Mandy York,” Frankie was saying. “When she was out hoeing with us that time and she said, I’m smart, I’m a good duster and a good sweeper and a good hoer. We laughed at how it came out.”

“Her baby is doing good on your goat’s milk,” Lily said.

“I still can’t believe Mandy’s dead,” cried Frankie. “But now here’s Gen.”

The older woman came down the stairs. “Who’s this?” She was linking arms with Frankie.

“This is my friend, Lily Garrett, Gen.”

“You certainly look hot,” Genevieve said. The two walked away to the lavender bed.

As they were plucking the flowers, Lily talked softly to Ellen. “Where’s Simon?”

“He’s in the field. Sam lets him ride Blueberry. He thinks he’s a man sitting up there holding on the hame knobs.”

“He’s a pretty child. Does he take after your husband?”

“A mite.”

“Can’t say he takes after your side.”

In the silence, Ellen was binding the stalks with yarn; the sweet oil scented her fingers.

“Craig’s got no use for you, Ellie. Reckon he’ll not let me come down this way when I’m Mrs. Hedrick.”

“You think a lot of him, Lily?”

“It’s like this. I’m built so big most fellows laugh at me. Papa’s glad to get me settled. He’s going to help us where he can. I allow I’m a sight lucky to catch Craig.”

Ellen had never heard the flighty Lily speak so seriously. She seemed nearly sad as she came to this turning in her life.

“You’ll make him a good wife.”

“I aim to. I’d like to have a child like yours.” They worked awhile, the murmurs of the other two coming from the end of the bed. “I don’t know if it’s right to tell such a thing on my promised husband, but I knew you long before him.” Lily’s face fired red. “He says you be free with men, Ellie. Says he could name the ones you’ve slept with.”

“There’s lots of tales told, Lily.”

“Says you weren’t even married.”

“The grapes are grapes of gall,” Ellen spoke bravely. “I don’t care.”

“You’re twisting my words, Ellie. But I’ll say more.” The hot sun drenched them, drew the last moisture from the flower bed. Lily’s curls lay straggled on her sun-browned neck and Ellen waited. “I’ll be glad when Craig won’t let me come here to visit you-all. I know he wanted you for a wife. He tells those tales for the hate he bears you. Being as you slighted him.”

“Lily. There was nothing between Craig and me.”

“I’ve seen a little silk rose he keeps. It came off that blue hat you wore when you went to Chicago that time. How’d he come by it?”

“Oh Lily.”

“You won’t tell. And knowing I took what you wouldn’t have, I’d as lief bide away from you.” Lily’s eyes brimmed as she bent over the handful of pale-purple blooms.

Ellen trembled. “If you feel that way.” She was working down the perfumed rows, away from her childhood friend. “I don’t care.”

* * *

The visitors were planning to leave the following weekend. Genevieve Wheeler was due at her desk in the Featherbone Works on Monday morning. On Wednesday night Anton awoke to the stutter of thunder. He shuffled barefoot, to close windows in the kitchen and parlor. As he was returning, he stopped a while at the calico curtains of the partitioned room where his daughter and Genevieve slept. He overheard their whispers. Grinding his teeth, he took the cloth in his violent fist. But he released it and went to the bed where Maria was snoring, mouth half open. “Hail, Holy Mary,” he whimpered. He prayed, envisioning his mother Nell, clad in a blue gown like the Virgin, her bright red hair flowing about her shoulders. He wept secretly, fashioning words he would say as he banished Frankie forever.

The night’s rain drew upward to the hot sky. The sticky air was clinging as the family slowly collected for breakfast. Frankie and Genevieve were seated, Maria was placing a dish of fried potatoes on the table before joining them. Ellen had brought a hot skillet of eggs from the stove. She lifted them onto plates with her iron spatula. “I’ll take two, Ellie,” Genevieve cried. “This country air’s given me an appetite.”

“Oh, Gen, you always take two.”

A bumblebee, caught at the glass, was buzzing. Simon ran in. He had washed at the pump and water was dripping from his hands. “Morning, Simon,” said Frankie. “Why does an old maid go to church so early on Sunday? Don’t tell him, Gen.”

“Let’s see, Auntie.” The child studied his egg.

Anton came in. The screen door cracked behind him like a breaking stick. The people turned. He spoke softly to his younger daughter. “The Bible says, were they ashamed when they committed abomination? Nay, they were not. Neither could they blush.” He wiped his face with an arm dusted with chaff of hay and hair of cows. Ellen heard the bee mumble at the glass and her hand, holding the skillet, was tiring. “You be not welcome under my roof now, girl. The Lord God’ll have a reckoning day for you.”

“What’s this all about, Mr. Gaddy?” began Genevieve.

“Shut your jaw. Unnatural ooman.”

Frankie was still, a paleness blanketing her features. She was wearing a high-throated shirtwaist, the color of her hair brilliant against its whiteness. Her linen skirt fitted her small hips. Her hands rested in her lap. Frankie had turned, after months of terror and insecurity in Garland’s house, to the gentle dominion of the older female. The grip of her father’s hand had gradually fallen away and she had begun to think of the home farm as a place in one of the tunes they would sing, nostalgic and typical.

First the farmer sows his seed

Then he stands

And takes his ease

They were gay in the small Chicago flat. Now the old fear of Anton was absent. She was waiting until he would speak again into the sultry kitchen.

“You be gone.” His voice was a blade cutting a cord. “When Sam and me get back from the wheat this noon. Christ, you be not my daughter any more.” He stalked to the door and out.

“What did Granddaddy say, Mama?” The high whisper spilled into the silence.

“I don’t know,” sighed Ellen.

“Now he ne’er ate his breakfast,” Maria was complaining, “with his fretting. But here comes Sam. He’ll eat good.”

“There’s simply no talking to Pa when he’s set like that, Gen,” Frankie laughed. “He gets so sore.”

“Tell, why does the old maid go so early to church, Auntie?” Simon asked.

“Well, by golly,” said Genevieve, pushing back her chair. “Let’s get to packing.”

Frankie laughed again. “So she can be there when the hymns are given out, silly.” She got up, brushing her skirt. “Oh, Ellie, don’t worry. You know Pa. And we did have our visit. You’ll see, we’ll be back next summer.” Frankie was going to the bedroom.

“Don’t call that much of a riddle,” said Simon. “Don’t get it.”

“You want to go berrying by the lake?” Ellen set the skillet down on the stove. Her voice was unsteady. “They’re real thick, Simon. All you have to do is shake them in the pail. You take Jack for company. Watch out for snakes, mind.”

Sam was coming up the porch as the boy took the lard pail and marched off, his hand on the dog’s back. Simon’s hair was white in the summer sun. His cap, grimy and wrinkled now, perched on his head. Ellen turned to free the imprisoned bee still tumbling at the pane. Maria spoke, “Want these cold eggs, Sam?”

16

Summer had hurled itself on the quailing countryside. The moisture was drawn from the bowels of the land, first from the stony top clay, until finally from the reservoir far below. The few humid clouds were carried away on winds that lived in the upper troposphere and there was no rain. A drought prevailed. As daylight made colors known, an opossum was waddling through the oat field, where stunted stems withered before the white grains could form. It pounced on a fleeing lizard just before Sam Offut shot it cleanly through the skull. He plucked its young, no bigger than a thumbnail, from its nipples and left them in the field. At breakfast he told the Gaddys, “My old ooman’ll bake it. That’s one thing Eadie can do.”

Anton was restless. He walked outdoors, drawing on his cold pipe. “Turning the earth’ll just dry it worse, Sam.”

“No weeds are going to come up anyhow. What’ll we do if it doesn’t rain, Mester Gaddy?”

Simon was watching them from the screen, his nose against the wire. He called, “Granddaddy, which way’s the wind blowing?”

But the men looked at the burning sky. They stood in the yard awhile, then went to the tool shed or scattered old hay to the cows in the dried-up pasture, puttering time away until it should rain. Simon was on the steps talking to the dog. Ellen could hear his singsong. She told Maria, “Simon’s at the aping age. He thinks he’s Sam. Or again he thinks he’s Pa.”

That sweltering noon Anton beat his wife. It had little to do with the drought, although irritation had made his temper short. Anton seldom lifted his arm against Maria ever since a few summers past when she had taken to bed after he struck her. Anton had felt justified at the time, for Maria had been nagging him about the kind of wood for her pap’s coffin. He had given her money enough for a pine box, but she demanded oak. “Oak’s dear, ooman. No more now.” And when he had beat her she was somehow hurt. He had been forced to hire the girl, Penny, to help while his wife was recovering.

Maria was alone in the house in the hot morning. A salesman came to the door, a thin man, wearing a flat-top hat. His striped suit was frayed around the lapels and seams. “Madam, I presume you’re the lady of the house. It’s clear you’re a pious one. I myself am a man of God. I carry the Word.” He was taking a Bible from his worn satchel. It was handsome, gold-embossed, gold-edged. He was showing her how in some sections the first letter was immense, with doves or flowers set into scrolled lines.

Maria coveted it. “But I’ve got no money, Mester.”

“This is such a bargain.”

“If I had the money.”

“Sometimes a farmer will hide money in a mattress. It’s his way. Or again in the rear part of a drawer that he alone uses.”

She began to shake her head, eying him.

“There’s few would think ill of a wife who knew a fine trade. Look at this Good Book.”

She turned the leaves, lingering over the gold letters. “What’s its price?”

“Fifty dollars, Madam. To you, ten.”

“Well.” He sat in the parlor while she found the bills laid in the ticking. She moved her mouth in an inner argument. She took some of them, replaced the roll in the straw. She walked back into the parlor. “Hit seems there be but seven. What do you say, Mester?”

“I’ll make you a special.” He was reaching for the money. “I’ll take it.”

At noontime, when they finished eating, Maria spoke. “There’s a thing I did.” She went to get the Bible, her eyes moist and bright.

The smoke from Anton’s pipe dwelled over the used dishes and his brow drew in puzzled lines. “How’s this?” He was taking the book from her. “Where’d you get the money?”

“Amid the straw then, under the bed.”

“How’d you think to look, ooman?”

“Peddler said it would be there. So he knows is the way of a farmer. I took but seven.”

Then Anton was hitting her on the shoulder from where he sat, because he had been shown for a fool. He rose, seizing his black shirt and ripping it so buttons fell tinkling. His chest was exposed, matted. He struck her again. “Prices are falling so I can’t sell. Rising so I can’t buy. There’s a drought on us, and you have to thieve behind my back.” He lifted up his fist.

She ran to the bedroom where the wardrobe closet stood, and crouched in the camphor-ridden woolens. She whimpered, “Mam.”

Ellen waited until Anton had gone to join Sam in the yard. She picked up the Bible and put it on the table before Simon. Most of the Book of John was missing, and Kings and Isaiah. Later Anton would hunt in vain for Jeremiah, his favorite prophet. But now Ellen was turning to the First Book of Samuel. She had accepted Anton’s violence as she did the drought, linking them in her mind as manifestations of indisputable power. And she would give Maria time to recover, in the same unquestioning way in which the farm folk would woo the land back with seed and share when the rain came. Ellen was reading to Simon, “The Lord seeth not as man seeth. Man looketh on the outward appearance. But the Lord looketh on the heart.”

Simon examined the pictures while she made order in the kitchen. “Here’s varmints I ne’er knew of, Mama.”

The windows were open. Anton had taken a screen down the day before to mend it and Ellen had hung strips of cloth to keep out flies that bred constantly in the barnyard. Simon snatched at those buzzing about him. When he caught one, he would slide from his chair and let it out the door. He returned to his perch and book. “You’re a soft one,” she scoffed. “That fly’s coming right back through the window.”

He smiled in his slow way. “I don’t care.” His eyes were as if he had drawn aside curtains where he was apt to hide himself.

Ellen was making a pot of coffee. She went to coax her mother from the closet. “Come on, Ma.”

Maria stared coldly. “Leave me be.”

“Have some coffee. You were clever, Ma. To get a book like that at such a price.”

At length the woman arose, rubbing her bruised shoulder. “Well.”

Simon gave her the book. “Take it, Granny.”

“We have to cut hoofs, Ma. You drink the coffee.” Ellen set the cup by Maria.

“Go along, then.” Maria was opening the book. “You can take a look if there’s any apples. This is a dreary year for storing up.”

In the pasture, Ellen trimmed the goats’ hoofs with a pocketknife while Simon held their leather collars. The little herd had prospered. There were six, besides Rhodie who still boarded at the Yorks. Ellen walked among her goats and she was the center of the wheel. She knew each and the way it differed from the next, how it placed its foot, how it moved or crowded to be close to her, butting another with a click of horns. Penny was aging and moved slow. Pie, the big skewbald one, had no beard and was slick and fat. There were two shaggy brown yeanlings, saucy and bold. And Leona, the white doe, had yellow eyes in a long homely face.

Simon and she took the does, when they had finished, over to the orchard. “Wonder why goats like to follow after, Mama? And you got to drive a cow?”

Ellen was drawing tree boughs down. The animals craved the young shoots more than field clover; they were rearing on their hind legs, dancing with tongues extended.

“There’s no apples here, Mama.”

“There’ll be a few later. I see some fruiting.”

The goats had their fill and were taken to the pasture again. Then Ellen went up the lane, Simon trailing behind. The does stood their slender forefeet on the gate bars, calling after them. The heat quivered, the land lay gasping, the corn died as clay cracked like a split plate around yellowed stalks. The sun dominated the clear dome as well as the prostrate land. Even Simon felt the menace and reached for Ellen’s hand.

After supper Anton, his anger exhausted, was reading to the boy from Maria’s Bible. He had brought it to the porch. The women in the hot kitchen could hear through the open door. “Now this Elisha was going about the countryside doing miracles. There came forth children out of a city and mocked him. Said, go up thou baldhead. Go up thou baldhead. Elisha he looked on them and cursed them in the name of the Lord. There came two she-bears then out of the woods. They tore forty and two children of them. And then Elisha he went from thence to Mount Carmel.”

Simon’s eyes were large and wary. “They shouldn’t have sassed that man.”

“Take a lesson from it. Heed your manners. Hear, youngen?”

“I will, Granddaddy.”

The women came out with cornhusk fans that Maria once had fashioned. Anton turned pages, seeking the words of Jeremiah. “You got a reaming to top all here, ooman. Go fetch my own Bible, boy. This one’s not put together proper.” Then he read, “Thus saith the Lord. Stand ye in the ways and see and ask for the old paths where is the good way. And walk therein and ye shall find rest for your souls.”

Ever since Ellen and Anton had visited Father Tompert and she had voiced herself to the priest, Ellen had discovered a new freedom. She had found herself supported by the church in her dispute with it, in her desire to find her own path. It gave her a wholeness and a bravery toward Anton. So she would keep Simon at her side on Sundays while her parents rode to church. Maria was disturbed. “Hope you don’t burn for this, Ellie. Wonder what Jesus would say if he came through Millville today?” Anton had grunted, angry, to the team, “Haw-whup.” Unknown to Ellen, he had spoken to another priest in Bethel regarding his daughter’s departure from the church. This man was old, his face creased in deep lines, and he advised Anton to obey his parish priest and to care for his own soul.

* * *

After her sister had gone away with Genevieve Wheeler, Ellen would watch Anton going about his work abstractedly. He would stop now and again to raise a hand or mumble to himself, then startle as though coming out of a dream, and resume his work. He declared no one was to speak Frankie’s name. One day Ellen, rummaging for a lost tool in the shed behind the hog pens, came on the remains of a glass bowl-garden, the one Frankie had made when she was fifteen to please her father. It was smashed and Ellen knew Anton had hurled it there in a smoldering rage.

He began to use certain phrases with Simon such as he had used with Frankie. “A storm is nothing, Poppet,” he said once when thunder moved over the sky, failing to see that Simon had no fear. He baited the boy too, told him to watch the butchering of an old milk cow. “This is man’s work and you just as well learn it early.” He smote the beast with a maul behind the ear. When it staggered to its knees, he used the maul again. Sam cut the jugular with a sticking knife and while the lifeblood flowed, they fastened chains to its hocks and hoisted the limp body up.

Simon brought a pail of water for washing, took the liver and kidneys in a pan to the kitchen. He helped carry meat that the women were frying down in fat for the lean winter coming. He stumbled up the steps to the kitchen with his load. “Granddaddy killed old Jess. While she was looking at him.”

“He needs the money, Simon. She wasn’t good for a milker any more. He’s going to take the hide and one side to Bethel.”

“He could have laid his kerchief o’er her eyes.” He took up the blood-stained pail. With lagging step he returned to his tasks.

Anton found Simon was apt to be slow and chided him. He was scattering handfuls of slaked lime on the hog house floor, sending Simon to refill the pails from the sack in the yard. In the ovenlike heat, the white dust clung to their sweated clothing and skin. “Think menfolk are always going to wait on your lazy ass? Now when I was a youngen I learned on a stick. Haw.”

And sometimes Anton turned on him unexpectedly. When the child heard his steps and ran to open the porch door, the man would say, “Now get out of here.”

“It’s but his way, Simon,” Ellen pleaded when she saw the boy’s eyes following the stocky erect figure.

“I know it, Mama.”

The drought broke toward the end of September. Maria was claiming the Man of Signs had foretold it. “It be the Autumnal Equinox. The sun’s entering Libra now.”

“That’s a fact,” said Sam. “The Scales been balanced toward drought. And now they be tilting the way to the rain.”

Thunder belted the heavens, rattling the timbers of the old house. The moist air was lightened and smelled of a sweetness unknown since early summer rains. Water was pouring from a full sky. In the oat field it hit the cracked clay and bounced off. Washes were beginning where stones formed little dams. Rivulets were taking the paths contrived and becoming foaming streams that roared like rivers and cut gashes that deepened into crevices. Much of the topsoil washed into the valleys. But the land was filled, the water stores replenished. All vegetation sucked and had its fill. And still there was more. “I vow we’ll get wet tonight, Sam. Appears to be just commencing.”

“Reckon I might make a little mess of garden truck yet,” Ellen said, “before the first frost.”

“Mester Gaddy,” said Sam, “I’d as soon set right out in this while I milk. I got a honing to get drenched.”

That night crickets that dwelled in the stone foundations and katydids with leaflike wings and long silken feelers and green eyes, were scraping their wings in the teeming dark. They had been listless through the dry weather, now were voicing themselves in lusty chorus. The red cardinal was singing so softly in the hackberry that it sounded as if it were away down Sweetincreek Road.

The drought had wreaked a stiff toll. A few loads of hay would be brought in but most of the crop was lost. There would be no corn to garner, no small grains. One crib remained from the previous year and from it Anton would eke out the winter feeding. He decided to ride with Dyke Burwell to the auctions in Louisville up on the northern border of Kentucky. He selected four sows to hold over the winter with the breeding boar; he would sell the others and all the yeanling pigs. They were flat-sided, poorly finished. The men hoped that in the city they would get a better price than was paid locally. Dyke had loaded his father’s excess hogs in the Burwell Chevrolet truck. The two were driving off for the seventy-mile trip and would return in a few days.

The Gaddy women and the child watched the load of squealing hogs, bedded in straw, lurch down the lane. Ellen laughed, “Let’s have an outing, Simon.” The air was brightened as the head of the house was carried further and further away. They took biscuits and cheese down to the orchard. Jack accompanied them. When they had eaten, they gathered fallen apples into a bushel; Simon climbed trees, shook down the few that clung to the branches. They went beyond the orchard to a patch of sorghum cane. Being near the farm brook, it had survived the dry spell. They were breaking stalks, sucking the juice.

“Crows don’t always squall, Mama. They can talk soft too. I heard one twittering like a wren, feeding its youngens.” The child wanted to know the ways of the beasts and fowl. “Granddaddy says buzzards will kill a baby pig and steal off with it. Reckon that’s so?”

“A buzzard’s not biggity enough. They’re good but to clean up what’s dead and rotting.”

Returning to the house, they had come on an opossum in the path. The heart of the swooned animal beat faintly, its dull-white jaws, withered ears and skinny tail bore a semblance to death. Simon was plucking it from the dust, cradling it in the bend of his arm. He stroked the coarse fur. “I’ll make it a pet.”

Ellen laughed then. But somehow she was lonely, walking up the hill in the breeze of the afternoon, bearing the basket of fall apples.

“I always wondered if a mole could swim, Mama. Yesterday I saw one cross the branch. Now I know that thing.” She made no reply and he went on, “You reckon those goat-sucker birds truly suckle the cows at night? Sam says it’s so. He says milk snakes’ll do it too. I’m going to spy one time on them.”

Anton and Dyke came back from Louisville. Prices had fallen more than anticipated; the buyers’ eyes had been hard. Anton bought a load of poor-quality hay that was stacked high on the truck. They had had a flat tire on the way home and arrived late at night. Anton was pounding on the door. “Open up, ooman.”

They brushed by Maria who stood in a knee-length sweater, her grayish hair in braids. “Hey, ma’am,” Dyke muttered. They went in the parlor, the stench of manure and sweat about them.

“Paid fifty cents for this lightning.” Anton cradled a Mason jar of clear liquid. “Didn’t tell you, boy, in case we got asked if we had any moon hid in that hay.” He unscrewed the lid and filled glasses.

Ellen went up to bed; she found Simon on the stairway and sent him before her. She heard her father’s shout and Dyke’s growl of agreement as she was drifting off to sleep. She awoke, feeling a hard hand on her shoulder. “What’s amiss?” she whispered, thinking it was Anton.

“Hey. It’s me, Ellie.” She heard the pleading whisper, smelled the sour breath.

“You’re sodden drunk, Dyke. Go downstairs and get to sleep. If you can find your way to the sofa in the parlor.” She spoke severely, heard his clumsy steps descending the stairs, his curse as he stumbled and bumped the wall. In the morning she was serving them breakfast. As soon as the hay was unloaded Dyke would drive home. Ellen could see he had no sure memory of his visit to her room. She caught his covert glance. He thinks it was a fancy he had.

17

In that fall Ellen had a dream of Christian Ay. It was her first thought of him in many months’ time. His figure was unclear, touched with gentleness and warmth; it was apart from her. She fancied he was hurt. He was calling, his voice as if through water. When she awoke she could hear the echo of her own cry. She was musing at the power of the nightmare’s image. “There could be a meaning. Like the Prophet Ezekiel seeing the dreadful wheels. A wheel whirling in the middle of a wheel. And there was a meaning there that certain men read.”

She went downstairs to sit wakeful while the dream was still fresh, in the balmy fall moonlight. Fog steamed in the air, blurring the rims of trees and the porch roof. There was a rustle in the drying grass and though no wind stirred a fallen leaf seemed to move on itself, and presently another, and then the shadow of an embryonic mouse was darting, vanishing before the eye could catch the shape. The shrews were harvesting for the winter ahead; their tiny gray piglike bodies sped soundless; through the movement in their wake one was aware of them. “Sam says folks will dream of a body when they’re in danger. Or when they’ve died. Wonder if a trouble’s come to Christian Ay?” Dwelling on the dream Ellen forgot the curse she had laid once on the man. She buried her injury, turning the old love over gently, painfully, alone on the step.

Winter was casting her days off, one by one. Spring had arrived. Anton’s worrying of Simon had become less pronounced. Ellen heard the child’s high voice repeating the tuneless song his grandfather was teaching him.

It was our William Jennings Bryan

Who told them

Adam was there first

When he fought the battle

With those sons of darkness

At the trial of John T. Scopes

Anton was lifting the big boy onto his knee. “Shaw. Now, here’s this poppet. You know I had a son once. If he’d have lived, I’d been minded to give him my name.” Simon sat stiff at the favor granted. Ellen watched through the door from where she worked, pleased at this new way of Anton’s. “How come you called him Simon, girl?”

“The Doughertys named him, Pa.”

“Anton’s a good name. I don’t favor Simon. There was a Simon in the Bible tried to buy Peter.”

“Oh, Pa. There are lots of Simons in the Bible.”

“Well.” He was turning to the boy again. She had never heard her father sing, and was glad.

They said our ancestors

Were monkeys

Now can’t you see, folks

That’s quite absurd?

And then the days were passing, made of long hours. The months were lengthening into years. The winter following the drought was the first Ellen knew when the table wasn’t amply laid. She had to learn how to stint in the cooking and to curb her generous hand. When weevils got in the meal she would strain them out and mix the meal with water to make a corn pone. In the old days she would have tossed it easily to the hens. The market for the milk and produce worsened. Every fall Anton and Dyke made two or three trips up to Louisville to the sales. They took pigs and steers, chickens, geese and ducks, small grains and root crops. Through the years the Gaddys would manage, for they depended on varied harvests. The one-crop farmer suffered the most. Many of them were driving away from their plots of land, their families and goods piled on wagons and trucks, hoping to find jobs in factories and foundries of the cities. When Anton saw a loaded vehicle go down Sweetincreek Road, he articulated his scorn, “I’d set and eat clay before I’d leave my farm. Those fellows are oomen-farmers, farting with a patch of tobacco. Putting on fertilizer and then burning it off. Laying cheesecloth strips like a ooman.”

“What for, Granddaddy?”

“I vow I don’t know. Then they go to the auction and hit don’t sell for nothing. They buy moon from the patent medicine man and come back with their pockets empty. So go on,” he shouted at the retreating wagon, “and don’t come back.”

“And don’t come back,” cried Simon shrilly.

Anton turned to the boy, his eyes hot. “You stay on this farm, Poppet, and some day maybe it’ll all belong to you.”

Anton slowly was transferring the fervor he used to spend on his younger daughter, Frankie, to this boy, Simon. He was taking him over. As time passed he judged Ellen’s guidance of the child. “You be a fool, girl. You’ll spoil him rotten.”

When the boy remembered and did as bid, Anton was pleased; when he disobeyed, he whipped him, stolid. “Thou shalt beat him with a rod, so it’s said. I’ll take no sass. You do as I say, Simon.”

In his way Simon tried not to make errors that would aggravate his grandfather. He had developed a spasmodic pain in his chest that would come at odd moments. He told no one of it but sometimes when he thought about it, believed he would die. Then he lay vacantly staring upward as he had done in the Dougherty shed in the vague days before he came to live here. At times he dreamed of Anse Dougherty pinching his arm, whispering, “Gaddy brat. Gaddy brat.” He awoke struggling and muttering. When Ellen questioned him, he couldn’t remember the details of the dream. She would sing, soothing, until he slept.

Dear mother, I said, come and bind up my head

You ne’er shall bind it any more

Sweet William he died of the wound that he bore

And Fair Ellen, she died also

In 1934 another drought smote the farm. This time the condition was prevalent over the Midwest, involving dust storms and soil erosion. Over these depression years there were no visits from Garland Gaddy. At Christmas he would send a package through the mail. It would be placed on the parlor table. Ellen’s parents went straight to bed when they returned silent from midnight mass. On Christmas morning the family would find cigars for Anton, and for Maria and Ellen mittens or a wool scarf. Garland was unsure of Simon’s age. When he was six, Garland sent him the book Ben Hur, and when eight, a set of ABC building blocks. Ellen wrote to thank him, urged him to come at the next holiday. “Some time,” she told Simon, “I’ll show you Chicago. And your great-uncle who lives there.”

“Don’t I have an aunt there, too?”

“Yes. Some day maybe you’ll meet her. Don’t ne’er say her name to Granddaddy.”

“I know. That’s Auntie. She brought me a yellow hat one time.”

Ellen never heard from Frankie, but once Garland put a card in her package of fur gloves: “Love from Uncle and Frankie.” So she knew that they saw each other and it was a comfort.

The years were sweeping by. In 1935 the Federal dole was stopped and the national relief program got under way. Anton was told that for twenty-five dollars he could have a WPA privy constructed. Since the old one was in ramshackle state, he decided to go ahead. “Christ, Sam, hit must be fifteen feet down.” They stepped within the new-painted door, looked into the openings. “It’ll take a hundred years to fill that hole.”

“More, Mester Gaddy.” Sam paused. “I recollect Pa. He hung the door on the last shithouse we Offuts had. Swung it in by mistake. Said it e’er plagued him after that, for when he sat out there he liked to have a door swing out, so he could watch the neighbors go by along the road. He’d call out to them if he had a mind, friendly-like.”

“Well, I’ll take the cow barn any day. For a fact. It’s a sight more natural.”

Simon was growing. He was nine, stocky and strong, heavy for his age. The bones of his shoulders were knobby so he would appear undernourished when shirtless. Ellen laughed at him for his diffident ways. “You’re shy as a field-raised calf, Simon.” If the boar broke loose though, or if a new heifer kicked because her udder was hot and tender, Simon was fearless. He laid his hands on her when she kicked out, vicious, or walked up to the great angry seed-hog.

Once Anton thrashed the red horse with the lines. It was harnessed with another and when the load began to move, it reared, balking in the traces. Anton whipped it. The boy loved the red horse—he hurled himself before it so the lines were lashing him. Anton saw the white stripes. “What foolishness now?”

“It’s the blinders, Granddaddy.”

And it was true. This horse had always worn the bridle with blinders. The wrong bridle had been put on and he saw things in a new way, frightening him. Simon was sent for the other bridle and then the horse pulled squarely with its mate. “Beasts are plagued fools sometimes,” the man said. But the boy’s eyes were gazing straight ahead, as red welts rose on his cheek and arm. He grit his teeth against the familiar pain searing his breast.

Anton went into Millville to the priest one afternoon and had Simon baptized. When they returned, he told Ellen. She protested, “Pa, it doesn’t matter. But you could have said you were going.”

“And he’s riding to mass Sundays too, along with us, proper pious. I can’t hinder you from being a heathen, but I’ll save my grandson.”

Ellen glanced down at Simon. The man was pressing him, “You want to go along with me, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes, Granddaddy.”

“Well, all right, Simon. You know your mind, I reckon.” She watched them go, saw Simon running to bring the cows and start the feeding.

Ellen was twenty-six. She was quite handsome but there was a coldness in her bearing. Her oval face was sober, gray eyes austere, she wore her hair plaited tightly and pinned in a circle around her head. She never knelt in the honeyed grass at night as she once had, weeping over the lost love and her restive longings. It was as if a scar had formed, protective, and a part of herself was sealed off underneath. She moved quietly through the days as if waiting. And she seemed satisfied.

