She ran from him to the truck. He came after and swung open the door for

her. He made up a cigarette while she waited; he tapped the Bull Durham

pouch, pulled the drawstring with his teeth. Then they were driving

homeward. She leaned into his arm until they nearly reached the

Wasilewski house. She had picked a horse chestnut leaf, and showed him

the print of a hoof where the leaf was torn from the twig that held it;

even the horseshoe nails were there, five of them. She twirled the leaf

in her fingers. She sighed, smiling at him, already regretting the

incident in the grove. And him plighted to Star Webster.

24

In the morning Adele was urging her daughters through breakfast so they

would be ready for church on time. Simon cried, “Wish I had my kid here,

Ma. I’m naming it April for it was born this month.”

“I’ll stay at home today, Adele,” Mom said. “I want to ready up the

fruit cellar. We’ll be canning before we know it. Applesauce and

berries.”

The little girls clamored, “Pleathe. Let us stay too, and play with

Thimon.”

“Well, I’m going,” Dennie said. “We’re hearing about that Goliath.”

“Girls,” said Adele, “I’m surprised you don’t want to hear that story

too.”

“Wish April was here,” Simon was saying, “trailing after me.”

“Star’s coming for supper tonight,” said Mom.

“I forgot that.” Dan rubbed the blemish that colored the taut flesh of

his cheek.

“Be nice to see Star again,” said Adele. “When was she here last?”

“Let’s see,” said Pop. “It was snowing, wasn’t it?”

“Did you meet her, Ellen?” asked Adele.

“No.” Ellen felt the hot flush creep over her face.

“Then it must have been before the thaw, Pop,” Sudduth said. “Because

right after that Ellen came.”

“You’re wearing your hair a new way, Ellen,” Mom said. “It’s very nice.

Soft like that around your face. You used to pin it so tight.”

Ellen hastily brushed the loose strands back. “Reckon I did.” She could

sense Mom’s piercing eyes.

The men went out; Adele and the children drove to church. Ellen was

working in the kitchen. She was preparing peach cobblers for dinner that

night. Mason jars of peach halves glistened bright orange in the

sun-shot window. While she was mixing the dough with her fingers, Mom

came in, carrying a heavy book. “Have you ever seen a Polish Bible,

Ellen?” Mom laid it on the table and turned to the record of family

dates on the first page.

Ellen knew the woman had brought it in for a purpose. “I’ve heard that

some keep their Bibles like that, Mom. Though our family ne’er did with

ours.” She put her hand swiftly to her hair leaving a drift of flour.

Mom pointed to the list. “Pop’s mother brought it over from Poland. We

can’t any of us read Polish, but it’s been in his family so we write

everything in it.”

There were different hands, some with foreign characters, hard to

decipher. The latest entry read, “Hannah Wasilewski. July 6, 1932.”

Higher on the list Ellen could see in faded green ink, “Daniel Matthew

Wasilewski. May 10, 1895.”

“See, there’s Sudduth’s wedding to Adele.” Mom was putting a broad

finger on it. “That was clean before the depression. Now Star and Dan’ll

be setting their date. It’ll say, Daniel Wasilewski took Star Webster in

marriage. October first, maybe. This year.”

“That’s a fine book there.” Ellen said it coolly. I was born in 1909.

That makes him fourteen years older. He’s forty-one. She felt languid

because of her love. She was smiling at Mom, gray eyes narrow, hiding

the secret anger.

“We know Dan’s making a good marriage, Ellen.” Mom’s cheeks were red.

“That Mr. Webster’s a rich man.”

“Look, Star suits Dan.” Mom spoke crisp. “My son loves her.”

“Reckon two cobblers’ll be enough for tonight, Mom? With company

coming?”

“Better make three.” The older woman was going to put the Bible back on

its shelf; her heavy body moved stolid, with decision. Ellen watched her

go.

When she and Dan had come back last night from Penny’s, Dan had changed

his clothes and gone directly to the barn. After supper he hurried out

again with Sudduth to set up a pen for the new sheep. The two men

returned at dusk, stood in the kitchen awhile talking before they went

to bed. Dan paid no heed to Ellen. The yellow cat purred and mewled now

about her feet while she rolled the dough deftly, fitted it into the pie

tins. She thought how she disliked Mom. The woman’s hostility was

palpable. She was calling out as her steps were heard descending, “I’ll

be in the fruit cellar, Ellen. When you finish, come and help. We’ve got

to get this straightening done if it is Sunday.”

“I will.” In a swift flood Ellen was homesick for the old kitchen in the

yellow house. For Frankie and Maria nearby, the boiler steaming on the

range, Jack waiting in the bushes by the porch. The goats in fresh straw

in the woodshed. And her in the garden rows, singing “Down in the

Valley.” Here the customs were foreign, even their manners and speech

differed from what she had known. The old people had been born in a land

across the water, brought their alien habits with them. They bathed in a

separate room where a white tub stood on ornate legs. Everyone had his

own towel, and when he bathed he would hang it on the line in the sun,

even Hannah. Ellen would see Dan pinning his in the evenings, casually,

pausing to light a cigarette before returning to the house. It would

seem to her as if he performed a woman’s task, as if it were too clean.

When she first came to this household and rolled pie crusts, Mom had

showed her how the edges of the dough must be crimped by twisting the

thumbs in a particular way. And when they went to kill a chicken, they

laid a broomstick across its neck and yanked the legs sharply so the

head was pulled off. She poured the fragrant peach halves into the pans.

At first I couldn’t get over their merry ways. But there’s Adele who

tried to keep from having her baby. Sudduth’s jealous of his brother.

And Mom’s bent on managing them all. Dan will bring Star Webster here

just like she says. They’ll write it in that Bible. Wish I could be away

tonight. I don’t want to see that girl. Ellen was crimping the edges of

the pies skillfully and sliding them into the oven. The yellow cat

bounded after, and she caught it in her arms as she went down the cellar

steps.

* * * * *

The lilacs on the north side of the house, outside the dining room

windows, were opening their buds in the afternoon. The perfume was

drifting through the house. Ellen fried the chickens while Mom helped

Adele dress the girls and straighten the rooms. Ellen was setting the

table, spreading first the linen cloth, cream-colored with age. She took

out crystal that stood in the sideboard and heavy-plated silver, placed

it as Mom had directed, the knife and spoon on the right side with blade

turned to the plate, the fork on the left. Simon came in. “Who’s Star

Webster?”

“She’s a friend of theirs, Simon.”

“Dennie says she’s Dan’s sweetheart.”

Ellen was laying small butter knives in front of the plates. “Well.”

“That’s fancy there, Ma. The way you’re doing.” Simon was grown so his

head came above Ellen’s shoulder. He was over ten now.

She put goblets at the knife tips and turned to him. “You eat proper. No

swooshing your food with a biscuit. Mind, now. And the fork goes in the

right hand.”

