“Lived a few miles up the road. Us boys would sneak over to peek in his

windows. Watch him suck the milk from the udders.”

“Is that a fact?”

Garland watched her intently. “You’re wonderful, puss.”

“That’s a silly thing to say.”

“Well, you make me feel like a boy again. I always said it.”

Ellen laughed at him. “Reckon I best get to the kitchen. I’ll race you

to see if you’re still a boy.”

“Now there’s a cruel wench.” He trailed after her.

At the steps she waited. As they started up they became aware suddenly

of a commotion within the house, of cries and Anton’s growls. Ellen was

running up the stairs. “I’m afraid it’s Ma.”

But the shrill cry of Frankie pierced, “I won’t go back. I won’t. I hate

you. You can’t make me.”

And a sound was heard so that Ellen turned to Garland. “He’s beating

her. He’ll not be gainsaid. What’ll we do?”

“I’ll show you what. He’s always got to lord it over someone.” Garland

sharpened his wrath, ran into the hall, flinging open the parlor door.

Anton was red-faced, and Frankie, in a despair of tears, was shaking in

a corner of the sofa, her knitted skirt pulled above her knees, her

bobbed hair tangled. She hid her face. “I don’t care about nothing. I

don’t care.”

Garland caught Anton’s arm and while they shouted, Ellen bade her sister

come into the kitchen. Frankie laid her head on the table and wept.

Ellen walked about the room at her work, finally coaxing, “Now these

fruits have to be cut up for the cake. You always were good at it,

Frankie. Here’s the knife and bowl.”

Frankie pushed them from her. “Ellie, I do hate Pa.” She fled up the

stairs.

The angered voices in the parlor rose and fell until the milking hour

came. Then Anton, black-faced, strode to the barn. Garland watched him

from the porch stoop and then followed. “There,” said Ellen to Maria who

came in from the bedroom, “things are in a state. Pa ought to let

Frankie stay here where she belongs.”

“Don’t beard Mester Gaddy,” Maria advised. “Let him be.”

That night by the fireside it was as if a ghostly thing stood amid them.

Ellen sighed. Maria, feeling the trouble, gestured to herself. Garland

smoked one cigarette after another. And Frankie was white, holding her

head erect. “Reckon I’ll go to bed,” she said at length. “Good night

all.”

Anton bent his scorn-washed face over a farm journal. “Well, I see here

it tells about them foreigners in the old country using artificial

insemination. Now I reckon that’s a sin against a beast. It’s sodomy.”

He pulled furiously on his dead pipe.

“Chrissake, An.”

But in the morning Ellen caught sight at the stairhead of Frankie and

Anton. The thin words came, “Forgive my willfulness, Pa.” Frankie’s face

was hard. She had purchased her peace, before leaving her father again,

kneeling in the short skirt she now wore.

* * * * *

On the second Christmas of these three years, Frankie brought her

contradictory ways again into focus, so that Anton stalked about in

dudgeon, lying in wait for her open rebellion. She would turn him

though, in a new cunning way she had learned, “Beg your pardon, Pa.”

The holiday evenings were drawn short and quiet by the hickory and

oak-fed fires. After midnight mass, all but Garland ate sparely at the

table, disheartened. The sliced meats and cheese, the sweet cakes and

peppered blood pudding, were spread forth. “Have some Barrier Cherries,

Uncle,” Ellen pressed him. “Frankie and Lily Garrett made them once.”

Ellen, who knew her father and sister so well, felt the sadness of it.

She knew the man was like a willful child and here was his only beloved

set against him.

Frankie went back to Chicago then. Before they drove away in Garland’s

Oakland sedan with the high-squared top and the yellow leather seats,

Garland announced, “Frankie’s been engaged for her first recital. March

the sixteenth, nineteen twenty-nine. Frankie Gaddy enters the lists of

the immortals.”

“Shut up, Uncle,” Frankie sighed.

“You greening me, Garland?” Anton was suspicious. “You going to play

before those folks?”

“Yes, I am, Pa.”

“Hell, An, she’s booked,” Garland shouted. “In one of my theatres.”

“I vow.”

“My,” Ellen said, “I ne’er thought Frankie’d be so bold.”

* * * * *

And time moved, weaving a tapestry. On radiant summer nights moonlight

laved the meadows and frogs dripped shrill tones. Ellen would slip down

the stairs to wander where flowering honeysuckle presaged the passing of

time. Longings waxed in her. She lay in the honeyed grass and wept

easily. The moon shone and she bared her white body, wondered at the

restlessness clutching her. She dwelled on the summer she had met

Christian Ay, for at that one time the even cord of her life had risen

to such a gleaming line that she doubted on it ever after. I’m bound and

thralled. The pleasure and the sadness are too close together. She went

back to her attic room to wait for dawn.

Now and then she thought of the child, Simon, developed a curiosity, now

that she counted the passion buried, to see if this relic bore any

resemblances. “I have a notion to visit Penny Dougherty,” she was saying

to Anton. “She’s invited me. Says she’s got guineas and we can have a

clutch of eggs if we want. I could raise us a flock. Set the yellow hen

on them.”

“Guineas. And that worthless ooman,” he scoffed.

“Guineas are no work. You turn them loose and they pair off and care for

the eggs by themselves. When you want a meal you catch them where

they’re roosting.”

“It’s a far piece to Weems Crossroads but for guinea eggs. And I

declared you’d not set foot off this place save to be married. So I

said.”

“I’m twenty. And I’ll be gone o’ernight. I promise, Pa.”

“I don’t like it. You’re a froward one. It costs a mort of money going

on the train. All to see some poor trash.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Pa.”

“You be back in a day, girl. You got beans to plant, and the cabbages to

set out now the killing frosts are gone.”

“I’ll do it, Pa. Day after tomorrow. Soon as I get back, I’ll set them

out.”

So she found herself walking up the lane to the familiar small house.

Penny greeted her, and her fine features seemed a little thinner. She

was laughing, “You came for Simon.”

“Oh Penny, let me see that baby girl you wrote about, Blossom.”

“She’s in here, Ellie.”

While they looked at the sleeping child, Ellen whispered, “I can’t take

Simon. Pa doesn’t know.”

“That’s all right. We love him, Ellie.”

“I brought more money.”

Three little boys were trooping through the doorway, shouting. The baby

awoke, began to wail. Ellen saw Simon, nearly three now. He was dressed

in a blue-checked pinafore, and his small bottoms were bare. He was

smallish and fair with round blue eyes. He looked at her soberly and

never smiled. Clate had forgot Ellen, and Anse, thin and dark, clung to

Penny. Simon was leaning on the wall, his fat thumb in his mouth. Luke

arrived amid the bedlam and the children shouted to see him, “Da’s

home.” Ellen saw Simon squealed and leaped with the rest.

They took her out to the field to see the goats and the old donkey.

Clate was prompted to recite, lisping.

When the elm leaf

Be big ath a mouthe’s ear

Then to thow barley

Ne’er you fear

All the while nearby was Ellen’s son, gazing dumb. His foster mother

called him to her. “This is your own ma, Simon. Like I told you.”

In the morning Ellen was returning on the train. She had a setting of

spotted guinea eggs in a box. Her mind was on the beans to be planted;

she wondered whether Love’s would have flats of young cabbage plants in

yet.

* * * * *

The country seemed prosperous. But among the farmers were muffled noises

of protest. Anton Gaddy growled when he got ninety-eight cents for wheat

that had brought two dollars and thirty-four a bushel after the Great

War. Corn dropped to seventy-nine cents, though it used to be good for a

dollar to a dollar-fifty. He spoke to Sam, “Reckon you could get by with

a little less a week? I’m pure strapped for cash. You could take a hen

maybe.” He shrugged nervously.

“All right.” Sam scratched his back.

“Pick one of the old ones with a yellow beak and ears.”

“Now Mester Gaddy. I wouldn’t take a good layer.” Sam was squinting up,

his eyes sharp in his leathery face.

“I hate it, being strapped, Sam.”

While they were talking, restless, the stock market was plunging. The

depression was on. When Anton heard next week from N. J. Bilberry of the

crisis, he said, “Now there’s somewhat for those rich folk to fret

about. It’s no worry to us.”

Anton felt vindicated in his way of life, wondered idly if Garland had

been affected. And he wished Frankie would write again. Her piano

recital of last March had been a failure, the few letters she had

written since ignored the subject. The flame in Anton’s life that burned

through this daughter dimmed, bewildering him, causing his dream to lag.

“Hum. Frankie’s going to make that music yet before the crowd. I’ve got

to send her some money again, come the evening mail.”

Then a letter arrived from Chicago.

Dear Father,

It is not necessary to direct any more checks to me. You need money

worse. I moved from Uncle’s house a while ago to an apartment. I’m

going to get a job. Uncle is sick so we won’t drive down. I will

spend Yule in Chicago. Uncle lost his Oakland. The government men

took it away. He had a considerable loss in the market. He has real

worries. One of his friends jumped out of a window.

I will come to visit next summer for sure, and maybe bring a friend

with me to see the dear farm and meet the old folks at home. Then

like the song goes, I’ll tuck me to sleep in my old ’Tucky home!

daughter Frankie

part three

Let it be what it is she said

Let it wait as it must

It will choose soon or late

Let it wait

Love has life not of us

But of love she said

Let it lie where it must

14

Ellen was cutting across the field to the York cabin in the late May

morning. Amanda York had married the smithy’s son, Jerome Hatfield. The

couple lived in one side of the cabin. Jerome and Mr. York cared for the

apple orchard surrounding it and worked in the Bethel Stone Foundry.

During the winter and spring Ellen had watched Amanda grow heavy with

child, taking vicarious pleasure in the young wife’s joy. “If it’s a

boy,” Amanda had claimed, “we’re going to call it Junior. Wonder if it

could be baptized Junior, Ellie? I doubt it’s a Christian name.”

At the cabin door Ellen called, “Hey, Mandy. Anybody home?” She heard

the hoarse pained cry from within.

Mrs. York was shuffling out of the bedroom. “Ah, hit’s you, Ellen.” Her

face was yellowed with fear, eyes staring with wakefulness.

“Mandy’s been taken?” Ellen asked.

“Doc Trumbo’s here. It’s not coming right. Ellen, you think somewhat

could happen to her?”

“Bearing’s not so bad,” said Ellen, uncertain.

“I put the ax under the bed. She ought to have had it by now. She’s been

at it since noon yesterday. She’s giving out. She’s quit trying.”

Then there was a scream from the room beyond, animal-like in travail.

Ellen was recalling a spotted heifer that couldn’t bear its calf; Anton

had hitched the team, and taken it from the womb. The scream circled the

room and after it, like a splintering of glass, a thin cry echoed. “Ah,

Doc’s got hit now.” The woman was scurrying away. Ellen followed slowly

into the blood-odored room. Amanda lay oddly flat on rumpled stained

sheets, her eyes shut in a white face. On the pillow her dark hair

flowed. Ellen took her hand.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch the bed,” the face whispered strangely.

“It’s o’er now,” Ellen said.

Amanda’s eyes came open with an effort of the heavy lids. “Have we got

our baby?”

“Yes, Mandy.” Ellen was frightened. “You rest.”

“I want to see it.” The words were barely discernible.

“All right.” Ellen went to the table where the doctor was binding a

cloth about the infant’s navel. It feebly squirmed its thin-skinned damp

red body and wrinkled its face. “She wants it, Doc.”