Simon spent his hours with the beasts of the farm or trailing his grandfather. When he felt the need for Ellen, he sought her out, standing near her. They were alike in many ways, shy, spare of words. She taught him songs, and read to him from the Bible and the almanac. He brought home an average report card and she signed it, “Mrs. Ellen Gaddy.” He queried her, “How come I got no daddy?”

“He’s dead, Simon.”

“Tell, what was he like?”

“I can’t rightly remember. Like you, I reckon.”

“If more comes to you about him, will you tell me, Ma?”

“I will.”

“Granddaddy says he be the same as a father to me.”

“Well.”

* * *

Ellen saw her old friend Lily again one day. She had not visited with her since Lily had become Mrs. Craig Hedrick five years earlier. If they met, Lily would walk away, turning her head aside. It was late August. Ellen and Maria were making apple butter, the spicy fragrance filled the kitchen. There was a gentle knock and Ellen put down her wood ladle, wiping her hands on the brown-stained apron. “Yes?”

“Don’t you know me, Ellie?”

“Lily.” Ellen opened the door wide. “Come on in.”

“I was just hankering to see you. It’s fierce lonesome at home. I ran off.”

“What do you mean?” Ellen was taking the old tone with her at once. “Hush your crying.”

“Craig sent me to hoe the truck beans. Hit seemed I couldn’t bear it any more. I up and walked away.” Lily’s blond curls that she had always taken such care with, were pulled into an untidy knot at the nape of her neck. She was stouter. “I’m afraid to go back. Craig was running the tractor in the corn and his man was working the mules. He told me I must clean the bean patch.” Her small mouth was puckered, unhappy.

“Why are you afraid? He’s your husband.”

The woman heaved a breath. “He’s taken to whipping me like Papa did. So I told him I was carrying a child to make him stop.”

“Well, then?”

“I’ve got no child. I can’t seem to get caught. Craig wants one as bad as me.”

“Let’s have some coffee.” Ellen was going to the kitchen. “Ma, you know Lily. She’s Mrs. Hedrick, remember?”

“Hey, Mrs. Gaddy.” Lily was eager.

“Hey there, Lily. How’s Mester Garrett’s bees?”

“Oh, my husband says Papa’s making a sight of honey this year. He’s got o’er twenty hives now. I’ve not been to see him myself these many months.” Ellen laid cups on the table while the water came to a boil. She put out a dish of hot apple butter, slices of fresh bread. “It’s like coming home here, Ellie. We used to have fun, you and me and Frankie. I always loved fun.”

“You know,” Maria spoke up from her thoughts, “I had another girl, named Frankie. I dassn’t say her name. Mester Gaddy won’t brook it. She’s dead.” Maria was wagging her head, knowing.

“Here’s your coffee, Ma,” Ellen said.

“Is Frankie dead?” Lily whispered.

“No, and Ma knows it. It’s a way she has, like a child, sometimes. She can’t seem to keep it straight.”

“She can’t?”

“You e’er think of seeing Doc Trumbo, Lily? Maybe he could help you and Craig to have a child.”

Lily’s eyes were trailing Maria, breaking bread and spooning the brown preserves. “Reckon we could try that, Ellie.”

“I always thought a heap of Craig,” Ellen said, “for taking o’er like he did when old Mester Hedrick was killed so sudden.”

“He doesn’t have to beat me.”

“You e’er think about how it was for him, Lily, back then?”

“No.”

Maria broke in, “But there’s a little boy lives here now. Named Simon. I’m his granny.”

Lily spoke slowly, “I can’t even go to see my papa and mama any more. I’m not allowed to go home.” Grave, she was watching Maria.

“Craig’s a good man.”

“I know, Ellie.”

“You have to stop being a girl some day. And think on the ways of a woman.”

The three drank their coffee. Presently Lily was pushing back her chair; she spoke deliberately, “Reckon I’ll get back to my house. I have work to do. It’s a long walk. Bye, Mrs. Gaddy. Ellie.” Her retreating steps were heard on the stones in the yard.

Suddenly Ellen was caught in a burst of tears. She put her hands to her face, sobbing hoarsely. She ran up the steep stairway, her bare feet noiseless. “I vow at that girl.” Maria took the ladle to stir the mixture, thick and hot in the iron kettle.

Upstairs, Ellen was standing in the middle of the room, shaken, uncontrolled. She turned abruptly to the trunk along the wall and dragged open the heavy lid. She rummaged through the contents until she came on the two undelivered letters she had written Christian Ay. She ripped them into shreds in a heap on the floor. “I hate Lily and Craig and all the ugly ways of folks.”

When she came down, her face appeared smoothed and untouched. But she was holding her head in such a way that when Anton saw her going to the woodshed, he crossed himself and muttered, “There, I thought it was you, Ma.”

* * *

Simon was in the fourth grade. Every morning found him trudging three miles to the school on the Millville Pike. Until the weather turned cold he would go barefoot, for catalog shoes cost a dollar thirty-nine. He went down the lane in the flat morning sunlight, talking to the dog. He carried his lunch in a lard bucket. Holes were punched in its tin lid and it contained a bunch of concord grapes and biscuits spread with jelly. “Stay, Jack.” The dog’s movements were stiff. He settled on the bank amid blue-flowered chicory, head on forepaws, brown eyes fixed on the retreating figure. A tufted titmouse whistled in a cottonwood along the road. “Peet-O. Peet-O!” It joined the chickadees and nuthatches that trooped in the upper branches.

In the afternoon Simon returned late, scarcely recognizable, upper lip swollen, dry blood caked on his face. The skin was puffing out around one eye, the sleeve of his shirt was torn. Anton caught sight of him coming up the lane and ran shouting, “What is it, Poppet?”

Simon halted, scuffling his feet; he began to whine.

“Speak up, son.”

“That fellow mocked me.” Simon was sniffling and as he was led to the house, his voice rose to a wail.

Ellen called from the window, “What ails him, Pa?” She came out the door, shading her face, hurrying down the steps in the sweet-scented fall air.

“He’s not going back to that school.” Anton’s face was hot, his breath thick as he passed her, leading the child. “Crapping bastards are about to kill him.”

Ellen followed into the kitchen. Anton was lifting Simon to the table. “Get a pan of water,” he told Maria. He removed the boy’s shirt, examined his lip.

“Pa. You can see he’s been fighting. Let’s find what happened.”

“We’ll send you to the parochial school. Like decent Catholics. Your ma’s let you run amuck.”

“Please, Pa.”

“The heathen can kill him before you give a care.”

“Simon.” But the boy had fastened his frightened eyes on his grandfather, clinging to the harried look on the man’s face. Ellen turned away, inarticulate. Later, she was in the shed, milking her goats. Simon shuffled in, stood at the pen gate. The goats nibbled his shirt buttons and rubbed against him as he was stroking them.

“I slopped the pigs and watered the team, Ma.” She waited. He was speaking again, “Reckon Leona’s least kid will have horns or not?”

“Simon, what happened today at school?”

“Looks to me like she’s a muley one.” He bent over the kid, moving the skin on the top of its head with his finger. “If horns were sprouting, it wouldn’t move free like that.”

Ellen got up from the stool to strain the milk into a can. She began to draw the white streams from another doe.

The boy said suddenly, “Granddaddy takes care of me.”

She looked at him to see his eyes cold upon her. He was fingering his enlarged lip. She was startled. He’s turning from me. Pa’s getting hold of him. She put her head against the soft warm side of the spotted doe.

“Granddaddy frets about me.”

“Tell how you got in the fight, or I’ll whip you for a fact.”

His eyes were down. “There’s a game at recess. We use a ball belonging to that Penn Hamm. He stores it in the drawer of his desk. Time and again I asked him could I take it home for one night. But he wouldn’t say yes.” Simon looked up. One eye was nearly shut, the bruised skin blue.

“So?”

“I studied on it and hankered after it. Yesterday I slipped it from his desk and put it in my pocket. After school was out.”

“You could have had a ball if you’d told me.”

“I wanted that ball.”

“What then?”

“Penn said I snitched it, and I said I didn’t. He sat under the tree and called me bastard Gaddy brat.”

“You stole his ball, Simon. He was angered. And folks used to call me a Gaddy brat. Some still do, and I don’t care.”

“He called me that. He laid for me coming home. I wrestled him for it but he got his ball back.”

“Why, Simon?”

“I wanted it.” His eyes were like small empty caves. “And I lost my lard pail too.”

The night meal was pregnant with unspoken words. Then as Anton was leaving the kitchen he told Ellen, “I’ll take him to the sisters tomorrow.” She looked at him from where she was sitting. His short body leaned against the door casing. “Why I even got to jump on him to say the Lord’s Prayer right.” He cut a slice of apple tobacco with his slender knife. “Trespasses, he says, like heathen. The school taught him that. The Lord said debtors. Forgive us our debtors.” He walked softly into the other room.

Simon was sent to bed. Ellen came into the parlor. “Pa, this isn’t right. Simon stole that Hamm youngen’s ball. He’s got to learn. He should go back and own up. He’s nine and he knows right from wrong. You’re always preaching the Bible and this is the time to stand by what it says.”

“Haw. I’ll say a thing here, girl.” He was speaking fast, harsh. “He has no daddy, since you begot him in whoredom. Now I let him come here like a son. I look on him so. Don’t stand against me.”

“It was the same with Frankie. You pulled her out of school too. You know it.”

“You’re mourning because I didn’t take you out.” Anton rolled the quid in his mouth, continuing gently, “You know, this boy’s a good bit like my brother, Marc. Minds me of him.” He settled into a chair. “Some way Ma favored Marc o’er Garland and me.”

“I know why.”

“What do you know?” he drawled.

“He was handsome. Not ugly like you.”

“How come you say that?”

“I know somewhat else.”

“Speak hit.”

“He wasn’t your full brother. Nell Gaddy ne’er wanted you or Uncle. That’s a fact.”

“What?” he roared.

“She married your sir because she got caught. Like me with Simon.” Ellen moved to stand over him, by his chair. “She ne’er wanted you, I say. She loved Marc for his daddy’s sake.”

The man rose like an unleashed bull. He struck her so she reeled against the sofa. “I’ll kill you for that lying tongue.”

She slipped from his hands, ran outside, down the path through the hill field to the orchard. She stopped running there. Night fog was drifting in low spots, the sky was clouded. She leaned against a twisted apple tree until she seemed composed. Her face became like the glass of the pond where there was no wind and mist was caught above. Later she wended up to the house to sit on the damp garden wall, waiting until the kitchen and the bedroom candles flicked out.

In the morning, as she was pumping water into the blue pail, Anton went by to the house. He looked past her as if she were not there. She had told Simon earlier that he must go back to the Millville school, knowing Anton would refute her word. But she went through the motions, she hunted for a lard pail in the pantry, made up the lunch. She saw her fingers were shaking. The boy pushed his chair back and took the lunch pail. Anton said, “You and me are going to the Catholic school, boy. Did you forget? Let’s go harness Moll and Red.”

Simon looked at him. Ellen knew the child was pleased and yet would hide this from her. He said like a question, “Bye now, Ma? I’m going now, Ma?”

Sam was already in the field when Anton came back late in the morning. He was cutting cornstalks, making tall shocks that would cure until the long white ears were garnered. Anton joined him, swinging the heavy blade. “Put my boy in a proper school, Sam.”

And Ellen was planning. She scrawled a letter quickly.

Dear Uncle Garland,

This is a thing I should have done long ago. I have to leave home. Could you find a farmer who would hire me? My boy is 9 now. Wages as deemed fair. Please answer by return post. And obliged.

Ellen

The next few days she moved pallid-faced, watching for the mail car. She gathered honey, lulling the bees with smoke. She cut the combs into a galvanized washtub. The soft stuff oozed and mingled, yellow, black, and amber, in a heavy pool. Some of the comb she let drip free, and laid it in a tree fork for the bees to use again. She fastened the lids back on the hives. While she was doing these things, it was as if her bones might break were her movements too sudden. Then the RFD car was leaving a letter.

Dear Puss,

This is delightful. You know I have opened my Redding Street house again on the north side. I’m a married man now, you see. Are you surprised? Violet and I would be glad to have you and Simon visit with us until you can get a job. You might learn my wife a few things about housework! I am sending ten dollars herewith. Come soon.

Uncle Garland

She put the paper in her pocket. O my strength, deliver my soul from the sword, my darling from the power of the dog. Save me from the lion’s mouth.

Courageous, she went to Anton. “Simon and me are taking the train to Chicago to visit Uncle Garland for a spell. He’s got married and he wants us to come.”

“You will not.” He ravened. “No.”

“By the law, Simon’s mine.”

The child was coughing; he clutched his chest. But the two who fought over him didn’t see. Their eyes narrowed, and the pale gray irises of father and daughter were glinting in the same way. Ellen said they would leave in the morning. She ordered Simon to his room after the night meal. He went, meek.

Anton strode out to the corn field, tearing off his shirt. He dragged aside the standing shocks just built. Furious sweat drops were forming on the hairs of his chest. He snapped off the soft unseasoned ears, hurling them in great piles until dark engulfed the field. Reaching for the next stalk, he stumbled, falling. He lay panting a moment before getting to his feet, and came to the house to lie emptied and exhausted beside his sleeping wife.

Sam and Ellen milked without him in the morning. They breakfasted and then Ellen went to the door of the bedroom. She was looking across at the unkempt bent figure on the bed under the crucifix, elbows on knees. At length she turned away, taking Simon’s hand. He held his other over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re not afraid?” he queried, timid.

But Ellen was speaking to Maria. “I’ve got to go, Ma. You see that?”

“Where you off to? Is Mester Gaddy going?”

“No. Just us two.” Ellen kissed her. “It’s all I know to do, Ma.”

Maria went to gaze at her husband. “Why’s he setting there?”

Ellen fled with Simon. They were overtaken down the road by Dr. Trumbo, who gave them a lift in his rattletrap Nash to the station at New Hope. A north wind blew up, keening in the corners of the unheated station. It struck down dry autumn leaves and herded them into desolate piles. They boarded the train at noon. Simon mounted the iron stair before her. He turned and peered from the windows at the retreating town.

“Don’t put your feet on the clean seats, Simon.” Ellen did not look back.

* * *

Anton had shaken his head at the noon meal his wife proffered him. He stared at the floor. In late evening he arose at last from his position on the bed. Maria was in the parlor poring over her gilded Bible. Anton took a long thin butcher knife from a kitchen drawer. He went onto the half-dark porch, taking down the lantern that hung on a bent nail and lighting it. He was making his way then with measured gait to the woodshed. Wind coming out of the north chattered in the branches of the hackberry. The yellow light was shedding over the pen of goats lying in oat straw. They blinked up at him. Rhodie, who was skittish, arose and snorted. As the man was fumbling with the gate latch the other beasts got to their feet, one at a time, sensing an outsider, Leona’s pair of three-week kids turned to her warm side when she stood, seeking her udder. Feverish, Anton was seeking a peg, feeling with his fingers. He hung the lantern, his breathing quickening.

The first doe he grasped was Penny. When he bent her old neck back by the beard and the red ran down into the fur, she died almost gently. The clever ones saw his game. Rhodie was rearing upon the furthest stone wall; her hoofs made a subdued pattering. Leona’s white throat came next, for she was foolish and made no play at running away. Her two kids were dispatched too, uttering feeble birdlike sounds. And then Jenny and Babs, baaing low, were snared by their shaggy beards. Their taut silken throats were bending to the knife. The hot blood spouted on the straw and the man’s boots. He was lunging for the spotted Pie, powerful and large, catching her by a hind leg. She pulled loose, and bleating, kicked out, striking him on the neck, making a dark bruise. “Haw. Come here now.” He threw his body at her, encouraged the struggle. He took a pleasure in the battle, prolonged its ending, letting her heave, crying in alarm beneath his weight. Then he was dragging her along the straw to the knife he had dropped. Rhodie was the last. In a silent crazed way she was still leaping against the far wall. This doe had always been apt to startle since she had been left untended over a winter and spring as a yearling when his daughter Ellen had been away in Illinois. Rhodie’s small hoofs were beating again and again upon the wall. Anton trapped her by the collar. She made no sound, dropping slowly to the bedding.

He breathed loud, threw his hand as if he had spoken and were justifying himself to someone. He walked out of the shed leaving the gate ajar, the lantern flaming. He strode to the bedroom and knew his wife. In the frost of the following morning Sam would come upon the stiffened bodies of the animals and bury them in a near field.

18

While the wind of late September hurled in dreary gusts about them, the two stood in the chill of the next morning before the brownstone front of the house on Redding Street. They were walking up wet granite stairs strewn with blown leaves. Ellen rang the bell. The woman who opened the door was tall and narrow-shouldered. Her eyes were dark, and like a dog’s seemed to beg. Her hair was a brown mane, piled sleek. She put her hands on her hips. “Hi. You must be Chicken’s niece. I’m Violet. Come out of the wet.” She was preceding them into the living room. The old green carpet was shoddy. The trivia of ornaments that had burdened the mantle and end tables had been taken away. The oval dining room table had been moved into this room and the drapes replaced with white ruffled curtains that drooped as the starch wore out.

“This room’s bright now,” Ellen said.

“I like ruffles and trimmings. Is this Simon? Chicken told me about you. I’m Aunt Vi. Sit down. I’ll get some lunch.” She bustled out.

“I’m tired, Ma.”

“So am I, Simon.”

“Are we e’er going back to Granddaddy’s?”

“Maybe some day.” She was pushing aside the curtains, looking down into the street where traffic moved.

“Will we live in this rich house?”

“For a spell, I reckon.”

“How do I call that lady?”

“Aunt Violet, you say. And be mannerly.”

“I’m not hungry, Ma.”

“Take off your shoes. I’ll give you dry socks from the bag.” They waited until Garland’s wife returned with a tray of hot milk and coffee, slices of poundcake and a plate of bananas.

“You like bananas?” she asked. “I do. I feel like one of the quality when I have bananas around.”

“Where’s Uncle Garland?”

“He’s at one of the restaurants. He’s got two, you know. He gets home about four-thirty and goes back till late at night. Have a banana, Simon. They’ll rot before you can snap your fingers.”

“I don’t want any. Go away.”

“Simon.”

The boy began to weep softly, laying his head on the arm of the chair. “I’m hot.”

“He doesn’t look good, Ellen. Let’s put him to bed.”

“Pay no mind to his talk, Aunt Violet.”

“I don’t,” she said cheerfully. “Nerts, I forgot to make up your beds. Wonder where I stored the sheets this time?”

Upstairs in a little room, Simon was undressed and put to sleep. He drowsed uneasily. The bedstead was of black-enameled iron. There was a battered wood bureau and a cane-bottom chair. Simon awoke, whimpering, “Ma? Did Anse take back his ball?”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know, Ma. What did I say?”

She felt the dry heat of his forehead. Violet came in the doorway. “Hi, Simon. Brought you some ice cream.” She offered him the little dish.

He sat up, his blue eyes darkening. “I ne’er meant what I said, lady.”

“I don’t mind, Simon. Eat before it melts.”

“Do you have any tonic in the house?” Ellen whispered.

“I think Chicken would say call the doctor.”

“My pa ne’er had one. Only satchel doctor I knew let a friend of mine die.”

“Didn’t you have one when he came?” Violet was nodding at Simon.

“No.”

The boy finished the ice cream, laid the dish on the faded bedspread. He stroked the sheet, closing his eyes. “Sing about that William, Ma.”

She waited until Violet had gone.

It was in the merry merry month of May

When the meadows were fresh and gay

Sweet William hung his bugles round about his neck

And he went riding away

He slept. Ellen went downstairs to help with the housework. Violet knew little about it, made simple chores tedious, and in her careless way laughed it off. “Chicken says, I’ve got a niece at least that’s a model housekeeper.”

“I like things to be in the place they live.”

“You take last night. The soup was ready but I forgot and put the potatoes in late. They weren’t done. Nerts. Good thing Chicken brings things home from the restaurant.”

While she was talking, Ellen busied herself. She boiled starch for the wilted curtains. “How long have you and Uncle been married?”

“I’m what they call a common-law wife. I guess I can tell you, being Chicken’s family so to speak. We’ve lived on the east side ever since thirty-two. Or was it thirty-three? Last year Chicken gave me a box of stationery with Mrs. Garland Gaddy on it. He says, we’ve got a checking account, you and me, the National Trust.”

“That sounds like Uncle.” Ellen stopped scouring the bronze-trimmed icebox, wiped her hands.

“All the time he’d had it in his head. I’ve never written a check, I don’t know how. Let him do that. But there’s my name with that bank.”

“My.”

“He told me your husband died, Ellen.”

“I’ve got to look at Simon.” She was going upstairs. The covers were thrown back, the boy’s face reddened. When he opened his eyes, they stared at her bloodshot.

“Penn didn’t want that ball,” he breathed.

She was rushing down the long echoing staircase. “Call Uncle’s doctor, Vi. Simon’s really sick.”

She went back. The voice met her, wheedling, “I didn’t wet the quilt, Da.”

“Don’t talk, Simon.”

“I saw that burying-beetle. He made a grave for the speckled thrush. He dug all about the body till it settled in the earth.”

She laid a wet cloth on his forehead. Her hand was pushed away strongly. Now God, shall I give up my first-born for my transgression? The doctor arrived. The watch began. For nearly three days the fever would possess Simon’s body. Garland came and went but Ellen didn’t notice him, that he was changed, his hair whitened, his figure grown portly, his mustache shaved so his face had lost its sharpness. His blue eyes looked out shrived. Ellen saw only Simon. She sat in the cane-bottom chair and watched. Simon was laying his hand on his breast, “Now there’s that pain. I won’t tell Mama.” His voice rose, “Granddaddy clobbered old Jess.”

Ellen asked the doctor, “How come he grabs at his chest? I’ve seen him do that before but he said it didn’t hurt.”

“He might be afraid of something, Mrs. Gaddy, that he’s not aware of. Some anxiety. It’s possible.”

Late in the night, Ellen was sitting alone in the glare of the small overhanging bulb. The doctor had said that only time would reveal the extent of the child’s malady and his strength to combat it. Gusts were rattling the house eaves, rain drummed insistent on the glass behind the stained brown shade. Her eyes sought patterns in the striped wallpaper. “Gaddy brat. Bastard Gaddy.” Simon was crying in the way of the young, without effort, his tears wetting the pillow.

Violet came in, her brown hair hanging to the waist of her dressing-gown and bound with a clasp. “I had a brother,” she said, “was sick like that as a child. He came through. The doctor thinks Simon’s getting better. He told me when he went out.”

“Don’t cry. Why does he cry, Aunt Violet?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s thinking thoughts we can’t know of.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Ellen sighed.

“I know one way to stop it, but you might think it improper.”

“What, Aunt Violet?”

“I doubt the quality ever heard of it. It’s a way people did where I was brought up. Even with babies. We lived in the slums, all in one room. Mom would stroke my brother’s privates. She was forced to hush him so Dad could get his sleep. And it quieted him right off.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll just use the wet cloth.”

“How is he?” Garland’s rasp sounded from the door. “Just closed up the restaurant. Busy tonight. It’s after midnight.”

Ellen didn’t turn. “He’s better, it seems.”

“He is, Chicken. The first time he’s resting good. I’ll go make your tea. You want some too, Ellen?”

“Sure she does, Vi.”

She pattered away down the hall. “Won’t be long.”

Garland was coming in by the bed. “Poor fellow. He’s a fine kid, puss.”

“I know it.” Tears began to flow down her tired face. “You-all been so good. Taking us in, Uncle.”

“Chrissake, hon. It’s Anton, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Was he mistreating the kid?”

“No.”

“Hell, then he was lording it over you?”

“Not that, I don’t mind that.” She was whispering, weeping. “Seemed he didn’t care for Simon’s good.”

“Hell, that’s An. Wish there was some way to make him see the light.”

“Only to have him do his bidding.”

“What makes that bastard that way? I’m fed up with him. I’m done.”

“To make Simon a part of him like his own son would be.” Ellen was looking up. She saw that Garland was old. He had always seemed young, vigorous. “When I got your letter, Uncle. Saying we could come here. It was like a way opened up.”

“Your letter to me was pretty plain. I thought I knew what the trouble was. I suspected Anton then.” His small angry eyes cooled. “You know how tickled Vi is with you both?”

“I like her.”

“We’ve been married a long time. Since about thirty-two, I think.”

“Like I wrote,” she looked at Simon who breathed evenly in sleep, “I want to get a job right away, though.”

“How old is he anyway?”

“Nine, now.”

“Frankie told me she thought your husband had died.”

“Yes.” The wind rushed, pushing rain sharply against the pane.

“Frankie said what a nice kid Simon was. She’ll be glad to see him, too. We’ll have her over.”

“I’m so tired, Uncle.” She looked at him, vacant. “I can’t think so good. Does Frankie live near here?”

“Just you take it easy.” He put his hand at Simon’s forehead. “Feels cool to me.” The humming of Violet who was mounting the stairs came, and then dishes were rattling in an adjoining room. “Let’s go have some hot tea and ginger-bread. Do you good, sweet.”

“I’d better stay here.”

“You can come back. In a little while.” He jerked the chain dangling from the overhead light. He drew her from the darkened room.

Ellen slept late into the morning like one drugged. Simon dozed. The fever had disappeared, with it went the constriction in his chest. When he roused, Violet tiptoed up to amuse him, making shadow-pictures on the wall with her thin hands. “I used to do this for my brother.”

Garland came home, stood in the doorway. “There’s nobody like my Vi, Simon.”

“Do the little goat now,” the boy whispered.

Ellen went down to the kitchen in the evening. Violet was in a rocker by the tin-topped table. The radio was blaring.

The music goes round and round

O-o-o-o-o-o

And it comes out here

The woman snapped it off. “Hi. How is he, Ellen?”

“Fine. I promised him a kitten. Reckon we could find one?”

“I’ll tell Chicken. He’ll get you one somewhere. Have a cup?” They sat in the kitchen room that was littered as in the days of Mrs. Quimby’s reign. Years of neglect and Violet’s efforts had done little to improve it. The chipped sink was touched up, the cupboards were painted cream color, and a square of red-and-white linoleum was on the wood floor. The fireplace was still unused, the opening blocked. “If times get better, we’ll fix the house up, Ellen. Get an electric icebox and a new stove and sink.”

Ellen drank the tea. “Violet, did Uncle look for a job for me yet?”

“He’s watching the want ads. We’d like you to stay here as long as you can. Have you ever worked out?”

“No.”

“I have. Since I was eleven. One place they had a special French toilet in their bathroom. When they finished their business on the regular one, they switched to it. It washed them off with a spray. Now it was outlandish.”

“Those French are tormented clean folks. My great grandsir was one.”

“You don’t say.”

The front door slammed. “Where are you, Vi?”

She bayed, “Here, Chicken.”

Garland was pushing the swinging door. “Home is the sailor, home from the sea. And the hunter from the hill.” He kissed Violet’s cheek. “I’ll have some of that tea.”

“Ellen wants you to find Simon a kitten. He likes pets.”

“I’ll ask Charlie. He’s got cats. Charlie’s my dishwasher. Say, we’re going to have company in a couple of hours. Frankie’s coming.”

“I just remembered supper,” Violet cried. “Nerts, I’ll never get it together.”

“Yes, we will,” Ellen gathered the teacups. “How’s Frankie’s piano-playing now, Uncle?”

“Oh, hon,” Garland was laughing, “when did you see her last?”

At six-thirty, Frankie arrived, Genevieve Wheeler, stout and amiable, just behind her. “How’s the farm, Ellen?”

“It’s fine, Miss Wheeler.”

“Take my coat, Gen, will you?” Frankie’s red hair was long and she wore a pearl comb in it. Her fine features had filled out and she had lost her frailness, was somewhat plump.

“All righty. I’ll go put these chocolate eclairs in the frig.” Genevieve was striding vigorously into the hall.

“Oh sure, Ellie. We’ve been visiting Uncle and Vi ever since Pa tossed me out. We live on the east side.” Frankie’s eyes appraised Ellen. “You’re different. Older, I guess.” She had her hand on Ellen’s arm, was kissing her cheek.

Ellen drew away. “And I am older, so what’s that if I look it?” She spoke sharply from the wound.

“Did Pa make you go? We didn’t believe Uncle when he said you were in the city. And Simon, too.”

“I told Pa I was leaving.”

“Are you raising Simon Catholic?”

“Well, Pa took him to church, but I don’t go. I got weary of the prayers and such.”

“Pa know that?”

“I talked to Father Tompert once and he said I was right. So Pa gave in.”

“I always got a kick out of the way you defied him, Ellie. I never dared. How is he?”

“The same.” It tasted bitter. “It’s us that have got to change.”

“I’m glad you left. But how are you going to get along? Are you staying here?”

“No, I want to find a place on a farm, Frankie. So I can work and Simon can help with the stock.”

Genevieve was in the doorway, hearty-voiced, “I know a farmer might be able to take you, Ellen.”

“Where, Gen?” Frankie was asking.

“Down in the state somewhere. Wasilewski’s the name. One of their cousins works in my office. He was reading a letter yesterday about his aunt getting old and wanting to hire a girl. Sounded nice.”

“Let’s write them,” Frankie cried.

“Wonder if they have cows.” The desire caught in Ellen’s throat to lay her hands on the silken hair and smell the pungent kine breath.

“Sure,” Genevieve said. “I guess. Cows and pigs and chickens. The works. We’ll write them, Ellen.”

“And we’ll call you,” Frankie promised, “as soon as we find out.”

“I don’t get it,” Genevieve said. “Wouldn’t you rather find something here in Chicago? My kind of work’s so much more interesting than the drudgery of a farm. It’s stimulating.”

“No, Miss Wheeler.”

“You could live with us,” Frankie offered. “You could do steno work like me.”

“I’ll bet Garland would be tickled silly if you’d stay with them,” Genevieve said.