“I’ll most likely fall o’er backwards in my chair.”

“Watch Dennie and do like he does. You’re twice his size and half as

mannerly. And be quiet too.”

“I don’t care for all this.”

“Put on that new shirt I made.” She went to the kitchen. “Now go on. The

queen’ll be here before we know it.”

The clock read seven when they drove up. Ellen paused to look out the

window. Dan had changed into his brown suit, wore a bright striped tie.

He was taking Star’s hand as she stepped down from the truck cab. Star

Webster was just nineteen. Her small form was sheathed in a white dress,

she wore white shoes and gloves and a wide-brimmed white hat. Her hair

fluffed out, her arms were untanned. Adele said Star put stockings on

her arms when she went to pick berries to keep the sun from them, and a

sunbonnet to protect her face and neck. She was laughing up at Dan. He

had said she was exciting. She was afraid of the dark. He liked that.

Maybe she leans on him, helpless. A man doesn’t like a woman strong.

The potatoes steamed as they boiled over, and Ellen turned hastily to

them. Mom and Adele came in, fastening on starched print aprons. Mom

wore her new black rayon dress, a cameo gold brooch at the neckline.

Adele’s dark green suit made her round face sallow. The little girls

followed. “Thay, Ellen. Look at us.” They twirled pink and blue dresses

before her.

“You sure sew pretty, Adele,” Ellen said.

“A little starch will do wonders with that cheap voile.” Adele was

modest. “Now you girls go say hello to Star.” They ran, whispering and

nudging.

The women beat potatoes with a wood masher, lifted browned chicken onto

the huge white platter, and broke ice cubes into a water pitcher. The

family was coming in from the living room, Star holding to Dan’s arm.

Sudduth was complaining, “Sunday’s a workday like every other around

here, Star. When my house is built, I’m going to church with Adele and

the girls. That’ll give me a day off.”

Pop shuffled after them, pulling his beard. “Hee. That’s one way to do

it.”

“This is our girl, Ellen,” Mom said to the guest, “and that’s Simon.”

“Hello there,” said Star. “Oh Mom, what a lovely table. You always set

it so pretty.”

“You sit over here, Dan,” Mom said.

“I’ll sit where I usually do.” He was smiling stiffly.

“Well, Star, you take the chair by him.”

Dennie said grace. “God is great, God is good, bless us for our daily

food.”

Grace shouted, “Zaccheus he. Did climb a tree. Our Lord to thee.”

“That’s enough,” threatened Sudduth.

They were pressing extra morsels on the girl in white. “Have some

watermelon pickles,” Mom said. “Land o’ Goshen, it was two years ago we

put them up.”

“I got thick on them,” Hannah lisped, “on my new thpring coat.”

“Hannah,” Pop shouted.

“You’re always saying speak up,” Dan reminded him, “so you ought to let

her alone.”

“That’s right.” Pop clattered his knife. “Speak up.”

“And it won’t come out of the coat, neither,” Grace said shyly.

“Girls,” Mom cried.

“Jesus, my back hurts.” Sudduth fidgeted in his chair.

Dan and Star were sitting near Mom at one end of the table. Star would

turn her face sidewise, appealing, “Don’t you agree, Dannie?”

Sudduth was saying, “I’m trying to buy a piece of our neighbor’s land,

Star. Near where my house’ll be. If I get it, this farm’ll total a

hundred and ten acres.”

“That’s a lot,” Star’s fork was poised, “don’t you think, Dannie?”

“It’s Sudduth’s twenty acres,” Dan said, without looking at her.

“Oh.” Her mouth was round and pink. She set the fork down, the food

untouched, put her napkin to her lips. “Did you fry the chicken, miss?”

she asked Ellen. “It’s delicious. Isn’t it, Dannie?” The lilac scent was

floating through the open window behind her.

“Yes, I did.” Ellen was blushing, resentment like a knot in her chest.

“Her name’s Ellen, Star,” Dan said, “you just met her.”

“You think I’ll ever make chicken like this, Dannie?” The girl’s

laughter was the bright tinkle of a bell. “Will you teach me, Ellen?”

Mom said, “Oh, you’ll catch on easy enough.”

“Why should she teach you?” Dan’s voice was deliberate, matter-of-fact.

“Oh, I never cooked a chicken.”

“Well, why her? Your mama can teach you.” He laughed, abrupt.

“Dannie. Don’t fuss.” The white dress was cut in a square neckline. Her

eyes bloomed innocent.

“No, I want to know. Why?” His underlip was jutting out, his smile had

set. The mark on his cheek was dark, and his palms were on the table

where he leaned.

“Dan. Star’s our company. Land.” Mom reproved him, fingering the brooch

at her breast.

“Now there,” Pop cried, and the children, sensing the tenseness of their

elders, looked from one to another.

“Well? Can’t you answer?”

Star’s little mouth quivered. “I’ll ask Mama to.”

“Dan, will you behave? He doesn’t mean it, Star.” Mom shook her head.

“Ellen, run get the dessert. You want to help them clear, Star?”

“Oh, I do.” The girl took up her plate and Dan’s.

Adele shoved her chair back so it squeaked, and Ellen noted that she

pinched Sudduth’s shoulder as she passed him. This is one of those times

Adele’s glad she’s got Sudduth. Ellen was moving rapidly, clearing

dishes and brushing the crumbs. She cut the pies and brought them in

silver holders to set before Mom. She went into the kitchen, and while

cobbler wedges were passed down on small china dishes, Ellen was filling

the flowered white cups with coffee and carrying them around.

“I love this pattern.” Mom appraised her cup. “It’s Wreaths of Roses.

And the set’s complete like the day I got it. I’ve held on to it. Even

through the bad years. And not a one’s been broken.”

Ellen set Dan’s coffee by him. He looked up, his eyes flinty, his thin

mouth cruel. He doesn’t even see me. He muttered, “Now serve proper from

the right, Ellen. And take care with Mom’s china.”

“We bought them in nineteen ten,” Mom went on, ignoring him, “I remember

just as clear.”

“Can we have more pie?” Dennie asked.

“They’re awful pretty, you know?” Star admired her cup.

“More, more,” the children were shouting. “Pleathe.”

“You weren’t even born yet, Star,” Mom said.

“All you can hold,” Pop decided. “Fill those kids up.”

They were pushing back their chairs. Sudduth lit a cigar and Pop took

one, too. Simon groaned, holding his stomach, “Oh, this is heaven.”

“Simon, you mind what I said,” Ellen warned. She was piling the cups and

saucers, carrying them out.

“Why don’t you roll one, Uncle Dan?” Dennie inquired gravely.

“No thanks,” Dan told him.

“Go on into the living room, all of you,” Mom said. “We girls will be

done in a jiffy. Go on, Star.”

“It was just lovely, Mom.” Star hugged her about the waist. “And that

peach pie was delicious.”