He glanced up at Ellen. “Let’s see, you must be one of those Gaddys.

Your father hasn’t much use for satchel doctors, either, has he? You

know these women never called me till an hour ago?”

“Mandy wants to see her baby.”

“They call me in at the last minute. Think they can do it all

themselves. Like Indian squaws.” He wrapped the child in the warmed

flannel that he took from Mrs. York and laid it by its mother’s face.

“Lie still there, girl. I’m going to look at you now.” He spoke softly,

disappeared into the kitchen to wash his hands.

“She’s fair, Mandy,” Ellen whispered, “your baby.”

“Ah, she is,” said Mrs. York, “with it all.”

Amanda’s breath rattled. She was drawing strangled gasps as if she had

run a long stretch. Her eyes became fixed on the hewn-log walls, the

cracked calking. She shuddered, the labored breath struggle faded and

ceased.

Mrs. York sucked in her words, “My girl.” She put a hand out to touch

the tired face, screamed, “Ah, Doc.”

Dr. Trumbo stumbled on the threshold in his haste. He was lifting

Amanda’s wrist, laying it down, speaking sharply to Ellen, “Good Christ,

where’s this girl’s husband?” He picked the sleeping infant up.

“I’ve got to cover the mirror,” Mrs. York mumbled, hurrying indecisively

about the room. “So the baby doesn’t die as well. And stop the clock

hands. Now what else must I do?”

“Jerome works at the stone foundry, Doc. Same as Mr. York. I can call

them from Love’s store.”

“First take the child here. This old one’ll be no more use.” He turned

to Amanda’s body again. Ellen laid the baby in the cradle. It was

sleeping, its face like an inflamed pansy, lost amid ribbons and

ruffles.

“Ah. You did it, Doc,” Mrs. York keened. “You were busy with yourself

and your washing and you let it happen. I didn’t want you here. It was

only because Mandy made me. She’d have come through but for you.”

“Now, Mrs. York,” he began.

The woman appealed to Ellen, “Don’t ne’er have a child, Ellen Gaddy.

Don’t ne’er get caught with a child.” She grasped her arm, the tears

squeezing from her old eyes, watering the wrinkles of her face.

“I’ve got to go, Mrs. York.”

Dr. Trumbo continued, “She’d been hemorrhaging. These things will

happen. I packed her, did everything humanly possible. I came too late.”

The woman was taboring on the discolored sheet. “Ah, now what have I

got?”

“You’ve got the child.”

“I don’t want hit.”

Ellen stood a moment in the cabin passageway before starting up the road

toward Millville. “There’s a thing I keep trying to remember.” She spoke

aloud, dazed. At the store she cranked the iron handle to the wood box

that hung on the wall. “Central?”

“You’ll have to speak up, Madam.”

“Give me the Bethel Foundry.” When she had told Jerome, and heard the

click at the other end, she walked out slowly.

Stacey called after, “Tell Maria Gaddy that eggs are down three cents

again. They’re hardly worth trading.”

Ellen didn’t hear. A light mist of rain had begun and a sweet smell like

the breath of cows was coming from the red plowed fields. The thing that

had slipped her mind was back. It was the struggle to bear her own

child, the way the throes had struck her in an open field and how she’d

dragged herself to the shelter of the pear tree. The sweet heavy scent

of crushed grass and blood and the fluttering of goldfinches were

mingled into the memory.

After a week Jerome Hatfield came to speak to Anton. “Our baby’s ailing.

Doc says she might hold down goat milk.” His face was haggard, his form

stooped in exhaustion.

“My daughter’s got the goats.”

“I want to buy one from her.”

Ellen went to the woodshed and tied a rope to Rhodie’s collar. The doe

had a little female kid at its side. “You keep Rhodie for as long as

your baby needs the milk, Jerome. And raise the kid for the baby’s own.”

“I’m beholden.” He was lifting the goats into the wagon, fastening them

there. He drove away, Rhodie baaing plaintively. Ellen watched them go.

Here’s the land flowing over with milk and honey. The spring grass is

pushing through the red land until it’s all pink and green. And Mandy’s

dead. All about was death. The early dark of morning sometimes would be

interrupted, awakening her, by Jack’s bark, followed by shotgun blasts

and her father’s gruff tones. Ellen would know he had gone down in his

mackinaw to kill some varmint in the barnyard. There was no escape from

death, no way you could forget it was waiting. Ellen was resentful,

disbelieving that some day her own strength would wither. I’m glad it

wasn’t me when I bore that child back there. I recall I saw the evening

star. And when Luke and Penny came, I got up from the orchard floor and

walked to the house myself while Penny carried him. But then I pushed

him from me, turned my back on my first-born.

* * * * *

She spoke up that night after the Gaddy supper had been eaten. The May

rain was falling weighted, somnambulant, the air was close. “I hid it

from you, Pa. Before I came home that summer when I’d run off from Uncle

Garland.”

“You played the harlot.”

“I went to the Doughertys and had him there.”

“You were in St. Louis.”

“No. I went to Weems Crossroads in Illinois. I was afraid of you. The

boy’s there now. I saw him when I went to get that clutch of guinea eggs

that turned bad. Now I want to bring him here, Pa.”

Anton was stumping into the hall; he returned with the wide belt that he

held by its buckle. “Before God your lying tongue is an abomination.

Name the times I’ve said it.”

Ellen looked at him stony-faced. “Reckon I’m too old to whip, Pa. I’m

twenty-one and the mother of your grandchild.”

He paused. “The father of a fool has no joy.” His heavy mouth was

shaking. He drew the strap repeatedly through the palm of his hand, the

harsh sliding noise rippling into the corners of the room like stones

tossed in a pond. “My brother Marc, lusted. You be bound to do the same.

He ran off from the college where my ma sent him. To a whorehouse. At

St. Louis. And there’s where she went to get him. Dead. Now I’ve always

claimed you had his blood, girl.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed and shone. “You know what Marc was to your ma?”

Her nerves shivered to their ends as her temper swung on her. “I know

what that Nell did.”

Anton halted at bay. “Don’t say her name. She was a saint, girl. She

sits at Mary’s right hand even now.”

Ellen was helpless, found she couldn’t strike. She kept silence.

Anton slapped the belt limply against his overall pants. He turned to a

thin-legged doweled chair that was by the wall. “A harlot,” he said

softly. “Upon e’er a high hill and under e’er a green tree, thou

wanderest, playing the harlot. So says Jeremiah.” He let the strap drop,

lifted the chair by its rungs, crashed it violently, splintering, to the

floor. “Defiled.” He went from the room.

Ellen was looking at Maria. “You heard, Ma?”

“You got a child, Ellie?”

“A little boy, Ma. Named Simon.”

“I had a boy baby once. But he was a betimes child and had no life. I

named him after Mester Gaddy for he wanted it. But they took him. He’s

moldering out some’eres. I ne’er liked rain some way. Seems a boy would

be unhappy and turn about in a wet place.”

Anton fumed as days passed. “Who’s its pa?”

“I don’t want to say. He’s as good as dead.”

“What’ll they speak of me when it’s told up and down the county?”

“Tell that I married a Yankee, Pa. And he left me.”

“No, the damn fool foreigner was killed. His folks have raised the child

till now. And you’re fixing to bring it here.” He paused to eye Ellen

with scorn. “Does it favor the Gaddys?”

“Reckon so, Pa.”

“What’s hit called?”

“Simon Gaddy.”

Then he said, “You’ll tell it to the priest, girl.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You’ll tell it Sunday. Before you can go for the brat.”

“I’ll tell it in the priest’s house, but not in the confessional.” She

said bravely, “I’ve got a mind to leave the church.”

Impotent in frustration and wrath, Anton turned away. He was heard

bawling commands to the team as he plowed up and down, making ready for

the corn-planting.

They were standing before Father Tompert in the parlor of the rectory.

Ellen, emboldened by her first successful stand against her father,

spoke candidly to the Jesuit priest. “It’s like the church wants to

boundary God, Father. And He is thus and so. And if you say at such a

time such a prayer you’ll get off so much sooner to paradise. This is

false to me, Father.”

“Hold, girl, you blaspheme,” roared Anton.

Father Tompert said, “I’ll speak with your daughter alone, sir. Wait

outside this room. If you please.”

Then Ellen told the priest what was in her. And she added, “In the

gospel of Matthew the Lord himself says, don’t pray where you’re seen of

men. But enter into thy closet. And when you’ve shut thy door, pray to

thy Father which is in secret. And use not vain repetitions.”

The priest saw she loved God. He saw her mind was bright and she had

thought this thing out. The wise Jesuit was not uncommon among those

consecrated to the cross of his faith. He spoke to Ellen. “It’s not your

kind that need the mother church, Ellen. We’ll wait till you’re ready to

come again to us. Till then, the Lord be with thy spirit.”

He was walking to the door. She laid her hand on the sleeve of his

cassock. “Father, is it wrong to lie to the neighbors and say I had a

husband?”

He looked at her while a bell tolled somewhere outside over a stitch of

time. She saw his eyes were an indigo blue and the pupil in the center

was a dormant coal. “For the sake of the child, perhaps not. In the eyes

of God it may have been a marriage. I don’t know.” He folded his arms,

went to the door. His face was smooth, his body moved ageless below the

black frock. “Don’t worry about your daughter, sir. She’s in no danger

of damnation. God is with her.”

Ellen put on the faded dotted Swiss dress in the morning. She combed her

hair, plaiting it tightly in a new way she had. Anton counted money into

her hand. Maria was concerned about the census taker whom Tinie Bilberry

had reported was coming and no telling at what hour. “Now, whate’er will

I say to him? He be the government. I’m that fretted. Do you have to go

now, girl?”

The train coughed and clanged into the Weems Crossroads station. The

road to the Doughertys seemed longer than Ellen remembered. She was

passing the burial ground. A group of black-clad people were ringed at a

fresh grave, cars and buggies were parked by the roadside. She hurried

by. Amanda had been laid in the ground like that, for rain to rot and

worms to suck until she would be as earth herself, her rosy face and

gleaming braid living on in Jerome Hatfield. And a day might come when

his daughter would ask, “Now tell, Pa, what was Mammy like?” And Jerome

would say, “Seems I can’t remember. Appears to have fallen from me some

way.”

Ellen reached the mailbox, went up the lane and heard a guinea cry. It

came to her on a sudden that she was terrified, as if she had been sent

to the dark cellar for supplies again. Something lurked there in the

shadows. She lifted her skirts and fled toward light and Penny and the

gray-streaked house with door open and unscreened.

Ellen studied her son that evening. They took the meal out under the

crab apple tree. Its leaves, not yet green, were coated with soft white

hairs. Its pink flowers were like the wild rose, their spicy odor

hovered where the five children gathered to be fed. Penny’s smallest

child, Melinda, climbed on a stool, reaching her hands to the food.

Blossom stood by Anse, who was four now and tall for his age, his dark

head looking down on Simon’s blond one. And Clate was the leader and

spoke what they all should do. “If it wasn’t for Clate,” Penny said,

“I’d ne’er get this troop together. And we’ll have another Dougherty

come Christmas. Seems I be e’er in this strait.”