“Vi’s such a slob,” Frankie giggled.

“She’s not,” said Ellen. “She’s good.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t good,” Frankie was shrugging. “But she’s a slob. She’s perfect for her Chicken.”

“Garland thinks he’s taking care of the downtrodden,” said Genevieve.

“She’s good,” Ellen repeated.

“Why don’t you stay, then?” Genevieve asked.

“They need a housekeeper,” said Frankie.

“I’d rather be on a farm, if I could. Besides, Simon can’t bear to be cooped up.” But Ellen knew she wanted to be away from Garland and his wife, and Frankie and Genevieve Wheeler. She wanted to leave all ties, to start on new ground.

The next day, Frankie called to say they had mailed the letter and when the reply came would let Ellen know without delay. Ellen walked through the park, Simon beside her. Leaves were dropping, scudding into damp niches, mingling with soot particles and bits of paper and debris that gathered in gutters. Sleet sheeted from a dull sky. They returned to the house. Violet was bringing a bowl of popcorn into the living room. Garland urged Ellen, “Top Hat’s at the Acme tonight. With Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Why don’t you come with us, puss?”

“I don’t care to.”

“Make me some fudge, Ma.”

“All right.” When Garland and Violet had left, they went into the kitchen. Simon sat in the rocker while Ellen was hunting through cupboards for ingredients.

“When you reckon Uncle will get my kitten, Ma?”

“Soon, he said.”

“Wonder if Leona’s kid sprouted horns?”

“Uncle says the man that washes dishes at the restaurant has a cat that littered. But they aren’t weaned yet.” She was stirring the hot mixture in the iron pan, the strong odor of chocolate filled the air.

Simon stared at the red-and-white checked linoleum, held the arms of the chair to keep it from movement. “Reckon Sam milks the goats out good?”

She poured the thick fudge on a buttered cold plate. Her body was tense and unyielding. Her braids lay like marble coils about her head. “Uncle says those kits are spotted. Black and white and orange.”

Simon got up and followed her into the living room. He was nibbling at a sweet brown square, his eyes looking past the ruffed curtains to the steady noise of the street. “I say, Ma, I get to honing for them.”

* * *

It was two weeks before Frankie came for an evening again. “Why in the world did you and Uncle move from the old flat, Vi?” She was laughing. “It takes us an hour to get over to this side.”

“Did you e’er hear from those people, Frankie?” Ellen asked.

“Who?”

“About that farm.”

“Oh yes. We meant to call you. Gen’s got a letter from them.”

“It’s here somewhere in my bag.” Genevieve searched.

Ellen took it quickly to slit it open.

Mrs. Gaddy.

I hear you want to hire out. Winter work is light here. Can you come say latter part of Jan.? If satisfactory would pay 4 & half dollars per week and board. Child to work according to size. My wife raises chickens. Needs help with them and house. Also garden-stuff. That is all I have to say.

Matthew Paul Wasilewski

Hidden Creek, Ill.

Rt. 1

“Well?” asked Gen. “Good or bad?”

“They’ll take us. But not till after winter.” She colored. “I know where Hidden Creek is. Penny Dougherty lives near there.”

“Well,” said Violet when she heard the news, “I’m glad it’s not till January at least.”

“It’s that I hate putting you and Uncle out.”

“Nerts, you don’t. We wish you’d stay.”

“Can I have my own horse there, Ma?”

“We’ll see if you can leastwise have a chicken.”

“Let me have it as soon as it hatches. I’ll give it all its feed and raise it for a pet.”

“Never heard of a pet chicken,” Violet said.

“When’s Uncle going to bring me the kitten, Aunt Vi?”

“I’ll get after him again, Simon. He’s always busy.”

“I’d love a spotty kitten.”

Ellen cleaned the house as the weeks flowed. With strong yellow soap she scrubbed into corners, taking a pleasure in the dark lather that would form in the ancient dust. She pulled down drapes, hauled dingy frayed rugs out on the line strung in the yard and set Simon to beating them in the cold autumn sunlight. “You got to polish brass with wood ashes mixed in oil. Hit’s the only way,” she told Violet. “It mars our hands but the brass comes shiny like new.”

Violet, thin arms akimbo, followed, protesting. “Look at you, Ellen. Let it be. We don’t mind. Come on and sit.”

“I’d rather finish this off first, Aunt Vi.” She felt a compulsion to drive her body as if that would make the days shorter.

19

There was a heavy fall of snow in the early afternoon. All city noises were dulled. Violet had spread newspapers before her and she was sipping hot tea. “Says here they found a frozen man on the el steps, people walking around him. You think they figured he was sleeping?” The telephone rang and Violet picked it up. “Hello. Yes, we’ll accept it. Hold the line, ma’am, she’s right here. It’s Millville, Ellen.”

Ellen grasped the phone. She could scarcely hear the voice of Sam Offut. “Ellie? Your Ma’s acting queer. Mester Gaddy’s got to pull her out of the wardrobe to get the meals. You best come and do somewhat with her.”

“Oh, Sam.”

“She’s not been the same since you left. I allow I don’t know how we’ll make out at butchering.”

“Is Pa all right?”

“For Gawd, Ellie. He thinks she’s being ornery. But I don’t know. Seems like she’s off her head to me.”

“Where are you, Sam?”

“At Love’s. I traded a basket of eggs. The hens are doing good for this weather. I says to the central, there’s a Garland Gaddy lives at Chicago. He’s got my boss’s niece there. Ellie Gaddy. Can you get her to this phone? She says, collect? I says, look, I got no money. Can you fix it so I don’t have to pay? Lo and behold, I was about to walk out when Stacey hollers, it’s for you, Sam. How about this age of miracles?”

“I’m hanging up, Sam. I’ll come some way.” She cut off his voice. “What do you reckon that call cost, Aunt Vi?”

“What’s the matter, Ellie?”

“I want to know. I’ll pay it back.”

When Ellen told Frankie, the young woman laughed as if embarrassed, the light catching in her blue eyes. “I’m done with all that, Ellie. You can go.”

“Haven’t you got any pity for Ma? Uncle says she has to be taken to a place the state runs.”

“When she’s there, we’ll go visit her. And Gen and me will give what money we can spare.” Frankie’s full face was set, her mouth pouting.

* * *

Ellen and Garland were going by train to New Hope, leaving Simon in Violet’s care. Garland hired a man to drive them to the Gaddy farm. The corduroy country roads were uneven because of the freezing and thawing of winter, and they were jostled in the back seat of the worn-out Model T. Garland was relaxed as he stared out at the countryside. His jaw had dropped, the flesh was folding on his face about the age lines. Shaving his mustache had given him a guileless expression, and with Violet not present, he had laid aside his forced lusty manner. They were passing Bailey’s Woods. Ellen recalled the glowbugs that had lit the path sides with fitful orange lights when she played there as a child on summer evenings. Now dead twigs of tree branches tangled and meshed like spiders’ webs. A winter wren on a lean bough was whistling, “Teakettle, teakettle, teakettle!” and with a whirr fading down the road toward the sky where gray clouds lived uncared for.

“It’s not your father’s fault about Maria, puss.” Garland was speaking suddenly. “Don’t go blaming it on him.”

“Who’s laying it to him?” flashed Ellen.

“You know, Maria had a hard childhood. Her people were queer, you might say. Her mother was over forty when Maria was born and her father going on sixty. Christ. Must have near starved some winters back in the hills. He’d go off and leave the two of them to fend for themselves. Probably half crazy.”

“I don’t think so.” Ellen’s mouth was stubborn.

“Anton said he was a hunchback. Had Maria’s dowry stuffed in a gunnysack fastened with binder twine. Fifteen hundred dollars in coin and bills.”

“That’s the way he was. I don’t call it so queer.”

The house appeared uninhabited as they approached. Jack came out from the hole he had made for warmth in the earth behind the leaf-bare bushes. He watched them dull-eyed, uncertain. Garland called at the bottom of the porch; there was no answer. He set out for the barns while Ellen went up into the house. The porch was littered with mud and manure, in the kitchen the floor was tracked and the usual order on Maria’s shelves and table was broken. Ellen guessed that Sam had been making an effort to clean up and wash the dishes. Her pulse was pounding as she glanced at the bedroom. She draped her coat on a hook and drew off her winter boots. She went slowly into the room and over to the dark standing closet. The heavy crucifix was looming on the wall over the bed by the light from the little windows. It was a dream. From another time. She was in the cellar of her childhood, her feet fixed and immovable. There was someone behind her with a stick, waiting to perform a vague frightful act. Her heart was beating like a living stone as she dragged open the double doors to the closet.

Maria’s birdlike eyes looked up from where she sat, clad in a long maroon sweater and a worn housedress. “I got my little boy here, Mam. He’s a bit cold. But he’s not dead by a long sight. That whippoorwill was wrong.” She had cradled a pillow in the crook of her arm. Her hair was loosely braided, gray wisps straggled over her face.

“Ma,” Ellen whispered.

Maria was frowning. “Shut the doors. I allowed he was out there in the ground moldering and turning. But he’s right here. Shut them now.”

“It’s Ellie, Ma.” But the woman bowed her head into her shielding hands, waiting until the doors would close.

Ellen went into the kitchen. “She’s stark mad.” She stirred up the fire, adding lighter-wood and a log from the bin.

The three men scraped noisily coming up the porch and into the room. They stood in their muddied boots, their breath steaming up. Anton stamped his boots and coughed, rubbing his fingers together above the stove.

“Evening, Ellie,” Sam said.

She nodded, holding herself from them, over at the side by the windows where a chill seeped in.

Anton had on his black bear-fur cap, the collar of his tattered mackinaw was turned up. He shrugged and said directly to Garland, “So hell, I’d get her out mealtimes. She wouldn’t go to mass and the last few days she wouldn’t get in bed. Hum.” He inquired softly, “Has she gone loony?”

“Would she cook for you?” Garland asked.

“Fair to middling,” said Sam.

“But always she’d set out for the bedroom,” Anton was saying, “and I’d pull her back. Like she aimed to anger me.”

“She needs a doctor, An. And care.”

“What are you fixing to do?”

“I’ll have to make some calls first. Where’s the nearest phone? I think the state will take her. We have to see a doctor and you’ll have to sign papers. You come with me, An.”

“Go hitch Red,” Anton said. The hired man went as bid.

“Where is she now, hon?” Garland asked Ellen.

“In the closet,” Ellen whispered. “She ne’er knew me.”

“And why should she?” Anton was glaring at her, hurt and reproachful. Like old Jess led to the sourwood scaffold in the yard. “Isn’t that right, Gar? There’s a great daughter. That one.” The door slammed after him in a gust of cold air, and Ellen shrank.

“Your ma’s probably best off right where she is, puss. She isn’t violent or anything?”

“No. Just sitting there harmless. She used to do that sometimes when Pa had his back up. I thought it was a place for her to get away. Far as I can remember she’d do that. But now she’s talking daft and she didn’t know me.”

They stood, hands hanging useless. Nothing moved. The silence was complete. Then the buckwagon clattered outside. Garland roused, picked up his homburg hat. “Be back late. Not much of a Christmas this year, hon.” From the window she watched them climb onto the seat. The chestnut horse was restive, its winter coat woolly and ungroomed, dry manure casing its flanks and legs. It carried its broomlike tail high and pawed the ground. It moved off, the two figures hunched against the cold, heads drawn down into scarves and collars.

Ellen left the house, going toward the woodshed. She called to the dog but he had disappeared. She went seeking her goats. She met Sam, and learned of their destruction from him, “You know your pa e’er was a strong-willed man, Ellie. And you be cut off the same last. I saw that when you were yet a set-along child. You’d ne’er squall when he took a stick to you. It wasn’t natural.” Sam was wagging a gnarled hand.

Ellen’s mind had only partly encompassed what he told her. She was conscious of the faint liquor scent. “What’ll I do, Sam?”

“You hadn’t ought to torment him so.” Sam was stooped over, holding one hand on a hip as if an ache lay underneath. “Being as you’re a ooman grown now, you ought to stand behind him. Mrs. Gaddy’s no use any more.”

Ellen wasn’t listening. “Where’d you put them, Sam?”

He went before her to the orchard edge. “I threw them in the wagon and toted them down here. For Gawd, took a big hole. Wore me plumb out.”

When he had gone, Ellen looked about at the familiar landscape. Penny and Leona and spotted Pie. Rhodie and the shaggy yearlings. Pa gave me an eye for an eye, it appears. Burning for burning, stripe for stripe. Because I took Simon. It’s my goats for Simon. Life for life. That’s an enduring fine trade. At last she was wending back up the hill field. Darkness dropped almost instantly as it does in the short days of the year. The bark of a dog fox was rising shakily from the woods, the eerie sound lingered. Ellen’s hands in her pockets were stiff and cold. She blew on them and rubbed them. “I’ll ne’er have truck with my pa again.”

From the house, squares of lamplight were wavering. Ellen entered, heard Dr. Trumbo’s murmur. The Gaddy brothers were sitting with him, and papers were spread before them. They all wore their overcoats, and their headgear was cast near their hands as though, in the half-warmth of the kitchen, they were passers-by with a bit of business to perform here. Ellen removed her coat. She shook the grate in the stove and laid a fresh fire. That’s all we be. Passers-by. Strangers sitting in His home, dragging the past on our shoes. If we could but lose that burden, start afresh. The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge. There’s Pa whom I ever loved, thinking of ways to make him see me since I was a least youngen, following him with my eyes, running to do for him. But I never saw Pa for himself, only for the way I wished him, like the songs that seem to happen in another land. From this valley they say you are going, we will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile. I loved Pa in the land of myself, in a valley of my mind. While Ellen was mixing the corn meal, her hand was turning the egg and buttermilk into it quickly. Tears started and fell unheeded.

She laid plates before the men and they ate silent by the mellow light. Forks and knives chinked. The smell of burning oil pervaded the room. Ellen went to where the woman hid herself. “Come get your supper, Ma.” Maria laid her head on her knees. Ellen brought her a dish and she accepted it. The doctor and Garland were lighting cigarettes, Anton puffed his pipe. Ellen finished the dishes and swept the floor. Dr. Trumbo arose then, it was time to go. He drew Maria struggling and whimpering from her place, and Ellen persuaded her to change from her ragged clothes. “Here, Ma. Take off that sweater and those rags. Put this on.” She was offering the old crepe de Chine dress. “It’s silk.”

“Well,” Maria felt of the black material. She was putting her pillow down. When she had dressed they came into the kitchen where the others waited.

“All set?” asked Dr. Trumbo.

Anton was watching his wife from where he still sat at the table. He was pushing tobacco angrily with his thumb into the pipe bowl. “There goes the last of my oomen-folk. Now who’s to do the cooking, Gar? Sam, you think?”

“I’ll get her bag.” Garland went into the shadowed bedroom.

“I’ve been a righteous man. And pious,” Anton carped harshly.

“Here we go, Mrs. Gaddy.” The doctor was taking Maria’s arm; he led the way with Ellen to the car, into the black night.

Garland was bringing Maria’s valise. He paused at the open door to the porch. Light from the kitchen made a hesitant path reaching to the top step. “Goodbye, An.” Car lights had beamed suddenly in the yard, revealing the shrouded figures of the women climbing into the back seat. Garland cleared his throat. “I’ll remember when I first met Maria.”

Anton did not move. Pipe smoke wreathed and dimmed his lined face, his strong shoulders, his powerful arms stretched on the table before him. “Man born of ooman is of few days, Gar.”

Garland was running his soft hand nervously through his white hair, fingering the place where his mustache had used to be. He hurried down the steps. “Let’s go, Doc.”

Ellen sat in back with Maria, dust from the car floor mingled with a vague clinical smell. She drew an old alpaca robe about their knees; it was damp to her hands, musty.

“I remember winters, Doc,” Garland was saying. “We cut shoes from hides my father tanned. They had only one last so both shoes were cut the same. Pa’d say, your feet will wear them into shape to fit. Times I thought it was the shoes shaping my feet.”

“You think everyone nowadays buys shoes, Mester Gaddy? They come down out of the back country or I hunt them out. Ridden with hookworm, wearing shoes made like yours were, no right or left.”

“Chrissake, bet you see some things, Doc?”

“Sure. Blacksnake root for the stomach. Butterfly root for female trouble.” Dr. Trumbo grunted. “Lady came in yesterday. Said she was near starvation. She was down to her last chicken and couldn’t wring its neck. Said it was her pet.”

“That’s the lot of a farmer.”

“That’s right, Mester Gaddy. Always dealing with death. The youngens play with the calves and lambs and maybe teach them tricks. Then they have to watch them slaughtered. Always losing whate’er they get attached to.” The feeble lights of the car parted the night. Ellen watched the slack shoulders of the men before her. Maria breathed deeply, the pillow slipping from her angular fingers.

“Fellow was a grave digger, see?” Garland was telling an old joke. “He dug one too deep, this time. So he was shouting up from it, help. Get me out of here. I’m freezing. A drunk came staggering along and he looked in. Says, Hell, fellow, no wonder. They forgot to cover you up. And he began to throw in what was shoveled out.”

“Now, that’s a good one,” Dr. Trumbo was whispering. “I’ll remember it. Sure wish I had you to go the rounds with me.”

* * *

A day later Ellen and Garland were back in Chicago. Simon met them at the front door. “Look here, what Aunt Vi gave me for my Christmas.” A sleeping calico kitten was within his shirt, a soft lump.

Ellen laughed at him, “My.”

When Simon touched it with a finger, the kitten stretched a paw and yawned. Simon was delighted. “See that?”

“You made him right at home, boy,” Garland cried.

Violet was stepping down the wide staircase, trailing her housecoat, her hair undone, her eyes wistful. Garland put his arm about her tall form. “Miss me, wife?”

“Sure did, Chicken. I didn’t hear the doorbell, I was sleeping so hard. You know Simon was in the school play? He was the shepherd and he brought a gift.”

“No, I ne’er,” said the boy. “I just knelt by the sheep, singing ‘Round John Virgin.’”

Garland was carving the holiday ham that night. “Next year we’re going to have a turkey, Vi. I hear they might vote FDR in for another term. We’ll see prosperity again.”

Ellen watched Simon eating, struck by it. He held the fork in his left hand, pushing the food with the knife as his grandfather did. She said abruptly, “How come you hold your fork so? I ne’er noticed that. It’s not proper. Your fork goes in the right hand.”

“Let him eat Christmas dinner like he wants, puss.”

Reckon I’ll always see those ways Pa stamped on him. Simon was reaching for the ketchup and pouring it heavily on the potatoes, his head bent over his plate. She remembered how he said, “Mind now,” to the kit. She was wondering if that too came from Anton.

“Now these quality,” Violet was saying, “had an exercise machine. You could hear it clear down in the kitchen. It was bolted to the floor and there was a wide belt they put around them. It juggled their stomach or wherever there was a fat spot and it just rubbed it away.”

“Say now, that’s what I need.” Garland was patting his stomach.

20

Anton and Dyke were loading the Burwell truck for the trip to Louisville. It was late January. They had become familiar with the town since their first excursion six years ago at the beginning of the depression. They had come to know the wholesale section and the waterfront district where the Ohio flowed and where auctions were conducted in the shadow of tobacco warehouses and mills and the newly-operated distilleries, reeking and guarded. Now too, they would manage more than one yearly trip. They found it necessary, in fact, to go many times.

Sam Offut had moved in with Anton the week after Maria went, bringing along his wife Eadie. She was plagued with lumbago and vestiges of various diseases contracted when much younger, and she seemed satisfied to settle with Sam in Mr. Gaddy’s house for as long as she was required. She learned to carry out her duties to his partial satisfaction. She cooked three meals and cleaned occasionally. She was cowed, however, by the Catholic icons, refusing to dust the crucifix or the statuettes or the framed Sacred Heart. “Be careful what you say near the things, Samuel,” she warned, “they be Romish. You know Mr. Gaddy’s not a true Christian like us.” The Offuts would go to the new Holiness Church that had set up a tent on the outskirts of Millville. There folks spoke in strange tongues and preachers would handle rattlesnakes and fire and encourage public confession. Besides being entertained, the Offuts had found an ideal place to express themselves without censure.

This morning Eadie was bringing sandwiches of bread and bacon to the truck. Dyke was gunning the motor and a white smoke streamed from the exhaust. Six fattened shoats, stowed behind the load of corn, grunted and squealed until the machine was set in motion. Then they were lulled, grew sleepy-eyed swaying warm-bodied against each other. “I’m going to get me a piece of cock tonight, Mester Gaddy,” Dyke sang out.

“Do that, boy,” Anton glowered.

“Hey. I like a ooman built like a brick shithouse.” Dyke’s ruddy face shone. Beside the taciturn older man he was feeling debonair and knowing. “Big and soft all o’er. And I know where they’ve got them.” He blew the horn, “Beep. Beep!” A flock of chickens fled squawking into ditches from the carcass of a dog that lay in the frosted road. “Want me to show you where, Mester Gaddy?”

“No. Christ.”

“Setting about the room in wrappers. Nothing underneath. For a fact, now.”

“You’ll get the claps and come home dragging your tail. Hum. Won’t be so horny then, I vow. Best stay away from harlots, boy.”

“Now, there’s one old girl does a trick with a cigarette. You’d ne’er think she could do it.”

“Get your pecker down, boy.” Anton looked out on the frozen fields that waited fallow for spring. “Give not thy strength unto oomen. Mind.”

“Reckon the corn’ll sell high, Mester Gaddy?”

“Prices always come up in late winter. Seems most folks are so strapped for cash in fall, they’ll sell when hit’s cheap.”

The stoutish younger man and the other near sixty were drawn together in the close cab, knitted by the future, unforeseen. The return trip would be different, then the tie would fall away as tomorrow became a routine of familiar chores. Dyke was laughing. “Hey, Mester Gaddy. Saw Butcher Faust last night. He’d just got in a cow carcass. Still had the udder on it. So he sliced off a front teat and let it hang out his fly. Old lady Brenner came in. He took her order, started in to cut her meat for her. Well, she jerked up of a sudden. Says, timid-like, look there, Butcher Faust. And he looked down, says, Oh that damn thing. And lays it on the block, whacks it off with his knife.”

“Haw,” snorted Anton.

“Old lady Brenner near passed out. That Butcher Faust slays me.”

Hog prices had nearly doubled over the fall rate. The men found a buyer for the corn and stopped in at a dingy corner bar for a glass of draught beer before parting company. Then Anton was making his way down Market Street, a bleak wind thrusting at his back, up the sleeves to his mackinaw and ill-fitting black suit. He took a left turn for two blocks, then a right. He swung in at the second house, his stride unaltered. The building was of red brick, one of a series of identical houses. The long hall was unheated and dark, a radio lilted faintly from under a doorway.

I don’t want your sugar sprinkled in my tea

Because the gal I’ve got is sweet enough for me

Anton was climbing a staircase, knocking at the door at the head. A shapely woman opened it, her jet-black hair heavy about her sallow-skinned broad face. Anton spoke thickly, “You alone, Rose?”

“I’ve been looking for you, Daddy.” She was turning in a studied careless way. He put a heavy-muscled hand toward the slim curve of her back, withdrew it hastily as if caught between guilt and greed. He closed the door and followed her to the window where she was looking out as if waiting. His hand came upon her insistent, he was pulling her to the bed.

She asked him after a while, “Why don’t you ever kiss me? And you with those big lips.” She was slipping into her wrapper. He followed her with his eyes, made no answer. She took his coat from the chair, explored the inner pocket and brought out a flat box. “Why not, Daddy?” She was deriding, but gentle, for the kind elderly farmer suited her. She had met him a few months ago, knew he was Catholic with a wife committed recently to an institution. She opened the gift box holding a red and blue silk handkerchief. Louisville, Kentucky. The Biggest Wholesale Distributor Of The South. She knotted it softly at her neck, wise that the vivid colors set off her hair. She planned that she would marry Anton. She was preparing supper on a two-burner hot plate, boiling spaghetti, searing ground meat in a frying pan. “Vo-do-do-dee-o-do-o-o! Guess I’ll teach you to dance, Daddy. Okay?”

From the bed he was taking in the figure in the bright kimono that contrasted so completely with the shadow of Maria. He would leave Louisville tomorrow, returning to the farm. But he would be restless and irritable, lonely, his sin again unconfessed. “Come o’er here, Poppet.”

She was going to the bed. He took her to his lap. His sateen shirt was open and she stroked the red hair of his chest. “You’re a comfortable man. You’re strong.”

“Rose, you wait here for me.” He was heated. “Don’t see e’er a man. You hear?”

“I don’t know.” But Rose said it as if she would obey.

“This little grandson of mine had hair would turn pale in summer, like oat straw. Hum.” Rose went back to where the savory odors were steaming. She laid dishes and brought glasses of beer to a low table. Anton drew on his pants, fastening his belt; he pulled his heavy frame erect, began to pace back and forth. His yellowed winter underwear was exposed above the waist. He stopped in his stride as if angry, “Will you do like I say, Rose?”

“Okay, Daddy.” But this time she was amused and said it as though she would not.

The next morning Rose was frying ham and eggs for breakfast. The stale air in the flat was surfeited with the high fat odor. She made her ways soft so the pain of parting would lie in Anton like a hot ball. She was teasing him so he would never be quite sure away from her and would remember her standing by him in the bright-flowered kimono, her hips soft and her city face white. She was forking the food onto his plate. Anton observed the lift of her arm along her breast; he laid his gnarled hand against the pointed shape of it, his mind turning to a morning long years ago.

The girl Penny, who married that fool Dougherty, had worn a flowered dress patterned like Rose’s kimono. She had come to the hay field to bring Anton a drink of water in a stone jar. He was turning the damp clover alone. The girl watched him drink, smiling. “It’s a power hot out here, Mester.” She was lifting her hands to brush back her hair, seeking the breeze. She looked cool from her head to her brown toes that were small as a youngen’s. Something stirred in Anton when her breasts stood out as she raised her arms. He put his hand forward hardly knowing what he did, and cupped one in his palm. “Are you coming in the heat?” he was whispering, hoarse. Penny’s eyes had widened. She was bending for the jug and slipping away. In days to follow he named her “that roaring ooman,” angered with his own calflike ways, despising his moment of weakness. And when his older daughter had picked up the foldilay songs, ever after they would stir his ire.

He spoke dourly to Rose, removing his hand, “The lips of a strange ooman drop honey, says the Book. And her mouth be smoother than oil.”

“Banana oil, Daddy,” said Rose.

* * *

Anton met Dyke at the truck parked on Market Street. Hoarfrost had glazed the windows, Dyke was scraping at it with his knife while the engine warmed. The truck backfired and trundled with an effort through early traffic, past the slow gray river, and into the country where smoke was seeping from dunghills and fowl scratched the frozen earth. Anton was restless in his seat, crabbed. Dyke was driving stolidly. The radiator was beginning to boil as they chugged up the Gaddy farm lane. Dyke peered through the cloud above the hood. “Just made the well in time, Mester Gaddy.” He was shouting over the noise of the engine, and cut it. “Hey there, Sam.” He still shouted although the motor had stopped. He lowered his voice in the quiet wintry air, “Did your wife help you milk, Sam?”

“No, I shift for myself at the barn when Mester Gaddy’s off.” There was the hint of home-brew about Sam’s breath. He sighed, “But this here lumbago’s getting me down.”

Anton had descended his side of the truck. Shading his eyes, he was looking at buzzards that wheeled over one of the fields. “What be dead out there, Sam?”

“I don’t know. Could be the dog’s killed him a woodchuck.”

Anton walked to the top of the land, the other two following. “Reckon it’s old Jack himself?”

“Now I recollect, Mester Gaddy, Eadie said she ne’er seen him about yesterday to get his dinner scraps.”

Anton picked up a shovel, walked down the lane alone. A few sluggish bluebottles buzzed up in the sunless air from the dog’s decaying worn-out body, matted with burrs and beggar’s-lice, damp from melted frost. While the man was digging, clay caught in the cuffs of his shiny black pants. From the woods nearby the two notes of the carping bluejays echoed like pieces of crockery being knocked together. The birds were heralding the spring winds. Anton tipped the carcass into the grave with his shovel. A warm stench floated from where maggots quivered. Anton neither smelled nor saw. His disciplined arms were performing efficiently. His mind dwelled apart, jealous, on the woman in Louisville.

part four

Lovers who must say farewell

When the road has reached the trees

Lovers who have all to tell

Where the road runs out of sight

In the green beyond the leaves

The green cove below the light

Lovers who must say farewell

When the road has reached the trees

Touching hand to hand to speak

All their love has ever known

Find no words to speak and say

Love...        O love...

21

Ellen had spotted the wagon before Simon, drawn by a strapping team of grays. The little farmer had a white beard and mustache. He was touching his hat and yelling across the tarred road to where they sat on the station house steps, “Hi. You Mrs. Gaddy?”

They took up their bags and ran. Simon was scrambling into the wagon bed. “Hey, Mester.”

“I’m Matthew Wasilewski,” the old man said. Ellen climbed to the seat beside him. He was clicking to the team and the shod hoofs resounded on the patched streets of Hidden Creek. They came upon dirt country roads and Ellen observed how there were no stones and they stretched flat and straight, not curving and hilly like those about Millville. The horses set a fast pace.

Simon shouted, “That’s a spanky team. Can I hold the reins sometime?”

“Hush, Simon. He’s fond of horses.”

“Let him talk. I say, let boys speak out.” The man’s complexion was translucent, as happens with the aged. His beard was yellow about the mouth from tobacco stains and food. His frail body was engulfed by baggy overalls and a fresh-starched blue shirt. He bobbed his head, “Now, Mom raises Leghorn hens. She’ll want you to help with them.”

“What’s a Leghorn? How’s it differ?”

“They’ll beat any breed at laying, Mrs. Gaddy. Mom follows the Department of Agriculture. She reads the bulletins. And she sees the county agent too. He told her to put those runners on her chicken sheds and tow them out to pasture.”

“Say, feeding them on grass like a cow.”