“I don’t know what gets into him,” Mom whispered, “but don’t pay him any

mind. He was just hungry.”

“Dannie’s a grouch.” Star ran out lightly.

When they had nearly finished in the kitchen, as Ellen was saying, “Do

go along, Mom. Adele and me’ll redd up the rest,” they heard the truck

roar, saw it spinning down the driveway in the light of dusk.

“There,” Mom said. “I’m mortified. I thought we were going to sit and

talk. Dan was going to play for us, and Star could sing.”

“Well,” said Adele, “I was shocked. Treating a guest like that.” Mom

stepped into the other room to replace the shining goblets, and Adele

said softly, “That was a fine example to set for young children.”

“He was really raising sand,” Ellen admitted.

“Dan can’t bear it that she’s so useless, Ellen. You know Websters have

a maid. Lord knows when she gets up of a morning.”

“I know. You already told me.”

“I’ll be glad,” Adele said brightly to Mom as she entered, “to have our

house finished. And I’ll have this baby in October.”

The family trooped out to stand looking at the blooming lilacs. The

children scuffled with each other without purpose. After a while as dark

drifted, they all went in. Mom pressed her hands on the piano keys,

discordant. She prodded Dennie, “Can’t you play a piece, Dennie? You

know some.”

“I’m tired.” The boy’s eyes were heavy.

“I could put a record on the victrola, Mom,” Adele suggested.

“No.” Mom was walking to the windows, looking into the shadowed yard.

“What’s everyone waiting for?” Simon inquired sleepily.

Mom sighed. “Let’s go to bed.”

Ellen followed the others upstairs, avoiding any intrusion on her

thoughts. She undressed, turned off the light. Sounds died in the house,

all was still. She was sitting on the wide window sill. The lilac odor

wafted up, her feet were cold. She felt the constriction in her throat,

wondered if she would cry soon. She imagined Star lying dead somewhere.

Mutilated. What a small baby she is. But Star’s white beauty came back,

the immaculate dress and gloves, the big hat she swung in her hand,

dainty, laughing, tipping her head up at Dan. She’ll make him forget me.

The night hours, weighted, were passing. The silence was marred

occasionally by a creaking rafter or a settling floor beam. In a distant

meadow the whistle of a whippoorwill was echoing. It was nearly three

when he returned. The boards of the rack on the truck rattled and

slammed. The gravel crunched. The kitchen door clattered. His tread

sounded on the stairs, it stopped outside her doorway. She held her

breath until the steps went on down the hall.

She was awake before dawn, in the cellar sorting clothes into ragged

heaps. The wash boiler steamed on the range. She dropped clothes into

the chugging electric machine, and let them beat while she hung those

she had run through the automatic wringer. She took up the basket, piled

high with white sheets. A narrow stone stairway led outside through

sloping double doors. They were open and pallid sun rays crawled into

hidden dark corners. She was going up into the sunlight. The grass was

wet, an early bluebird darted to a fence wire and clung there, “Purity!”

It vanished into the high leaves of the oak. At breakfast her dress was

darkened in front from suds and water that had splashed; grass stems

were caught between her toes. Her hair was brushed and coiled high. She

moved lissome about the kitchen, looking at Dan’s black head bent surly

over his food.

“Ellen’s going barefoot,” Grace was crying. “Can I?”

“I only did it,” Ellen explained, “to save my shoes from the wet. You’d

catch cold.”

“Ellen’s right,” Adele agreed.

“When I’m growed, I’ll do it,” Hannah said.

“I’ll warm the tractor up, Sudduth.” Dan spoke brusque, grease streaked

on his browned arms and neck. “We’ll grind cobs as soon as you’re

ready.” He was rushing out. Ellen saw him from the window. He had

stopped under the oak to light his cigarette, glancing at the clothes

strung on the line. She wondered if he saw the freshness of the grass or

heard the bird.

* * * * *

A week had gone. Ellen was grubbing on her knees in the flower beds

along the side of the house. During the days the strain between Dan and

Mom had been clear to the others. Dan refused to play the piano, Mom sat

mending, her mouth unhappy. Only Sudduth was more talkative in the

evenings; he would engage Pop and Adele in long good-natured arguments.

Ellen was digging into the dirt now, vigorous. Mom’s voice came shrill

from one of the windows above. Ellen held her trowel motionless. “But

she expects you to. Star loves you.” Dan’s voice muttered and Mom was

shouting again, “Who do you want then? That hill-woman? What’s the

matter with you, Dan?”

“Shut up, Mom. Will you?”

“You’ve got a chance here of a marriage that’s the best in the county.

Land. You ought to get on your knees and thank God a family like

Websters took up with poor Polacks like us.”

“Dammit, you forget we’ve got some of the best black soil there is.

That’s better than money in a bank. A family like Websters. You sound

like some cockeyed book. Now look, I told Star we’re finished. She’s got

it through her head. That’s the last I’m going to hear about it in this

house. It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, it’s not?”

“No, dammit.”

“It’s that hill-woman.”

“Will you stop calling her that hill-woman like she’s a tramp and not

decent?”

The sawed-off hoe was poised in Ellen’s hand. A door slammed. Later when

Mom came to see how her work was coming on, there was no sign of the

quarrel in her voice. “You think it’s too shady here for asters, Ellen?”

The skin was tight around Mom’s eyes and her lips curved downwards.

“Marigolds might do better,” Ellen suggested. And when she met Dan, as

she was coming from the hen house with a basket of eggs, she sought his

eyes. He frowned, feeling her gaze. “Hell, I’ve got the milking.” He

strode away. She was walking back to the house, thoughtful.

The lilacs that night, on the wane after their peak, were spilling forth

a dulcet fragrance. In a few days they would be gone, withered. Ellen

was seated in the long window of her room, studying the sky. There was a

quarter moon, it was near midnight. She was restless and sighed on the

shadows. All at once a red point came and went in the dark under one of

the oaks in the yard. She raised her head quickly, seeing it. Her mind

explored it. The figure had been there all the time, outlined vaguely

against the trunk. As she watched it, her blood began to beat dully into

the lilac scent. Then she was slipping into a dress swiftly and closing

her room door. She went down the stairs one at a time, and lingered. At

the kitchen door she turned around, hesitant, trembling. But then she

was going out, languorous, into the night.

He still leaned unmoving, against the oak. His features were dissolved

into the dark moonlight. She smelled the burning tobacco, saw the

scarlet coal. “Hi, Ellen.”

She whispered, “What is it, Dan?” Pausing, she had blended to the night,

a part of the grass, pliant.

He shifted sharply and threw aside the stub, moved away from the tree

hole. She went unerring into his lean arms. In a little while he was

putting his hands in her hair that was nearly without color, bluish in

the light of the small piece of moon. “Always I’ve been waiting for you,

Ellen.”

