part four

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.