“Keeps down disease, the agent claims, and saves feed. You think this land’s rich? You should go to the old country some day. Poland. Where I came from. Plums as big as my fist. Apples the size of my head. Never a drought.”

“We had one where I lived two years ago.”

“Where you from?”

“Kentucky.”

“I heard that drought was widespread. We had it bad; most all the crops died right in the field. Our boys took a loan on the mortgage. They shouldn’t have done it. Debts are bad. In the end it was the Triple A that pulled us through. Roosevelt paid for what we didn’t have to plant. Did he pay you folks too?”

“No, but I knew a man got a government check for letting hogs root up his tobacco. I ne’er did understand how that worked.”

“Now in Poland, Mrs. Gaddy, they never heard of a drought or a Triple A either.”

“Say, Mester,” Simon spoke up, “what are those horses’ names?”

“Off one’s Pearl. The other’s Major, son.”

“That Pearl’s a sight the prettiest.”

“Yes, and that Major’s the smartest. Who do you think’s pulling this load?”

Simon fell back abandoned in the straw of the wagon, shouting in glee. He lay gazing up at the sky and the bare treetops that came into view.

“That’s it.” The old man pointed. “Ninety acres.”

Two women and a man were coming from the white house into the yard to welcome Ellen. Mom was fleshy and large-framed, her eyes shy. She was shaking Ellen’s hand. “Guess Pop told you all about the fruit in the old country.”

“Why, he did.”

Sudduth was their younger son, thirty-two, scrawny, anxious-eyed. “We sure can use your help. We’ve been after Mom a long time to get someone. Here’s my wife, Adele.”

“Pleased,” said Ellen.

“Howdy.” The woman held her head on one side like a bird, waiting.

“You-all could call me Ellen.”

“I’ll show you to your room, Ellen.” Adele was going ahead up the stairs. Her face was harrowed from the years, but retained the child’s shape, round and eager-eyed, looking for encouragement. Two little girls with eyes like hers looked from behind a door. “This is Mrs. Gaddy, Hannah. Grace. My boy Dennie is in school.” The girls squealed and ran to hide. Adele was stopping at the room that would be Ellen’s. Simon was to have another for himself.

They came together later for the evening meal, Pop at the head of the table, Mom at the foot. They were all shouting noisily. “Let’s see those brown-eye peas down here.”

“Save a corner for the blueberry dowdy.”

“Let a child talk up, I say.” Pop maneuvered the food through his mustache, his head on a level with the children.

“I got a hundred in Penmanship,” cried Adele’s son, Dennie.

“My, at that child,” said Adele.

“The girls printed for me. I sure could follow it good.” Mom felt the sisters were being slighted at times. At her left stood an empty chair.

“That’th Uncle Dan’s plathe,” Hannah was saying shyly to Ellen.

“Dan’s my older brother,” Sudduth explained. “He’s off at the cattle sale in Weems Crossroads, trying to buy a Crestmore bull. We already have a purebred bull, but he’s the sire to so many of our heifers we don’t get the good of him any more.”

“Say, I’ve been to Weems Crossroads,” Ellen said. “I visited some folks there.”

“Dan’s going to see if he can bid a bull low,” Sudduth said.

“Nothing but the best for Dan,” said Pop.

“By the name of Dougherty?” Ellen was hopeful.

“Nothing but the best.” Sudduth was sopping the juice from his plate with dark home-baked bread.

“Never heard of a Dougherty,” Pop said. “You know, Sudduth, if a purebred cow jumps the fence and gets to a grade bull, you can just as well sell her? She’ll be no good from then on.”

“That’s ridiculous, Pop.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Ellen said.

“There was a mare bred to a zebra stallion,” Pop told him. “Every foal she threw thereafter was striped. Now that’s proof, Sudduth.” He pounded his knife.

“There,” Ellen whispered, for she had heard this same thing.

“Pop, that old tale’s been shown up long ago. I’ll get out the article for you to read, in the Breeder’s Journal. Old superstitions.”

While they were talking the cats were underfoot, three or four of them, tiger-striped and black. They wound under the table legs and sometimes one of the children slipped them a bite of food. A little later Ellen and Simon went up to bed. The talking and shouts from below were seeping through the flooring as Ellen dozed off to sleep.

* * *

She heard the cock crowing in her dream, insistent, shrill. She threw her arm in a fending gesture, engrossed in the nightmare. She was running up the stairway from the cellar, her father racing after. “I’ll kill you because you took the boy.” She shouted to stay his hand, “You dassn’t kill on the cock’s crow, Pa.” She awoke, her voice straining in her throat. She lay listening, oppressed by the dream, letting it recede. I won’t hold to any of it. I’ll button it into a far part of me. I want to weave a new way here in this land where all the folks are foreign. I’ll make a place for Simon and me. I’ll put the past away. I vow I will.

It was not yet dawn. Darkness kept the room corners. She threw back the covers. The air was chill but there was an earth odor, fresh, redolent of spring. She was throwing open the window, looking out at the muddled unfamiliar landscape. The eastern sky was gray and hushed. She sat on the low sill in the sleeveless garment she wore at night, hugging her cold bare arms. Her hair hung clinging and disheveled. It was late January but it was warm, the first false spring. There would be cold days yet, and the last frost might come as late as mid-April. But already in protected southern exposures a few flowers were opening, a jonquil or narcissus, releasing suppressed and forgotten perfumes. The earth seemed to turn itself like an animal stirring in its lair.

A bull bellowed in the half-light, pawing the floor of its paddock, shaking its brawny shoulders. It began to butt the bars with its heavy smooth head like a toy set in motion. Tiny pigs wandered to and fro in a yard beyond the bull. The gray of clouds that lay in the east transformed gradually into mauve. Shifting and changing, lights and colors were fanning upward. A man’s figure strode around a corner of the house. There was a black-and-white feist at his heels. The man was tall, seemed young, his hair thick and black, unruly. The cuffs of his pants were tucked into leather boots. He stopped to shake tobacco into his left hand, and rolled a cigarette swiftly. The dog jumped repeatedly at his arm, yapping sharply in the pink-tinged air. As he was walking off, his bass voice came clear.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone

In the ranks of death you’ll find him

His father’s sword he hath girded on

And his wild harp slung behind him

A warm breeze stirred from the east. Ellen shivered. On the brim of the color-draped sky, the first round edge of the red sun was emerging as if pulled by a string. The fields were stretching forth under the rosy light, spreading wide and tended, damp with dew. The pungent sweetness of the earth was arising from its bowels. Time moved quickly. The sun came whole over the line of horizon, lay alive in the brilliant stained sky. The man’s song had faded.

Voices began to call back and forth in the reaches of the house. Ellen turned from the window. The room was furnished with a white wood bedstead, a dresser with a tiny mirror, a table and an upright chair. There was a striped rag rug on the floor, made by Mom; the curtains and bedspread were yellow and threadbare, streaked unevenly by sun rays over the years.

She dressed and hurried down the dusky stairs. Simon and Dennie sat whispering on the bottom step. “You seen my room, Ma?” They followed her. Adele was turning the handle of the coffee grinder, the friendly crusty noise filling the kitchen. “Dennie’s got a room too.”

“I always had a room.” Dennie hiked his suspenders.

When breakfast was nearly ready, Sudduth came in with the man Ellen had seen earlier. They washed at the sink, then leaned against the wall to wait for food to be set out. Ellen had difficulty finding things. “Where does the sugar live, Mom?”

“This is my brother Dan,” Sudduth said as she was passing with the bowl of sugar. “Mrs. Gaddy. Ellen.”

“How do you do. Mom keeping you busy? You’ve got to watch her.” He was a head taller than Sudduth, older than he had looked from the windows, with an air of authority. His straight hair hung over his forehead, his eyes were greenish-yellow, his ears pointed at the top. His lips were thin and flat, his nose angular. His skin was olive and creased. There was a birthmark on his left cheek, and when he flushed it darkened. “That damn bull’s a beaut, Sudduth. Supposed to be delivered this morning. We’ll charge a service fee on him that’ll pay his price a few times over.”

“Let’s eat.” Mom was carrying a bowl of fried potatoes in one hand, a platter of smoking ham in the other.

When they had finished, Simon got his coat from upstairs, for he would set out with Dennie to school. There was over a mile to walk. He stood in the doorway and his blue eyes settled on Ellen. “Bye now, Ma.” He picked up the yellow cat mewling at his feet.

“You tell the teacher who you are proper, Simon.”

“I will, Ma.”

“Say you’re living at the Wasilewski farm.”

“I know.”

Dan rolled a cigarette, leaning back. “You like horses, boy?”

“Oh yes, Mester.” Simon spilled the cat to the floor. “What can I do?”

“You groom them every night. Will you do that?”

“Mornings too, Mester? You won’t find a loose hair.”

“Call me Dan,” the man was laughing. “We’ll see what else we can find for you.”

The boys ran off and Ellen said, “He’s proud to just lay his hands on a horse.”

The day had begun. When the beds were made and the kitchen floor scrubbed, Ellen scoured the white refrigerator and the electric stove. She washed the white-painted wood cabinets that lined the walls. “Pop made those,” Adele said, “three years ago. They got the notion one night when Mom was reading the Farm Woman’s Magazine. Dan and Sudduth put the old pantry cupboards in the shed for machine parts.”

The brothers drifted in at noon, hobnail boots clacking on the floors, preoccupied in talk of the new bull that had arrived by truck. They ate hastily, hurrying out. Mom said the hens were to be deloused. The county agent advised it. The women caught each bird by the leg, shook the can of powder over it and turned it loose so it escaped to the yard, shaking its feathers, clucking indignant. Dust from the litter mingled with the powder and hung in the air. The women sneezed. Mom’s face was hot. “The roosts have to be scrubbed down next.”

At supper Ellen was tired. When she finished her plate, a cat jumped on her lap. She let it remain for she saw it was the custom. It was purring, kneading its paws. Simon joined in the clamor and Ellen was bending her thoughts to how different these ways were from the house where she had been raised.

“Come play for us, Uncle Dan,” Dennie was coaxing.

The girls joined, “Thing ‘Thay, Darling, Thay,’ Uncle Dan.”

“Tomorrow, you pesky kids,” he shouted over the din. “We have to check on the bull right now. Coming, Sudduth?” He was charging through the door.

The next morning the tractor roared out of the barnyard, Dan perched in the driver’s seat. “Land,” Mom was laughing, “he does love that machine.”

“It’s a good day to start the spring plowing,” said Ellen. “The land’s thawed good.”

“They’re not plowing yet,” Mom said. “They’ll wait till February.”

“I’ve heard folks say it ruins land for seven years to plow in January. Pa ne’er held to that notion. He plowed when he had a mind to.”

“Sakes, Ellen.” Mom was amused. “That’s not it. It’s the house. We’ve got a busy year laid out here. Adele’s going to have her own home. Her and Sudduth.” She was turning to Adele. “He went by already with the team and the scoop. Did you see him?”

“Sudduth’s just raring,” said Adele.

“We’ve got to be ready to paint and all in late summer, Ellen. So Adele and him and the kids can get moved in the fall.”

“I want everything to be perfect when we leave, Mom.” Adele was earnest.

They told Ellen that lumber was stored at the warehouse in Hidden Creek; part had been bought in fall when cash crops had been sold and part was still on credit against the early wheat crop. “There’s kegs of nails and rolls of tar paper and shingles in the shed. They drew the plans out on paper.” Mom was proud. “There’s going to be another big event here in the fall.” Mom’s eyes gleamed secret. “Wait and see.”

At mid-morning Ellen was busy. “I declare at this iron, it’s so light.” She skimmed over the clothes swiftly, laid them folded and smooth on the newspaper-covered table.

“It sure is a help having you here, Ellen.” Mom was mending, a wicker basket beside her. “Makes me feel old though, not doing my own work.”

“Only I forget about the cord and keep walking off with the iron.”

The kitchen door slammed. “It’s me,” Dan’s voice shouted. The sound of running water came.

“You’ll see, he’s had trouble with the tractor,” Mom said.

“The tractor turned over on me.” His voice was muffled. “Cut myself.”

“That suits you fine, Dan,” Mom called. “He can play now. Nothing suits him like when some piece of equipment won’t work and he can get his head under it. Rather do that than work.”

“You don’t have to shout. I hear you.” Dan appeared in the doorway, rubbing his face with a white turkish towel, a gash on his browned forehead. He was shaking his head, cocky. “Ellen, you think my family’s crazy?”

When she was washing the supper dishes she heard the tinny sound of the piano in the sitting room. Simon was behind her at the kitchen table leafing through his new schoolbooks, waiting for her. “Wonder who that is playing?” she asked him.

“That’s Dan. I’ve ne’er heard that song, Ma.” Simon smiled, his blue eyes curious.

She put the plates away. “It’s right melancholy.”

A spanish cavalier stood in his retreat

And on his guitar played a tune, dear

The music so sweet would ofttimes repeat

The blessings of my country and you, dear

O say, darling say, when I’m far away

Sometimes you may think of me, dear

Bright sunny days will soon fade away

Remember what I say and be true, dear

Ellen was hanging up the dishcloth. “Let’s go hear the music.”

“Can we?”

“This is our home,” she said with dignity, “while we’re here.”

From his easy chair, Sudduth was bemoaning, “We’ve got to clean out the barns again. Get it on the fields before plowing. Jesus, we’re going to be strapped with work this year.”

Dan looked up at Ellen as she came in, his eyes golden in his lined dark face. “Wish it would rain liquid manure for a whole week. Save us some trouble.” His lean fingers ran over the keys tenderly.

She sat down in the rocker by the windows. On the table beside her was a tall glass bell, exhibiting underneath a stuffed red bird with black wings and tail, its eyes bright glass. Ellen was looking down at her hands in her lap. She had an inflexible manner about her, seldom laughing easily even with her son. It was as if she had been bruised once and armed herself against a recurrence. And when she would make her hair into braids in the morning, winding, and fastening with tortoise shell pins, she would pull tightly. There was an unconscious satisfaction to the act as though it were easing a guilt. Ellen held herself at times almost like one righteous. She was glancing at the scarlet tanager under the bell, wondering who had shot it. Vaguely she was listening to the words the man sang. They differed from those Penny had taught Ellen.

When your heart was mine, true love

And your head lay on my breast

You could make me believe

By the falling of your arm

That the sun rose up in the west

22

The weather turned brisk, the temperature fell, the dew had frozen in a white sprinkle. Mouths of animals and men steamed. The excavation for the cellar of the new house had been completed, a square gash in a rise of land at the far end of the farm. “Now let it freeze,” Mom was saying. “They can still lay cinder-block.”

“It’s like a dream come true,” said Adele, “them building our house. Land.”

The little girls had spread old mail-order catalogs on the kitchen floor. They cut and snipped, squabbling. “It’th mine. You shut up, booby.”

“You see, Mom?” Adele pleaded. “It’s not right you should have to put up with this commotion.”

Ellen was savoring the friendly companionship of the two women. The girls she had known—her sister, Lily Garrett, even Amanda York—had been younger than she. And they had leaned on her. She could never look up to them or turn to them for advice. There was a freshness in her relationship with these older women.

“Just wait till Ellen sees my roses, Adele. They’re a sight, all pink and white.”

“You know, Ellen, Pop can tell to the exact how many flowers each bush has every year,” Adele said.

“Keeps it in his head.”

They worked, their hands busy in the baking, they talked idly, “He’ll say, this white rose had only fifty-one buds last year.”

“Every rose, he’ll count.”

The cold air rushed in as the door opened. “There. That cake fell,” said Mom. “Land o’ Goshen, I’m peeved.” Dan came in, leading Simon, who was tear-stained. “You will slam doors on baking day, Dan.”

“Dammit. Sorry, Mom. He bumped his knee, Ellen. Fell down.”

Simon was pulling his torn pants leg up to reveal a soiled bruise. He held his tongue between his lips; phlegm was dripping from his nose. “Hit don’t hurt now,” he mourned. Ellen washed the wound. Her mind was apart from the accident. Wonder why Dan came in with Simon. He needn’t have. Simon’s ten and not a baby. Maybe Dan’s thinking on me. I don’t want him. Nor any man. She was wrapping the strip of cloth about the knee.

Dan was lighting one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. “Press my suit today, Mom, will you? I’m taking Star to the grange dance.”

“All right, Dan.”

As the two went out Mom shouted, “And don’t slam it.”

“Star’s his girl,” Adele was telling Ellen. “She’s lots younger than him.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Mom said. “She’s nearly nineteen.”

“And Dan’s over forty.”

“Wish they’d set the date,” said Mom. “Keeps me on edge.”

“You think Star’ll settle down to being a farmer’s wife?” Adele asked. “After all, she’s used to a maid doing the work. Why, I bet she can’t cook even.”

“She loves him. That’s what counts.”

“She’s an only child. She gets whatever she wants.”

“Star’s so pretty,” Mom told Ellen.

“Her folks have spoiled her,” said Adele. “But Dan’s crazy about her.”

“Marrying will settle her. She’s the nicest looking girl in the countryside.” Mom was complacent.

“Dan wants his bull to have the best blood lines. He’s got to have the latest machinery, the newest hybrid seed.” Adele sawed the air with a flour-streaked hand. “I wouldn’t be his wife.”

“Well, you’ve got Sudduth.”

“Praise the Lord,” Adele was laughing, an edge to her voice.

“When are they getting married?” Ellen asked, quiet in her relief, detached.

“Didn’t I tell you there might be a big event this fall? The date’s not fixed, but when the house is built, there’ll be nothing to stop them.”

“Sudduth figures that’s why Dan’s in such a stew to get the cellar dug.”

“Now there. I forgot the eggs,” Mom was saying. “They have to be gathered at ten, two, and after supper. Maybe you’d better take over that job too, Ellen.”

* * *

Every Saturday afternoon Ellen would find an envelope on her dresser, in it four and a half dollars. When she laid them in her drawer she felt a wealth and a peace. She was moving less uncertainly in the new household. She was the hired girl and the value set on her talents gave her a self-respect. On Sundays, Pop, Mom, Adele and the three children would go to the Presbyterian church in Hidden Creek, Adele driving the Dodge car. Sudduth and Dan would work on the new house. Ellen walked out with Simon to see the farm, for during the week she was too busy. Simon showed her the gray horses he groomed and she patted sleek brown-and-white cows, fastened in metal stanchions, munching hay, their tongues curling about the wisps. “Aren’t those stalls modern, Ma?” They passed the hog lot where white-banded pigs were squealing and snuffling at a trough of water in the cement lot. “They’re not dish-faced like Granddaddy’s pigs.”

“I see they’re not. They’re a different kind.” The shouts of the men were faint on the air, mingled with the low lonesome bawl of the new bull. Some day I’ll tell Simon what Pa did. And why we had to leave.

“Wonder how little Rhodie is, Ma?”

“Oh, Simon.”

“And fat old Pie. And Leona. If their hoofs are cut regular.”

“I don’t know. You still honing after them?” Reckon I’ll tell him sometime what Pa did to my goats, cutting their throats. “You miss your granddaddy?” She was looking off to the bowl of sky. The far calls floated and echoed in it.

“Reckon he was e’er good to me.”

“It’s nice here, on this place.”

“And there was old Jack. I set store by him.”

“Dennie’s feist is pretty.”

“He’s a scrappy thing.”

“Well.” They walked back.

* * *

Dan wore a white shirt on Saturday nights, with a blue detachable collar. He knotted on a brash necktie and brushed his shoes, stood at the doorway to the sitting room where the family convened. He seemed older to Ellen when dressed in the brown suit, his lean body pinched into tight cloth, the tough skin of his face emphasized. He was leaning against the frame, the birthmark a dull red. He tapped tobacco into thin paper, licked the edge, twirled the ends, all in a quick motion. “How’s this tie, Ellen? Too loud? Think my girl will take a second look?”

“I reckon.” She was patting the cat, inwardly disturbed.

“Well, if she was smart,” Sudduth mocked, “she’d run the other way fast, wouldn’t she Pop?”

The old man cackled. Ellen felt stiff and plain, smiled faintly as Dan walked out. I’d never be that Star.

On weekday nights Dan played the piano. His energy was contagious, it was as if his day had just begun. In the lamp glow their faces turned to where he sat.

There are many flags in many lands

There are flags of every hue

But there is no flag however grand

Like our own red white and blue

The family were joining in, swept away by his exuberance and health. Sometimes Ellen sang with them.

Then hurrah for the flag, our country’s flag

Its stripes and white stars too

There is no flag in any land

Like our own red white and blue

She was saying, “I know a languishing one, Dan. ‘Lord Lovel.’ You know it?”

“I can play the tune if you’ll sing.”

“All right.” He found the keys easily.

They like me here. She dwelled on it. It’s not like home where Pa jeered when I sang Penny’s songs and Ma never heard me.

Lady Nancy she died as it might be today

Lord Lovel he died tomorrow

Lady Nancy she died out of pure pure grief

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow

It was the first week in March, on a warm windy day, when the bees swarmed. Pop had on an old hat decked with a bee veil, he was wearing long gloves and had tied strings around the bottoms of his overalls. He carried a smoker to still the swarm that hung like a living sack on an oak branch. Ellen saw him from the window. He stooped and moved until finally the bees were in the new hive, their angry droning muffled, subsiding. The old man came in, taking off the veil. “Hee. Only got one sting.”

“My sister Frankie and me used to beat pie pans and make a racket when our bees wanted to swarm.”

“How come?”

“That’s so the workers can’t hear the queen calling.”

“Did it keep them in the home hive?”

“Two-three times it did. But the queen’s call is strong.”

“Don’t tell the boys. They’d call it a superstition. They go by the book too much for me.” His teeth flashed through his beard.

Before going up to bed, Ellen went out into the night. There was a light fog. She was curious about the bees, went to listen to the new hive. From it came a faint contented purr. She laid her hand on the wood. It’s like they’re one creature, like the whole drove’s got but one mind. Her hand was feeling the movement within, the insects changing position endlessly. While she was standing enclosed in the darkness, she heard Dan humming as he came back from the barnyard. His boots rasped on the pathway. She was waiting for him to pass but he sensed a presence, and stopped. “Who is it?”

“It’s me. Ellen.” She could see the coal of his cigarette. The air was balmy, brought up during the day from the south.

“The wind’s laid,” he said. Overhead a twisted sliver of moon was freeing itself from dodging clouds. The starlight was dim, pulling at the mist gently. “What are you doing?”

“Feeling the bees move. The hive’s like an animal.”

“That’s so. It is.” She heard his body settling against a tree trunk.

“Like it’s bedded down for the night.”

The silence dwelled while she waited on him. “What happened to your husband, Ellen?”

“He died.”

“How?”

She was seeking his face, but there was blackness. “He was killed.”

“I see. How?”

After a while she said, “It was in the haying time. He was down on the wagon bed.” The words were dragged up from some other part of her. She watched that part of her talk on, fumbling, “He had a watch-eye man hired to him. That man pitched the fork down and it stuck him between the shoulders.” The fog was rising, the moon slid away in clouds. Her tongue stumbled along of itself. “When they reached him, they say he was dead already.”

“I’m sorry.”

Something welled in her then, born of loneliness. It caught high in her throat. “No. I ne’er had a husband.” She wept. But she was eased. She was speaking of Christian Ay and how she couldn’t recall if he was tall or if his hair was brown. It had happened to her when she went to see a horse belonging to the farmer he worked for. Her letters had come back unopened. Ellen’s tears stopped then, and her voice. She began to hate the man hidden behind the black curtain. A shame was rising in her so she felt her face heat.

His voice was flat. “Windy days like this one’s been can bring on a cyclone.” He hummed slowly.

Some call her Lady Nancy Belle

Some call her the Lady Nancy, Nancy

Some call her the Lady Nancy

A twig broke under his foot, he ceased in the middle of the tune. “A cyclone’s a sight to see, Ellen. You should watch my kid brother run when one comes. You ever have them in Kentucky?” He paused for an answer, and resumed, “Star’s home was right in the path of one last year. Her father lost a bull valued at five thousand. He’s a big Jersey breeder.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Al Webster’s his name.”

“Webster?” Ellen remembered. “Webster’s Stock Farm?”

“That’s it. You’ve heard of it?”

“You know a Luke Dougherty?”

“Sure. Tall fellow, black-haired. Runs one of the barns.”

“Luke’s wife’s a close friend of mine. They live near Weems Crossroads.” All the time the echo of her voice rang in her ears: I ne’er had a husband. I ne’er had a husband.

“I’ll drive you over sometime to see her, if you want. It’s only twenty miles or so. Come along when I go see my girl some Sunday. I’ll drop you off.”

“I hear your girl’s a beauty.” He’ll tell everyone.

“Hell, Star’s got more than beauty. She’s exciting.” His voice was heavy.

Ellen thought how it was full of love. When he goes about the farm here, Star bides in him. She softens his movements like the way Penny and Luke love each other. And when he plants the wheat, his mind’s but a part on his work. And when Sudduth and he laid the cement in the cellar, he was thinking all the while, each day’s bringing me closer to when Star’s my bride. Why did I tell him I wasn’t married?

The yellow flash from a match spurted, making shadows streak over his bent face. The smoke filtered through the warm fog. “It’s just the past year Star’s mother hasn’t had to sit by her bed when she goes to sleep.” He was tender, boastful. “She’s afraid of the dark.”

There came to Ellen’s mind the little donkey Luke had led up the lane. They had gathered around it as a wonderful thing and set baby Clate on its back. Star Webster’s father had given it to Luke when his daughter tired of it.

The red ash glowed. Dan’s harsh voice was there. “Even that’s exciting about her.” His voice drifted in the south air, “I’m glad you kept your son with you, Ellen. Instead of giving him away like lots of women would have done. Shows you’ve got strength.”

“It’s a secret.” It sounded thin and anxious as she said it.

“I won’t let it out.” Then his voice lowered, “Simon’s a good boy. You taught him manners, too.”

“Well. Good night.”

“Good night, Ellen.”

She went into the house and to her bedroom. I’m a jawing fool. In the morning when Dan came into the kitchen she managed to avoid speaking to him. But he shouted down the length of the table, “Can I have the butter, Ellen? Let’s see that grape jelly, Ellen.”

She averted her eyes, passing the plates. I don’t like him one bit.

23

The storm was already forming. The radio reported a twister passing briefly through a small town in Kansas. Throughout the troposphere of the Midwest certain conditions prevailed as the ancient pattern of the spawning of the tornadoes got under way. In corners of the Southwest, winds were gathering and moving across the continent; they drove warm wet air before them in a mass hovering close to the earth. In the fluctuations of these winds, gigantic columns of air would rise rapidly, a mile or so in diameter. At the spreading foot of these tall clouds, rain would gather and often local storms occurred under them. To complete the scheme, eight kilometers above ground the cold jet stream was rushing constantly in from the West at tremendous speed. This was the pattern. And when the summit of a rising cloud was hit by the jet stream, it began to twist counterclockwise. The movement was transferred in a spiral down the length of the column into the ugly widespread base. A whirling funnel of great power would lick downward. This was a tornado.

It sucked dust and stones, any object not fastened down. Its duration was from a few minutes to sixty or more. And no one could predict where it would strike. People who lived in these areas had a way of watching the sky during certain months. If there was a sudden drop in temperature or the sky darkened, if the wind rose, they fastened barn doors and herded their families into rooms where shades were pulled, or into cellars. It happened so fast that sometimes there wasn’t enough time and they were caught in the open. And if a noise was heard suddenly like a monstrous machine at high speed, they might pray as they crouched, waiting.

A few miles from Hidden Creek, Illinois, a gray-white cloud pillar was rising now, churning. Rain clouds at its base were low-spread and frowning. Over the land it became so dark that twilight descended though it was mid-afternoon. Ellen Gaddy was gathering eggs. “It’s making up a storm, biddy,” she said to the hens, “I heard the raincrow just this morning.”

Adele was shopping in Hidden Creek. Sudduth was distracted because she had taken the girls with her in the Dodge. Hannah had a stye and they planned to stop at the doctor’s. “I said, Adele, it’s fixing to storm. You ought to stay home,” Sudduth was explaining. “She should do what I say. I’m supposed to be wearing the pants.”

“Adele’s smart,” Pop soothed. “She’s all right.”

Pop and Mom and the boys were going down the cellar stairs, Sudduth pushing them before him. Ellen followed. Dennie was carrying the feist dog and Simon three cats. “Get a move on, Simon,” Sudduth was muttering, “Hurry.” Then on the last step he tripped, sprawling on the cement. “God damn it.” His voice was shrill, near tears.

“We’d pull the shades and stay in the house because of lightning.” Ellen went over to Mom. “But we ne’er would go down to the cellar.”

“Land, we always do.”

Pop and Dennie sat with Simon on a crate in a corner. Sudduth was rubbing his back. He leaned on the wall and whined, “Don’t you be sick now, Dennie, or I’ll swat your bottoms.” He ran his hand nervously across his face.

The boy laid his small head in the fur of the dog. He was pale. Pop turned to him, “Say, Dennie. Let’s you and me buy a sofa. Might as well set the storms out comfortable.”

Then Ellen remembered. “Where’s Dan?”

“He was working,” Sudduth said, “on the dump rake last I saw. I hollered to him to come.” He was rubbing his palm across his face again. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll go see.” Ellen ran up the stairs.

“Ellen,” Mom called.

“I’ll be all right.” The sky was massed with rolling cloud of blue and green and purple. In the north, lightning erupted in a yellow flare and the blacked clouds hanging before were outlined. A jagged orange bolt cracked through them. She was exhilarated. It’s a sight. And those folks are all hiding from it. She heard a rushing noise. The wind was coming. It tore at her hair, loosing it from its bonds. Within her, joy leaped again, like youth and first experience. And underneath she quailed. She was rounding the corner of the barn, running toward the shed.

She heard his shout and Dan was in the wide barn doorway, scowling, booted feet spread. His black hair was wild, the wind had whipped his shirt out, the birthmark burned like a new wound. He cried again, “You damn fool.” She was stopping, poised.

He strode out and pulled her arm, hurrying her to the barn. She protested, “I was afraid for you.”