Standing about the table, the children were eating corn pone and bacon

and beans. There was milk and a honeycomb. Melinda sucked her sticky

tiny fingers and crumbled the pone. Penny was cleaning the child’s hands

with a damp rag, laughing, “I got plenty of pullets now, Ellie. Luke

built a hen house. I trade eggs just like you Gaddys now. But say, the

store’s paying low this spring.”

Ellen saw that Simon’s cheekbones and hair were like those of Christian

Ay. He had Anton’s long chin. But there was the look of Christian about

his eyes and high cheeks and broad mouth. “I wonder at him, Penny.”

“You’re thinking of his pa, aren’t you?”

“I allowed I’d forgot what he looked like. Time goes so fast. But Simon

calls him back to mind.”

“Soon you won’t see it. It’ll just be little Simon.”

“I reckon.”

“I see Luke coming. We’ve been lucky. Webster laid off most of the hands

when times got bad, but he kept Luke on. He’d let them all go before

Luke.” Penny’s look wound itself about the man moving up the path, her

love like a warm wind.

“He’ll be short and stout. Strong like a bull.” Ellen was watching

Simon, who leaned against the table, his cheek on one fat hand while the

other spooned beans unsteadily into his mouth.

Luke slept in the mow of the shed that night so there would be a place

for Ellen. The women lay in the narrow bed. The baby girls were in

cribs, the three boys in the attic room. “If you should have a trouble

sometime, Penny,” Ellen said, before dozing off, “or there’s a sickness

or a way I can help.”

“We’ll miss Simon. He’s quiet. He can milk Tiny even. He coaxes me to

let him. He does real good for four years.”

“Those little hands.”

“And he’s one with the donkey. Why, I missed him once and hunted till I

found him sleeping under it and it standing like a rock.”

Ellen awoke after midnight; she lay still until it came to her where she

was. An owl called, deep-toned, “Whoo-whoo-tooo-oo-oo.” She went into

the yard, walking down the lane in the warm dark. The owl shrieked

suddenly from the catalpa by the road, in a voice like a woman. On

noiseless widespread wings it was flapping toward her and passing.

“There he’ll be, following me about the farm.” She stayed in the night

until she reached the end of her fears. “Whate’er comes, it’s right to

bring him home and tell he’s mine.”

In the morning Simon had on bleached canvas pants, well patched. The

sleeves to his nubby sweater were too short. They were waiting for Luke

to come in a truck to take them to the station. Simon’s eyes were wide.

He shrank from Ellen. Penny was washing his face again. “Take your ma’s

hand, now.” But Simon shook his head, threw himself upon his foster

mother. “You can have this. It’s Anse’s.” Penny was handing him a yarn

ball she had made by winding bright colors around a piece of cloth. “If

you’ll go now with your ma.” So then Simon took Ellen’s hand. She led

him while he dragged his feet, gazing back to Penny and her brood.

“Where’s Simon going,” asked Clate, “with Anse’s ball?”

“It’s his ball now.”

On the train the boy clutched his toy and looked away. At last Ellen

took a piece of string and showed him how to play cat’s cradle. He was

lifting the twine from her hands and biting his lip. He cast his blue

eyes on her. “I like that.”

“I do too, Simon.” The sun fought through the streaked sooted windows.

The train rushed through the greening land, coming into the valleys and

hills of Kentucky.

Anton was there with the buckboard. He ordered them into the high seat.

He had laid his faded kerchief under his black round hat to catch the

sweat from his balding head. The corners of the red cloth were draping

about his florid face. “Whole county can get a look at Gaddy’s youngen

toting her bastard home.”

The horses trotted down the macadam main street, past store-fronts, out

onto country roads. Ellen spoke timidly, “This is your granddaddy.”

“Quit jawing.”

As they neared Millville, Ellen spoke again. “Penny said to tell you

howdy. Her husband told me about a dog that grinds axes and things.” She

spoke too rapidly, lines drawing on her forehead. “This man’s got a

treadwheel. He runs a belt from it to his grindstone. The dog runs there

in the big wheel, grinding sickles and knives too. Luke said the dog

waits for the man to whistle.” She appealed to Anton.

“Haw.” They had passed Love’s store, turned down Sweetincreek Road for a

mile.

She broke the silence once more. “Luke heard of a cat too.” And holding

Simon in her arm, she felt him press close. He laid a chubby arm across

her lap. “It turned a churn, treading a wheel for the lady of the house.

Now think, Simon.”

Jack met them barking. The dog’s eyes were nearly on a level with

Simon’s; the child laid his face in the fur. When Anton drove the team

to the barn, the boy watched him covertly. Maria was coming on the porch

in her shapeless Mother Hubbard dress. “Now here’s your granny,” called

Ellen.

Maria glanced at the boy, felt her bun. “The census taker came, Ellie. I

had a day. I told him all he asked. I wish he’d come again.”

“I’m glad it’s o’er, Ma. You know if Sam did my chores?”

“I gave him a cup of tea and some of that butter-cake you made. I told

him all he asked.”

15

June dawdled by. Lilacs faded and roses unfolded. Simon went behind

Ellen, dropping pumpkin seeds in the young corn rows. He wore new

overalls that she ordered from the catalog, and shirts she made for him.

He ran barefoot at her heels. In his pocket he kept the colored ball

that had been Anse’s. He spoke seldom, but Ellen would hear his piping

voice when he was with the geese or with Jack and he had no fear of the

heavy work horses.

Frankie had written, “We’ll be down Independence Day. My friend is

coming with me for two weeks’ vacation. Oh, the dear farm and dear

Ellie. Why didn’t you tell me I had a nephew, Ellie? I can’t wait to see

him. You cunning sister.”

When Joe Burwell told his son that Frankie was coming, Dyke drove up the

Gaddy lane in his Oldsmobile to offer the use of his car to meet the

train. “It’ll be a pleasure to see Frankie again, Mester Gaddy.”

“Stay for supper with us, Dyke,” Ellen invited him, cordial.

The two men went to the station. Ellen had hung the calico curtain

across her parents’ bedroom to make the guest chamber. Simon had taken

over Frankie’s old bed upstairs. She was placing a vase of catalpa

blooms by the bedside on the marble-topped table. A heady fragrance

seeped from the spikes of creamy scalloped blossoms specked with purple

and yellow.

The car was returning. Ellen and Simon were going into the yard. Frankie

threw her arms about Ellen. There was perfume in her hair, her face was

accented with eye-shadow and penciled brows, her lips vivid. She was

kneeling by Simon. “I’m Auntie! See what we brought you.” She took his

hand and they went to Dyke’s car.

Frankie’s companion was talking with the two men. Her black hair was

shingled. She was heavy-hipped, her face appearing almost delicate above

her squat body. She wore no make-up and held her head back to eye the

men squarely. Anton waved his hand while talking, and she nodded again

at him. They came toward Ellen. “This here’s Genevieve Wheeler,” Anton

said. “Did I get that name right? Haw. And from the way Frankie wrote at

first I thought it was a fellow.”

“Pleased,” Ellen said shortly. The woman’s hand was warm and dry.

“Certainly do admire your father, Ellen. The farmer’s the backbone of

America.”

“Haw.” Anton was shrugging. “Go on in and get settled, you-all. We’ll be

back when we finish the chores. Coming, Dyke?”

Frankie opened the screen door for Simon. She called, “Ellie, he’s

cute.”

Ellen followed the men to the barns. Dyke, in his black suit, was

feeding the cows. Later Simon came out. He stroked the big shoulder of

the brown cow that Ellen was milking. “I like Auntie, Mama,” he lisped.

“She brung me this.” He wore a stiff yellow visor cap. He straightened

it.

“Let’s go tend the goats, Simon.”

The boy strutted beside her, looking up. “I’ll milk Leona for you,

Mama.”

“See if you can get it all this time.”

Leona had a high round udder and gave her milk down easily. “How come

Leona’s white, Mama?”

“Because her daddy was a white one.”

Simon sat on a stool, leaning into the goat’s side and squeezing the

teats so the milk came in little squirts. The animal turned to sniff the

new cap and lick Simon’s neck where the tow hair curled. Then it wheezed

as it brought up its cud.

Ellen meanwhile milked Penny and Pie, set out their hay and grain. She

stood over Simon. “Want me to finish her?”

He sighed, turning the three-legged stool over to her. “I most got her

clean, didn’t I, Mama?”

“Just about.”

“That Auntie’s comely, Mama.” He was leaning against her while the white

liquid purred in her bucket, foaming, hot.

“Ne’er know her for my sister, would you, Simon? Like a peacock sister

to a hen.” Her gray eyes were level with his blue ones. She was stirred.

He’s a fair boy.

“You’s a little hen, Mama.”

“You’re my chick, then.”

“Peep. Peep.” He took her hand as she picked up the pail. Nearing the

house, they heard the piano and voices raised. Genevieve was carrying

the alto.

O Robin, Robin Redbreast

O Robin, Robin dear

O Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year

“Mercy.” Ellen set the pail in the kitchen, began to help Maria with the

meal. Simon stationed himself beside the parlor door to listen to the

singing. He was discovered and with cries and kisses they drew him to

them.

After supper Frankie remained in the kitchen with Ellen. Simon went up

to bed. From the parlor came Anton’s deep voice and an occasional

question from Genevieve. Maria was knitting and Dyke listened while he

smoked a cigar. Frankie polished the plate she was holding. “Don’t you

like Gen, Ellie? Don’t you like her? We’ve got a flat, you know.”

“You wrote you left Uncle.”

“I left last February. The market crash changed him, Ellie. He wouldn’t

eat and stayed up nights going over papers. He got real crabby. Stingy,

too. You’d never have recognized him. I stopped all my lessons. I was

glad.”

“I see.”

“He turned Mrs. Quimby out on the street.” Frankie was smiling, prim.

“Oh?”

“When I left, he closed the house up. He went to a flat he has in East

Chicago. You know he’s bad, Ellie?”

“How?”

“He keeps a woman,” she whispered. “He’s had that flat for years.”

“For lack of wood the fire goes out, Frankie.” Ellen was stiff.

“That’s a cute saying, Ellie. Where’d you hear it?”

“You’re so scatterbrained, Frankie. And I ne’er had any use for

whisperers.”

“You like my hair, Ellie? Gen says I look like Janet Gaynor.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ellie. A movie star.”

“When did you first meet this Gen?”

“She’s my best friend.”

Dyke stepped into the kitchen. “Hey.”

“Hello, Dyke. Wouldn’t Gen let you talk?”

“No.”

“She’s like that. She has no use for men. Except for one like Pa there.

A good farmer.”

“You sure are different, Frankie. You’re plumb pretty.” Dyke stood his

ground, blushing.

“I always liked you, Dyke,” Frankie was bold. “Remember how we used to

argue about him, Ellie? I said he was tall and he’d do because I wasn’t

particular?”

“Frankie,” Ellen cried.

“Come out and look at the stars, Frankie. Please.”

“Go on, you two. I’ll finish up.” Ellen went into the parlor after a few

minutes. She sat down by Maria.

Genevieve looked up alert. “I thought Frankie was with you, Ellen.”

“She went out with Dyke a spell ago.”

“Oh, dear,” the woman laughed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Gaddy. I’ll be

right back. I want to hear more about what you were saying.” The heavy

sound of her shoes was heard on the porch.

“Why doesn’t she leave Frankie and Dyke be?” Ellen asked.

Anton was filling his pipe. “She sees the case I’ve got here farming.”