She looked at the crag of his nose, the etched bold face. “There. You’re

like a hawk. I love you.”

“Half made, half a man. Waiting for you. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t. You’re a woman. You don’t understand at all.”

“Well.”

“You’re what I need. You make me complete. I want to do all things for

you.” He was poised above her.

“I know.”

25

The square dances at Silvers Farm were held every year before the main

hay crop was gathered. Dan and Ellen, Sudduth and Adele, were going

together in the old Dodge. Ellen was in the front seat close against

Dan. Adele was saying, “We used to go to Silvers when Sudduth was

courting me.”

“Time sure flies,” Sudduth said.

“Are you positive I don’t show too much, Sudduth? To go to a public

place? What do you think, Ellen? You know how girls can be. They’ll all

be saying, is it September, October or November.”

“You look real nice, Adele.”

When they had pulled out of the Wasilewski drive, the children had

shouted goodbye, Pop went to count the roses the damask bush had borne

this year, and Mom called, “You young folks enjoy yourself.”

Mom was resigned to Dan’s rupture with Star but where she had once been

warm and friendly toward Ellen, a coldness was now in her air. Where she

had used to gossip freely, she was constrained. Ellen would try to

please her, to think ahead, doing the tasks before Mom could assign

them. “But I already picked the bush beans this morning, Mom. There’s

near a bushel. I reckoned you’d want it done.” And all the time there

was joy because of Dan. He would come to where she was scrubbing the

baby chick brooders or polishing windows, seeking her out when he was

free. “Oh, this is a woman I’ve found.”

At the Silvers barn the first cutting of hay was stacked at one end of

the loft, its honey permeating the air. Wire cables had been stretched

from automobiles and tractors below, and from them colored lights were

strung along the rafters, and paper lanterns. On a platform near the

door a fiddler and a banjo-player were busy. “Sometimes,” Dan told

Ellen, “he’ll take steel knitting needles to those banjo strings.”

“All he ever does,” said Sudduth, “is play that banjo.”

“Pigeon wing,” Mr. Silvers called, his fleshy face in a sweat, his

barrel stomach shaking with covert laughter.

I had an old hat with a flop down brim

It looked like a toad frog

Setting on a limb

“Double shuffle,” he was roaring.

“I told you I can’t dance, Dan,” Ellen protested. “Pa’d ne’er let us

go.”

“I’ll show you.”

Adele went to talk with her friends and Sudduth merged into a group of

men. “Any borers in your corn yet, Wasilewski?”

“A few.”

“My cow throwed twins.”

“God damn. Better look if one’s a freemartin.”

“Wrenched my back in the spring.” Sudduth put his hand on it.

“Tarred my corn this time. Crows got pesky.”

“Sounds gummy.”

“No. Roll in it wood ashes.”

“God damn. Where’d you hear that?”

“County agent.”

“God-damn bull-shitter.”

“No crows.”

“Um.”

And the women were questioning Adele avidly, “Who’s that with Dan?”

“Why that’s our girl, Ellen.”

“Never saw her before. Is she from around here?”

“She’s from Kentucky.”

“Thought Dan was courting the Webster girl. I was looking forward to

seeing them. They made a cute couple.”

“Star’s real sweet.”

“What happened with Star, Adele? You can tell us.”

“He simply broke off with her. I don’t know.”

“Now, Adele, we know how these things can be.”

“Why’d Dan bring your hired girl?”

“She was there. Maybe he felt sorry for her.”

“She’s good-looking, Adele.”

“Right young, too.”

“She’s not as young as she looks,” Adele pleaded. “Told me she was

thirty.” Ellen had said twenty-seven, but thirty slipped out against

Adele’s will.

“Now that just shows you what the night will do for a woman.”

“You might have a new sister-in-law one of these days, Adele.”

“Where there’s smoke there’s fire. Now when are you expecting it, Adele?

Late September? Does Sudduth want a boy or a girl?”

The floor of the hayloft was dusted with chaff. The people were spinning

in the pattern of the dance.

Oh five times five are twenty five

And six times five are thirty

Seven times five are thirty five

And eight times five are forty

Ellen was handed from one partner to the next. There were spindly

angular boys caught by the music, feet tapping and shoulders springing

in an extra beat. There were jovial men, worried ones, dumpy ones, old

and young. Dan was across the floor, his dark face above the red shirt

bending taut to a girl with curly hair. Jealousy touched in Ellen so she

flinched, laughing up to her partner. Then when Dan came by, following

the step, he whispered, “You’re having such a good time I’ll have to

kill all your partners, honey.” And the roiling had vanished. Dan

belonged to her.

The music ceased and the fiddler was leaning back. The banjo-player

wiped his brow. “Hell, it’s hot.” Dan and Ellen came up to sit on the

platform edge. Dan was smoking. They watched the crowd at the bench

where a barrel of cold beer was rolled on its side next to tin pitchers

of Mrs. Silvers’ iced lemonade.

“You sure can handle those strings,” Ellen was telling the fiddler.

“Been doing this off and on since I was ten. Maybe this child will die

this away. Maybe I’ll be like that Callahan.”

“Who’s he?”

“It’s a song. Fiddler Callahan killed somebody so they were about to

hang him. Says if anyone would play his fiddle while he was being strung

up, they could keep it. He begged at the crowd for it was a notion he

had. Nobody’d do it, so when they were fixing to trip the gallows he

quit pleading, and busted it to pieces over the coffin they had ready

for him.”

“Look,” Dan stood up, grinding his cigarette on the floor. “Could you

play ‘Lord Lovel’ for her to sing?”

“Sure thing.” The fiddler was taking up his bow.

Ellen looked past the swaying lanterns into the June night.

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate

Combing his milk-white steed

When up came Lady Nancy Belle

To wish her lover godspeed

Lord Lovel went away then, vowing to return. But when at last he did,

the Lady Nancy had died.

He mounted on his milk-white steed

And he rode to London town

And there he heard the death bells ringing

And the people mourning all round

He ordered the grave to be opened wide

And the shroud to be turned down

And there he kissed her clay-cold lips

And the tears came trinkling down

“That was keen,” the banjo-player said. “You two want to try a

Hound-and-Dog?”

“Come on, Ellen.”

“All right,” she was whispering. “I want to be woven into a part of all

you undertake to do.”

“That’s why you’re my girl.” His shaven hard cheek was on her hair, the

red-checked shirt was tight against the white dress. And the people were

all about but far away.

* * * * *

Summer put her hand on the earth and all things flourished. In early

hours earthworms coupled on damp paths. Grain fields turned yellow.

Mowers and reapers hummed busily across the countryside. Mulberries and

cherries ripened. The children spread an old sheet under the trees and

shook the branches. They gathered the corners and ran to the kitchen.

“Berry pieth and cherry pieth,” chanted Hannah and Grace.