“For me? You fool.” He was roaring above the wind. “Dammit. Look there.” He pointed at an inky cloud where a tongue licked downward and retreated. “That’s a twister.” Like a long thick snake it shot down to the earth and a whining roar commenced.

Dan’s hand was gripping hers. They were dashing to the stalls in the middle of the barn. She was suddenly afraid. “Now they’d talk of cyclones, but I ne’er saw one before, Dan.”

Swiftly, in the dull light, in the musty smell of the unused stable, he had his arms about her. His yellow-green eyes glittered, laughing, “Lady Nancy Belle.”

It came upon Ellen the way Craig Hedrick was grabbing with a band of steel while she struggled. That had haunted her dreams so she would awake in a sweat sometimes. And there was Uncle Garland’s hand seeking incestuous under her coat that lonely winter, so she had to drive the memory from her, suppress it, divorce it from her uncle whom she loved for his goodness. These things flooded up when she saw Dan’s weathered face, his shut eyes and hawknose, the red scar bending. She fought, violent, her hands hard against his blue shirt. “Bullying bastard.” The words were framed out of fright, without volition.

He shoved her against the stall’s side planking, furious because her struggle disconcerted him. “You little bitch, what do you mean? You’ve been licking after me ever since you came.”

“That’s not so.”

“Dammit, Ellen. You aren’t going to get raped again. You’re not that lucky.” His yell was coming under the hurricane wind. He was gripping her arms, forcing his hard mouth against hers.

By the stiffness of her lips and body, she resisted. But suddenly it all was falling away and a gentle hotness came up within her. She was parting her mouth and his tongue was seeking its softness. She moved her arms, laid them about his neck, holding him, feeling the coarse hair at her fingers. Wish I was Star. And there was the distant storm racket.

He let her go, laughed regretful, “What were those names I called you? Dammit, Ellen, you are pretty. I never noticed that.” She felt it too, though her dark-blue dress was long and her low-cut shoes soiled because she wore them at her work about the Leghorns. “I never saw you before. Look at your hair. The wind’s blown it out.”

Hail clattered on the galvanized tin roof. Thunder rolled. She leaned upon the worn wood of the manger, where bites of cribbing horses had made notches during long winters. She was putting her hand to her yellow hair, tucking it up while he watched. The thing that had happened, she felt it. How she would never be rigid and tied again, how she was free. Courage had replaced her hidden fears. Then it was that she came up to kiss Dan. And she put her head against his opened shirt, his tall strength, she felt the even thrusts of his heart. His hard arms were holding her and he stroked her hair. “The rain’s come,” she said, “it’s all o’er.”

“Did you see that twister come out of that cloud?” He was releasing her.

“First one I e’er saw, Dan.”

“We’re safe for another year, now. They never come twice.”

“Why’s that?”

“The law of averages.” He was going down the aisle then to the doorway. “The rain’s letting off.”

She was following, seeing the cuff was untucked from one of his heavy boots, the smoke of his cigarette drifting blue. “What are you looking at, Dan?”

“Nothing. Smells good. I like a storm, even a mean one.” He looked down at her, absent.

“I always did too.” The wind rode on bright clouds. She felt he was many miles away. Wonder if he’s thinking on Star. Well, I don’t care.

They went into the light drizzle, met the family streaming from the house. “You scared me, Ellen,” Mom shouted. “You two all right?”

“Was there a storm?” Dan cried. Ellen laughed. Dennie and Simon skipped, whooping.

“I heard it,” Sudduth frowned. “Bet it went through Hidden Creek. Adele could be killed.”

“Oh, Sudduth,” Mom said.

“And the girls.” Sudduth added.

“Now,” said Pop.

“And she’s with child.”

“What’s that?” Pop said.

“No, she’s not,” Mom was soothing.

“She’d have told us, Sudduth. She was just taking Hannah for that stye.”

“She didn’t want it. She tried to kill it with vinegar.” Sudduth leaned his skinny body forward eager, his thinning hair damp, his black eyes full of tears. “She was going to try arsenic.”

“But a baby.” Mom twisted her hands. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, we have our own affairs, you know.”

“I’m going to have a look around.” Dan was striding off.

The two boys came running. “The lines are down. And one of the chicken sheds is a sight.”

“Let’s go see,” Sudduth led the way. His parents came behind, whispering.

The people moved about Ellen, words were spoken, but it was as if it flowed separate from her, reached her through a blurred wall. Everything was new, everything changed. She went to the field where the Leghorns were kept. She righted an overturned coop, discovering a dead hen under it. The rest were huddled safely beneath a shed. She got a dipper of cracked grain. The white flock was coming up one by one, clucking, bobbing brilliant red combs and wattles, discarding their fright as they pecked the seed in the clean afternoon sunlight.

I came down the mountainside

Give my horn a blow

Everywhere them pretty girls

Says yonder goes my beau

I went down in the valley green

To win to me my love

When I was done with that pretty little girl

She turned to a turtledove

The tongue that Ellen and Dan saw had spun over a path fifty yards wide, catching a neighbor’s cow shed from an angle, sucking rafters aloft, strangling a cow while her bull calf brayed feebly below. It had prowled across the level land, come upon turkeys in a corn field, the gobbler shrieking insanely, flapping, trailed by his harem of hens. They were sucked into the wind like dust. Green oat shoots were rooted out so that when the field ripened later there was a clean swath across its bottom third. Varied incidents had occurred; a nest of newborn rabbits was flipped up, numbers of birds that clung to fence corners were torn loose and pounded into obstructions, the mortality among the insect life was untold. It had circled Hidden Creek. Adele was at the doctor’s office, calling to say she would be home as soon as her shopping was finished.

“That’s fine,” Sudduth said in a low voice to Mom and Pop in the doorway. “That God-damn stair. I wrenched my back good.” Through coming years he would try out different chiropractors. For weeks at a time the pain would recede, then each movement would drive a dull fire as he dragged his way about the farm. The family would laugh at his self-concern, taking it as Sudduth’s way. He talked about “that first twister of thirty-six,” like men talk of a battle. When he spoke to his children’s children, putting a hand on the small of his back, it would seem to them that Sudduth had by himself stemmed a tornado in its path.

Mom stood apart now from her younger son, whispered irritably to Pop, “That boy’s still a baby. You know, I’ll be glad when they all clear out to the new house. I plumb admire Adele for the way she puts up with him.”

The next evening a chill wind was blowing. Ellen went to her room for a sweater. The furnace was not stoked in these spring days and there were no fireplaces. As she was coming out, putting it on, she saw Dan leaping softly up the stairs, two at a time. He laughed, catching her arm, pushing her back into her room. There he was kissing her. She breathed to him, “You know what I read in the Bible? Dan’s a lion’s whelp.”

“Ellen. Your lips are soft.” He put his finger on them. A hot flood was taking her breath. He was loosing her, chucking her chin. “And I’ve got a date. Dammit, Star gets her dander up if I’m late. I’m out of gas, too. I’ll have to stop on the way.”

Ellen went down the steps to the kitchen where the dishes waited. Jealousy was rankling, but her gray eyes were mellow. I’d not get my dander up, was he late. Through days to follow, Dan would come on her, take her aside to kiss her. If she went out in the night, sometimes he followed. And if she knew he was in the tool shed, she went to see if the chicken house door beyond was locked. If he met her in the hallway, alone, he led her back to her room. They heard footsteps passing in the hall as his mouth lay on hers. He bided his time, careful, waiting on her shyness. “Come here, honey.”

So the days of March went by, and April started. Spring, and Dan’s in the same world with me. Ellen and Adele were laying out the kitchen garden. Ellen’s hands in the earth were like a mother’s. She had never seen such black rich soil. She held a clod, kneeling in her soiled damp skirt. She was crumbling it. “Look here, Adele. Ne’er a stone or pebble. Where I used to live they’ve got stone fences every way you turn. Sometimes a rock grows so big in a field they plow in a ring about it. Sam Offut claimed those rocks were nailed to the center of the world where the fire is. To hold the earth together.”

“Land.”

“Sam was full of tales. This is a fine garden.”

“I call it a dirty job, though. I’d rather work at the house, Ellen. I like my hands clean. Dirt makes them dry and the nails break easy.”

“I don’t mind.” Ellen was putting her hands down in the soft loam she had spaded.

Adele brooded. “I’m going to have another baby.”

“I’m glad for you.”

“That Sudduth. He won’t let me alone.”

“I always liked the Scarlet Globe radish. It’s the first one up.”

“When I just got home from the hospital with Grace, there he was, hanging his pants on the bedpost. First thing.”

“Wonder if it’s too early for sweet corn? We could put in a few rows.”

“Hannah came when Grace was only ten months old.”

“You’re supposed to put it in by sundown on the tenth of May.”

“That man.”

The breeze sprang up like a promise, stirring the hair of the women. Ellen knelt in the earth, her friend stood tall and hurt, the seed unfolding within her. The circle of sky was porcelain blue. A lone hawk held his wings still and floated away.

* * *

On Sunday Ellen spoke up at the breakfast table, “Would there be room in the car for me and Simon to go along? I’d like to see how the Presbyterians do.”

“You can have my place,” Pop said, “I’m mulching roses today.”

“Oh, Ma,” Simon complained.

“You’ll save Ellen yet from us heathen,” Dan said.

“I saw the sermon in the paper.” Pop was pounding his knife. “He’s taking the text, what is man?”

“I know that one,” Ellen said. “Thou madest him a little lower than the angels.”

“Ma sure knows her Bible,” said Simon to Dennie. “She’s e’er preaching it at me.”

“Simon, that’s not so.”

“I’ll learn you the song, Ellen,” Dennie was crying, “I want to live in a royal way, as a child of a king should live.”

“Tell you, Dennie, she can convert me,” Dan grinned, his eyes yellow in the early sun flooding across the table.

“And I will too.” Ellen got up to fill the milk pitcher. Her hand brushed over the top of his black head. She saw Mom start. She filled the pitcher. Now why did I do that?

Adele loaned Ellen a hat and Simon put on a fresh shirt. They were piling into the old car. Mom’s ample form filled the seat by Adele and the others sat in back. The sermon was dull. The minister was a wan tired man. “Yes, what is man?” he queried, “that Thou art mindful of him? Yes.” He said it as if he believed the question presumptuous. Ellen thought the service uneventful compared to a Catholic mass. She rose at each hymn time, stretching her shoulders.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide

The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide

When other helpers fail and comforts flee

Help of the helpless, Lord, abide with me

Simon shuffled his feet. Mom and Adele separated the little girls, who giggled, black eyes squinting up. Ellen looked around. I reckon it’s that people like to gather together. It’s their nature, the way sheep go in a band. Lambs of God. And I’m a solitary. They were driving home. Her curiosity was sated and she stayed at the farm thereafter.

It was the middle of April when Dan remembered his promise. He had come in for dinner, his hands smudged with cup-grease, his pants streaked. “Damn tractor again,” he was growling happily. “Ought to sue Ford for misrepresenting that pile of tin.”

“Pass down the biscuits,” Sudduth cried. “Dan, let’s raise the studs this afternoon.”

“Don’t you make a mistake now, boys,” Mom said gravely, “and get the back door to the front. Land.”

“Say, Ellen,” Dan was calling, “I’m going up near Weems Crossroads tomorrow. Want to go see Luke Dougherty’s wife?”

Ellen flushed. “There. I do.”

“Are you going to Webster’s?” Mom asked him. “And visit Star?”

“No. A fellow up there’s got sheep. I thought we might start a few lambs.”

“Better stop in to see Star,” Mom said. “Since you’re going to be up that way.”

“Sheep.” Pop was sipping his coffee through his beard. “Thought this was a dairy farm.”

“I might, Mom,” Dan said.

“It’th dripping, Pop.” Grace pointed to the coffee in his white beard. Hannah snickered.

“Girls,” cried Adele. “Manners at table. I’ll get a switch.”

“Dan, you stop in at Webster’s.” Mom’s voice was persistent. “A pretty girl needs attention.”

“We’ll leave as soon as the morning work’s done, Ellen,” Dan said. “Let’s go now, Sudduth. Get those studs up.”

“Dan,” Mom warned, as the door snapped shut.

“Sheep will ruin pasture faster than anything,” Pop said. “Pull the grass out by the roots.” He was wiping his beard where it was wet and yellowed. “Why don’t you two girls quiet down?”

“I wish he was little again so I could spank him, Pop. He’s so stubborn.”

Before Ellen and Dan drove off in the morning, he threw ropes into the bed of the truck on the litter of dry manure and straw. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled, it was unbuttoned at the neck. His face was constrained, the cheek lines tight. As they made a turn onto the main highway, the wheels shrilled. Ellen caught at the door handle. He grunted, “My mother. Women. What a nagger.”

“Oh Dan.”

“Go see Star. What’ll Mr. Webster think? Forever butting in.” He was tapping the wheel with his thumbs, the line of his lips wrathful.

“Mom doesn’t mean anything.” All the day with him.

“Let her run my kid brother. Not me. She won’t stop. I’ll be an old man and she’ll be doing it.”

“Don’t be that way,” Ellen coaxed, hopeful.

“Shut up.”

Ellen’s anger lifted and she pushed it down. The drowsy odor of flowers was flooding through the open window, and of verdant wheat spears and growing fields. The breeze stirred dust on the floor. She was leaning back against the cool leather, watching trees flash by. With her shoe she felt the tin cake pan holding a three-layer cake for Penny’s children. A bird warbled and dipped before the truck, a darting of gray. “That’s a catbird. Dennie told me. We don’t have them in Kentucky. It mocks the other birds and it mews like a cat.” She sighed.

He made no reply. The brooding silence grew as they covered the roadways swiftly. He raised his hand once and she glanced over. He was running his strong fingers over his hair that rose coarse. His lean legs were taut, his hips high on the seat, poised. His thin nostrils were spread. He’s honing for a fight, like a feisty bull. And he’s driving too fast.

“It’s along this road a ways,” she was saying, then she pointed. “There it is. That’s the Doughertys.” The house was set back near the crab apple tree at the head of the winding lane; a wing newly built at the back had changed its contour. “You want to meet Penny, Dan?”

“I’m out to buy sheep, remember?” He was lifting his eyebrows, the beak of his nose haughty. “I’ll be back to pick you up about three. I’ve got to get home for chores.”

“I’ll be waiting here. In the roadway. So you won’t have to bother to drive to the house.” She slammed the door, went down the lane swiftly, her cake pan on one arm. The truck ground its gears and whirled down the road. Ellen’s cheeks were red, she breathed deeply. She saw Penny coming into the open doorway of the house, a baby on her arm, shielding her eyes from the sun glare. The woman appeared frail, her face that had been soft was sharper-featured, the skin dry. She came to meet Ellen.

“Luke and me were talking about you last night. How’s that Simon?”

“He’s big, Penny.” She was looking at the child in the blanket. “What do you call this least one?”

“Jess. He’s a bit peaked.”

Ellen took the bundle. The child was like a tiny aged man. It slept, scarcely breathing. “Say.”

“I was right ill while carrying him. Have you come to spend the day, Ellie? You know how I always was one for company. Ernie,” she was calling, “stay out of the kitchen, now. Blossom, you watch him.”

“I brought a cake for the youngens.”

“There, Ellie.”

“How’s your goats? How’s old Tiny?”

“Tiny died. Must have been three years ago. But there’s a daughter out of her, Little Tiny. We got fifteen head now.”

“Where’s the donkey?”

“We let him go when times got bad. The boys’ll show you around after a spell.”

“Where are Clate and Anse?”

“In the orchard. Blossom’s minding Ernie for me. He’s ailing today. She’s good with him.” Blossom was in the doorway, brushing her unkempt hair from her face, her eyes soft like a rabbit’s. She was eight, sober with responsibility.

“Blossom,” Ellen was calling, “I brought you a daisy cake.” The child smiled politely and retreated.

“She’s not used to folks,” Penny said.

“Where’s Melinda, Penny?”

“She’s been gone four years. She came down with the scarlet fever.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Four years to the month. We put a marker on her grave. Says, Under the Shadow of His Wings. Luke got it from the mail-order house.”

“I heard Luke’s in charge of one of Webster’s barns now.”

“Yes, he is. And Anse was right sick with that fever too.”

“I’m working for some folks now, Penny.”

“I was going to ask you how you got to come.” Penny was putting her arms out suddenly, “You want to give me Jess? I’ll see if he’s hungry.” She gave her breast to the baby and Ellen saw that despite her many children, Penny was still rounded with milk. Her neck was thin, the bones prominent.

A pale boy of two came out the door, clad in a short checked pinafore, his bare feet dirty. He pulled at Penny’s dress, whining. “Don’t now, Ernie,” Penny said, mild.

“You ought to let your ma be,” said Ellen. The child waved his hand, petulant, at her.

“Leave him alone,” Penny spoke sharply. She laid her hand on the boy’s cheek. “I lost a baby that came before Ernie.” The child had put his head in her lap. Ellen watched them. She’s like an old cow that has one calf after the last. And if you try to mind it for her, she’ll drive you off with her horns.

At noon, the boys came dashing in. Clate was sunburned, a brawny boy of eleven. Anse, shy and tall, shook Ellen’s hand, blushing. “The table’s too small or we’d set it proper.” He went to lean on the wall where he watched the other children eat, so that Ellen would see the way he scorned the lot of them. When they finished, Ellen cut the cake. The layers were yellow, and butter-coloring had been stirred into the frosting to make it yellow, too. They sat about in the grass and felt the breeze move.

“Wish you’d come more often, Ellie. I haven’t done a lick today,” Penny said.

Clate was clapping his hands. He tapped his foot, throwing back his curly brown hair. The children were joining in as if it was a thing they did often, gathering close to their mother.

Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man

Whipped his wife with a frying pan

Combed his head with the wagon wheels

Died with a toothache in his heel

Penny asked about Ellen’s goats. “How are they faring with you out working?”

“Pa butchered them.” She let Penny think it was done with her consent. “I miss them.”

“Now we got a kid at the barn, Ellie, for Simon. It’s Little Tiny’s. You tell Simon it belongs to him because he used to milk Old Tiny for me.”

“Simon’ll be proud, Penny.”

It was shortly after two when Ellen heard the truck’s noisy motor. Her breath caught. There he was. He drove up the lane and parked. He called, genial, as he came up, “Hello, Mrs. Dougherty. I know your husband. I’ve talked to him over at Webster’s.”

Penny held her hand out in welcome. “Howdy.”

“Come see my sheep.” High bleats were audible from the truck bed. Blossom brought Ernie out, lifting him to see the beasts with sawdust caught in the gray wool. “I bought a ram and three ewes. They’ll be breeding this fall.”

“Dog. Dog,” babbled the child.

“Now you two come again,” Penny was saying as Ellen and Dan got into the truck.

“There’ll be no holding Simon when he hears about that kid. Goodbye, Blossom.” She waved to the little boy, “Bye now, Ernie.”

“Dog.”

Penny laughed, “He’s a case.”

The cake tin was rattling on the floor. Ellen smoothed her rumpled skirt. “That Penny. I ne’er knew a body like her.”

“Got her hands full with that gang.”

“She lost two. One was a little girl I saw a few years back. A pretty one.”

“That’s no way to live. But you ask that kind of a woman. They’ll pick it again if you give them a choice.”

“That’s how some women are.”

“I suppose. You ought to know.” He was laughing at her. “Me, I like things under control.”

“You sure are acting braggy today.”

He flushed, reaching for her shoulder and pulling her beside him. “Hello.”

“Did you see Star?”

“No, I didn’t.” His hard fingers were within her dress on the tender underarm.

“Dan?” The April air was suggesting lilacs unsealing, tight dark purple buds becoming a feathery lavender, the vague pressing fragrance was turning Ellen back into the past. She was riding home in the Ford pickup from the circus, she was sixteen. She stirred now.

“What is it?”

There had been a pair of baby shoes dangling from the dashboard. It was hot in a late afternoon. The birds were still. Christian Ay was saying, “Want me to stop along the way?” It was long past, it was a dream. But the world had been new and fresh. Like today.

Then it was Dan again. He was turning off the highway onto a lane bordered by a grove of horse chestnuts. “Now then.” He was braking the truck on the grass sward beside the trees. He opened the door on his side. “Come on,” he was shouting.

They ran into the shade, under the low branches, where the grass was sun-speckled. Ellen was crying, “Smell the air.”

He was drawing her down beside him. She saw blue innocence flowers in the moist grass amid wood sorrel. He was touching his hand on her face, her hair. His eyes were greenish in the shaded light. His flat thin mouth was demanding. His fingers were large and rough and at once tender. She felt them quiver. “Ellen?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be.” And he was unskillful for Ellen had lived lonely all of her days.

Her head was on his arm, tears flowing from somewhere.

“I really didn’t know, Ellen.” They stayed there a long time. She had fallen asleep. The shadows in the chestnut branches spreading made a network. The blue was far beyond. The small flowers were bowing to the breeze, a catbird started to warble, harsh, very clear, twitching its tail. After a while another bird called back from afar. Dan was waking her. “It’s nearly four. My arm’s asleep. I was afraid I’d disturb you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

The lambs bleated from the bed of the truck. “Yes, you were.”

“All right.”

“Are you pleased?”

“We had better go.”

“We will in a minute.”

“You were ugly this morning.”

“I’m trying to show you how sorry I am. What do you think that was all about?” He was grinning.

She ran from him to the truck. He came after and swung open the door for her. He made up a cigarette while she waited; he tapped the Bull Durham pouch, pulled the drawstring with his teeth. Then they were driving homeward. She leaned into his arm until they nearly reached the Wasilewski house. She had picked a horse chestnut leaf, and showed him the print of a hoof where the leaf was torn from the twig that held it; even the horseshoe nails were there, five of them. She twirled the leaf in her fingers. She sighed, smiling at him, already regretting the incident in the grove. And him plighted to Star Webster.

24

In the morning Adele was urging her daughters through breakfast so they would be ready for church on time. Simon cried, “Wish I had my kid here, Ma. I’m naming it April for it was born this month.”

“I’ll stay at home today, Adele,” Mom said. “I want to ready up the fruit cellar. We’ll be canning before we know it. Applesauce and berries.”

The little girls clamored, “Pleathe. Let us stay too, and play with Thimon.”

“Well, I’m going,” Dennie said. “We’re hearing about that Goliath.”

“Girls,” said Adele, “I’m surprised you don’t want to hear that story too.”

“Wish April was here,” Simon was saying, “trailing after me.”

“Star’s coming for supper tonight,” said Mom.

“I forgot that.” Dan rubbed the blemish that colored the taut flesh of his cheek.

“Be nice to see Star again,” said Adele. “When was she here last?”

“Let’s see,” said Pop. “It was snowing, wasn’t it?”

“Did you meet her, Ellen?” asked Adele.

“No.” Ellen felt the hot flush creep over her face.

“Then it must have been before the thaw, Pop,” Sudduth said. “Because right after that Ellen came.”

“You’re wearing your hair a new way, Ellen,” Mom said. “It’s very nice. Soft like that around your face. You used to pin it so tight.”

Ellen hastily brushed the loose strands back. “Reckon I did.” She could sense Mom’s piercing eyes.

The men went out; Adele and the children drove to church. Ellen was working in the kitchen. She was preparing peach cobblers for dinner that night. Mason jars of peach halves glistened bright orange in the sun-shot window. While she was mixing the dough with her fingers, Mom came in, carrying a heavy book. “Have you ever seen a Polish Bible, Ellen?” Mom laid it on the table and turned to the record of family dates on the first page.

Ellen knew the woman had brought it in for a purpose. “I’ve heard that some keep their Bibles like that, Mom. Though our family ne’er did with ours.” She put her hand swiftly to her hair leaving a drift of flour.

Mom pointed to the list. “Pop’s mother brought it over from Poland. We can’t any of us read Polish, but it’s been in his family so we write everything in it.”

There were different hands, some with foreign characters, hard to decipher. The latest entry read, “Hannah Wasilewski. July 6, 1932.” Higher on the list Ellen could see in faded green ink, “Daniel Matthew Wasilewski. May 10, 1895.”

“See, there’s Sudduth’s wedding to Adele.” Mom was putting a broad finger on it. “That was clean before the depression. Now Star and Dan’ll be setting their date. It’ll say, Daniel Wasilewski took Star Webster in marriage. October first, maybe. This year.”

“That’s a fine book there.” Ellen said it coolly. I was born in 1909. That makes him fourteen years older. He’s forty-one. She felt languid because of her love. She was smiling at Mom, gray eyes narrow, hiding the secret anger.

“We know Dan’s making a good marriage, Ellen.” Mom’s cheeks were red.

“That Mr. Webster’s a rich man.”

“Look, Star suits Dan.” Mom spoke crisp. “My son loves her.”

“Reckon two cobblers’ll be enough for tonight, Mom? With company coming?”

“Better make three.” The older woman was going to put the Bible back on its shelf; her heavy body moved stolid, with decision. Ellen watched her go.

When she and Dan had come back last night from Penny’s, Dan had changed his clothes and gone directly to the barn. After supper he hurried out again with Sudduth to set up a pen for the new sheep. The two men returned at dusk, stood in the kitchen awhile talking before they went to bed. Dan paid no heed to Ellen. The yellow cat purred and mewled now about her feet while she rolled the dough deftly, fitted it into the pie tins. She thought how she disliked Mom. The woman’s hostility was palpable. She was calling out as her steps were heard descending, “I’ll be in the fruit cellar, Ellen. When you finish, come and help. We’ve got to get this straightening done if it is Sunday.”

“I will.” In a swift flood Ellen was homesick for the old kitchen in the yellow house. For Frankie and Maria nearby, the boiler steaming on the range, Jack waiting in the bushes by the porch. The goats in fresh straw in the woodshed. And her in the garden rows, singing “Down in the Valley.” Here the customs were foreign, even their manners and speech differed from what she had known. The old people had been born in a land across the water, brought their alien habits with them. They bathed in a separate room where a white tub stood on ornate legs. Everyone had his own towel, and when he bathed he would hang it on the line in the sun, even Hannah. Ellen would see Dan pinning his in the evenings, casually, pausing to light a cigarette before returning to the house. It would seem to her as if he performed a woman’s task, as if it were too clean. When she first came to this household and rolled pie crusts, Mom had showed her how the edges of the dough must be crimped by twisting the thumbs in a particular way. And when they went to kill a chicken, they laid a broomstick across its neck and yanked the legs sharply so the head was pulled off. She poured the fragrant peach halves into the pans. At first I couldn’t get over their merry ways. But there’s Adele who tried to keep from having her baby. Sudduth’s jealous of his brother. And Mom’s bent on managing them all. Dan will bring Star Webster here just like she says. They’ll write it in that Bible. Wish I could be away tonight. I don’t want to see that girl. Ellen was crimping the edges of the pies skillfully and sliding them into the oven. The yellow cat bounded after, and she caught it in her arms as she went down the cellar steps.

* * *

The lilacs on the north side of the house, outside the dining room windows, were opening their buds in the afternoon. The perfume was drifting through the house. Ellen fried the chickens while Mom helped Adele dress the girls and straighten the rooms. Ellen was setting the table, spreading first the linen cloth, cream-colored with age. She took out crystal that stood in the sideboard and heavy-plated silver, placed it as Mom had directed, the knife and spoon on the right side with blade turned to the plate, the fork on the left. Simon came in. “Who’s Star Webster?”

“She’s a friend of theirs, Simon.”

“Dennie says she’s Dan’s sweetheart.”

Ellen was laying small butter knives in front of the plates. “Well.”

“That’s fancy there, Ma. The way you’re doing.” Simon was grown so his head came above Ellen’s shoulder. He was over ten now.

She put goblets at the knife tips and turned to him. “You eat proper. No swooshing your food with a biscuit. Mind, now. And the fork goes in the right hand.”

“I’ll most likely fall o’er backwards in my chair.”

“Watch Dennie and do like he does. You’re twice his size and half as mannerly. And be quiet too.”

“I don’t care for all this.”

“Put on that new shirt I made.” She went to the kitchen. “Now go on. The queen’ll be here before we know it.”

The clock read seven when they drove up. Ellen paused to look out the window. Dan had changed into his brown suit, wore a bright striped tie. He was taking Star’s hand as she stepped down from the truck cab. Star Webster was just nineteen. Her small form was sheathed in a white dress, she wore white shoes and gloves and a wide-brimmed white hat. Her hair fluffed out, her arms were untanned. Adele said Star put stockings on her arms when she went to pick berries to keep the sun from them, and a sunbonnet to protect her face and neck. She was laughing up at Dan. He had said she was exciting. She was afraid of the dark. He liked that. Maybe she leans on him, helpless. A man doesn’t like a woman strong.

The potatoes steamed as they boiled over, and Ellen turned hastily to them. Mom and Adele came in, fastening on starched print aprons. Mom wore her new black rayon dress, a cameo gold brooch at the neckline. Adele’s dark green suit made her round face sallow. The little girls followed. “Thay, Ellen. Look at us.” They twirled pink and blue dresses before her.

“You sure sew pretty, Adele,” Ellen said.

“A little starch will do wonders with that cheap voile.” Adele was modest. “Now you girls go say hello to Star.” They ran, whispering and nudging.

The women beat potatoes with a wood masher, lifted browned chicken onto the huge white platter, and broke ice cubes into a water pitcher. The family was coming in from the living room, Star holding to Dan’s arm. Sudduth was complaining, “Sunday’s a workday like every other around here, Star. When my house is built, I’m going to church with Adele and the girls. That’ll give me a day off.”

Pop shuffled after them, pulling his beard. “Hee. That’s one way to do it.”

“This is our girl, Ellen,” Mom said to the guest, “and that’s Simon.”

“Hello there,” said Star. “Oh Mom, what a lovely table. You always set it so pretty.”

“You sit over here, Dan,” Mom said.

“I’ll sit where I usually do.” He was smiling stiffly.

“Well, Star, you take the chair by him.”

Dennie said grace. “God is great, God is good, bless us for our daily food.”

Grace shouted, “Zaccheus he. Did climb a tree. Our Lord to thee.”