The two came in noisily, hand in hand; Dyke followed. “Here’s your

little girl, Mr. Gaddy. I’m afraid this young man was hiding her from

us.”

“What do you think, Genevieve,” Anton was asking, “of my daughter

becoming a fine musician?”

“Well, in time she could be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She’s got

talent. And she’s a beauty. When I get more money saved, I’m going to

get her the best teacher I can find.”

“I just love you, Pa,” cried Frankie. “And this dear house. And Ma and

Ellie and everyone.”

“Tsk, tsk, such a little girl,” said Genevieve. She stood by the piano.

Woodman, spare that tree

Touch not a single bough

In youth it sheltered me

And I’ll protect it now

Ellen was pressed to make fudge and coffee. Dyke was left in the parlor

with Anton and the visitors came into the kitchen to help. While the two

cracked nuts, they chattered in steady rapport. Ellen stepped into the

hall, put her hands on her ears. “That ox.” Obscurely, she resented the

older woman, missed the old way in which Frankie would turn to her for

approbation and counsel. She could overhear Anton in the next room.

“Yes sir, boy, this fellow had a dog to run his treadmill. He sat in the

shade and ground axes and knives for folks on the grindstone that dog

turned for him.”

“I ne’er heard of that being done before, Mester Gaddy.”

“Hell, I even knew a man that fixed a treadmill for his old ooman’s cat

to run her churn.”

* * * * *

They gathered at breakfast. Ellen had set potatoes to boil, fried bacon,

and sent Simon to refill the blue water pail. Frankie and Genevieve were

coming in sleepy-eyed, clad in gray twill skirts. The girl appeared

frail and willowy beside her companion whose broad buttocks and ample

breasts were constrained by her clothing. As they were sitting at the

laden table, Anton and Sam hurried in. They were late. “The colt’s

gone,” Anton worried. “Must have jumped the rails where it’s rotting.

Jesus Wept, they’re all falling apart. We’ve got to string fence wire

all o’er now.”

“Red horse tired of the meadow,” Simon piped. “He set out for to see the

other side.” The child looked through the square-paned window, past the

low wall of the garden, to the day that had cast off the shawl of night.

“I tell you, let’s organize a search party,” Genevieve said. “We’ll go

get our hats. Don’t you agree, Frankie?”

“All right, Gen.”

“It’s up to you-all to find him. Sam and me can’t help. We got the rails

to mend and the hay field to cut. Come on, Sam.”

They left Maria cleaning the kitchen, for she refused to stir without

the door. They searched woods and adjacent fields. There was no sign of

the missing colt. At noontime the three women met outside the house.

Genevieve was bramble-scratched, the smell of perspiration thick on her

as she sat with Frankie on the porch steps. “I think I got poison ivy,”

said Frankie, “and I tore my stockings.”

“I brought some bug stuff with us. It’s in the bags somewhere. These

mosquito bites itch.”

Ellen was bringing water from the well in a dishpan and they got up to

wash. The woman grunted as she dried herself. Frankie was laughing at

her, wrinkling her nose. Suddenly Ellen said, “Where’s Simon? He was

with you, Frankie.”

But Frankie denied it. “He got tired. He said he was going home to get a

drink.”

A hand twisted within Ellen. She was running. She heard the calls behind

her. “Wait, Ellie!”

And Genevieve, “Let’s be calm.”

But Ellen ran and ran, Jack barking beside her, to fields stretching

past woods, and past that, to places she had wandered before her son had

gained this hold on her. All the while she cried, “Simon. Simon.” And

the dog’s staccato answered.

It was late in the day when she returned. They had all assembled in the

yard. “We’ve been looking, too, Ellie,” Sam told her.

“Maybe a snake’s bitten him.” An empty place trembled in Ellen. “And

he’s lying some’ere.”

“Nonsense,” said Genevieve.

“He’s too little.” Ellen’s mind tried doors that were barred. “He

doesn’t know the country well.” She looked at the ground.

Sam said, “Don’t fret, Ellie. He’s a steady youngen.”

The group was wavering, uncertain. “Appears you could look after your

own youngen.” Anton bent for his pitchfork. “That hay’s got to be

turned.”

Genevieve took a deep breath as the men went toward the field. “I’m not

concerned. He’ll come home. Why, he’s a big boy.”

“Quit jawing,” Ellen said savagely.

Then they heard the men’s shouts, their distant figures were pointing.

“There! Look there.”

The blood-bay colt was ambling up the lane, the boy on its back, his

short legs spread, a lock of the mane in his stubby hand. His cap was

set visor backwards. “I got lost, Mama.”

“Where did you find him?” Ellen ran to take the colt’s headstall.

“Down the road a ways. I got turned about.”

Ellen was leading the horse to the barn. “Well.”

Simon slid to the ground. “I lost Anse’s ball.”

“Should I make you another?”

“No.” He was petting the tall colt’s shoulder. “Mama?”

“What do you want?”

“I’d like a horse to name my own.”

“Maybe someday.”

“Mama?” He stroked the horse, looked up at her, mute. His eyes were

wide. He smiled slowly, waiting.

“Fancy you finding the red colt, Simon. When none of us could.” They

turned to walk to the house. He swaggered behind her, pleased with

himself.

Little Tom Tinker

Got burned with a clinker

And he began to cry

What a poor fellow am I

Anton nearly shot a dog fox a day or so after. The fences, lined with

stones and weeds, had furnished ambush for the daring fox. In broad

daylight even, it would slip to the hen house, kill three or four, and

escape, slinging its latest victim across its shoulders. Anton would

smoulder, viewing his dead hens. He told Genevieve, “Years back I had a

flock of pullets just starting to lay. One morning I found a heap of

thirty dead under that oak. Next week there was eighteen. I’d hear the

varmint barking at night. Times he’d screech like a wildcat. I didn’t

sleep till I got him. Ne’er did find the earth where the whelps were

hid.”

In the hour he was free before milking, Anton had taken his gun. He set

out, Jack at heel. He plodded through likely spots, and as he came up

out of the woods he heard a crow call, signaling. He glimpsed in the

distance the fox they hunted. Its summer fur was scraggly and

yellow-red; it was digging at a woodchuck hole on the edge of the field.

Jack had seen it too; he fell behind the man, who was slipping noiseless

through the high orchard grass.

Then Anton had stopped short. He had come upon Frankie and her friend,

sitting with hands about their knees in the grass. The older woman was

leaning over to kiss Frankie on the lips. Frankie laughed, tossing her

shining bobbed hair. Anton forgot his quarry. Jack whined and growled as

the fox clawed at the earth. The man moved in dourly upon the women in

the afternoon sun. He stood before them with legs set like trees in the

grass. “What’s going on here?”

Frankie lifted her head. “We’re singing, Pa.”

Her companion was getting up. “We were just enjoying ourselves out here,

Mr. Gaddy. My, your Frankie’s a pretty thing.”

Anton strode from them. They saw him spit amber juice into the weeds.

Jack galloped, yapping, for the fox had slunk off. Frankie giggled, “Oh,

Gen. You shouldn’t have.”

That evening the man was stalking restive between kitchen and parlor.

Genevieve sought to draw him into a discussion. “I was reading about a

new commercial fertilizer, Mr. Gaddy.”

“Shit,” he growled and went to stand on the porch. Car lights glared as

Dyke Burwell’s Oldsmobile arrived in the yard.

Dyke called from the darkened window, “Hey!”

“Come in, boy.”

The lights cut and Dyke walked toward the porch. “Frankie home?”

Anton saw suddenly that Dyke was a man now, bulky and tall, stooped

somewhat from the weight of his awkward upper body. “Hum. She’s here.”

They stood together, embarrassed by the companionship they felt. They

were looking off into the half-dusk of the yard. “Getting hot.”

“Hum.”

“Could rain, Mester Gaddy. Ma says if she can feel toes on her missing

leg, it’s rain for sure.” They were leaning against the porch posts. The

older man stirred, unhappy. Dyke was talking in a soft monotone,

relating a joke.

Anton interrupted him, “I’d like to shoot that varmint.”

“Well, like I was saying, Mester Gaddy, a bird came o’er then and muted

on him. Hell, he says looking up, now you know, Lord, this is just going

a trifle too far.” Dyke snickered, hopeful, but Anton remained glum. The

young man scratched his neck. “You say Frankie’s home?”

They went into the house. Anton’s voice was cold, “Dyke, I want you to

take Frankie here to the movie house in Bethel. That way Miss Wheeler

and I can talk about the farm.”

“You are sweet, Pa. But I don’t care to.” Frankie yawned, getting up

from her chair. “Here we are on this old Kentucky home and why go to the

flickers? We see them all the time in the city. But you’re thoughtful,

Pa.”

So instead Frankie coaxed Dyke to sing with them. Ellen saw how

Genevieve’s black eyes glinted when Dyke spoke to Frankie. She saw

Dyke’s confidence wither as he appeared a poor thing. Genevieve was

saying, “Frankie told me you keep house for your mother?”

“I help her, Miss Wheeler.”

“I think it’s wonderful you mop and dust like a daughter. That’s an

accomplishment.”

Ellen walked out of the room and onto the porch. A shadow was drifting

by the hen house fence. “There’s that fox, Pa.”

Anton grasped the gun that stood by the loft stairs. His body mingled

with the shadows. His face was vacant-eyed, as he slipped past Ellen,

like a cat that spies a bird flutter to its nesting bush. After the

family was in bed and Dyke had driven away, Anton returned. He flung the

yellow-furred carcass at the base of the porch steps. The dog worried it

until Sam arrived at dawn and dragged it into a field for buzzards to

pick.

Simon came in dirt-stained to where the family and Sam Offut sat at the

noon table. His hair was over his eyes and he brushed it back. He held a

box-turtle he had found. He was clutching it to his shirt and standing

within the door. Ellen said, “Go clean up. And put that turtle away,

Simon. You’re late. Now run.”

But Simon went to stand at Anton’s side. The man continued eating,

pushing his food with his knife, his head bent in hunger. Simon spoke so

that Ellen knew he had thought how he would say this all the way to the

house, ever since he caught the turtle. “Da says they’s seven kinds of

meat in a turtle. E’er heard that, Granddaddy?”

“Who’s Da?” Anton threw his knife with a clatter.

Simon was staring, open-mouthed.

“Who’s Da, boy?”

“Da,” Simon blurted, cradling the turtle, the spiny legs scratching his

soft flesh.

“Pa, that’s Mester Dougherty,” cried Ellen. “The youngens called him

that.”

“Don’t speak his name again. Mind, boy?” Anton picked up his knife.

Genevieve and Frankie exchanged small knowing smiles.

Ellen pleaded, “This is a land turtle, Simon. The kind you eat’s a water

turtle. Go wash now.”

* * * * *

Later on, the women were clearing the dishes. Anton was puffing his

pipe. From the direction of the hog pens came a squealing. Through the

screen, Ellen saw a score of young pigs spreading out toward house and

barn. After them stumbled Simon, trying with aimless movements to round

them up. His face was worried, his body blundering. She pushed the door

to go and help him. Anton spoke behind her. “Stay there, girl.”

Ellen knew what had happened. Simon had been sent out as soon as he had

eaten, to move the twenty yeanling pigs to new quarters. Anton had

directed him to move them one at a time. But the child had tried to shoo

them in a drove, the way he did the geese or cows. The baby pigs were

fractious and ran out like wheel spokes. Sam was hustling from the barn.