Now that school was out, Simon was given a string of cows. He put his

arm about their necks and the light of possession and love gleamed. One

of them had leaped the fence and got to the bull when too young. Her

teats were small and short. Simon’s hands were coaxing them patiently.

“We’d have sold that one if it wasn’t for you, Simon,” Dan shouted from

his milking stool.

“Can’t abide a short-teated cow,” Sudduth said. “Come on, Lady, let

those big bubbies down for me,” Sudduth was nudging the heavy udder with

his fist; the cow chewed, serene.

Simon told Ellen, “Dan might let the colt be mine if Pearl got caught

with one.”

“Colts are worth a lot.”

“Well, so Dan said,” the boy insisted.

They were driving over to the Doughertys. Penny gave Simon Little Tiny’s

kid. It was brown with white stripes on its face and legs. “The daddy’s

a Toggenburg,” Penny said. “It ought to milk proud.”

The boy was entranced. “Hey, Clate. Hey, Anse. This be a fine yeanling.”

Anse stood aside and said nothing, but Clate swaggered. He began to tell

Simon how to care for the kid.

“Oh shut up, Clate. I know about burnt flour when she gets the scours.”

“You named it yet, Simon?” Penny asked.

“April.”

“That’s a fair name.” Ellen could see Penny was pregnant again. She’s

liable to have another as puny as little Jess is.

Then they were waving from the truck windows as they went down the

narrow winding lane. “Seems I’m always saying goodbye to Penny, Dan.” He

smiled at her across Simon who held the little doe on his knees. Used to

be I worried over the past, how it clutched at me. Now that’s fallen

away and I’m looking ahead, making this foreign place mine.

* * * * *

The days were dropping, one upon one. Ellen and Dan would seek each

other out. Their gladness was contagious, so that Sudduth was gallant

with Adele, and Mom more attentive to Pop. Sometimes in the evenings

they would sit on the board seat nailed between two oaks in the yard.

“Ellen, we ought to get married now. We don’t have to wait till fall.”

“No.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’d like to wait.”

“Your family’s Catholic. You want a priest?”

“I don’t care about that, but I’d like to see Adele and the children

moved. Then I want to wash the walls and wax the floor. I’d as soon have

a proper wedding.”

“I see.” He was kissing her, and her earnestness faded as she made

herself to him.

But the next day she said, “I thought I’d write Frankie and my uncle and

aunt. And even my pa. I’d like them to come here if they can and stand

as my family when I marry.”

“All that nonsense.”

“I’d like it that way.”

“Suppose I’ll have to wear a flower in my buttonhole?”

“Yes. And Simon has to have a suit.”

“Does he get a flower too?”

“Yes.”

“What’s next?”

“The minister. We can have Adele’s Presbyterian. That little sad one.

I’ll have flowers in vases standing about. And the minister should have

a flower too.”

“He doesn’t have a buttonhole.”

“I thought he did.”

“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll get married now. It’s up to you,

honey.”

* * * * *

That was in August. In mid-September the roof struts of Sudduth’s house

were in place. The boards and shingles were nailed and fitted. Adele was

moving laborious, the child big in her, sighing, “All my plans to leave

this house so orderly for you, Mom.”

“Don’t you worry, Adele. Things are good enough.”

Ellen went out often to see how the building was progressing. Every nail

driven was bringing the day nearer. Mrs. Daniel Matthew Wasilewski. I’ll

write Ma, too. The nurses could read it to her. She might know what it

said. I’ll go see her this winter. You can’t tell, in a year or so we

might even be having a youngen. I could walk out to Dan where the corn

was ripe, “Here’s your son I just happened to have.”

The morning was bright and moist. The wind was drifting steadily from

the southwest. Ellen had been picking tomatoes since breakfast and she

was walking down to meet the men before the noon hour. They had been

cutting hay in the field next to the new house. It was edged by a row of

heavy-trunked willows. Long ago when posts had been cut and set, they

had rooted in the easy way of a willow, and made heads, sprouting in

summer rains. “What do you call those fence trees, Dan?” she was

calling. Simon waved boldly as he clattered past her with the team and

mower, heading for the barnyard. The men dropped their forks and came up

to meet Ellen.

“Those are golden osier willows,” Sudduth explained. “Pop planted them

before we were born.”

“Dinner ready?” Dan took Ellen’s hand as they were walking through the

sweet-odored drying alfalfa.

“I don’t know. Mom’s getting it. I’ve been in the garden.” The air was

lightly misted though the sun was bright. There were cumulus clouds in

the sky. The south wind continued to blow.

“Hope we get this hay in all right,” Dan said.

“This has been the best year yet,” Sudduth said. “Good and dry. Not a

load lost.”

“I don’t think we’ll lose this one. Knock on wood. The storm’s way off.

The hay’ll be cured by early afternoon. We can get it in quick. Simon’s

a help. He’s fast and he’s got the hang of it.”

“It’s not twister weather, is it?” Ellen asked.

“You’re not afraid of a wind?” Dan’s yellow eyes laughed, so she knew he

was thinking of the day in the barn when he first kissed her, and she

him.

“I’m not.”

In the afternoon, Ellen was in the middle of the tomato canning. At the

kitchen door were four full bushel baskets; depleted ones were stacked

outside. She was scalding the fruit, packing it into hot Mason jars.

Rows of empty jars waited upside down on the table, the filled ones were

boiling in the canner. Mom came in. “I’ll help out for a spell.” She

fanned herself with her ample apron. “Sakes, the air’s close.”

Ellen could feel how the wind had stopped. A piece of fear plucked at

her. “Isn’t the hay in yet?”

“They’re going at it real hard. They even gave Dennie a fork. He’s out

working alongside Sudduth. Land, the rain’s not too far off.” Mom

frowned. “Sudduth says the last cutting of alfalfa is like grain, it’s

so high in protein.”

“I know.” Ellen was pausing. “Mom, is this twister weather?”

“It’s a little early for them. Doesn’t feel like it to me. We’ll know if

Sudduth comes tearing in.” She turned to the sink. “Now, let’s get this

mess put up.”

They worked swiftly. But their minds were with the men who strove to

save the hay.

In the far field, Simon was perched on the load that towered, dwarfing

the two dappled grays. Dan was throwing great forkfuls to him and Simon

laid it deftly back, stepping it down, his small arms muscled and brown.

Sudduth was unloading the truck at the barn, stacked with the previous

load. The farm buildings were like toys in the distance, sharp-edged in

the air which had a peculiar transparency. The movements of the man and

boy quickened. Dan pitched up the last of the hay. “Whip them if you

have to, Simon.”

The youngster clambered into the driving seat, gathered the leather

reins. The team pawed, rattling the harness. “I will, Dan.”

“Get it in the loft fast. Sudduth’ll pitch it up.”