“That’s enough,” threatened Sudduth.

They were pressing extra morsels on the girl in white. “Have some watermelon pickles,” Mom said. “Land o’ Goshen, it was two years ago we put them up.”

“I got thick on them,” Hannah lisped, “on my new thpring coat.”

“Hannah,” Pop shouted.

“You’re always saying speak up,” Dan reminded him, “so you ought to let her alone.”

“That’s right.” Pop clattered his knife. “Speak up.”

“And it won’t come out of the coat, neither,” Grace said shyly.

“Girls,” Mom cried.

“Jesus, my back hurts.” Sudduth fidgeted in his chair.

Dan and Star were sitting near Mom at one end of the table. Star would turn her face sidewise, appealing, “Don’t you agree, Dannie?”

Sudduth was saying, “I’m trying to buy a piece of our neighbor’s land, Star. Near where my house’ll be. If I get it, this farm’ll total a hundred and ten acres.”

“That’s a lot,” Star’s fork was poised, “don’t you think, Dannie?”

“It’s Sudduth’s twenty acres,” Dan said, without looking at her.

“Oh.” Her mouth was round and pink. She set the fork down, the food untouched, put her napkin to her lips. “Did you fry the chicken, miss?” she asked Ellen. “It’s delicious. Isn’t it, Dannie?” The lilac scent was floating through the open window behind her.

“Yes, I did.” Ellen was blushing, resentment like a knot in her chest.

“Her name’s Ellen, Star,” Dan said, “you just met her.”

“You think I’ll ever make chicken like this, Dannie?” The girl’s laughter was the bright tinkle of a bell. “Will you teach me, Ellen?”

Mom said, “Oh, you’ll catch on easy enough.”

“Why should she teach you?” Dan’s voice was deliberate, matter-of-fact.

“Oh, I never cooked a chicken.”

“Well, why her? Your mama can teach you.” He laughed, abrupt.

“Dannie. Don’t fuss.” The white dress was cut in a square neckline. Her eyes bloomed innocent.

“No, I want to know. Why?” His underlip was jutting out, his smile had set. The mark on his cheek was dark, and his palms were on the table where he leaned.

“Dan. Star’s our company. Land.” Mom reproved him, fingering the brooch at her breast.

“Now there,” Pop cried, and the children, sensing the tenseness of their elders, looked from one to another.

“Well? Can’t you answer?”

Star’s little mouth quivered. “I’ll ask Mama to.”

“Dan, will you behave? He doesn’t mean it, Star.” Mom shook her head. “Ellen, run get the dessert. You want to help them clear, Star?”

“Oh, I do.” The girl took up her plate and Dan’s.

Adele shoved her chair back so it squeaked, and Ellen noted that she pinched Sudduth’s shoulder as she passed him. This is one of those times Adele’s glad she’s got Sudduth. Ellen was moving rapidly, clearing dishes and brushing the crumbs. She cut the pies and brought them in silver holders to set before Mom. She went into the kitchen, and while cobbler wedges were passed down on small china dishes, Ellen was filling the flowered white cups with coffee and carrying them around.

“I love this pattern.” Mom appraised her cup. “It’s Wreaths of Roses. And the set’s complete like the day I got it. I’ve held on to it. Even through the bad years. And not a one’s been broken.”

Ellen set Dan’s coffee by him. He looked up, his eyes flinty, his thin mouth cruel. He doesn’t even see me. He muttered, “Now serve proper from the right, Ellen. And take care with Mom’s china.”

“We bought them in nineteen ten,” Mom went on, ignoring him, “I remember just as clear.”

“Can we have more pie?” Dennie asked.

“They’re awful pretty, you know?” Star admired her cup.

“More, more,” the children were shouting. “Pleathe.”

“You weren’t even born yet, Star,” Mom said.

“All you can hold,” Pop decided. “Fill those kids up.”

They were pushing back their chairs. Sudduth lit a cigar and Pop took one, too. Simon groaned, holding his stomach, “Oh, this is heaven.”

“Simon, you mind what I said,” Ellen warned. She was piling the cups and saucers, carrying them out.

“Why don’t you roll one, Uncle Dan?” Dennie inquired gravely.

“No thanks,” Dan told him.

“Go on into the living room, all of you,” Mom said. “We girls will be done in a jiffy. Go on, Star.”

“It was just lovely, Mom.” Star hugged her about the waist. “And that peach pie was delicious.”

“I don’t know what gets into him,” Mom whispered, “but don’t pay him any mind. He was just hungry.”

“Dannie’s a grouch.” Star ran out lightly.

When they had nearly finished in the kitchen, as Ellen was saying, “Do go along, Mom. Adele and me’ll redd up the rest,” they heard the truck roar, saw it spinning down the driveway in the light of dusk.

“There,” Mom said. “I’m mortified. I thought we were going to sit and talk. Dan was going to play for us, and Star could sing.”

“Well,” said Adele, “I was shocked. Treating a guest like that.” Mom stepped into the other room to replace the shining goblets, and Adele said softly, “That was a fine example to set for young children.”

“He was really raising sand,” Ellen admitted.

“Dan can’t bear it that she’s so useless, Ellen. You know Websters have a maid. Lord knows when she gets up of a morning.”

“I know. You already told me.”

“I’ll be glad,” Adele said brightly to Mom as she entered, “to have our house finished. And I’ll have this baby in October.”

The family trooped out to stand looking at the blooming lilacs. The children scuffled with each other without purpose. After a while as dark drifted, they all went in. Mom pressed her hands on the piano keys, discordant. She prodded Dennie, “Can’t you play a piece, Dennie? You know some.”

“I’m tired.” The boy’s eyes were heavy.

“I could put a record on the victrola, Mom,” Adele suggested.

“No.” Mom was walking to the windows, looking into the shadowed yard.

“What’s everyone waiting for?” Simon inquired sleepily.

Mom sighed. “Let’s go to bed.”

Ellen followed the others upstairs, avoiding any intrusion on her thoughts. She undressed, turned off the light. Sounds died in the house, all was still. She was sitting on the wide window sill. The lilac odor wafted up, her feet were cold. She felt the constriction in her throat, wondered if she would cry soon. She imagined Star lying dead somewhere. Mutilated. What a small baby she is. But Star’s white beauty came back, the immaculate dress and gloves, the big hat she swung in her hand, dainty, laughing, tipping her head up at Dan. She’ll make him forget me. The night hours, weighted, were passing. The silence was marred occasionally by a creaking rafter or a settling floor beam. In a distant meadow the whistle of a whippoorwill was echoing. It was nearly three when he returned. The boards of the rack on the truck rattled and slammed. The gravel crunched. The kitchen door clattered. His tread sounded on the stairs, it stopped outside her doorway. She held her breath until the steps went on down the hall.

She was awake before dawn, in the cellar sorting clothes into ragged heaps. The wash boiler steamed on the range. She dropped clothes into the chugging electric machine, and let them beat while she hung those she had run through the automatic wringer. She took up the basket, piled high with white sheets. A narrow stone stairway led outside through sloping double doors. They were open and pallid sun rays crawled into hidden dark corners. She was going up into the sunlight. The grass was wet, an early bluebird darted to a fence wire and clung there, “Purity!” It vanished into the high leaves of the oak. At breakfast her dress was darkened in front from suds and water that had splashed; grass stems were caught between her toes. Her hair was brushed and coiled high. She moved lissome about the kitchen, looking at Dan’s black head bent surly over his food.

“Ellen’s going barefoot,” Grace was crying. “Can I?”

“I only did it,” Ellen explained, “to save my shoes from the wet. You’d catch cold.”

“Ellen’s right,” Adele agreed.

“When I’m growed, I’ll do it,” Hannah said.

“I’ll warm the tractor up, Sudduth.” Dan spoke brusque, grease streaked on his browned arms and neck. “We’ll grind cobs as soon as you’re ready.” He was rushing out. Ellen saw him from the window. He had stopped under the oak to light his cigarette, glancing at the clothes strung on the line. She wondered if he saw the freshness of the grass or heard the bird.

* * *

A week had gone. Ellen was grubbing on her knees in the flower beds along the side of the house. During the days the strain between Dan and Mom had been clear to the others. Dan refused to play the piano, Mom sat mending, her mouth unhappy. Only Sudduth was more talkative in the evenings; he would engage Pop and Adele in long good-natured arguments. Ellen was digging into the dirt now, vigorous. Mom’s voice came shrill from one of the windows above. Ellen held her trowel motionless. “But she expects you to. Star loves you.” Dan’s voice muttered and Mom was shouting again, “Who do you want then? That hill-woman? What’s the matter with you, Dan?”

“Shut up, Mom. Will you?”

“You’ve got a chance here of a marriage that’s the best in the county. Land. You ought to get on your knees and thank God a family like Websters took up with poor Polacks like us.”

“Dammit, you forget we’ve got some of the best black soil there is. That’s better than money in a bank. A family like Websters. You sound like some cockeyed book. Now look, I told Star we’re finished. She’s got it through her head. That’s the last I’m going to hear about it in this house. It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, it’s not?”

“No, dammit.”

“It’s that hill-woman.”

“Will you stop calling her that hill-woman like she’s a tramp and not decent?”

The sawed-off hoe was poised in Ellen’s hand. A door slammed. Later when Mom came to see how her work was coming on, there was no sign of the quarrel in her voice. “You think it’s too shady here for asters, Ellen?” The skin was tight around Mom’s eyes and her lips curved downwards.

“Marigolds might do better,” Ellen suggested. And when she met Dan, as she was coming from the hen house with a basket of eggs, she sought his eyes. He frowned, feeling her gaze. “Hell, I’ve got the milking.” He strode away. She was walking back to the house, thoughtful.

The lilacs that night, on the wane after their peak, were spilling forth a dulcet fragrance. In a few days they would be gone, withered. Ellen was seated in the long window of her room, studying the sky. There was a quarter moon, it was near midnight. She was restless and sighed on the shadows. All at once a red point came and went in the dark under one of the oaks in the yard. She raised her head quickly, seeing it. Her mind explored it. The figure had been there all the time, outlined vaguely against the trunk. As she watched it, her blood began to beat dully into the lilac scent. Then she was slipping into a dress swiftly and closing her room door. She went down the stairs one at a time, and lingered. At the kitchen door she turned around, hesitant, trembling. But then she was going out, languorous, into the night.

He still leaned unmoving, against the oak. His features were dissolved into the dark moonlight. She smelled the burning tobacco, saw the scarlet coal. “Hi, Ellen.”

She whispered, “What is it, Dan?” Pausing, she had blended to the night, a part of the grass, pliant.

He shifted sharply and threw aside the stub, moved away from the tree hole. She went unerring into his lean arms. In a little while he was putting his hands in her hair that was nearly without color, bluish in the light of the small piece of moon. “Always I’ve been waiting for you, Ellen.”

She looked at the crag of his nose, the etched bold face. “There. You’re like a hawk. I love you.”

“Half made, half a man. Waiting for you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t. You’re a woman. You don’t understand at all.”

“Well.”

“You’re what I need. You make me complete. I want to do all things for you.” He was poised above her.

“I know.”

25

The square dances at Silvers Farm were held every year before the main hay crop was gathered. Dan and Ellen, Sudduth and Adele, were going together in the old Dodge. Ellen was in the front seat close against Dan. Adele was saying, “We used to go to Silvers when Sudduth was courting me.”

“Time sure flies,” Sudduth said.

“Are you positive I don’t show too much, Sudduth? To go to a public place? What do you think, Ellen? You know how girls can be. They’ll all be saying, is it September, October or November.”

“You look real nice, Adele.”

When they had pulled out of the Wasilewski drive, the children had shouted goodbye, Pop went to count the roses the damask bush had borne this year, and Mom called, “You young folks enjoy yourself.”

Mom was resigned to Dan’s rupture with Star but where she had once been warm and friendly toward Ellen, a coldness was now in her air. Where she had used to gossip freely, she was constrained. Ellen would try to please her, to think ahead, doing the tasks before Mom could assign them. “But I already picked the bush beans this morning, Mom. There’s near a bushel. I reckoned you’d want it done.” And all the time there was joy because of Dan. He would come to where she was scrubbing the baby chick brooders or polishing windows, seeking her out when he was free. “Oh, this is a woman I’ve found.”

At the Silvers barn the first cutting of hay was stacked at one end of the loft, its honey permeating the air. Wire cables had been stretched from automobiles and tractors below, and from them colored lights were strung along the rafters, and paper lanterns. On a platform near the door a fiddler and a banjo-player were busy. “Sometimes,” Dan told Ellen, “he’ll take steel knitting needles to those banjo strings.”

“All he ever does,” said Sudduth, “is play that banjo.”

“Pigeon wing,” Mr. Silvers called, his fleshy face in a sweat, his barrel stomach shaking with covert laughter.

I had an old hat with a flop down brim

It looked like a toad frog

Setting on a limb

“Double shuffle,” he was roaring.

“I told you I can’t dance, Dan,” Ellen protested. “Pa’d ne’er let us go.”

“I’ll show you.”

Adele went to talk with her friends and Sudduth merged into a group of men. “Any borers in your corn yet, Wasilewski?”

“A few.”

“My cow throwed twins.”

“God damn. Better look if one’s a freemartin.”

“Wrenched my back in the spring.” Sudduth put his hand on it.

“Tarred my corn this time. Crows got pesky.”

“Sounds gummy.”

“No. Roll in it wood ashes.”

“God damn. Where’d you hear that?”

“County agent.”

“God-damn bull-shitter.”

“No crows.”

“Um.”

And the women were questioning Adele avidly, “Who’s that with Dan?”

“Why that’s our girl, Ellen.”

“Never saw her before. Is she from around here?”

“She’s from Kentucky.”

“Thought Dan was courting the Webster girl. I was looking forward to seeing them. They made a cute couple.”

“Star’s real sweet.”

“What happened with Star, Adele? You can tell us.”

“He simply broke off with her. I don’t know.”

“Now, Adele, we know how these things can be.”

“Why’d Dan bring your hired girl?”

“She was there. Maybe he felt sorry for her.”

“She’s good-looking, Adele.”

“Right young, too.”

“She’s not as young as she looks,” Adele pleaded. “Told me she was thirty.” Ellen had said twenty-seven, but thirty slipped out against Adele’s will.

“Now that just shows you what the night will do for a woman.”

“You might have a new sister-in-law one of these days, Adele.”

“Where there’s smoke there’s fire. Now when are you expecting it, Adele? Late September? Does Sudduth want a boy or a girl?”

The floor of the hayloft was dusted with chaff. The people were spinning in the pattern of the dance.

Oh five times five are twenty five

And six times five are thirty

Seven times five are thirty five

And eight times five are forty

Ellen was handed from one partner to the next. There were spindly angular boys caught by the music, feet tapping and shoulders springing in an extra beat. There were jovial men, worried ones, dumpy ones, old and young. Dan was across the floor, his dark face above the red shirt bending taut to a girl with curly hair. Jealousy touched in Ellen so she flinched, laughing up to her partner. Then when Dan came by, following the step, he whispered, “You’re having such a good time I’ll have to kill all your partners, honey.” And the roiling had vanished. Dan belonged to her.

The music ceased and the fiddler was leaning back. The banjo-player wiped his brow. “Hell, it’s hot.” Dan and Ellen came up to sit on the platform edge. Dan was smoking. They watched the crowd at the bench where a barrel of cold beer was rolled on its side next to tin pitchers of Mrs. Silvers’ iced lemonade.

“You sure can handle those strings,” Ellen was telling the fiddler.

“Been doing this off and on since I was ten. Maybe this child will die this away. Maybe I’ll be like that Callahan.”

“Who’s he?”

“It’s a song. Fiddler Callahan killed somebody so they were about to hang him. Says if anyone would play his fiddle while he was being strung up, they could keep it. He begged at the crowd for it was a notion he had. Nobody’d do it, so when they were fixing to trip the gallows he quit pleading, and busted it to pieces over the coffin they had ready for him.”

“Look,” Dan stood up, grinding his cigarette on the floor. “Could you play ‘Lord Lovel’ for her to sing?”

“Sure thing.” The fiddler was taking up his bow.

Ellen looked past the swaying lanterns into the June night.

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate

Combing his milk-white steed

When up came Lady Nancy Belle

To wish her lover godspeed

Lord Lovel went away then, vowing to return. But when at last he did, the Lady Nancy had died.

He mounted on his milk-white steed

And he rode to London town

And there he heard the death bells ringing

And the people mourning all round

He ordered the grave to be opened wide

And the shroud to be turned down

And there he kissed her clay-cold lips

And the tears came trinkling down

“That was keen,” the banjo-player said. “You two want to try a Hound-and-Dog?”

“Come on, Ellen.”

“All right,” she was whispering. “I want to be woven into a part of all you undertake to do.”

“That’s why you’re my girl.” His shaven hard cheek was on her hair, the red-checked shirt was tight against the white dress. And the people were all about but far away.

* * *

Summer put her hand on the earth and all things flourished. In early hours earthworms coupled on damp paths. Grain fields turned yellow. Mowers and reapers hummed busily across the countryside. Mulberries and cherries ripened. The children spread an old sheet under the trees and shook the branches. They gathered the corners and ran to the kitchen. “Berry pieth and cherry pieth,” chanted Hannah and Grace.

Now that school was out, Simon was given a string of cows. He put his arm about their necks and the light of possession and love gleamed. One of them had leaped the fence and got to the bull when too young. Her teats were small and short. Simon’s hands were coaxing them patiently.

“We’d have sold that one if it wasn’t for you, Simon,” Dan shouted from his milking stool.

“Can’t abide a short-teated cow,” Sudduth said. “Come on, Lady, let those big bubbies down for me,” Sudduth was nudging the heavy udder with his fist; the cow chewed, serene.

Simon told Ellen, “Dan might let the colt be mine if Pearl got caught with one.”

“Colts are worth a lot.”

“Well, so Dan said,” the boy insisted.

They were driving over to the Doughertys. Penny gave Simon Little Tiny’s kid. It was brown with white stripes on its face and legs. “The daddy’s a Toggenburg,” Penny said. “It ought to milk proud.”

The boy was entranced. “Hey, Clate. Hey, Anse. This be a fine yeanling.”

Anse stood aside and said nothing, but Clate swaggered. He began to tell Simon how to care for the kid.

“Oh shut up, Clate. I know about burnt flour when she gets the scours.”

“You named it yet, Simon?” Penny asked.

“April.”

“That’s a fair name.” Ellen could see Penny was pregnant again. She’s liable to have another as puny as little Jess is.

Then they were waving from the truck windows as they went down the narrow winding lane. “Seems I’m always saying goodbye to Penny, Dan.” He smiled at her across Simon who held the little doe on his knees. Used to be I worried over the past, how it clutched at me. Now that’s fallen away and I’m looking ahead, making this foreign place mine.

* * *

The days were dropping, one upon one. Ellen and Dan would seek each other out. Their gladness was contagious, so that Sudduth was gallant with Adele, and Mom more attentive to Pop. Sometimes in the evenings they would sit on the board seat nailed between two oaks in the yard. “Ellen, we ought to get married now. We don’t have to wait till fall.”

“No.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’d like to wait.”

“Your family’s Catholic. You want a priest?”

“I don’t care about that, but I’d like to see Adele and the children moved. Then I want to wash the walls and wax the floor. I’d as soon have a proper wedding.”

“I see.” He was kissing her, and her earnestness faded as she made herself to him.

But the next day she said, “I thought I’d write Frankie and my uncle and aunt. And even my pa. I’d like them to come here if they can and stand as my family when I marry.”

“All that nonsense.”

“I’d like it that way.”

“Suppose I’ll have to wear a flower in my buttonhole?”

“Yes. And Simon has to have a suit.”

“Does he get a flower too?”

“Yes.”

“What’s next?”

“The minister. We can have Adele’s Presbyterian. That little sad one. I’ll have flowers in vases standing about. And the minister should have a flower too.”

“He doesn’t have a buttonhole.”

“I thought he did.”

“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll get married now. It’s up to you, honey.”

* * *

That was in August. In mid-September the roof struts of Sudduth’s house were in place. The boards and shingles were nailed and fitted. Adele was moving laborious, the child big in her, sighing, “All my plans to leave this house so orderly for you, Mom.”

“Don’t you worry, Adele. Things are good enough.”

Ellen went out often to see how the building was progressing. Every nail driven was bringing the day nearer. Mrs. Daniel Matthew Wasilewski. I’ll write Ma, too. The nurses could read it to her. She might know what it said. I’ll go see her this winter. You can’t tell, in a year or so we might even be having a youngen. I could walk out to Dan where the corn was ripe, “Here’s your son I just happened to have.”

The morning was bright and moist. The wind was drifting steadily from the southwest. Ellen had been picking tomatoes since breakfast and she was walking down to meet the men before the noon hour. They had been cutting hay in the field next to the new house. It was edged by a row of heavy-trunked willows. Long ago when posts had been cut and set, they had rooted in the easy way of a willow, and made heads, sprouting in summer rains. “What do you call those fence trees, Dan?” she was calling. Simon waved boldly as he clattered past her with the team and mower, heading for the barnyard. The men dropped their forks and came up to meet Ellen.

“Those are golden osier willows,” Sudduth explained. “Pop planted them before we were born.”

“Dinner ready?” Dan took Ellen’s hand as they were walking through the sweet-odored drying alfalfa.

“I don’t know. Mom’s getting it. I’ve been in the garden.” The air was lightly misted though the sun was bright. There were cumulus clouds in the sky. The south wind continued to blow.

“Hope we get this hay in all right,” Dan said.

“This has been the best year yet,” Sudduth said. “Good and dry. Not a load lost.”

“I don’t think we’ll lose this one. Knock on wood. The storm’s way off. The hay’ll be cured by early afternoon. We can get it in quick. Simon’s a help. He’s fast and he’s got the hang of it.”

“It’s not twister weather, is it?” Ellen asked.

“You’re not afraid of a wind?” Dan’s yellow eyes laughed, so she knew he was thinking of the day in the barn when he first kissed her, and she him.

“I’m not.”

In the afternoon, Ellen was in the middle of the tomato canning. At the kitchen door were four full bushel baskets; depleted ones were stacked outside. She was scalding the fruit, packing it into hot Mason jars. Rows of empty jars waited upside down on the table, the filled ones were boiling in the canner. Mom came in. “I’ll help out for a spell.” She fanned herself with her ample apron. “Sakes, the air’s close.”

Ellen could feel how the wind had stopped. A piece of fear plucked at her. “Isn’t the hay in yet?”

“They’re going at it real hard. They even gave Dennie a fork. He’s out working alongside Sudduth. Land, the rain’s not too far off.” Mom frowned. “Sudduth says the last cutting of alfalfa is like grain, it’s so high in protein.”

“I know.” Ellen was pausing. “Mom, is this twister weather?”

“It’s a little early for them. Doesn’t feel like it to me. We’ll know if Sudduth comes tearing in.” She turned to the sink. “Now, let’s get this mess put up.”

They worked swiftly. But their minds were with the men who strove to save the hay.

In the far field, Simon was perched on the load that towered, dwarfing the two dappled grays. Dan was throwing great forkfuls to him and Simon laid it deftly back, stepping it down, his small arms muscled and brown. Sudduth was unloading the truck at the barn, stacked with the previous load. The farm buildings were like toys in the distance, sharp-edged in the air which had a peculiar transparency. The movements of the man and boy quickened. Dan pitched up the last of the hay. “Whip them if you have to, Simon.”

The youngster clambered into the driving seat, gathered the leather reins. The team pawed, rattling the harness. “I will, Dan.”

“Get it in the loft fast. Sudduth’ll pitch it up.”

Simon, overworked, sweated heavily, drops running down his face. His bleached hair curled damp, his shirt and pants clung to his skin. He shrilled, “Get in there. Major. Pearl!” The wagon was lurching through the stubble.

Dan began to stack the hay that remained. By now the nimbus rain clouds were hovering low in the bruised sky. The man worked at a rapid pace. The temperature was falling, dusk descended, the air was dense. He was bent into his tool, trying to beat the rain in the race.

A greenish-gray cloud tumbled slowly on the skyline to the west. Suddenly the wind came up, crying. Dan lifted his head, feeling the heat. The cloud had begun to spin. “Holy God,” he muttered. The stout willow fence teetered and creaked, the hay was swept wild, swirling. A purplish tongue licked downward, hunting, moving toward the hay field.

Dan shook his fists at it, rearing lean in his high leather boots. “Dammit. Turn!” The long thick line veered crazily and then sucked back into the wounded cloud. But it was slipping down again, howling. “Turn. Turn!” His voice was nothing, his throat rended. The menace was swerving below the neighboring farm where it had come through in the spring. He was tearing his throat again, his loins on fire with fear. “Now, dear God. Turn!”

Objects were fluttering, grotesque, like bugs in the dark pulsing. They were dying pigs and turkeys and a broken cart, small barns shattering glass, boards, dust, manure. Pieces of houses and ripped posts. Ravaged fruits from gardens. Drying hay, dust, chaff, dirt. Over Dan’s head a drove of birds winged abruptly, disappearing to the north. The heinous rhythmic humming was constant.

The world was as if under water, green-blue, unreal, glowing. Simon was in the far barnyard, tiny on the stacked child’s wagon, attempting to pitch the hay to the loft alone. The three women, like dolls, were fluttering into the yard. Dan plunged into the shallow ditch bordering the field; he flattened himself, cowering. The ugly dancing shadow advanced. “No.”

Then the roof of Sudduth’s bare unpainted house was rising weirdly. In deliberate motion it was wheeling above the field. The man stumbled up from the trench in rage, disbelief, clawing the air dazed, with his powerful hands, as if to replace the mighty shower of timber where he had nailed it with sweat and struggle. The roof was engulfing the field and the golden osier willows were breaking. The noise was tremendous.

* * *

When they rode out to the hay field, Ellen was beside Sudduth in the truck. Warm silent rain blew gently against the windshield. Lumber and rubble were scattered and Sudduth had to drive around the larger planks, skidding in the mud. The prone figure was stretched face up amid the litter. Sudduth braked and Ellen was tearing at the door. She ran, believing him dead. She lifted the two-by-four from his body. She knelt, uncertain. His eyelids were flickering and they opened. “Hi.”

“Sudduth,” she called evenly. “Get a doctor. Hurry.” She was touching the wet dark face, leaning over to keep off the constant rain.

“You came.”

“Dan?”

“It didn’t turn,” he whispered. The rain was streaming from his carven face, his soaked black hair.

“Where do you hurt?”

“Dying. You know that?” He was moving narrow wood lips.

“No, Dan.”

“Sonofabitch,” he was sighing.

“Don’t die.”

“I won’t.”

“The doctor’s coming. Do you hurt somewhere?”

“Damn wind.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Never comes twice.”

“Dan?”

“Never. No.” His mouth was thickening, his body was broken and when he heard her voice he came back through an effort of will. “Ellen?”

“I won’t let you.” Her cheek against his, she cradled him in her arms. “Holy Mary?” The rain was pouring sweet and hot, releasing the sun-baked alfalfa odor. Her lips clung to his wet cool face.

“Poor Ellen.”

“Don’t talk.”

His face was gray and seamed. It twitched, wounded. A red dot was appearing at the side of his mouth.

“Don’t,” she breathed.

His dulled greenish eyes were seeking her. For a few minutes she wasn’t sure he was gone. A thunderbolt tore exultant about the field, rolling passionate. A new torrent of rain swept like an enfolding blanket. She wasn’t aware. She lay upon the lifeless body reciting Hail Marys over and again. Pray for us sinners now. Amen.

The truck sped down the drenched slick mire of the lane. The doctor jumped out, pried Ellen from the body. “Is he dead?” she asked. Sudduth was leading her to the truck cab. They wrapped a rug about the limp figure and laid it in back on soggy hay chaff. She looked at it through the rear window.

“I’ll ride out here,” the doctor called, climbing over the rear bumper.

Sudduth was driving through the field, avoiding the litter of boards and shingles. “Jesus.” He wagged his head, aimless. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Ellen.”

She watched the two men carry the body upstairs. Then she went into the kitchen, still in her wet hay-flecked dress, clinging. Vaguely she knew Mom was crying and the doctor was using the telephone in the sitting room. She lifted one of the heavy bushels by the door and set it down by the sink. She dipped tomatoes, peeling, packing them hot in jars, measuring teaspoons of salt out. No one paid her any mind. Sudduth called the children, shrilling, insistent. He took them all, even the little girls, to the barn with him while he did the chores. Upstairs, Adele began to cry aloud, and soon moaned at regular intervals. Mom was hurrying back and forth, hair wisped, mouth unsteady. She looked in at the kitchen door. “Land. I’m glad you’re finishing them, Ellen. Like the doctor says, the living come first.”

Adele’s premature baby died in the night. Adele turned her head and wept into the pillow. She believed an all-seeing God was punishing her because she had tried once to rid herself of it. At breakfast Mom asked Ellen if she could stay at home to care for Adele while they went to the funeral. “I can’t, Mom. I would, but I have to go see him.”

“Well, the boys can get Adele what she needs, I guess.” Mom moved her body cautiously; she had not grasped the two deaths yet. She was turning to Ellen. “Sakes. I really did want you and him to marry, Ellen. I know you’d have been to him what Star Webster never could have.”

“Well, Mom,” Ellen shrugged, “want me to make up the rest of the bacon or fry ham?” She was dry-eyed.

“Finish the bacon.”

“Simon,” Ellen was asking at the table, “did you get that last hay in before the rain?”

“No, it’s bad soaked, Ma. We can spread it in the yard. Reckon it’ll dry good enough.”

“You-all do that. Even if it’s leached, it’ll still make horse feed.”

“Jesus, I got a back this morning,” Sudduth said. “I don’t know.”

Ellen appealed to Mom, “You got a black hat?”

“You can wear Adele’s.” Mom patted Ellen’s shoulder. “It’s even got a veil. At least I think it has.”