Ellen watched the two men break sticks, then shouting, gather the pigs

into their new pen. The little boy’s shoulders were rounded, hands

dangling helplessly. Sam returned to the barn. Anton called the boy to

him. He cut a switch from a locust tree. Simon was moving slowly across

the yard. Ellen came out on the porch. “Get in the house, girl. Lest I

switch you for your brat to see.”

Ellen went up the stairway to her room. “He’s bound and determined to

have it out. But it’s because he’s plagued at Frankie.” She sat dry-eyed

on the bed. Her head was throbbing.

* * * * *

Afterwards she found Simon in the field with the goats. He held his hand

on the neck of one doe and scratched under its beard. His face was

streaked and dirty. “I was bad, Mama.”

“You sure could use a bath. Come on, let’s get the tub down.”

* * * * *

On Sunday the two Gaddy sisters were sitting on the porch. Lily Garrett

walked up to them in her shapeless Mother Hubbard dress. “I’ve come to

make lavendery sticks for the last time with you-all.” Lily was sweating

through her padding of fat.

“What do you mean, last time?” Ellen got up to greet her.

Frankie and Lily kissed. “You haven’t met Gen yet, Lily.”

“I’ve got news for you.” Lily’s face was shaking as she laughed. “Craig

Hedrick’s making me his wife.”

“Ellie went with Craig once, didn’t you?” Frankie asked. “I remember.”

“Just to mass,” said Ellen.

“I can’t ask you to a wedding.” Lily was raising her large arms to her

hair. “We’re only going to the priest. The bans have been read and we’ve

got no time for fancy doings. Craig’s bought the farm next to him. He’ll

be working o’er a hundred acres this summer.”

“My,” said Ellen.

“We’ll drive straight home from the priest and go to work, he says. He’s

going to get a tractor with lights so he can work nights. Law, he’s a

goer.”

“Calling him a goer makes me remember Mandy York,” Frankie was saying.

“When she was out hoeing with us that time and she said, I’m smart, I’m

a good duster and a good sweeper and a good hoer. We laughed at how it

came out.”

“Her baby is doing good on your goat’s milk,” Lily said.

“I still can’t believe Mandy’s dead,” cried Frankie. “But now here’s

Gen.”

The older woman came down the stairs. “Who’s this?” She was linking arms

with Frankie.

“This is my friend, Lily Garrett, Gen.”

“You certainly look hot,” Genevieve said. The two walked away to the

lavender bed.

As they were plucking the flowers, Lily talked softly to Ellen. “Where’s

Simon?”

“He’s in the field. Sam lets him ride Blueberry. He thinks he’s a man

sitting up there holding on the hame knobs.”

“He’s a pretty child. Does he take after your husband?”

“A mite.”

“Can’t say he takes after your side.”

In the silence, Ellen was binding the stalks with yarn; the sweet oil

scented her fingers.

“Craig’s got no use for you, Ellie. Reckon he’ll not let me come down

this way when I’m Mrs. Hedrick.”

“You think a lot of him, Lily?”

“It’s like this. I’m built so big most fellows laugh at me. Papa’s glad

to get me settled. He’s going to help us where he can. I allow I’m a

sight lucky to catch Craig.”

Ellen had never heard the flighty Lily speak so seriously. She seemed

nearly sad as she came to this turning in her life.

“You’ll make him a good wife.”

“I aim to. I’d like to have a child like yours.” They worked awhile, the

murmurs of the other two coming from the end of the bed. “I don’t know

if it’s right to tell such a thing on my promised husband, but I knew

you long before him.” Lily’s face fired red. “He says you be free with

men, Ellie. Says he could name the ones you’ve slept with.”

“There’s lots of tales told, Lily.”

“Says you weren’t even married.”

“The grapes are grapes of gall,” Ellen spoke bravely. “I don’t care.”

“You’re twisting my words, Ellie. But I’ll say more.” The hot sun

drenched them, drew the last moisture from the flower bed. Lily’s curls

lay straggled on her sun-browned neck and Ellen waited. “I’ll be glad

when Craig won’t let me come here to visit you-all. I know he wanted you

for a wife. He tells those tales for the hate he bears you. Being as you

slighted him.”

“Lily. There was nothing between Craig and me.”

“I’ve seen a little silk rose he keeps. It came off that blue hat you

wore when you went to Chicago that time. How’d he come by it?”

“Oh Lily.”

“You won’t tell. And knowing I took what you wouldn’t have, I’d as lief

bide away from you.” Lily’s eyes brimmed as she bent over the handful of

pale-purple blooms.

Ellen trembled. “If you feel that way.” She was working down the

perfumed rows, away from her childhood friend. “I don’t care.”

* * * * *

The visitors were planning to leave the following weekend. Genevieve

Wheeler was due at her desk in the Featherbone Works on Monday morning.

On Wednesday night Anton awoke to the stutter of thunder. He shuffled

barefoot, to close windows in the kitchen and parlor. As he was

returning, he stopped a while at the calico curtains of the partitioned

room where his daughter and Genevieve slept. He overheard their

whispers. Grinding his teeth, he took the cloth in his violent fist. But

he released it and went to the bed where Maria was snoring, mouth half

open. “Hail, Holy Mary,” he whimpered. He prayed, envisioning his mother

Nell, clad in a blue gown like the Virgin, her bright red hair flowing

about her shoulders. He wept secretly, fashioning words he would say as

he banished Frankie forever.

The night’s rain drew upward to the hot sky. The sticky air was clinging

as the family slowly collected for breakfast. Frankie and Genevieve were

seated, Maria was placing a dish of fried potatoes on the table before

joining them. Ellen had brought a hot skillet of eggs from the stove.

She lifted them onto plates with her iron spatula. “I’ll take two,

Ellie,” Genevieve cried. “This country air’s given me an appetite.”

“Oh, Gen, you always take two.”

A bumblebee, caught at the glass, was buzzing. Simon ran in. He had

washed at the pump and water was dripping from his hands. “Morning,

Simon,” said Frankie. “Why does an old maid go to church so early on

Sunday? Don’t tell him, Gen.”

“Let’s see, Auntie.” The child studied his egg.

Anton came in. The screen door cracked behind him like a breaking stick.

The people turned. He spoke softly to his younger daughter. “The Bible

says, were they ashamed when they committed abomination? Nay, they were

not. Neither could they blush.” He wiped his face with an arm dusted

with chaff of hay and hair of cows. Ellen heard the bee mumble at the

glass and her hand, holding the skillet, was tiring. “You be not welcome

under my roof now, girl. The Lord God’ll have a reckoning day for you.”

“What’s this all about, Mr. Gaddy?” began Genevieve.

“Shut your jaw. Unnatural ooman.”

Frankie was still, a paleness blanketing her features. She was wearing a

high-throated shirtwaist, the color of her hair brilliant against its

whiteness. Her linen skirt fitted her small hips. Her hands rested in

her lap. Frankie had turned, after months of terror and insecurity in

Garland’s house, to the gentle dominion of the older female. The grip of

her father’s hand had gradually fallen away and she had begun to think

of the home farm as a place in one of the tunes they would sing,

nostalgic and typical.

First the farmer sows his seed

Then he stands

And takes his ease

They were gay in the small Chicago flat. Now the old fear of Anton was

absent. She was waiting until he would speak again into the sultry

kitchen.

“You be gone.” His voice was a blade cutting a cord. “When Sam and me

get back from the wheat this noon. Christ, you be not my daughter any

more.” He stalked to the door and out.

“What did Granddaddy say, Mama?” The high whisper spilled into the

silence.

“I don’t know,” sighed Ellen.

“Now he ne’er ate his breakfast,” Maria was complaining, “with his

fretting. But here comes Sam. He’ll eat good.”

“There’s simply no talking to Pa when he’s set like that, Gen,” Frankie

laughed. “He gets so sore.”

“Tell, why does the old maid go so early to church, Auntie?” Simon

asked.

“Well, by golly,” said Genevieve, pushing back her chair. “Let’s get to

packing.”

Frankie laughed again. “So she can be there when the hymns are given

out, silly.” She got up, brushing her skirt. “Oh, Ellie, don’t worry.

You know Pa. And we did have our visit. You’ll see, we’ll be back next

summer.” Frankie was going to the bedroom.

“Don’t call that much of a riddle,” said Simon. “Don’t get it.”

“You want to go berrying by the lake?” Ellen set the skillet down on the

stove. Her voice was unsteady. “They’re real thick, Simon. All you have

to do is shake them in the pail. You take Jack for company. Watch out

for snakes, mind.”

Sam was coming up the porch as the boy took the lard pail and marched

off, his hand on the dog’s back. Simon’s hair was white in the summer

sun. His cap, grimy and wrinkled now, perched on his head. Ellen turned

to free the imprisoned bee still tumbling at the pane. Maria spoke,

“Want these cold eggs, Sam?”

16

Summer had hurled itself on the quailing countryside. The moisture was

drawn from the bowels of the land, first from the stony top clay, until

finally from the reservoir far below. The few humid clouds were carried

away on winds that lived in the upper troposphere and there was no rain.

A drought prevailed. As daylight made colors known, an opossum was

waddling through the oat field, where stunted stems withered before the

white grains could form. It pounced on a fleeing lizard just before Sam

Offut shot it cleanly through the skull. He plucked its young, no bigger

than a thumbnail, from its nipples and left them in the field. At

breakfast he told the Gaddys, “My old ooman’ll bake it. That’s one thing

Eadie can do.”

Anton was restless. He walked outdoors, drawing on his cold pipe.

“Turning the earth’ll just dry it worse, Sam.”

“No weeds are going to come up anyhow. What’ll we do if it doesn’t rain,

Mester Gaddy?”

Simon was watching them from the screen, his nose against the wire. He

called, “Granddaddy, which way’s the wind blowing?”

But the men looked at the burning sky. They stood in the yard awhile,

then went to the tool shed or scattered old hay to the cows in the

dried-up pasture, puttering time away until it should rain. Simon was on

the steps talking to the dog. Ellen could hear his singsong. She told

Maria, “Simon’s at the aping age. He thinks he’s Sam. Or again he thinks

he’s Pa.”

That sweltering noon Anton beat his wife. It had little to do with the

drought, although irritation had made his temper short. Anton seldom

lifted his arm against Maria ever since a few summers past when she had

taken to bed after he struck her. Anton had felt justified at the time,

for Maria had been nagging him about the kind of wood for her pap’s

coffin. He had given her money enough for a pine box, but she demanded

oak. “Oak’s dear, ooman. No more now.” And when he had beat her she was

somehow hurt. He had been forced to hire the girl, Penny, to help while

his wife was recovering.

Maria was alone in the house in the hot morning. A salesman came to the

door, a thin man, wearing a flat-top hat. His striped suit was frayed

around the lapels and seams. “Madam, I presume you’re the lady of the

house. It’s clear you’re a pious one. I myself am a man of God. I carry

the Word.” He was taking a Bible from his worn satchel. It was handsome,

gold-embossed, gold-edged. He was showing her how in some sections the

first letter was immense, with doves or flowers set into scrolled lines.

Maria coveted it. “But I’ve got no money, Mester.”

“This is such a bargain.”

“If I had the money.”

“Sometimes a farmer will hide money in a mattress. It’s his way. Or

again in the rear part of a drawer that he alone uses.”

She began to shake her head, eying him.