Simon, overworked, sweated heavily, drops running down his face. His

bleached hair curled damp, his shirt and pants clung to his skin. He

shrilled, “Get in there. Major. Pearl!” The wagon was lurching through

the stubble.

Dan began to stack the hay that remained. By now the nimbus rain clouds

were hovering low in the bruised sky. The man worked at a rapid pace.

The temperature was falling, dusk descended, the air was dense. He was

bent into his tool, trying to beat the rain in the race.

A greenish-gray cloud tumbled slowly on the skyline to the west.

Suddenly the wind came up, crying. Dan lifted his head, feeling the

heat. The cloud had begun to spin. “Holy God,” he muttered. The stout

willow fence teetered and creaked, the hay was swept wild, swirling. A

purplish tongue licked downward, hunting, moving toward the hay field.

Dan shook his fists at it, rearing lean in his high leather boots.

“Dammit. Turn!” The long thick line veered crazily and then sucked back

into the wounded cloud. But it was slipping down again, howling. “Turn.

Turn!” His voice was nothing, his throat rended. The menace was swerving

below the neighboring farm where it had come through in the spring. He

was tearing his throat again, his loins on fire with fear. “Now, dear

God. Turn!”

Objects were fluttering, grotesque, like bugs in the dark pulsing. They

were dying pigs and turkeys and a broken cart, small barns shattering

glass, boards, dust, manure. Pieces of houses and ripped posts. Ravaged

fruits from gardens. Drying hay, dust, chaff, dirt. Over Dan’s head a

drove of birds winged abruptly, disappearing to the north. The heinous

rhythmic humming was constant.

The world was as if under water, green-blue, unreal, glowing. Simon was

in the far barnyard, tiny on the stacked child’s wagon, attempting to

pitch the hay to the loft alone. The three women, like dolls, were

fluttering into the yard. Dan plunged into the shallow ditch bordering

the field; he flattened himself, cowering. The ugly dancing shadow

advanced. “No.”

Then the roof of Sudduth’s bare unpainted house was rising weirdly. In

deliberate motion it was wheeling above the field. The man stumbled up

from the trench in rage, disbelief, clawing the air dazed, with his

powerful hands, as if to replace the mighty shower of timber where he

had nailed it with sweat and struggle. The roof was engulfing the field

and the golden osier willows were breaking. The noise was tremendous.

* * * * *

When they rode out to the hay field, Ellen was beside Sudduth in the

truck. Warm silent rain blew gently against the windshield. Lumber and

rubble were scattered and Sudduth had to drive around the larger planks,

skidding in the mud. The prone figure was stretched face up amid the

litter. Sudduth braked and Ellen was tearing at the door. She ran,

believing him dead. She lifted the two-by-four from his body. She knelt,

uncertain. His eyelids were flickering and they opened. “Hi.”

“Sudduth,” she called evenly. “Get a doctor. Hurry.” She was touching

the wet dark face, leaning over to keep off the constant rain.

“You came.”

“Dan?”

“It didn’t turn,” he whispered. The rain was streaming from his carven

face, his soaked black hair.

“Where do you hurt?”

“Dying. You know that?” He was moving narrow wood lips.

“No, Dan.”

“Sonofabitch,” he was sighing.

“Don’t die.”

“I won’t.”

“The doctor’s coming. Do you hurt somewhere?”

“Damn wind.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Never comes twice.”

“Dan?”

“Never. No.” His mouth was thickening, his body was broken and when he

heard her voice he came back through an effort of will. “Ellen?”

“I won’t let you.” Her cheek against his, she cradled him in her arms.

“Holy Mary?” The rain was pouring sweet and hot, releasing the sun-baked

alfalfa odor. Her lips clung to his wet cool face.

“Poor Ellen.”

“Don’t talk.”

His face was gray and seamed. It twitched, wounded. A red dot was

appearing at the side of his mouth.

“Don’t,” she breathed.

His dulled greenish eyes were seeking her. For a few minutes she wasn’t

sure he was gone. A thunderbolt tore exultant about the field, rolling

passionate. A new torrent of rain swept like an enfolding blanket. She

wasn’t aware. She lay upon the lifeless body reciting Hail Marys over

and again. Pray for us sinners now. Amen.

The truck sped down the drenched slick mire of the lane. The doctor

jumped out, pried Ellen from the body. “Is he dead?” she asked. Sudduth

was leading her to the truck cab. They wrapped a rug about the limp

figure and laid it in back on soggy hay chaff. She looked at it through

the rear window.

“I’ll ride out here,” the doctor called, climbing over the rear bumper.

Sudduth was driving through the field, avoiding the litter of boards and

shingles. “Jesus.” He wagged his head, aimless. “I don’t know what we’re

going to do, Ellen.”

She watched the two men carry the body upstairs. Then she went into the

kitchen, still in her wet hay-flecked dress, clinging. Vaguely she knew

Mom was crying and the doctor was using the telephone in the sitting

room. She lifted one of the heavy bushels by the door and set it down by

the sink. She dipped tomatoes, peeling, packing them hot in jars,

measuring teaspoons of salt out. No one paid her any mind. Sudduth

called the children, shrilling, insistent. He took them all, even the

little girls, to the barn with him while he did the chores. Upstairs,

Adele began to cry aloud, and soon moaned at regular intervals. Mom was

hurrying back and forth, hair wisped, mouth unsteady. She looked in at

the kitchen door. “Land. I’m glad you’re finishing them, Ellen. Like the

doctor says, the living come first.”

Adele’s premature baby died in the night. Adele turned her head and wept

into the pillow. She believed an all-seeing God was punishing her

because she had tried once to rid herself of it. At breakfast Mom asked

Ellen if she could stay at home to care for Adele while they went to the

funeral. “I can’t, Mom. I would, but I have to go see him.”

“Well, the boys can get Adele what she needs, I guess.” Mom moved her

body cautiously; she had not grasped the two deaths yet. She was turning

to Ellen. “Sakes. I really did want you and him to marry, Ellen. I know

you’d have been to him what Star Webster never could have.”

“Well, Mom,” Ellen shrugged, “want me to make up the rest of the bacon

or fry ham?” She was dry-eyed.

“Finish the bacon.”

“Simon,” Ellen was asking at the table, “did you get that last hay in

before the rain?”

“No, it’s bad soaked, Ma. We can spread it in the yard. Reckon it’ll dry

good enough.”

“You-all do that. Even if it’s leached, it’ll still make horse feed.”

“Jesus, I got a back this morning,” Sudduth said. “I don’t know.”

Ellen appealed to Mom, “You got a black hat?”

“You can wear Adele’s.” Mom patted Ellen’s shoulder. “It’s even got a

veil. At least I think it has.”