When she had dressed, Ellen came into the sitting room. Sudduth was pacing the floor, tears coming steadily down his thin face. Pop sat shriveled and fragile in his overlarge Sunday suit, his bony hands protruded from the sleeves like bird legs. The sun stretched itself over the room, catching the luster of the stuffed red-and-black tanager under the glass bell on the table. I hate the sun and I hate the prying light. “It’s a beautiful day,” she was saying. She had watched dawn unfolding out of dark, felt the dry thickening in her throat.

“Let’s go on out and wait for Mom,” Sudduth said, stiff.

Ellen walked with them, getting into the back seat with Pop. She folded her handkerchief, unfolded it. Sudduth started the motor and let it idle. After a while, Mom came to the house door, a fleshy large figure in black, veiled. The children stared, circling her, restless. “You be good and do what Adele says,” Mom told them.

“Don’t punch me, Grace.”

“I never touched you.”

“Where’th everybody going?”

“It’s the funeral of Uncle Dan,” said Grace. “He’s dead. And they’re going to plant him in the ground.” They watched the car go down the road, milling in a group, close to each other.

Before the services, in the carpeted stuffy room, Ellen went up on the dais to look at the body. The casket was heavy. There was satin and white and purple cloth about him. He wore his brown suit. His hands were folded on each other, they had lost their sun color. Those men had their will with his body. Their prying hands. The almond tree shall blossom and the caperberry shall fail because man goeth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets. There was a slight reek of incense. His eyes were shut, his face puffed out so the familiar creases hardly showed. His hair was combed flat. They drained off his blood and pumped somewhat in his body, didn’t they? To keep back the death smell? He had a false look; it was the birthmark, they had hidden it with paste. Reckon he heard death bells in the air when it roared to him? Or the silver cord be loosed or the golden bowl be broken or the pitcher at the fountain. And the dust return to the earth as it was. That’s the husk of Dan. All I’ve got is a memory. I can’t recall him. I forget. She struggled, throat tight, to bring to mind how he moved and laughed, how he would be grease-stained from working under the machines, how he was alert and strong and moved quicker than the others. How he was awkward when he ran his fingers on her hair. But the statue slept, its hawklike features impassive.

The organ struck up like breaking soft boulders. She moved as if she was of glass. For who knoweth what is good for man in his life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow? She was going down the steps to sit by Mom in one of the blue plush chairs. The carpet made footfalls noiseless, the organ pushed her. She sat in the bruised music. Dan would be proud of how quiet I am. She didn’t feel tears pouring until she discovered her wet hands; she wiped them dully with the handkerchief. She knew she had been robbed once more. Praise ye the Lord. He telleth the number of the stars. He calleth them by their names.

The minister was walking up onto the dais, patting his head where hair once flourished. He stared at the floor and straightened his coat. The head undertaker nodded. The organ hushed. “Behold the Lord God will come with strong hand. Yes. He shall gather the lambs with his arm and carry them in his bosom. Yes. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to pay our last respects.”

What I can’t understand is why Dan didn’t see it coming and go to the barn on the wagon with Simon. When we ran out to look, I waved and called. But he just kept shocking the hay up. I can’t understand why he never saw it making there in the south sky. He should have come in with Simon. I don’t know why.

“Dust to dust. Yes. Ashes,” the preacher intoned. That man was going to marry us. Daniel Wasilewski took Ellen Gaddy in marriage. So it would have been written. “Lord, make me to know mine end. Yes. And the measure of my days that I may know how frail I am. Behold, Thou hast made my days as a handbreadth. Oh yes.”

The service was done, the organ was rolling muted hymns over plush upholstery. The undertaker bent his head in a gentle unctuous way to Mom. They walked out to where the sun dazzled the trees in a gilt sheen. They were rumbling slowly down flat roads toward the cemetery. Ellen asked Pop, “Why must they go so tormented slow?”

“It’s the custom, Ellen.”

“I’d rather put him straightaways in the earth. Fast. I got no use for all this furbelowing.” She looked through the windows to the bright day. Under her black veil, water ran down. “Why’d he die, Pop?”

“He was in the way when it struck.”

“I told him to come in,” Sudduth cried out. “I told him.”

“Shut up,” Mom flared, and sighed.

At the open grave, the metal-bound box was lowered. Now they’ll wait until we go away. They’ll take down the purple canopy and fold the green grass rug. They’ll drive off, leaving a man to cover the hole. He’ll throw dirt on the box with Dan in it. And it’ll be all over.

Simon came to her that evening where she sat by the windows in the cold lavender air of dusk. The silence was delicate, like ringing. The family had taken the noise away. They were with Adele or in their beds. The boy touched her shoulder. “Ma?”

She started, striking his hand from her. Then she spoke quickly, penitent, “What is it, Simon?”

“Don’t grieve. Here, I brought you one of the kittens.”

And because he was so kind and tender in his youthful shy way, all the walls she built broke suddenly. She bowed her head and wept.

“Oh, Ma, I loved him too. He wasn’t afraid of ne’er a thing.” The boy’s voice was laden. He began to cry. Holding the kitten in his arm, he was putting his head in her apron.

“Don’t weep, Simon,” she sobbed on his hair.

Later she cradled in her hand the tiny black kitten. Through the window she was watching the north wind blow as autumn cast itself on the cringing landscape. I shall go softly all the years in the bitterness of my soul.

26

The winter was passing. It had been long. As its last days dragged, in Louisville, a false spring came on as it often does in that season. Outside the city the first glimmers of growing had appeared, tiny green spears in barley fields, and hesitant statuesque spring flowers. Wake-robins bloomed in woods, dark red and hidden, like grief. In the city a soft evening wind moved. Anton Gaddy was parting from Dyke Burwell at the truck. He settled his round hat firmly. Dyke was coaxing, “Hey Mester Gaddy, whyn’t you come with me this once? There’s this here old girl. Must weigh near a quarter ton. Now I mean that pussy’s buried.”

“I’ll see you here at the Chevy, boy.” Anton was impatient. “Tomorrow morning.”

“All right. But they got skinny ones too. If you’d rather. They got all kinds.”

Anton was rushing away down the street, his flewlike lips sagging, a frown over his long face. He was preoccupied, afraid. He believed he was losing the woman Rose. For more than a year now he had been visiting her apartment. At one time he and Dyke had made excuses to each other that there were auctions and sales that must be attended. But gradually they had shed the pretense and now traveled the seventy miles often. Dyke would come by the Gaddy farmhouse to see Anton. “Got an old cow that’s no good. Reckon I’ll take her to the auctions.” And Anton would reply, “Before God, leave the fool beast be. Haw. Let’s take off for Louisville right now.”

He was halting outside the brick building. The last few times here a man had come down the darkened stair and once he saw him stride away on the street. The man’s cheekbones were broad and high, he was stockily built with a bold way about him. Anton had confronted Rose with it when she let him in. “You’ve had company, I see.”

“I might.” She had smiled, tantalizing, throwing back her heavy dark hair.

“I told you to e’er wait for me.” Rose denied it then and said she was teasing. But it had festered in him.

Anton looked up now as he came into the doorway. The figure was there, at the bottom of the stairs. He stood aside while it brushed by. His heart began to thud, an anger started in his bowels. On the stairs he was breathing heavily. “Like to take the strap to her.” But he was held from physical action. She might slip away. He was never sure of his grip on Rose, winced from her laughter. He had thought of asking Father Tompert about a dispensation to make her his wife. But he put off the issue, fearing the priest’s flat refusal, his suspicious eyes. Anton’s old peremptory ways had given over to some hesitancy. His younger daughter and then his grandson had evaded him. His belief in his mother Nell’s, fidelity and excellence had been ravaged. Even his faith was wavering. He lived with feelings of frustration, of powerlessness, of guilt in sin. He was bent on Rose with a measure of desperation. As he was about to rap, the door swung open as if the woman were waiting.

“Oh it’s you.” As if surprised she said it and laughed, her wide soft face impudent.

“What’s this you say? Hum. I told you I was coming.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased to see you. Did I?”

He was coming after her in his heavy coat, placing his hand on her buttocks as he was used to do. “Rose?”

“You don’t own me, Daddy,” she railed, eluding his grasp. She was wearing a sheathed dress instead of her flowered housecoat. “You’ll muss my make-up. I’m going out.”

She had on high slippers so that she was taller than Anton. This somehow angered him. “You’re going to meet that man. That whoreson that just was here.”

“No, Daddy.” Her voice was light.

“I’ve caught him coming out three-four times now.”

“He’s young,” she mocked.

“I’ve got a power in me yet. You know that.”

“Look.” She was picking up her purse and coat, and a green beret with a matching feather. “Look, I need some things for supper. I’ll be back a little late.” She put on the hat, her eyes moist and teasing. “But I’ll be back, Daddy. You wait.” She was out the door, her high laugh stringing behind.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing his overcoat and hat. “I’ve got a mind to whip her. Got a mind to kill her. Punish her for lying.” He was whispering into the room. His coat dropped from his shoulders and was sliding to the floor. He pulled his shirt open roughly at the neck, tearing the tie. Noises came from throughout the building. A door slapped shut. Steps were ascending and descending. He waited for each to be Rose. His sickness for her churned in him. He could feel his potency failing, shrinking. “She’s wanting a young stud.”

He was rising, moving to the window, the black hat still on. He shoved the window up, banging it, leaning out. There was a pale street lamp at the corner. A semi-truck came rumbling heavily over the pavement. A man stumbled across the half-dark spring-scented street. A couple were sauntering, arms about each other’s waists, the girl tittering shrill. A sailor, pants tight about his loins, stalked the sidewalk opposite: “Where’d you get the broad, Jack?”

Anton’s eyes had slitted. He was wrenching off his belt. It was the old one of thick cowhide with a weighted brass buckle. His gray eyes were dry though his defeated mouth was drawn as if to weep. He spoke hoarse, threatening, “Before God, I’ll punish that Rose-whore good. I’ll put myself into damnation. I’ll learn her to cuckold.”

* * *

Two hours passed before Rose returned. She was humming in time to the click of her confident heels.

In a little lovenest

Just for you and me, a dovenest

She shifted her parcels and turned the knob. When she saw the dead man hanging in the grip of the strap from the tall closet door, the body had ceased any movement. She stepped close enough to touch it with her hand; it was beginning to stiffen. Mechanically, she plucked up the overturned chair beneath it, and set it straight. A breeze blew up, billowing the curtains, and she went to the window to close it. She stumbled on his overcoat by the bedside, dropped her bags on the coverlet and caught up the phone. She spoke a number to the operator, whispering, and waited.

“Christian?” She was sitting on the bed abruptly. “You have to come here right away. I can’t explain. I’m afraid. You tell Mama I might go home after all.” She began to cry, listening. “I’ll wait. You hurry.” She returned the receiver. She was quiet, shivering. After a long time she heard a step outside, ran to the door, pulling him in. All at once sobs were convulsing her, “It’s there. Look.”

He called the police. “By damn, where’d you meet him, Rose?”

“He’s the one I wanted to marry.”

When the two officers arrived they took the body down and laid it out on the floor. They searched pockets and made notes. “Who are you?” they asked Christian.

“I’m her brother.”

They directed Rose to appear at the inquest; they questioned her, “You must have some idea why he did it, Miss Ay?”

“I don’t understand. We were the best of friends, Mr. Gaddy and me. I just went down the street for a few minutes. He was waiting for me. I was going to get some food.”

Christian was asking, “Will you notify the relatives?”

“His wife’s in a state institution,” Rose offered. “He’s had family troubles, one kind and another. Maybe that’s why it happened.”

“Here’s a letter,” the officer said. “Garland Gaddy. We’ll get hold of him.” A knock was heard. “That’s the ambulance.” The body was covered, then removed, the interns clattering as they went down the staircase. “All right, miss. We’ll notify you when we want you. Good night.” He put his cap back on.

“I’d be glad to help,” Christian said.

“We won’t need you. Just your sister. Good night.”

Christian didn’t say that long ago he had known the dead man. Once Anton Gaddy had stood scornful in high weeds, spitting tobacco juice, calling him boy.

* * *

Dyke Burwell was waiting at the truck in the morning, baffled, having searched cafes and bars for Anton. By afternoon he made the decision to drive back to Millville alone. A rainstorm was brewing and there was a load of soybean sacks under the tarpaulin on the truck. Dyke had known Anton was keeping a woman but that was as far as his information went. He had considered notifying the police but dismissed it. Anton would have to return by bus. When he reached the Gaddy farm three hours later, thunder was growling in the murky afternoon sky. Sam Offut ran out, followed by Eadie, her hair disheveled, her hands flapping. Eadie threw her apron over her face and wailed. Sam was yelling, hunched and beady-eyed, “Old man’s dead. Sheriff just left us. I says, call his brother in Chicago, he’ll know where those daughters be. Poor trash, walking out on their pa. For Gawd, Dyke.”

“Hey,” Dyke shouted in fear. “Who was it killed him?”

“Himself. He done it himself.” The wind smote the treetops.

“Raised his hand,” cried Eadie. “Against his soul. He’ll burn for it. Jehovah!”

Dyke helped Sam unload half the soybeans while lightning flashed nearby. Then Dyke went home and word was bruited throughout the countryside. Folks found reasons to drive past the Gaddy farm. They would peer fearfully at the two old Offuts and exchange words about them. They named it a ghost farm.

part five

and each alone

Walk together toward the trees

Where the road runs out of sight

In the green beyond the leaves

The green cove below the light

27

Pop Wasilewski’s bees were suddenly swarming at winter end. On a sunny day from a secret impulse half the colony was awake, one by one whipping out to cluster on a fence post. The bearded old man brushed the yellow-brown insects into a new hive while the smoker puffed. Ellen was laughing to Mom, “I ne’er seen such a body, he’s that clever with bees.”

“Pop’s always been like that.”

Ellen had lost weight and because the work over the winter had been largely indoors, she was pale. But her body had fought for its health, and she moved in the household with vigor again. Over a few weeks she had thought she would have Dan’s baby, hoped wildly that it was so. But her time came again then in its regular pattern and she accepted it. Gradually she healed. There had been the moments when she forgot he was dead, “I’ll have to tell Dan the do-hickey’s broken on the wash machine.” The day would shatter about her where she stood trembling.

Mom still leaned on Ellen, crippled by her loss. “You’re like a daughter to me.” Mom would humor herself by constant thoughts of Dan. She talked to Ellen about when her son was a baby of two staggering after her in the rose garden, and when older he would fetch her a blue eggshell or a butterfly wing he found. “I want you to stay here always, Ellen. This is your home.”

Adele, so wounded by the loss of her premature baby that Dan’s death had scarcely grazed her, would talk about the infant yet. “He’d have been four months old today.” Adele had written in the page of the Bible: Jason Wasilewski. September 17, 1936. Died the night of his birth. Mourned by all.

“You’ve got to quit thinking of it,” Mom said. “Sakes, it’s your duty.”

Adele was eager in self-reproach. “I just get my mind on it somehow.”

The ruins beyond the line of smashed willows were left untouched. Only the children would wander through the wrecked debris, playing. “Thith ith the dining room. I am Mithith Hannah.”

“Simon, you be the father.” The half-demolished walls loomed like ghostly monuments. The roof was shattered, snow had drifted around timbers, melting, rotting them. In half-empty kegs of nails wild mice explored.

The farm work had fallen heavily on Sudduth. Dennie and Simon were roused at daybreak to help at chores before they hurried to school. Evenings, they hustled out again to the barnyard. Sudduth’s back ached him like a recurring plague. “In spring I’m going to have to hire a man, Mom. I can’t do it all. He can sleep in the barn.”

“No, we’ll give him Dan’s room.” Mom’s voice was strained.

“Thanks, Mom.” Sudduth had become more dependable over past weeks. He made his plans resolutely. “I’ll put rye in the old corn field. And if you don’t care, Pop, we’ll sell the sheep. They’re ruining the pasture.”

“That’s just fine with us, Sudduth. Whatever you say.”

Ellen had gone out to help with the milking, a pail in her hand. Sudduth protested gravely at first, “It’s not our way to let women do barn work, Ellen.”

“But I’m most happy here. I get tired of the house.” She sat on the three-legged stool, the cow’s hot breath on the back of her neck, snuffling, curious. It was licking her with a rasping tongue.

“See here,” Simon shouted. “Old Belle’s begging Ma to milk her.”

“All right, Ellen.” Sudduth was won over. “If you want. Thanks.” And he soon forgot that it seemed strange to have a woman at the barn.

Ellen would think about Penny, wondering if her last baby had come wellborn. If work ever lightens, if Sudduth hires a hand like he says he might, Adele and me can drive over to see the Doughertys in spring.

She was in the sitting room one morning after breakfast, ironing by the windows. Mom was holding a small black volume, with pictures of the little boy, Dan, pasted into it. “Ellen, I’m afraid you’re forgetting him.”

“Dan wouldn’t want us mourning him fore’er.”

The phone rang. “You get it, Ellen.” Mom pored over the photographs.

“All right.” It was Western Union. Ellen listened quietly. She whispered into the mouthpiece, “Read it again, please.” The distant strange voice was almost inaudible. And the message was repeated. She hung the receiver onto its hook. She leaned against the table, put her hand to her mouth.

Mom looked up, urged, “What is it, Ellen? What is it?”

Her words fell of themselves, “Something’s happened to my pa.” Request presence Ellen Gaddy at inquest, the voice had said, cause of death suicide. Why would he do that? And him ever a good Catholic. He wouldn’t dare. And in the suddenness memories came rushing through the unbarred door. Anton was loving and he sought this daughter out. Guilt clutched her. He was dead too, now. She was stunned, but yet unable to weep. “I have to go to Louisville, Mom, and claim the body.”

That afternoon she packed. Adele was ready to drive her to the station and the family had gathered to say goodbye. Mom was kissing her, “Land. You’ve got to come back, Ellen.”

“I will if I can. I want to go to our farm in Millville when it’s o’er. And I have to see my sister, too.”

“I won’t go to Millville, Ma,” Simon cried out. His tow hair was mussed, his young face worried.

“Don’t take Thimon,” Hannah and Grace piped. “Let Thimon thtay.”

“You see?” Pop shouted. “Sell your farm and be one of us, Ellen.”

“Old Belle won’t give down her milk tonight,” Sudduth said.

“How can you resist us?” Adele put her arm about Ellen.

“Oh Ma,” said Simon, “I want to stay right here.”

“Maybe you will.” But Ellen was remembering the old orchard and the little hills, the stony soil where crops were hard-won, goats bounding down the pasture lane, hoofs hammering the ground, snorting and tossing their beards. She turned to the Wasilewskis, “I’ll write you-all if Simon has to come. Just as soon as I know.”

* * *

The corpse in the refrigerated drawer looked fragile and unprotected. The morgue smelled of mingled odd odors. “That’s him.”

“Thank you, Miss Gaddy,” said the officer.

“I don’t want him to stay there. Can I take the body?”

“Certainly. When the inquest is over.”

“How soon?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“I’ll call you. I’ll find a funeral home.”

“You notify them he’s here. And we’ll make the arrangements.” Then the officer was telling Ellen how Anton had hung himself by a leather belt in a woman’s flat.

“A woman?” She was bewildered.

“Says her name’s Rose Ay. Maybe you’d want to see her, miss. She doesn’t live far from here.”

“Rose Ay?” Ellen stood beside the tall desk. The vein was throbbing in her forehead, the oval of her face stayed white in the bright glare of the waiting room. She was probing dully, raking into the past.

“Do you know this woman?”

“No.”

“Are you all right, Miss Gaddy? You look sort of shaky. You knew it was suicide by hanging?”

“Yes. You said you’d give me her address, Mester?”

The officer tore a sheet from a pad, scribbled on it. “This is the easiest way to get there.” He handed her the paper. “Turn left outside.”

She was following corner signs then, and house numbers. In the streets winds were moving undisputed, brutal, and the city quailed and shrank upon itself. Finally Ellen was entering the brick building. She sensed the subdued trace of urine and must that corrupted the hall air. A woman’s deep voice was berating behind walls. And a radio came muted,

Oh sister Phoebe, how merry were we

The night we sat under Tom Jones plum tree

A man was on the upper stairs, pausing. He was coming down a few steps. “Hello, Ellen.”

She peered into the obscure light. “Who are you?”

“Christian Ay.” The shadows crouched quiet about him along the steep stairwell. “Guess you’re here to talk to my sister.”

The cheekbones and broad mouth were Simon’s, the stocky body. But his hair was different, no longer blond. And he was grave-faced. “I thought it was you,” she said thinly.

His voice rent the stillness, “I’m sorry about Mr. Gaddy.”

“Did you know he’d been coming here?”

“No, indeed.” He came down another step.

She backed away. “I say, did you? That it was my pa?” She was plaintive, cornered.

“Not till my sister called me.”

“What did he want of her?”

“She says they’d have been married.”

“Well. I don’t understand.” Jazz blared from the radio as a door opened and shut. She put her hand up and dropped it, aimless.

“You are coming to see Rose?” he was asking.

“Yes.”

“It’s that door at the head.” He gestured, disturbed with the awkward moment, at her air of incredulity. “Right up there. You can’t miss it.”

As she was passing, he stood aside by the wall. His face was harassed, lined. She looked at it. “Your home’s in Louisville?”

“On the outskirts. Twenty minutes from this place. Someone said you weren’t living in your home town any more.” The music, overloud, was persistent through the hollow walls. He was speaking then, abrupt, “Come. I’ll go up with you.”

“Yes.” She preceded him to the landing, where a white square of daylight existed at one end of the dirty passageway. He was knocking. In a moment, while she shifted constrained, quick steps approached. The door was opening.

“Well, Chris.” Rose spoke nervously, “I thought you’d gone. Who’s that?”

“Ellen Gaddy. His daughter.”

“No kidding. How do you do?”

Ellen was staring at the woman in the tight skirt and spiked heels. Coldly she observed the waved thick dark hair, the wide white face, the pale irises of the eyes outlined in black. She was rudely brushing past Rose, hasty, and then checking herself in the center of the room, by the bed. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Rose shrugged careless. “Would you like tea, Miss Gaddy?”

“If it’s no bother.”

“Here’s a chair for you.” Christian was pulling one up. He took her coat. “I’ll hang it on the clothes tree.”

“Now, thanks.” He was speaking with his sister over by the small stove. Sunlight was coming through the gray windows, drifting onto flimsy curtains and two narrow long mirrors. The simmering kettle and the quick disquieted whisper of the woman were playing on the air. I should never have come. I’ve got no business to be here. I wondered if I’d hear of him, or see him.

Rose was bringing the tea on a black lacquer tray. “Get a table, Chris.”

“Sure.” He placed the low table before Rose’s chair and sat down opposite Ellen.

Rose was pouring and passing the cups. “Well, here we are, Ellen. It is all right to call you Ellen?”

“Yes.”

The woman was impetuous, “Give Mama the news, Chris. She’s been after me for years to go home, Ellen. At last I’ve made up my mind.”

Ellen was sipping the weak hot tea. Rose was brash and Christian seemed embarrassed by it. Pa was going to marry her. I don’t believe that. Besides the church would not have brooked it.

“Honestly, Chris,” Rose was saying, “I can’t get over you quitting the store.”

“I’ve made plans to leave Louisville,” he said to Ellen with a slight grin, aloof. “Getting out of the city.”

“I think he’s nuts,” Rose laughed, brushing at her heavy hair.

“And how about you? Come, do you think I am?” Christian raised his brows.

“No.” Ellen listened idly, half attending, refusing to make an effort. In the hallway he had seemed vaguely like the young man she had once loved. But he wasn’t at all. I shouldn’t have expected it. He was a stranger, changed, his aspect stern. He glowered now at his sister.

“Chris is going shares on a feed concern.” Rose was mocking. “Grinding stuff for farmers. Banana oil. Did you ever?”

“It’s a nice small town, now. Troy is a good way from the city.”

Ellen was remembering the gossip she had heard in Grady Love’s store. “How will your family like the move?”

“I’m going alone.”

“He lives with Mama,” Rose said. “They have The Standard Shop over at the other end of Louisville. Mama’s getting old. That’s another reason why I’m going back there.” She was speaking warmly to Ellen, “You know, Daddy never mentioned much about you.”

Ellen caught her breath. “Who?”

“Mr. Gaddy. Your father.” Rose was motioning lightly, smiling.

Ellen put her cup down. Her face was firm and molded, guarded. But she spoke unsteadily. “Reckon I have to go now.”

“I’ll come with you,” Christian said.

“You don’t have to run yet,” Rose was protesting. “Daddy used to come up, you know, for the waterfront auctions.”

“Don’t call him that, woman.” Ellen’s voice rose high. She was crossing the room, groping for her coat where Christian had hung it.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Rose said, hurt. “I thought a lot of him.”

“Thank you for the tea.” Ellen felt her hands shaking.

“I’ll see you to your hotel.” Christian was taking her coat from her hands, holding it while she put it on.

“You don’t have to.”

He was picking up his cap. The door closed behind them and they heard the tap of heels receding. They went down the stairs. “Rose means well,” Christian said. When he had hailed a cab, he looked at her. “You’re wishing you’d stayed away.”

“But no.”

They were sitting in the leather-smelling interior. The meter clicked. There were house fronts, wood and brick, cafes and corner saloons blazoned with neon. Pigeons strutting in lonely gutters, pecking, winging across streets. Christian was saying, “I’m sorry about your father.” They looked out of opposite windows. A parked van was unloading enormous handled baskets of gladioli and roses. There were people on foot. And bicycles, and trucks blaring, cars, a dray hauled by mules, red pompons on black bridles, and shouting teamsters. The taxi was halting. Christian paid the driver. They were standing before an old graystone structure.

“You read the Bible, Christian?”

“No.”

“I do, sometimes.” Their minds were running inward on their separate thoughts. He twisted his soft cap, frowning at the pavement. Her hands were in her coat pockets. “There’s a part goes, from out of the populous city men groan and the soul of the wounded cries out.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” he whispered. The city lowered about them.

“I’ve got no mind for it here.”

“Nor I. I know just what you mean. I don’t like it either. That’s why I’m moving to Troy.”

“It’s unnatural.”

“It takes all kind.” His face softened. “Are you all right? Is there something I can do?”

“No.” She turned to the stone steps.

“I’ll try to come to the funeral.”

She watched the last sunbeams striking against him as he merged into the moving people. He doesn’t remember. He’s forgot it all. I don’t give a care.

But in the night Ellen dreamed of him. He was the way he had been long ago, swaggering and strong, laughing. It was a peaceful dream. As she came awake Christian was putting his hand on her hair. She cried into the dark, “Dan? Dan, I loved you.” She was weeping in the unfamiliar hard hotel bed.

* * *

Ellen was unable to get permission for a Catholic burial. The priest had been firm. “Absolutely. There is no possibility of it. Madam. Unquestionably he died in mortal sin.” He looked down at Ellen, fierce, “When were you last at confession? Madam.”

She went from him, telling herself, “I’ll get Father Tompert in Millville to say a mass for him. There, he will.”

The funeral was costing over two hundred dollars. Ellen had wired Garland and he sent the money. She intended to reimburse him for her share but it would take time. All her wages were rapidly disappearing in train and hotel costs and meals. The coffin would be oak, chemically treated to endure. The sermon would last twenty minutes. They would engrave a stone. Anton Gaddy. 1877-1937. At Rest. Beloved Husband and Father. There were things she had heard, customs attending a death. The clothes should be removed and hung on a line outside. The body should be anointed, silver coins laid on the eyes. And someone should sit with the corpse so a cat or something strange didn’t get to it. The tearing of the winding sheets, the telling of the bees so they didn’t leave the hives. And there lay Pa in the new-fashioned way. I misdoubt Pa would have cared for the way I handled things here.

Then she was spotting, in the entrance way, Garland and Frankie and Violet, who had arrived from Chicago just in time for the service. She hurried down the aisle to greet them. She clung to Frankie, who was plumpish in her fur coat, holding Ellen’s hands, crying, “It’s her hair, Vi. Look how Ellie’s wearing it. She’s so sweet.”

“I was afraid you-all would be late,” Ellen laughed.

“Let’s make her go back on the train with us, Vi.”

“Nerts. She won’t. Ellie’s a country girl.”

“I’d say the country agrees with this wench.” Garland was fatter, his square jaw lost in sagging folds. He kissed Ellen’s cheek. “I suppose this puss has got her a beau now?” His small eyes were merry, sunk into the flesh.

“Oh Uncle.”

The organ began to play and they were taking their seats. We never said one word about Pa. We talked about ourselves all the time. She glimpsed Christian on the opposite side of the room by the far wall. At first she didn’t recognize him, a short man in a large gray overcoat, holding a gray cap. He was nodding to her, sitting down, bunching his coat on his knees.

The last words were being spoken over Anton. Her father had been quick to quote the Bible at them all, relishing the Old Testament. But the funeral text was taken from Paul. Behold, I show you a mystery. The trumpet shall sound and the dead be raised. She was remembering her slaughtered goats. Her ire rose once more at that secret deed of his against her. Now she stilled it. Reckon there’s more to it than I could ever piece. He must have had a great sadness to take his life.

They followed the hearse to the cemetery. The crank squeaked as the coffin was lowered. Earth to earth. Dust to dust. Behold the tabernacle of God is with men. And there shall be no more death. Neither shall there be pain. For the former things are passed away.

Garland was taking the party to a steak-house for dinner. He went back into the kitchen to talk with the chef, to approve the cuts before they were broiled. Then Ellen began to tell them about the second tornado that had struck without warning near Weems Crossroads in Illinois, how it killed the older Wasilewski brother and tore apart a new-built house on the farm. “I might have married him, had he lived. We talked of it, Dan and me.” Her mouth twisted and she looked down at her plate. “I’d have had a life there.”

“Oh Ellie. Why didn’t she tell us, Vi?” Frankie appealed.

“Shouldn’t have stayed after it happened, puss.” Garland was tapping the table with his finger. “Should have come to us.”

“Say, how’s Simon?” Violet asked. “How’d he take it, Ellie?”

“He’s grown and he likes farming.”

“Do bring my nephew and visit us,” Frankie pressed, “come on, Ellie. Gen would love it.”