“There’s few would think ill of a wife who knew a fine trade. Look at

this Good Book.”

She turned the leaves, lingering over the gold letters. “What’s its

price?”

“Fifty dollars, Madam. To you, ten.”

“Well.” He sat in the parlor while she found the bills laid in the

ticking. She moved her mouth in an inner argument. She took some of

them, replaced the roll in the straw. She walked back into the parlor.

“Hit seems there be but seven. What do you say, Mester?”

“I’ll make you a special.” He was reaching for the money. “I’ll take

it.”

At noontime, when they finished eating, Maria spoke. “There’s a thing I

did.” She went to get the Bible, her eyes moist and bright.

The smoke from Anton’s pipe dwelled over the used dishes and his brow

drew in puzzled lines. “How’s this?” He was taking the book from her.

“Where’d you get the money?”

“Amid the straw then, under the bed.”

“How’d you think to look, ooman?”

“Peddler said it would be there. So he knows is the way of a farmer. I

took but seven.”

Then Anton was hitting her on the shoulder from where he sat, because he

had been shown for a fool. He rose, seizing his black shirt and ripping

it so buttons fell tinkling. His chest was exposed, matted. He struck

her again. “Prices are falling so I can’t sell. Rising so I can’t buy.

There’s a drought on us, and you have to thieve behind my back.” He

lifted up his fist.

She ran to the bedroom where the wardrobe closet stood, and crouched in

the camphor-ridden woolens. She whimpered, “Mam.”

Ellen waited until Anton had gone to join Sam in the yard. She picked up

the Bible and put it on the table before Simon. Most of the Book of John

was missing, and Kings and Isaiah. Later Anton would hunt in vain for

Jeremiah, his favorite prophet. But now Ellen was turning to the First

Book of Samuel. She had accepted Anton’s violence as she did the

drought, linking them in her mind as manifestations of indisputable

power. And she would give Maria time to recover, in the same

unquestioning way in which the farm folk would woo the land back with

seed and share when the rain came. Ellen was reading to Simon, “The Lord

seeth not as man seeth. Man looketh on the outward appearance. But the

Lord looketh on the heart.”

Simon examined the pictures while she made order in the kitchen. “Here’s

varmints I ne’er knew of, Mama.”

The windows were open. Anton had taken a screen down the day before to

mend it and Ellen had hung strips of cloth to keep out flies that bred

constantly in the barnyard. Simon snatched at those buzzing about him.

When he caught one, he would slide from his chair and let it out the

door. He returned to his perch and book. “You’re a soft one,” she

scoffed. “That fly’s coming right back through the window.”

He smiled in his slow way. “I don’t care.” His eyes were as if he had

drawn aside curtains where he was apt to hide himself.

Ellen was making a pot of coffee. She went to coax her mother from the

closet. “Come on, Ma.”

Maria stared coldly. “Leave me be.”

“Have some coffee. You were clever, Ma. To get a book like that at such

a price.”

At length the woman arose, rubbing her bruised shoulder. “Well.”

Simon gave her the book. “Take it, Granny.”

“We have to cut hoofs, Ma. You drink the coffee.” Ellen set the cup by

Maria.

“Go along, then.” Maria was opening the book. “You can take a look if

there’s any apples. This is a dreary year for storing up.”

In the pasture, Ellen trimmed the goats’ hoofs with a pocketknife while

Simon held their leather collars. The little herd had prospered. There

were six, besides Rhodie who still boarded at the Yorks. Ellen walked

among her goats and she was the center of the wheel. She knew each and

the way it differed from the next, how it placed its foot, how it moved

or crowded to be close to her, butting another with a click of horns.

Penny was aging and moved slow. Pie, the big skewbald one, had no beard

and was slick and fat. There were two shaggy brown yeanlings, saucy and

bold. And Leona, the white doe, had yellow eyes in a long homely face.

Simon and she took the does, when they had finished, over to the

orchard. “Wonder why goats like to follow after, Mama? And you got to

drive a cow?”

Ellen was drawing tree boughs down. The animals craved the young shoots

more than field clover; they were rearing on their hind legs, dancing

with tongues extended.

“There’s no apples here, Mama.”

“There’ll be a few later. I see some fruiting.”

The goats had their fill and were taken to the pasture again. Then Ellen

went up the lane, Simon trailing behind. The does stood their slender

forefeet on the gate bars, calling after them. The heat quivered, the

land lay gasping, the corn died as clay cracked like a split plate

around yellowed stalks. The sun dominated the clear dome as well as the

prostrate land. Even Simon felt the menace and reached for Ellen’s hand.

After supper Anton, his anger exhausted, was reading to the boy from

Maria’s Bible. He had brought it to the porch. The women in the hot

kitchen could hear through the open door. “Now this Elisha was going

about the countryside doing miracles. There came forth children out of a

city and mocked him. Said, go up thou baldhead. Go up thou baldhead.

Elisha he looked on them and cursed them in the name of the Lord. There

came two she-bears then out of the woods. They tore forty and two

children of them. And then Elisha he went from thence to Mount Carmel.”

Simon’s eyes were large and wary. “They shouldn’t have sassed that man.”

“Take a lesson from it. Heed your manners. Hear, youngen?”

“I will, Granddaddy.”

The women came out with cornhusk fans that Maria once had fashioned.

Anton turned pages, seeking the words of Jeremiah. “You got a reaming to

top all here, ooman. Go fetch my own Bible, boy. This one’s not put

together proper.” Then he read, “Thus saith the Lord. Stand ye in the

ways and see and ask for the old paths where is the good way. And walk

therein and ye shall find rest for your souls.”

Ever since Ellen and Anton had visited Father Tompert and she had voiced

herself to the priest, Ellen had discovered a new freedom. She had found

herself supported by the church in her dispute with it, in her desire to

find her own path. It gave her a wholeness and a bravery toward Anton.

So she would keep Simon at her side on Sundays while her parents rode to

church. Maria was disturbed. “Hope you don’t burn for this, Ellie.

Wonder what Jesus would say if he came through Millville today?” Anton

had grunted, angry, to the team, “Haw-whup.” Unknown to Ellen, he had

spoken to another priest in Bethel regarding his daughter’s departure

from the church. This man was old, his face creased in deep lines, and

he advised Anton to obey his parish priest and to care for his own soul.

* * * * *

After her sister had gone away with Genevieve Wheeler, Ellen would watch

Anton going about his work abstractedly. He would stop now and again to

raise a hand or mumble to himself, then startle as though coming out of

a dream, and resume his work. He declared no one was to speak Frankie’s

name. One day Ellen, rummaging for a lost tool in the shed behind the

hog pens, came on the remains of a glass bowl-garden, the one Frankie

had made when she was fifteen to please her father. It was smashed and

Ellen knew Anton had hurled it there in a smoldering rage.

He began to use certain phrases with Simon such as he had used with

Frankie. “A storm is nothing, Poppet,” he said once when thunder moved

over the sky, failing to see that Simon had no fear. He baited the boy

too, told him to watch the butchering of an old milk cow. “This is man’s

work and you just as well learn it early.” He smote the beast with a

maul behind the ear. When it staggered to its knees, he used the maul

again. Sam cut the jugular with a sticking knife and while the lifeblood

flowed, they fastened chains to its hocks and hoisted the limp body up.

Simon brought a pail of water for washing, took the liver and kidneys in

a pan to the kitchen. He helped carry meat that the women were frying

down in fat for the lean winter coming. He stumbled up the steps to the

kitchen with his load. “Granddaddy killed old Jess. While she was

looking at him.”

“He needs the money, Simon. She wasn’t good for a milker any more. He’s

going to take the hide and one side to Bethel.”

“He could have laid his kerchief o’er her eyes.” He took up the

blood-stained pail. With lagging step he returned to his tasks.

Anton found Simon was apt to be slow and chided him. He was scattering

handfuls of slaked lime on the hog house floor, sending Simon to refill

the pails from the sack in the yard. In the ovenlike heat, the white

dust clung to their sweated clothing and skin. “Think menfolk are always

going to wait on your lazy ass? Now when I was a youngen I learned on a

stick. Haw.”

And sometimes Anton turned on him unexpectedly. When the child heard his

steps and ran to open the porch door, the man would say, “Now get out of

here.”

“It’s but his way, Simon,” Ellen pleaded when she saw the boy’s eyes

following the stocky erect figure.

“I know it, Mama.”

The drought broke toward the end of September. Maria was claiming the

Man of Signs had foretold it. “It be the Autumnal Equinox. The sun’s

entering Libra now.”

“That’s a fact,” said Sam. “The Scales been balanced toward drought. And

now they be tilting the way to the rain.”

Thunder belted the heavens, rattling the timbers of the old house. The

moist air was lightened and smelled of a sweetness unknown since early

summer rains. Water was pouring from a full sky. In the oat field it hit

the cracked clay and bounced off. Washes were beginning where stones

formed little dams. Rivulets were taking the paths contrived and

becoming foaming streams that roared like rivers and cut gashes that

deepened into crevices. Much of the topsoil washed into the valleys. But

the land was filled, the water stores replenished. All vegetation sucked

and had its fill. And still there was more. “I vow we’ll get wet

tonight, Sam. Appears to be just commencing.”

“Reckon I might make a little mess of garden truck yet,” Ellen said,

“before the first frost.”

“Mester Gaddy,” said Sam, “I’d as soon set right out in this while I

milk. I got a honing to get drenched.”

That night crickets that dwelled in the stone foundations and katydids

with leaflike wings and long silken feelers and green eyes, were

scraping their wings in the teeming dark. They had been listless through

the dry weather, now were voicing themselves in lusty chorus. The red

cardinal was singing so softly in the hackberry that it sounded as if it

were away down Sweetincreek Road.

The drought had wreaked a stiff toll. A few loads of hay would be

brought in but most of the crop was lost. There would be no corn to

garner, no small grains. One crib remained from the previous year and

from it Anton would eke out the winter feeding. He decided to ride with

Dyke Burwell to the auctions in Louisville up on the northern border of

Kentucky. He selected four sows to hold over the winter with the

breeding boar; he would sell the others and all the yeanling pigs. They

were flat-sided, poorly finished. The men hoped that in the city they

would get a better price than was paid locally. Dyke had loaded his

father’s excess hogs in the Burwell Chevrolet truck. The two were

driving off for the seventy-mile trip and would return in a few days.

The Gaddy women and the child watched the load of squealing hogs, bedded

in straw, lurch down the lane. Ellen laughed, “Let’s have an outing,

Simon.” The air was brightened as the head of the house was carried

further and further away. They took biscuits and cheese down to the

orchard. Jack accompanied them. When they had eaten, they gathered

fallen apples into a bushel; Simon climbed trees, shook down the few

that clung to the branches. They went beyond the orchard to a patch of

sorghum cane. Being near the farm brook, it had survived the dry spell.

They were breaking stalks, sucking the juice.

“Crows don’t always squall, Mama. They can talk soft too. I heard one

twittering like a wren, feeding its youngens.” The child wanted to know

the ways of the beasts and fowl. “Granddaddy says buzzards will kill a

baby pig and steal off with it. Reckon that’s so?”

“A buzzard’s not biggity enough. They’re good but to clean up what’s

dead and rotting.”