When she had dressed, Ellen came into the sitting room. Sudduth was

pacing the floor, tears coming steadily down his thin face. Pop sat

shriveled and fragile in his overlarge Sunday suit, his bony hands

protruded from the sleeves like bird legs. The sun stretched itself over

the room, catching the luster of the stuffed red-and-black tanager under

the glass bell on the table. I hate the sun and I hate the prying light.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she was saying. She had watched dawn unfolding

out of dark, felt the dry thickening in her throat.

“Let’s go on out and wait for Mom,” Sudduth said, stiff.

Ellen walked with them, getting into the back seat with Pop. She folded

her handkerchief, unfolded it. Sudduth started the motor and let it

idle. After a while, Mom came to the house door, a fleshy large figure

in black, veiled. The children stared, circling her, restless. “You be

good and do what Adele says,” Mom told them.

“Don’t punch me, Grace.”

“I never touched you.”

“Where’th everybody going?”

“It’s the funeral of Uncle Dan,” said Grace. “He’s dead. And they’re

going to plant him in the ground.” They watched the car go down the

road, milling in a group, close to each other.

Before the services, in the carpeted stuffy room, Ellen went up on the

dais to look at the body. The casket was heavy. There was satin and

white and purple cloth about him. He wore his brown suit. His hands were

folded on each other, they had lost their sun color. Those men had their

will with his body. Their prying hands. The almond tree shall blossom

and the caperberry shall fail because man goeth to his long home and the

mourners go about the streets. There was a slight reek of incense. His

eyes were shut, his face puffed out so the familiar creases hardly

showed. His hair was combed flat. They drained off his blood and pumped

somewhat in his body, didn’t they? To keep back the death smell? He had

a false look; it was the birthmark, they had hidden it with paste.

Reckon he heard death bells in the air when it roared to him? Or the

silver cord be loosed or the golden bowl be broken or the pitcher at the

fountain. And the dust return to the earth as it was. That’s the husk of

Dan. All I’ve got is a memory. I can’t recall him. I forget. She

struggled, throat tight, to bring to mind how he moved and laughed, how

he would be grease-stained from working under the machines, how he was

alert and strong and moved quicker than the others. How he was awkward

when he ran his fingers on her hair. But the statue slept, its hawklike

features impassive.

The organ struck up like breaking soft boulders. She moved as if she was

of glass. For who knoweth what is good for man in his life, all the days

of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow? She was going down the

steps to sit by Mom in one of the blue plush chairs. The carpet made

footfalls noiseless, the organ pushed her. She sat in the bruised music.

Dan would be proud of how quiet I am. She didn’t feel tears pouring

until she discovered her wet hands; she wiped them dully with the

handkerchief. She knew she had been robbed once more. Praise ye the

Lord. He telleth the number of the stars. He calleth them by their

names.

The minister was walking up onto the dais, patting his head where hair

once flourished. He stared at the floor and straightened his coat. The

head undertaker nodded. The organ hushed. “Behold the Lord God will come

with strong hand. Yes. He shall gather the lambs with his arm and carry

them in his bosom. Yes. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to pay our

last respects.”

What I can’t understand is why Dan didn’t see it coming and go to the

barn on the wagon with Simon. When we ran out to look, I waved and

called. But he just kept shocking the hay up. I can’t understand why he

never saw it making there in the south sky. He should have come in with

Simon. I don’t know why.

“Dust to dust. Yes. Ashes,” the preacher intoned. That man was going to

marry us. Daniel Wasilewski took Ellen Gaddy in marriage. So it would

have been written. “Lord, make me to know mine end. Yes. And the measure

of my days that I may know how frail I am. Behold, Thou hast made my

days as a handbreadth. Oh yes.”

The service was done, the organ was rolling muted hymns over plush

upholstery. The undertaker bent his head in a gentle unctuous way to

Mom. They walked out to where the sun dazzled the trees in a gilt sheen.

They were rumbling slowly down flat roads toward the cemetery. Ellen

asked Pop, “Why must they go so tormented slow?”

“It’s the custom, Ellen.”

“I’d rather put him straightaways in the earth. Fast. I got no use for

all this furbelowing.” She looked through the windows to the bright day.

Under her black veil, water ran down. “Why’d he die, Pop?”

“He was in the way when it struck.”

“I told him to come in,” Sudduth cried out. “I told him.”

“Shut up,” Mom flared, and sighed.

At the open grave, the metal-bound box was lowered. Now they’ll wait

until we go away. They’ll take down the purple canopy and fold the green

grass rug. They’ll drive off, leaving a man to cover the hole. He’ll

throw dirt on the box with Dan in it. And it’ll be all over.

Simon came to her that evening where she sat by the windows in the cold

lavender air of dusk. The silence was delicate, like ringing. The family

had taken the noise away. They were with Adele or in their beds. The boy

touched her shoulder. “Ma?”

She started, striking his hand from her. Then she spoke quickly,

penitent, “What is it, Simon?”

“Don’t grieve. Here, I brought you one of the kittens.”

And because he was so kind and tender in his youthful shy way, all the

walls she built broke suddenly. She bowed her head and wept.

“Oh, Ma, I loved him too. He wasn’t afraid of ne’er a thing.” The boy’s

voice was laden. He began to cry. Holding the kitten in his arm, he was

putting his head in her apron.

“Don’t weep, Simon,” she sobbed on his hair.

Later she cradled in her hand the tiny black kitten. Through the window

she was watching the north wind blow as autumn cast itself on the

cringing landscape. I shall go softly all the years in the bitterness of

my soul.

26

The winter was passing. It had been long. As its last days dragged, in

Louisville, a false spring came on as it often does in that season.

Outside the city the first glimmers of growing had appeared, tiny green

spears in barley fields, and hesitant statuesque spring flowers.

Wake-robins bloomed in woods, dark red and hidden, like grief. In the

city a soft evening wind moved. Anton Gaddy was parting from Dyke

Burwell at the truck. He settled his round hat firmly. Dyke was coaxing,

“Hey Mester Gaddy, whyn’t you come with me this once? There’s this here

old girl. Must weigh near a quarter ton. Now I mean that pussy’s

buried.”

“I’ll see you here at the Chevy, boy.” Anton was impatient. “Tomorrow

morning.”

“All right. But they got skinny ones too. If you’d rather. They got all

kinds.”

Anton was rushing away down the street, his flewlike lips sagging, a

frown over his long face. He was preoccupied, afraid. He believed he was

losing the woman Rose. For more than a year now he had been visiting her

apartment. At one time he and Dyke had made excuses to each other that

there were auctions and sales that must be attended. But gradually they

had shed the pretense and now traveled the seventy miles often. Dyke

would come by the Gaddy farmhouse to see Anton. “Got an old cow that’s

no good. Reckon I’ll take her to the auctions.” And Anton would reply,

“Before God, leave the fool beast be. Haw. Let’s take off for Louisville

right now.”

He was halting outside the brick building. The last few times here a man

had come down the darkened stair and once he saw him stride away on the

street. The man’s cheekbones were broad and high, he was stockily built

with a bold way about him. Anton had confronted Rose with it when she

let him in. “You’ve had company, I see.”