“No, I’ve got to take my own way. I can’t go to you folks. Tell me about your job, Frankie. Do you still like it?”

“I’ve been promoted, Ellie. And Gen has a new office and twice the pay.”

Garland was seated close to Violet, his arm was about her. He was ordering coffee for her and desserts to be brought for everyone. “What are you planning to do about the farm, hon?”

“I’m going there as soon as I can.”

“Are you really?” Frankie cried, surprise on her round face.

“Want to come with me?”

“No, thanks,” Frankie said swiftly. “Not me. I don’t want any part of that.”

“But, Frankie.”

“And that’s the truth. I don’t want my piece of that farm. I can’t stand it.”

“You two can do it legally,” Garland said, “if Frankie means it.”

“You make out the papers, Uncle, for me to sign. It should be Ellie’s. She likes it and needs it.” Frankie’s features were set, obstinate.

“Funny,” said Garland, “An and me decided the same thing when we were just the age of you two. He bought me out of my rights and I signed over to him. When he married.”

“You might change your mind sometime, Frankie,” Ellen said.

“No. Ellie looks so doubtful,” Frankie smiled. “She thinks everyone wants to be a farmer.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Ellen said. “At least I’m going to pay you for your share.”

“That’s silly. We have all we need. We’ve got good jobs. You have Simon to look out for.”

They began to remember Anton then because Garland had used his name. “Uncle used to come at Christmas time, Vi. We’d butcher and bake,” Frankie was saying, “and then go to midnight mass in that little church.”

“They watched out for my soul,” said Garland, “and Frankie was to be a concert artist.”

“No, Chicken!”

“That was Pa’s idea,” Frankie told Violet grimly, then giggled, “not mine.”

It was time for their train, they were getting up in a rush. They laughed, bustling out together. Garland, from the middle of the street, waved a taxicab down. The women were waiting under the marquee. “Give my little nephew my love, Ellie,” Frankie said, and whispered, “I’m sorry about that man you were going to marry.”

“You wouldn’t know your nephew, Frankie. He’s not a baby, he’s not little.”

“Come see us, Ellie. Gen would honestly love it.”

Violet took Ellen’s hand impulsively. “We’re redecorating the house. Why don’t you come back with us and have a real visit?”

“I can’t.”

“Goodbye, Ellie.”

“Goodbye. Goodbye, Aunt Vi. Uncle.” She was walking back to the hotel. The streets were damp, the narrowed sky strip above the buildings clear. There was a purple circle of mist about the moon. Lone figures were moving in lighted areas. They gave her a message. Call Mr. Ay at the following number. She went into a phone booth, for there was a void now that they were all gone. She told him she would go to the Ay home tomorrow for supper.

28

Christian Ay had called for her in his year-old V-Eight Ford. The Standard Shop was an echoing large building, half dark. They were passing aisles of goods spread out on counters and under glass, their footfalls drumming. At the base of a dowel-railed staircase, barely illuminated by a tiny skylight, he took her arm. She looked at his face cast into the new lines. His brown hair was smooth, his broad mouth disciplined. Only his eyes are the same, blue like that flower. He was waving in back of them at the laden counters. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s nice.”

“You’re polite. It’s not. It’s a decent living.” He was smiling, formal. “Now it’s quite a thing, Ellen, meeting you again.”

She looked away, moved from under his hand up the stair. “Oh, yes.”

“Are you angry about Rose and your father?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re sure you don’t hold it against me?”

“No.”

“Well, shall we go up?” They went through a cluttered office space at the stairhead and into a linoleum-floored room.

Mrs. Ay was hustling from the square table she had been setting, a white-haired short woman with a quick smile. She spoke in a clipped way to Ellen, “Had tea with my daughter, Miss Gaddy? Sorry about your father. Too bad. It’s hard. I know. I lost my husband many years ago. Suddenly. Heart attack.”

“I had heard of it,” Ellen murmured.

“Rosie said she knew your father too. Said she’d had dinner with him. Heard Rosie’s coming home? She tell you? Nearly twelve years she’s lived in that flat near Market Street. Determined to show she was independent. It’s a bad section. Time she came back to the Shop, don’t you think?” She was gathering her apron in her small hands. “Oh dear, that’s the pie shell burning.” She ran out.

“She gets that way when we have company.” Christian grinned. Then he was meeting her eyes, intent. “She hasn’t kept track of Rose any more than me. They go shopping together or Rose eats here with us two or three times a year. I might as well tell you she doesn’t know Rose had it in mind to marry anyone.”

Ellen looked away. “She’s nice.” A speckled bird with a long iridescent tail was mounted beside a clock on the sideboard. “That’s a fine cock pheasant there.”

“I shot it at Brinker’s farm that summer.” His voice for an instant was surging with the old eager sound.

Mrs. Ay was back. “Soup’s on.” She carved the roast swiftly with a long blade, heaping the plates. “You like mashed potatoes? We aren’t fancy here.” There was a bouquet of artificial daisies in the center of the red-checked tablecloth. They ate hungrily. “Chris says he knew you, Miss Gaddy, that time he worked near Bethel.”

“Ellen lived only three miles from me.”

“I’ve been away from Millville more than a year now,” Ellen said.

“Why’d you leave, Ellen?”

She gazed down at her napkin. “I wanted to work out.” Why did I say that? I had to look after your youngen. I ought to tell him that. Her mind worked it over. She sat absent while Mrs. Ay began to talk.

“After Kate left us, Chris nearly convinced me we ought to sell this here store and buy a small farm.”

“Kate was my wife,” Christian said. “I got married the spring after I came back from Brinker’s.”

“He wanted to grow truck crops. Store’s much safer. Better investment. Rain or shine you’re not dependent. It’s just getting nice too, we’ve got three girls at the counters. I can sit down in the afternoon.”

“I knew you’d been married,” Ellen said.

“Divorced. Three years ago.”

“Too young when they did it in the first place.” Mrs. Ay was shaking her head, reproving. “Chris is headstrong. Like his father before him. I told him it wouldn’t work.”

“Come, Mama, let’s keep some secrets from Ellen.” He was coloring, pushing his chair back.

“Well, I’ll get that pie.” Mrs. Ay got up. “Shame the crust had to burn.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

“I meant to write you, Ellen. You know? Back there when we were kids?” He laughed, still flushed, the skin wrinkling around his blue eyes.

“Well.”

“How come you aren’t married?” The silence came down, overlaid thinly with the whisper of the clock on the sideboard.

Mrs. Ay slammed the kitchen door as she returned. She was cutting the cocoanut cream pie into large pieces. “You rather have something else, Miss Gaddy? There’s jello in the icebox.”

“No, this is fine. It’s very good.”

“So after Kate ran away like that,” Mrs. Ay was saying, “why Chris kept wanting to sell. Not me. He’s putting his share into something now that suits him. Over in Troy.”

“You only live once,” Christian said dryly, “isn’t that right, Mama?”

“I’ll be running the shop here with Rosie. The luck of my daughter coming home. And in my old age.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Christian said, “she’s not so old.”

Ellen was helping them collect the plates then, Mrs. Ay insisting on leaving them stacked beside her sink. The evening was moving on. The older woman had brought out a pot of coffee and she stood in the bedroom doorway, her figure slack and weary. “Good night, Miss Gaddy. You come visit again.”

“Good night.”

Christian and Ellen were silent now on the chintz-covered davenport where the winter twilight faltered. Cars were whirring in the street outside, horns blew faint, lights shuddered and vanished on the ceiling. “Reckon it’s time for me to go.”

“No. Wait.” He put his arm along the sofa behind her. “I can’t get over you, Ellen. You’re just the same. I had thought you’d be different.”

The lingering noise of the clock was beating heavily upon time. She waited.

“I did intend to write when I had to quit that job with Brinkers.”

“I wrote to you. That autumn.”

“You did? My father’s attack had come out of the blue. He left the accounts in bad shape. We almost lost the business. You know what that meant those days.”

“I wrote you. Twice.”

“Funny. I didn’t get them.”

“I know. They came back.”

“I’d have answered.”

“I didn’t have the right address.”

“Did you try Mr. Brinker?”

“He didn’t know either.” She sighed.

“Say.” He dropped his arm onto her shoulder. “I feel badly about that.” She had stiffened, but he was bending his head gently, hunting a thing lost, a fragment of his youth when time had been ground easily beneath the heel of his fired blood, his just-discovered manhood.

But the anger was grating in Ellen. She cried to him compelled, as if she had memorized it, “Once I laid a curse on you. Curse him, I said! I swore it on the Virgin.”

“Come, what kind of talk is that?” He reddened, withdrawing himself. He was taking a pipe from a nearby ash tray, filling it from his pocket pouch. He scratched a match, fragrant smoke sifted into the half-dusk. “A curse?”

“You don’t believe in such things?”

“Why would you do that?” He was looking at her, discomfited, inquiring.

She made a movement to rise, impatient. “I don’t know. It’s getting late. I don’t want to talk.”

“I’m curious, Ellen. Why did you?” he pressed.

“It’s no use.” She twisted her fingers, at bay. Like I said that time. I’ll go all my days in bitterness.

“Come on,” he was grinning. “We were such babies. Were you in love with that young squirt?” He drew on the pipe, then he was laying one hand over hers, the palm cool and hard.

“There is a child.” Now it was said.

“You have a baby? You were married then?”

“Simon. He’ll be eleven the first of July.”

The stillness stayed. Then he removed his hand, swift. His pipe knocked as he was putting it in the ash tray. He stood and was walking across the room to the dead pheasant. He looked up at it on the sideboard. He struck his fist into his palm, his back was to her. “By damn.”

She cringed, waiting.

“I never once thought of that. I didn’t.”

She listened to the chatter of the clock at the side of the stuffed bird. His voice was intruding suddenly.

“Brinker’s farm. That horse. What was his name? That stallion. Next morning I got the wire about my father.” His words were fast. He slapped his fist again.

And she shrank, wishing herself on the street, away from him. She recoiled from his ferocity, his vitality. Hate, hate, the clock was spelling it out. I hate him. I do.

“A boy, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know about me?”

“I told him his father’d died.”

“All these years.” He whispered it. “By damn.”

“Well.” Her voice sounded frail. “It’s past and done. It’s o’er.” It was as if the room were empty and the clock, as it unwound, harped on dead walls.

“No.” He moved quickly over the floor to stand above her, stocky and angry. The pulse of traffic was heard, ghost lights were shifting disturbed, on the walls about them. “I’d have married you. You know that. Don’t you?”

“I thought you would.”

“You know I would. Why didn’t you find me?”

She was shaking her head. “I tried.”

“I was there. In Louisville,” he cried.

“No.”

“Why didn’t you go to Carl Brinker? For the child’s sake.” He shouted, towering.

“I wrote. I didn’t know what to do. Where to turn.” She felt tears gathering. “I couldn’t even confess it. I’ve left the church since and I don’t care. But I dreaded it then. The sin.”

“El?” Christian was leaning down, he put a hand along her cheek. He was pulling her beside him. They were about the same height and his eyes, dark and gentle, were gazing into hers. His teeth flashed in the dusk. “Remember that silly rabbit?”

“I turned it loose,” she flared and tore away from him, to the table across the room, where the paper daisies were in a white bowl. She felt the tightness catch her and the quiver as she began to weep.

“And the primrose from Mrs. Brinker’s kitchen? In the red pot?”

“I wished you dead.” Her voice was quavering. “O’er the years. I hated you.”

He pursued her. “Look here, El.” His hands were touching her shoulders and wheeling her to the vast warm bulwark of him. “I didn’t know.” He was putting his fingers to the wetness on her thin face. “And I see how it was.” He came out heavy and seeking, forged in deliberate tenderness. “If I had known. All the time lost.”

She let his mouth find hers. And it was there, what she had wished to sense all along, the old love restored and made real. In their common need, they were clinging together, deaf to the brisk hammer of the clock and the keening wind that whined in sterile streets without; they were engrossed in their sudden solace.

* * *

Within a week they had married. Christian had driven over to Troy and severed his partnership with the feed store. Ellen was helping Mrs. Ay pack his belongings. “Has he told you about Simon?”

Mrs. Ay nodded, vigorous. “His father didn’t get along good with Chris. Think that could have made him wild?”

“We’d like you to come see us sometime.”

“Will do that.” She opened a closet door. “Want to go through some of this stuff? Might be a thing or two you could use. Here’s a lamp shade. Good shape, too.”

“We’ll take it,” Ellen laughed.

Then they were driving to Millville in Christian’s car. On the way they ate the fried chicken and cookies Mrs. Ay had prepared, and by noon they were turning into the yard. They halloed but there was no sign of human life at the barn. A group of doleful-eyed cows, a woolly spindly foal, a pair of dull-coated horses gazed, questioning. Pigs were squealing in their pen, speckled roosters and hens wandered free under the hackberry or perched, roosting, on the porch rail. The wood bottom to the tin tub was broken out and a gray towel was flapping on the clothesline under the February wind.

Ellen called to the dog, but there was no response from the bushes. “Wonder who’s caring for Jack?”

They went into the house. Dust lay heavy, the beds were unmade, the windows closed. The air was musty, unlived in, as if the occupants had suddenly been spirited away. “It’s high time we got here, El.”

In the late afternoon, while Christian was feeding the cows and she was scrubbing the porch, Sam Offut arrived. “Hey there, Ellie.”

“Hey Sam. Where you been?”

“I come o’er twice a day to milk and feed. I live at my place down the road. My ooman and me moved out of here. Folks call this farm haunted. What are you doing back?”

“I’m here for good, Sam.” She came down into the yard, putting her wet cold hands in the sleeves of her coat for warmth. “I’m married now. Will you stay on with us?”

“You mean work for you-all?”

“We sure could use you.”

“Reckon not.” Hunched over, he was rubbing his hip. “See, I spent my best years working for your pa. I liked him real well. He was a just man. And he was a right lone man, some ways. I don’t know. I study about him and that happenstance. Hope Jesus isn’t weeping for you, Ellie. Have you e’er taken hold of the horns of salvation?”

“Well, Sam.”

Christian was coming from the barn, heavy-set in his stiff new-purchased blue jeans and a storm jacket. His face was pale, winter-bleached. He called, “Hello, Mr. Offut.”

“Heard you married up to Ellie.”

“That’s so. You going to help us out?”

“I’m too old. I got some garden and a roadside stand of sorts.” Sam shrugged. “My ooman does a little. Reckon not.”

“Wish you could see your way.” Christian put his arm about Ellen’s shoulder; she was wearing an old ragged coat of Maria’s she had found in the attic room.

Sam rubbed his stubble beard. His breath had a taint of whiskey. He was shifting his feet as if they ached. “You’ll make out. The cows aren’t milking much. This place is right run-down. I got the lumbago the same as my wife now. I’ve been doing the least I can get by with.”

“What do we owe you anyway, Mr. Offut?”

“You figure it out. You can get it to me sometime. I’ll say farewell to you both.” The old man was shuffling away. “Go with Christ.”

Ellen stood next to Christian, against his warm bulk. “I always favored Sam.” The small bent figure was going out of sight onto Sweetincreek Road.

* * *

The rooms were being scoured and the floors rubbed with wax. Ellen rooted into dark places with a harsh brush and yellow soap. When seasonal winds blew up she threw the windows open and put on her torn brown sweater. She washed sheets and quilts, freshened curtains, and changed bed ticking. She lifted the crucifix from its nail over the bed to pack it in a trunk along with the painting of the Sacred Heart and the dusty images of Mary and Joseph. Reckon they had a meaning for Pa. And for me as well. I made that doll into a god when I had a trouble once.

She had fixed up the loft-room to be Simon’s, dusting out a chest and setting it by the bed for his own. The big downstairs bedroom would be for Christian and herself. She was surveying it. “Could you cut some big windows in here, Chris?”

He leaned in the doorway, his high boots caked. “I’ll do it. Let in some light.”

“And I’ll hang yellow print curtains.”

They were looking out the window at the bare bushes. A sparrow lit on a twig, lisping, “See, peabody, peabody, peabody!”

“That’s the harbinger of spring,” Ellen said.

“And today Simon will be here. That’s my son.” The boy was due on the afternoon train.

“The redwing blackbirds are back at the pond.”

“That’s plowing weather for sure, El. Say, the horses are shedding bad. Would Simon groom them?”

“You might say he’s partial to horses.” She told him how the boy had found the red colt when he was very small.

“How about the foal in the stable? We’ll call it Simon’s.”

“There. He’d have been here long since if he’d known that.”

They were at the station at New Hope then, waiting for the overdue train. Ellen was standing beside Christian. A black-haired man, his back to her, was rolling a cigarette. It was Dan, hawknosed, demanding, hot and vital. She had to still herself while she turned to Christian. She had to remember, while the pain was beating, that Dan had dropped out for always. She took Christian’s hand. He thought it was because of their son. “Don’t worry, El. I’ll make him like me.” When she had been cleaning the house she had found it was one of Dan’s songs she had been singing.

O say, darling, say, when I’m far away

Sometimes you may think of me, dear

Bright sunny days will soon fade away

Remember what I say and be true, dear

Dan was a part of her, even a part of the way she would cherish her husband.

They were watching at the coach car for Simon to step down. But he jumped onto the cement runway from a baggage car. He had brought his brown kid with him. He was running down the platform and it skipped after. “Ma. Look at me. Look at April and me.”

“He’s a wild one,” Ellen said.

“He’s big.” Christian straightened himself, nervous, turning his soft cap with his fingers.

“This is Christian Ay. Like we wrote you, Simon. Now, he’s your father.”

“I know it.” The boy was leaning over his kid, adjusting its leather collar.

Christian took his hand. “Well now. Hello, Simon.”

“Hi.” They walked to the V-Eight, Simon leading the docile animal. It stepped in and the boy followed, sitting on the back seat, holding the leash, watchful.

Christian faced him. “I hear you’re keen after horses, Simon.”

“What does he mean, Ma?”

“There’s a colt in the barn,” Christian was saying, “belongs to you.”

“How old, now?”

“Ten weeks or so. Don’t you think, El?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Pearl had her colt, Ma,” Simon was hunting for her eyes. “And Sudduth’s getting him a hired man next week.” He leaned toward Ellen. “Strong like an ox, Sudduth says. Pop claims he’s got brains like one too.” The boy smiled, strained.

“You want our colt?” Christian asked. “For your own?”

“Yes. Reckon I do, Mester.”

Christian and Ellen got in the front seat, and they were driving out on the road. Near Bailey’s Woods, a flock of bluejays darted before the car, pursuing a blinded flapping owl. Their barking was strident and shrill as they winged after it into the winter-stripped trees, now spattered with white blooms of shadblow. At the farmyard the three were getting out of the car, standing in the yard. Simon had his kid tightly by the collar.

“Well, Simon?” Ellen said.

His face became red. He stood before Christian, steady. “If it doesn’t matter to you, I’d as lief call you Pa, like Dennie does with Sudduth.”

“That’s the general idea, son,” Christian sighed, glancing at Ellen.

* * *

They were lingering at the long oak table in the kitchen. Ellen moved about, putting dishes and pots away. Christian was smoking his pipe. The boy cried, “Simon Ay’s a good name, isn’t it?”

“You look a little alike, too,” Ellen nodded.

“Say it again, how it was, Pa,” Simon urged, “that you happened to leave the county before you could marry Ma.”

It was later when Simon told them about Luke bringing Penny and the new baby over to the Wasilewskis to visit Ellen. “Penny felt bad when you weren’t there, Ma.”

“Was it a boy or girl, Simon?”

“I don’t know. She said a boy, I think. Now I disremember.”

“Simon. You knew I’d ask.” Ellen was disappointed.

Christian was speaking to her. “Luke Dougherty works for a farmer, doesn’t he?”

“A stock farmer. Webster. He raises Jerseys and Short-horns. Blooded beasts. Mester Webster thinks a mort of Luke too. There. I hate it, not seeing Penny and the baby.”

Christian put down his pipe. “I’ve got an idea. You know I have to have help here if we want to make this farm pay. It’s in bad shape.”

“I’m here. I’m a good worker,” Simon said.

“How about asking Mr. Dougherty to come in with us? You think he would? What do you say? We could buy more land if it’s too small for two families. We could convert one of the old sheds for them till we found time to build a house.”

“Simon’s due in school on Monday.”

“Now, Ma.”

“I need a man. I’d have to find one. And the Doughertys did raise you, Simon.”

“Luke would be on his own.” Ellen considered it. “Reckon he’d like that. He’s got a way with cattle.”

“I’m rusty. I’ll make mistakes alone. I haven’t enough experience. And I’d lose all my money.”

“There’d be Penny. She’s like my family, Chris. I’d be done saying goodbye to Penny.”

“Clate and Anse,” crowed Simon. “They’d have to go to school with me. We’d sleep in the barn.”

“Hold on now. We don’t know if Mr. Dougherty’ll take us up on it yet. He might figure he’d be a fool to leave Mr. Webster.” Christian wrote the letter and Simon took it to the mailbox. He put the red metal flag up so the RFD car would stop.

* * *

While they were waiting to hear from Weems Crossroads, Simon followed his father about. They pitched and shoveled and scraped from the stables, scattered manure on the hilly fields, rubbed the newborn calves with straw to clean them and put them to their dams’ inflamed fresh udders. Simon curried and brushed the horses and his long-legged undernourished foal. Masses of dead hair would accumulate in the litter under the animals in their stalls. “I’ll be glad to take orders from you for a change,” the child was telling Christian gravely. “Ma means well, but half the time she’s wrong.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Christian grinned down at him, “might be you.”

Ellen was sitting at the table in the kitchen, writing Mom Wasilewski. She told Mom how she missed all of them, Pop and Adele and the little girls. She asked advice on starting a flock of Leghorns. “And we’re fixing to send off to the mail catalog for some Italian bees. Does Pop calculate them to be a good honey variety? I’ve heard they’re mean.” A sadness descended on Ellen. Now that’s become my past. It never turns out the way I figure it will. I thought to spend my days in Illinois with Dan. Now he’s gone and that’s all lost. There came to her mind the white buckling that had perished so long ago, strangling in a fence. She heard Christian and Simon approaching. And their footfalls on the porch boards washed away her grieving. The sun threw itself in a blanket on the floor in front of them as the door opened.

“What are you doing, El?”

“Writing a letter. Thinking.”

Christian was placing his firm fingers on her shoulder. In the heat of her love, born of gratitude, her blood mingled with his. She turned in her chair to lean against him. “I was reading a while ago in that gilt-edged fancy Bible in there, El. Where it says, for lo, the winter’s past. The rain’s over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth. The time of the singing of birds is come.”

* * *

Ellen was collecting Anton and Maria’s moth-eaten garments from the clothespress. She had made a bonfire and was carrying them out, throwing them upon it. She told Christian about her mother. “Frankie and Uncle and Vi went to see her on the way down for Pa’s funeral. They said she didn’t know them. She had a doll the nurses had given her and seemed content, rocking it.” Ellen poked the fire with a stick so it blazed up afresh.

“We’ll go to visit her.”

“I used to fear the past, Chris. I wanted to shake it off. And here we are on Pa’s farm, where he ruled. I ne’er thought I’d see it again.”

“It has to be our way, though, El. That we’re building. Our own.”

“I know. I want to change all of it. So it’s new.” She stood marking the ashes that trembled and faded.

* * *

In a few days the Doughertys were arriving, herded by the tall round-faced Luke. Clate and Anse were bearing boxes and suitcases in either hand. Ellen was taking the wailing new baby from Penny’s arms. The young girl, Blossom, held the blanketed sickly Jess. And little Ernie hung behind her. Penny’s face was relieved. “It’s a wonder we e’er got here, Ellie. With this crowd.”

Ellen looked down at the baby. “What’s his name?”

“Melinda. Didn’t Simon tell you it’s a girl?”

“Now all we got is one V-Eight,” Christian was grinning. “Women and babies first trip. Boys and baggage the next. Come, Luke.”

The Doughertys had crated and shipped their shedfull of goats when they learned that Ellen wanted them. The animals came two days after the family. There were fifteen all told, kids and goats. They arrived blatting and white-eyed at the New Hope station. In a week they were accustomed to the woodshed and the new pens there. Their mild oval pupils would follow Ellen’s unhurried movements. She set up a block of salt and shelled corn in their long trough while they crowded to eat. They crunched and shoved, and the hurt of her own lost herd began to heal.

The men were enlarging one of the bigger outbuildings for the Doughertys to live in temporarily. They papered the rooms, tarred the roof, slapped on a coat of white paint. “I can’t smell pigs in here any more, Chris,” Luke was saying, “can you?”

By fall the houses and barns were wired and electric fixtures had been put in. There was an overhead light in Ellen’s kitchen. “You sure are reckless,” she told Christian, “with your money.”

“I’m so glad to be shed of The Standard Shop,” his face was browned and young, “I like spending it.”

He sent for a separator for the dairy house. It spilled cream in a thin yellow stream from one fountain while skim milk gushed from another into tall cans. There was an electric churn, too. Christian promised Simon, “Give us a few years and we’ll have milking machines in the barn. Wait and see.”

* * *

In early spring, a young purebred Guernsey bull was strolling about in a sturdy barred pen. It arched its crest and snorted toward the barnyard where the cows were. It baaed in a high voice like a calf, for it was yet immature. The men laughed at it. Luke said, “His seed’s got the lines to build up our herd.”

“But has he got the strength in him?”

“He has. What we ought to do, though, is buy a few top brood cows from good farms. Raise their calves by that bull. It’s the fastest way to get a producing herd.”

“Let’s go ahead. You ride over to the next sale that’s advertised. Can you pick them?”

“I’ll spot them easy.”

Cold fresh winds moved. Christian was drawing on his pipe. “By damn, how’d you like to paint a Guernsey bull clear across the barn, Luke? I’ve been thinking. And trim the windows with white? The boys could help on that part. I’d like to see some fancying up around here.”

“Well, that’s an idea. Does no harm. It’ll bring people in to use the bull, too. Give the farm a name hereabouts.”

And the women came to watch the painting. Penny was holding her baby girl on her arm, Ernie at her heels. “Look at that giant Guernsey there. Well.”

Beside Ellen tottered Jess, the undergrown brown-haired child, her favorite among Penny’s brood. He was gripping her skirt, open-mouthed at the men on the high ladders. Their blue jackets were paint-spattered, their buckets dangled by baling wire from the rungs. Simon and the Dougherty boys came running up from Sweetincreek Road, swinging their schoolbooks and lunch pails. They dropped them by the yard fence and went for paint brushes to join the men in the sun-dipped warm barnyard.

“Say,” Ellen called, “you might set an iron bull on the roof for a weather vane, too. If you had a mind.”

“We’ll do it, El,” Christian was shouting down, laughing.

“I’m going to make my pies up,” Ellen told Penny. “I’ll take Jess with me. He fancies my kitchen.”

She was walking slowly to the house. A tan puppy followed. She patted it as she helped Jess up the porch steps. A turtledove was calling, “Croo-ah, croo-croo.”

“There’s the saddest voice,” she sighed, “of all the birds.” She let the small dog in the doorway. It heaved itself on the floor with a contented snort. She gave the little boy a cracker and sat him on a rug. He munched damply, eyes wide, watching Ellen roll out the dough. She was fluting the edges of the crusts, deft. Her cats were stretched in the warm sun on the window sills. She stepped over the sleeping puppy to put the pies in the new white porcelain stove.

In the orchard below the house, blossoms were unfolding in a pink and white mist upon the shapes of old twisted trees and new-set nurslings. Shooting-stars and woodsorrels wasted their fragrance and birds began to trill, as if afraid of disturbing the air, from where they swung on branches. Gray squirrels carped at a cub-fox gliding down the path in the woods. Ellen, at the opened kitchen window, watched hawks sweeping in the blue and sensed the rustle of the new season. There was the green odor of growing. She felt the ancient promise, the wheel of earth once more.

She led the pinafored Jess, his short legs stumbling, to the bedroom. He held onto the white spread, thumb in mouth, sleepy eyes fixed on her as she laid out a diaper. She changed him, then straightened her laden body as a birth pain came. Within her the child quickened in the darkness and she was aware of its joy.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Helga Sandburg was born in Maywood, Illinois, spent most of her early years in Harbert, Michigan, around the lake bend, ninety miles from Chicago. As a youngster, she was curious about the ways of the semi-wild country surrounding her isolated home. She mounted butterfly and leaf collections, kept a bird-watcher’s notebook, taught her five dogs to pull a sled over the snow-covered sand dunes of Lake Michigan’s shore, and trained her own horses. In her father’s house, she saw pass the great literary figures of the midwest. She served as secretary to the poet for many years and became steeped in the tradition of American folkway and song. The Wheel of Earth casts a glance back to the vanishing lore of the prairie farmlands.

In 1946 Miss Sandburg’s family moved to the Great Smokies of western Carolina. There she renewed her childhood interest in animals, raising calves, colts, dogs, goats, cats, varieties of rabbits, Peruvian cavies, parakeets, and hooded rats. Her animal collection was reduced to two Siamese cats and one Doberman Pinscher when she took up residence six years ago in Falls Church, Virginia. For two years she was employed nearby at the Library of Congress. Currently she is at work on her second novel. She has a son of sixteen and a daughter of fourteen. She is the wife of Arthur D. Golby, Assistant Professor of English at The American University in Washington, D. C.

Transcriber’s Notes

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

The original spelling was mostly preserved. All other changes are shown here (before/after):

- ... love-lies-bleeding, marigolds and sunflowers, cranebills ...

... love-lies-bleeding, marigolds and sunflowers, cranesbills ...

- ... dead like old man Moses Hedrick with a pitchfolk tucked between ...

... dead like old man Moses Hedrick with a pitchfork tucked between ...

- ... “I will.” In a swift flood Ellen was homestick for the old ...

... “I will.” In a swift flood Ellen was homesick for the old ...

- ... To wish her lover goodspeed ...

... To wish her lover godspeed ...

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Table of Contents

The wheel of earth

Acknowledgments

Contents

Part one

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Part two

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Part three

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Part four

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Part five

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About the author

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