Returning to the house, they had come on an opossum in the path. The

heart of the swooned animal beat faintly, its dull-white jaws, withered

ears and skinny tail bore a semblance to death. Simon was plucking it

from the dust, cradling it in the bend of his arm. He stroked the coarse

fur. “I’ll make it a pet.”

Ellen laughed then. But somehow she was lonely, walking up the hill in

the breeze of the afternoon, bearing the basket of fall apples.

“I always wondered if a mole could swim, Mama. Yesterday I saw one cross

the branch. Now I know that thing.” She made no reply and he went on,

“You reckon those goat-sucker birds truly suckle the cows at night? Sam

says it’s so. He says milk snakes’ll do it too. I’m going to spy one

time on them.”

Anton and Dyke came back from Louisville. Prices had fallen more than

anticipated; the buyers’ eyes had been hard. Anton bought a load of

poor-quality hay that was stacked high on the truck. They had had a flat

tire on the way home and arrived late at night. Anton was pounding on

the door. “Open up, ooman.”

They brushed by Maria who stood in a knee-length sweater, her grayish

hair in braids. “Hey, ma’am,” Dyke muttered. They went in the parlor,

the stench of manure and sweat about them.

“Paid fifty cents for this lightning.” Anton cradled a Mason jar of

clear liquid. “Didn’t tell you, boy, in case we got asked if we had any

moon hid in that hay.” He unscrewed the lid and filled glasses.

Ellen went up to bed; she found Simon on the stairway and sent him

before her. She heard her father’s shout and Dyke’s growl of agreement

as she was drifting off to sleep. She awoke, feeling a hard hand on her

shoulder. “What’s amiss?” she whispered, thinking it was Anton.

“Hey. It’s me, Ellie.” She heard the pleading whisper, smelled the sour

breath.

“You’re sodden drunk, Dyke. Go downstairs and get to sleep. If you can

find your way to the sofa in the parlor.” She spoke severely, heard his

clumsy steps descending the stairs, his curse as he stumbled and bumped

the wall. In the morning she was serving them breakfast. As soon as the

hay was unloaded Dyke would drive home. Ellen could see he had no sure

memory of his visit to her room. She caught his covert glance. He thinks

it was a fancy he had.

17

In that fall Ellen had a dream of Christian Ay. It was her first thought

of him in many months’ time. His figure was unclear, touched with

gentleness and warmth; it was apart from her. She fancied he was hurt.

He was calling, his voice as if through water. When she awoke she could

hear the echo of her own cry. She was musing at the power of the

nightmare’s image. “There could be a meaning. Like the Prophet Ezekiel

seeing the dreadful wheels. A wheel whirling in the middle of a wheel.

And there was a meaning there that certain men read.”

She went downstairs to sit wakeful while the dream was still fresh, in

the balmy fall moonlight. Fog steamed in the air, blurring the rims of

trees and the porch roof. There was a rustle in the drying grass and

though no wind stirred a fallen leaf seemed to move on itself, and

presently another, and then the shadow of an embryonic mouse was

darting, vanishing before the eye could catch the shape. The shrews were

harvesting for the winter ahead; their tiny gray piglike bodies sped

soundless; through the movement in their wake one was aware of them.

“Sam says folks will dream of a body when they’re in danger. Or when

they’ve died. Wonder if a trouble’s come to Christian Ay?” Dwelling on

the dream Ellen forgot the curse she had laid once on the man. She

buried her injury, turning the old love over gently, painfully, alone on

the step.

Winter was casting her days off, one by one. Spring had arrived. Anton’s

worrying of Simon had become less pronounced. Ellen heard the child’s

high voice repeating the tuneless song his grandfather was teaching him.

It was our William Jennings Bryan

Who told them

Adam was there first

When he fought the battle

With those sons of darkness

At the trial of John T. Scopes

Anton was lifting the big boy onto his knee. “Shaw. Now, here’s this

poppet. You know I had a son once. If he’d have lived, I’d been minded

to give him my name.” Simon sat stiff at the favor granted. Ellen

watched through the door from where she worked, pleased at this new way

of Anton’s. “How come you called him Simon, girl?”

“The Doughertys named him, Pa.”

“Anton’s a good name. I don’t favor Simon. There was a Simon in the

Bible tried to buy Peter.”

“Oh, Pa. There are lots of Simons in the Bible.”

“Well.” He was turning to the boy again. She had never heard her father

sing, and was glad.

They said our ancestors

Were monkeys

Now can’t you see, folks

That’s quite absurd?

And then the days were passing, made of long hours. The months were

lengthening into years. The winter following the drought was the first

Ellen knew when the table wasn’t amply laid. She had to learn how to

stint in the cooking and to curb her generous hand. When weevils got in

the meal she would strain them out and mix the meal with water to make a

corn pone. In the old days she would have tossed it easily to the hens.

The market for the milk and produce worsened. Every fall Anton and Dyke

made two or three trips up to Louisville to the sales. They took pigs

and steers, chickens, geese and ducks, small grains and root crops.

Through the years the Gaddys would manage, for they depended on varied

harvests. The one-crop farmer suffered the most. Many of them were

driving away from their plots of land, their families and goods piled on

wagons and trucks, hoping to find jobs in factories and foundries of the

cities. When Anton saw a loaded vehicle go down Sweetincreek Road, he

articulated his scorn, “I’d set and eat clay before I’d leave my farm.

Those fellows are oomen-farmers, farting with a patch of tobacco.

Putting on fertilizer and then burning it off. Laying cheesecloth strips

like a ooman.”

“What for, Granddaddy?”

“I vow I don’t know. Then they go to the auction and hit don’t sell for

nothing. They buy moon from the patent medicine man and come back with

their pockets empty. So go on,” he shouted at the retreating wagon, “and

don’t come back.”

“And don’t come back,” cried Simon shrilly.

Anton turned to the boy, his eyes hot. “You stay on this farm, Poppet,

and some day maybe it’ll all belong to you.”

Anton slowly was transferring the fervor he used to spend on his younger

daughter, Frankie, to this boy, Simon. He was taking him over. As time

passed he judged Ellen’s guidance of the child. “You be a fool, girl.

You’ll spoil him rotten.”

When the boy remembered and did as bid, Anton was pleased; when he

disobeyed, he whipped him, stolid. “Thou shalt beat him with a rod, so

it’s said. I’ll take no sass. You do as I say, Simon.”

In his way Simon tried not to make errors that would aggravate his

grandfather. He had developed a spasmodic pain in his chest that would

come at odd moments. He told no one of it but sometimes when he thought

about it, believed he would die. Then he lay vacantly staring upward as

he had done in the Dougherty shed in the vague days before he came to

live here. At times he dreamed of Anse Dougherty pinching his arm,

whispering, “Gaddy brat. Gaddy brat.” He awoke struggling and muttering.

When Ellen questioned him, he couldn’t remember the details of the

dream. She would sing, soothing, until he slept.

Dear mother, I said, come and bind up my head

You ne’er shall bind it any more

Sweet William he died of the wound that he bore

And Fair Ellen, she died also

In 1934 another drought smote the farm. This time the condition was

prevalent over the Midwest, involving dust storms and soil erosion. Over

these depression years there were no visits from Garland Gaddy. At

Christmas he would send a package through the mail. It would be placed

on the parlor table. Ellen’s parents went straight to bed when they

returned silent from midnight mass. On Christmas morning the family

would find cigars for Anton, and for Maria and Ellen mittens or a wool

scarf. Garland was unsure of Simon’s age. When he was six, Garland sent

him the book _Ben Hur_, and when eight, a set of ABC building blocks.

Ellen wrote to thank him, urged him to come at the next holiday. “Some

time,” she told Simon, “I’ll show you Chicago. And your great-uncle who

lives there.”

“Don’t I have an aunt there, too?”

“Yes. Some day maybe you’ll meet her. Don’t ne’er say her name to

Granddaddy.”

“I know. That’s Auntie. She brought me a yellow hat one time.”

Ellen never heard from Frankie, but once Garland put a card in her

package of fur gloves: “Love from Uncle and Frankie.” So she knew that

they saw each other and it was a comfort.

The years were sweeping by. In 1935 the Federal dole was stopped and the

national relief program got under way. Anton was told that for

twenty-five dollars he could have a WPA privy constructed. Since the old

one was in ramshackle state, he decided to go ahead. “Christ, Sam, hit

must be fifteen feet down.” They stepped within the new-painted door,

looked into the openings. “It’ll take a hundred years to fill that

hole.”

“More, Mester Gaddy.” Sam paused. “I recollect Pa. He hung the door on

the last shithouse we Offuts had. Swung it in by mistake. Said it e’er

plagued him after that, for when he sat out there he liked to have a

door swing out, so he could watch the neighbors go by along the road.

He’d call out to them if he had a mind, friendly-like.”

“Well, I’ll take the cow barn any day. For a fact. It’s a sight more

natural.”

Simon was growing. He was nine, stocky and strong, heavy for his age.

The bones of his shoulders were knobby so he would appear undernourished

when shirtless. Ellen laughed at him for his diffident ways. “You’re shy

as a field-raised calf, Simon.” If the boar broke loose though, or if a

new heifer kicked because her udder was hot and tender, Simon was

fearless. He laid his hands on her when she kicked out, vicious, or

walked up to the great angry seed-hog.

Once Anton thrashed the red horse with the lines. It was harnessed with

another and when the load began to move, it reared, balking in the

traces. Anton whipped it. The boy loved the red horse—he hurled himself

before it so the lines were lashing him. Anton saw the white stripes.

“What foolishness now?”

“It’s the blinders, Granddaddy.”

And it was true. This horse had always worn the bridle with blinders.

The wrong bridle had been put on and he saw things in a new way,

frightening him. Simon was sent for the other bridle and then the horse

pulled squarely with its mate. “Beasts are plagued fools sometimes,” the

man said. But the boy’s eyes were gazing straight ahead, as red welts

rose on his cheek and arm. He grit his teeth against the familiar pain

searing his breast.

Anton went into Millville to the priest one afternoon and had Simon

baptized. When they returned, he told Ellen. She protested, “Pa, it

doesn’t matter. But you could have said you were going.”

“And he’s riding to mass Sundays too, along with us, proper pious. I

can’t hinder you from being a heathen, but I’ll save my grandson.”

Ellen glanced down at Simon. The man was pressing him, “You want to go

along with me, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes, Granddaddy.”

“Well, all right, Simon. You know your mind, I reckon.” She watched them

go, saw Simon running to bring the cows and start the feeding.

Ellen was twenty-six. She was quite handsome but there was a coldness in

her bearing. Her oval face was sober, gray eyes austere, she wore her

hair plaited tightly and pinned in a circle around her head. She never

knelt in the honeyed grass at night as she once had, weeping over the

lost love and her restive longings. It was as if a scar had formed,

protective, and a part of herself was sealed off underneath. She moved

quietly through the days as if waiting. And she seemed satisfied.

Simon spent his hours with the beasts of the farm or trailing his

grandfather. When he felt the need for Ellen, he sought her out,

standing near her. They were alike in many ways, shy, spare of words.

She taught him songs, and read to him from the Bible and the almanac. He

brought home an average report card and she signed it, “Mrs. Ellen

Gaddy.” He queried her, “How come I got no daddy?”

“He’s dead, Simon.”

“Tell, what was he like?”

“I can’t rightly remember. Like you, I reckon.”

“If more comes to you about him, will you tell me, Ma?”

“I will.”

“Granddaddy says he be the same as a father to me.”

“Well.”

* * * * *

Ellen saw her old friend Lily again one day. She had not visited with

her since Lily had become Mrs. Craig Hedrick five years earlier. If they

met, Lily would walk away, turning her head aside. It was late August.

Ellen and Maria were making apple butter, the spicy fragrance filled the

kitchen. There was a gentle knock and Ellen put down her wood ladle,

wiping her hands on the brown-stained apron. “Yes?”

“Don’t you know me, Ellie?”

“Lily.” Ellen opened the door wide. “Come on in.”

“I was just hankering to see you. It’s fierce lonesome at home. I ran

off.”

“What do you mean?” Ellen was taking the old tone with her at once.

“Hush your crying.”

“Craig sent me to hoe the truck beans. Hit seemed I couldn’t bear it any

more. I up and walked away.” Lily’s blond curls that she had always

taken such care with, were pulled into an untidy knot at the nape of her

neck. She was stouter. “I’m afraid to go back. Craig was running the

tractor in the corn and his man was working the mules. He told me I must

clean the bean patch.” Her small mouth was puckered, unhappy.

“Why are you afraid? He’s your husband.”

The woman heaved a breath. “He’s taken to whipping me like Papa did. So

I told him I was carrying a child to make him stop.”

“Well, then?”

“I’ve got no child. I can’t seem to get caught. Craig wants one as bad

as me.”

“Let’s have some coffee.” Ellen was going to the kitchen. “Ma, you know

Lily. She’s Mrs. Hedrick, remember?”

“Hey, Mrs. Gaddy.” Lily was eager.

“Hey there, Lily. How’s Mester Garrett’s bees?”

“Oh, my husband says Papa’s making a sight of honey this year. He’s got

o’er twenty hives now. I’ve not been to see him myself these many

months.” Ellen laid cups on the table while the water came to a boil.

She put out a dish of hot apple butter, slices of fresh bread. “It’s

like coming home here, Ellie. We used to have fun, you and me and

Frankie. I always loved fun.”

“You know,” Maria spoke up from her thoughts, “I had another girl, named

Frankie. I dassn’t say her name. Mester Gaddy won’t brook it. She’s

dead.” Maria was wagging her head, knowing.

“Here’s your coffee, Ma,” Ellen said.

“Is Frankie dead?” Lily whispered.

“No, and Ma knows it. It’s a way she has, like a child, sometimes. She

can’t seem to keep it straight.”

“She can’t?”

“You e’er think of seeing Doc Trumbo, Lily? Maybe he could help you and

Craig to have a child.”

Lily’s eyes were trailing Maria, breaking bread and spooning the brown

preserves. “Reckon we could try that, Ellie.”

“I always thought a heap of Craig,” Ellen said, “for taking o’er like he

did when old Mester Hedrick was killed so sudden.”

“He doesn’t have to beat me.”

“You e’er think about how it was for him, Lily, back then?”

“No.”

Maria broke in, “But there’s a little boy lives here now. Named Simon.

I’m his granny.”

Lily spoke slowly, “I can’t even go to see my papa and mama any more.

I’m not allowed to go home.” Grave, she was watching Maria.

“Craig’s a good man.”

“I know, Ellie.”

“You have to stop being a girl some day. And think on the ways of a

woman.”

The three drank their coffee. Presently Lily was pushing back her chair;

she spoke deliberately, “Reckon I’ll get back to my house. I have work

to do. It’s a long walk. Bye, Mrs. Gaddy. Ellie.” Her retreating steps

were heard on the stones in the yard.

Suddenly Ellen was caught in a burst of tears. She put her hands to her

face, sobbing hoarsely. She ran up the steep stairway, her bare feet

noiseless. “I vow at that girl.” Maria took the ladle to stir the

mixture, thick and hot in the iron kettle.

Upstairs, Ellen was standing in the middle of the room, shaken,

uncontrolled. She turned abruptly to the trunk along the wall and

dragged open the heavy lid. She rummaged through the contents until she

came on the two undelivered letters she had written Christian Ay. She

ripped them into shreds in a heap on the floor. “I hate Lily and Craig

and all the ugly ways of folks.”

When she came down, her face appeared smoothed and untouched. But she

was holding her head in such a way that when Anton saw her going to the

woodshed, he crossed himself and muttered, “There, I thought it was you,

Ma.”

* * * * *

Simon was in the fourth grade. Every morning found him trudging three

miles to the school on the Millville Pike. Until the weather turned cold

he would go barefoot, for catalog shoes cost a dollar thirty-nine. He

went down the lane in the flat morning sunlight, talking to the dog. He

carried his lunch in a lard bucket. Holes were punched in its tin lid

and it contained a bunch of concord grapes and biscuits spread with

jelly. “Stay, Jack.” The dog’s movements were stiff. He settled on the

bank amid blue-flowered chicory, head on forepaws, brown eyes fixed on

the retreating figure. A tufted titmouse whistled in a cottonwood along

the road. “Peet-O. Peet-O!” It joined the chickadees and nuthatches that

trooped in the upper branches.

In the afternoon Simon returned late, scarcely recognizable, upper lip

swollen, dry blood caked on his face. The skin was puffing out around

one eye, the sleeve of his shirt was torn. Anton caught sight of him

coming up the lane and ran shouting, “What is it, Poppet?”

Simon halted, scuffling his feet; he began to whine.

“Speak up, son.”

“That fellow mocked me.” Simon was sniffling and as he was led to the

house, his voice rose to a wail.

Ellen called from the window, “What ails him, Pa?” She came out the

door, shading her face, hurrying down the steps in the sweet-scented

fall air.

“He’s not going back to that school.” Anton’s face was hot, his breath

thick as he passed her, leading the child. “Crapping bastards are about

to kill him.”

Ellen followed into the kitchen. Anton was lifting Simon to the table.

“Get a pan of water,” he told Maria. He removed the boy’s shirt,

examined his lip.

“Pa. You can see he’s been fighting. Let’s find what happened.”

“We’ll send you to the parochial school. Like decent Catholics. Your

ma’s let you run amuck.”

“Please, Pa.”

“The heathen can kill him before you give a care.”

“Simon.” But the boy had fastened his frightened eyes on his

grandfather, clinging to the harried look on the man’s face. Ellen

turned away, inarticulate. Later, she was in the shed, milking her

goats. Simon shuffled in, stood at the pen gate. The goats nibbled his

shirt buttons and rubbed against him as he was stroking them.

“I slopped the pigs and watered the team, Ma.” She waited. He was

speaking again, “Reckon Leona’s least kid will have horns or not?”

“Simon, what happened today at school?”

“Looks to me like she’s a muley one.” He bent over the kid, moving the

skin on the top of its head with his finger. “If horns were sprouting,

it wouldn’t move free like that.”

Ellen got up from the stool to strain the milk into a can. She began to

draw the white streams from another doe.

The boy said suddenly, “Granddaddy takes care of me.”

She looked at him to see his eyes cold upon her. He was fingering his

enlarged lip. She was startled. He’s turning from me. Pa’s getting hold

of him. She put her head against the soft warm side of the spotted doe.

“Granddaddy frets about me.”

“Tell how you got in the fight, or I’ll whip you for a fact.”

His eyes were down. “There’s a game at recess. We use a ball belonging

to that Penn Hamm. He stores it in the drawer of his desk. Time and

again I asked him could I take it home for one night. But he wouldn’t

say yes.” Simon looked up. One eye was nearly shut, the bruised skin

blue.

“So?”

“I studied on it and hankered after it. Yesterday I slipped it from his

desk and put it in my pocket. After school was out.”

“You could have had a ball if you’d told me.”

“I wanted that ball.”

“What then?”

“Penn said I snitched it, and I said I didn’t. He sat under the tree and

called me bastard Gaddy brat.”

“You stole his ball, Simon. He was angered. And folks used to call me a

Gaddy brat. Some still do, and I don’t care.”

“He called me that. He laid for me coming home. I wrestled him for it

but he got his ball back.”

“Why, Simon?”

“I wanted it.” His eyes were like small empty caves. “And I lost my lard

pail too.”

The night meal was pregnant with unspoken words. Then as Anton was

leaving the kitchen he told Ellen, “I’ll take him to the sisters

tomorrow.” She looked at him from where she was sitting. His short body

leaned against the door casing. “Why I even got to jump on him to say

the Lord’s Prayer right.” He cut a slice of apple tobacco with his

slender knife. “Trespasses, he says, like heathen. The school taught him

that. The Lord said debtors. Forgive us our debtors.” He walked softly

into the other room.

Simon was sent to bed. Ellen came into the parlor. “Pa, this isn’t

right. Simon stole that Hamm youngen’s ball. He’s got to learn. He

should go back and own up. He’s nine and he knows right from wrong.

You’re always preaching the Bible and this is the time to stand by what

it says.”

“Haw. I’ll say a thing here, girl.” He was speaking fast, harsh. “He has

no daddy, since you begot him in whoredom. Now I let him come here like

a son. I look on him so. Don’t stand against me.”

“It was the same with Frankie. You pulled her out of school too. You

know it.”

“You’re mourning because I didn’t take you out.” Anton rolled the quid

in his mouth, continuing gently, “You know, this boy’s a good bit like

my brother, Marc. Minds me of him.” He settled into a chair. “Some way

Ma favored Marc o’er Garland and me.”

“I know why.”

“What do you know?” he drawled.

“He was handsome. Not ugly like you.”

“How come you say that?”

“I know somewhat else.”

“Speak hit.”

“He wasn’t your full brother. Nell Gaddy ne’er wanted you or Uncle.

That’s a fact.”

“What?” he roared.

“She married your sir because she got caught. Like me with Simon.” Ellen

moved to stand over him, by his chair. “She ne’er wanted you, I say. She

loved Marc for his daddy’s sake.”

The man rose like an unleashed bull. He struck her so she reeled against

the sofa. “I’ll kill you for that lying tongue.”

She slipped from his hands, ran outside, down the path through the hill

field to the orchard. She stopped running there. Night fog was drifting

in low spots, the sky was clouded. She leaned against a twisted apple

tree until she seemed composed. Her face became like the glass of the

pond where there was no wind and mist was caught above. Later she wended

up to the house to sit on the damp garden wall, waiting until the

kitchen and the bedroom candles flicked out.

In the morning, as she was pumping water into the blue pail, Anton went

by to the house. He looked past her as if she were not there. She had

told Simon earlier that he must go back to the Millville school, knowing

Anton would refute her word. But she went through the motions, she

hunted for a lard pail in the pantry, made up the lunch. She saw her

fingers were shaking. The boy pushed his chair back and took the lunch

pail. Anton said, “You and me are going to the Catholic school, boy. Did

you forget? Let’s go harness Moll and Red.”

Simon looked at him. Ellen knew the child was pleased and yet would hide

this from her. He said like a question, “Bye now, Ma? I’m going now,

Ma?”

Sam was already in the field when Anton came back late in the morning.

He was cutting cornstalks, making tall shocks that would cure until the

long white ears were garnered. Anton joined him, swinging the heavy

blade. “Put my boy in a proper school, Sam.”

And Ellen was planning. She scrawled a letter quickly.

Dear Uncle Garland,

This is a thing I should have done long ago. I have to leave home.

Could you find a farmer who would hire me? My boy is 9 now. Wages as

deemed fair. Please answer by return post. And obliged.