“I might.” She had smiled, tantalizing, throwing back her heavy dark

hair.

“I told you to e’er wait for me.” Rose denied it then and said she was

teasing. But it had festered in him.

Anton looked up now as he came into the doorway. The figure was there,

at the bottom of the stairs. He stood aside while it brushed by. His

heart began to thud, an anger started in his bowels. On the stairs he

was breathing heavily. “Like to take the strap to her.” But he was held

from physical action. She might slip away. He was never sure of his grip

on Rose, winced from her laughter. He had thought of asking Father

Tompert about a dispensation to make her his wife. But he put off the

issue, fearing the priest’s flat refusal, his suspicious eyes. Anton’s

old peremptory ways had given over to some hesitancy. His younger

daughter and then his grandson had evaded him. His belief in his mother

Nell’s, fidelity and excellence had been ravaged. Even his faith was

wavering. He lived with feelings of frustration, of powerlessness, of

guilt in sin. He was bent on Rose with a measure of desperation. As he

was about to rap, the door swung open as if the woman were waiting.

“Oh it’s you.” As if surprised she said it and laughed, her wide soft

face impudent.

“What’s this you say? Hum. I told you I was coming.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased to see you. Did I?”

He was coming after her in his heavy coat, placing his hand on her

buttocks as he was used to do. “Rose?”

“You don’t own me, Daddy,” she railed, eluding his grasp. She was

wearing a sheathed dress instead of her flowered housecoat. “You’ll muss

my make-up. I’m going out.”

She had on high slippers so that she was taller than Anton. This somehow

angered him. “You’re going to meet that man. That whoreson that just was

here.”

“No, Daddy.” Her voice was light.

“I’ve caught him coming out three-four times now.”

“He’s young,” she mocked.

“I’ve got a power in me yet. You know that.”

“Look.” She was picking up her purse and coat, and a green beret with a

matching feather. “Look, I need some things for supper. I’ll be back a

little late.” She put on the hat, her eyes moist and teasing. “But I’ll

be back, Daddy. You wait.” She was out the door, her high laugh

stringing behind.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing his overcoat and hat. “I’ve got a

mind to whip her. Got a mind to kill her. Punish her for lying.” He was

whispering into the room. His coat dropped from his shoulders and was

sliding to the floor. He pulled his shirt open roughly at the neck,

tearing the tie. Noises came from throughout the building. A door

slapped shut. Steps were ascending and descending. He waited for each to

be Rose. His sickness for her churned in him. He could feel his potency

failing, shrinking. “She’s wanting a young stud.”

He was rising, moving to the window, the black hat still on. He shoved

the window up, banging it, leaning out. There was a pale street lamp at

the corner. A semi-truck came rumbling heavily over the pavement. A man

stumbled across the half-dark spring-scented street. A couple were

sauntering, arms about each other’s waists, the girl tittering shrill. A

sailor, pants tight about his loins, stalked the sidewalk opposite:

“Where’d you get the broad, Jack?”

Anton’s eyes had slitted. He was wrenching off his belt. It was the old

one of thick cowhide with a weighted brass buckle. His gray eyes were

dry though his defeated mouth was drawn as if to weep. He spoke hoarse,

threatening, “Before God, I’ll punish that Rose-whore good. I’ll put

myself into damnation. I’ll learn her to cuckold.”

* * * * *

Two hours passed before Rose returned. She was humming in time to the

click of her confident heels.

In a little lovenest

Just for you and me, a dovenest

She shifted her parcels and turned the knob. When she saw the dead man

hanging in the grip of the strap from the tall closet door, the body had

ceased any movement. She stepped close enough to touch it with her hand;

it was beginning to stiffen. Mechanically, she plucked up the overturned

chair beneath it, and set it straight. A breeze blew up, billowing the

curtains, and she went to the window to close it. She stumbled on his

overcoat by the bedside, dropped her bags on the coverlet and caught up

the phone. She spoke a number to the operator, whispering, and waited.

“Christian?” She was sitting on the bed abruptly. “You have to come here

right away. I can’t explain. I’m afraid. You tell Mama I might go home

after all.” She began to cry, listening. “I’ll wait. You hurry.” She

returned the receiver. She was quiet, shivering. After a long time she

heard a step outside, ran to the door, pulling him in. All at once sobs

were convulsing her, “It’s there. Look.”

He called the police. “By damn, where’d you meet him, Rose?”

“He’s the one I wanted to marry.”

When the two officers arrived they took the body down and laid it out on

the floor. They searched pockets and made notes. “Who are you?” they

asked Christian.

“I’m her brother.”

They directed Rose to appear at the inquest; they questioned her, “You

must have some idea why he did it, Miss Ay?”

“I don’t understand. We were the best of friends, Mr. Gaddy and me. I

just went down the street for a few minutes. He was waiting for me. I

was going to get some food.”

Christian was asking, “Will you notify the relatives?”

“His wife’s in a state institution,” Rose offered. “He’s had family

troubles, one kind and another. Maybe that’s why it happened.”

“Here’s a letter,” the officer said. “Garland Gaddy. We’ll get hold of

him.” A knock was heard. “That’s the ambulance.” The body was covered,

then removed, the interns clattering as they went down the staircase.

“All right, miss. We’ll notify you when we want you. Good night.” He put

his cap back on.

“I’d be glad to help,” Christian said.

“We won’t need you. Just your sister. Good night.”

Christian didn’t say that long ago he had known the dead man. Once Anton

Gaddy had stood scornful in high weeds, spitting tobacco juice, calling

him boy.

* * * * *

Dyke Burwell was waiting at the truck in the morning, baffled, having

searched cafes and bars for Anton. By afternoon he made the decision to

drive back to Millville alone. A rainstorm was brewing and there was a

load of soybean sacks under the tarpaulin on the truck. Dyke had known

Anton was keeping a woman but that was as far as his information went.

He had considered notifying the police but dismissed it. Anton would

have to return by bus. When he reached the Gaddy farm three hours later,

thunder was growling in the murky afternoon sky. Sam Offut ran out,

followed by Eadie, her hair disheveled, her hands flapping. Eadie threw

her apron over her face and wailed. Sam was yelling, hunched and

beady-eyed, “Old man’s dead. Sheriff just left us. I says, call his

brother in Chicago, he’ll know where those daughters be. Poor trash,

walking out on their pa. For Gawd, Dyke.”

“Hey,” Dyke shouted in fear. “Who was it killed him?”

“Himself. He done it himself.” The wind smote the treetops.

“Raised his hand,” cried Eadie. “Against his soul. He’ll burn for it.

Jehovah!”

Dyke helped Sam unload half the soybeans while lightning flashed nearby.

Then Dyke went home and word was bruited throughout the countryside.

Folks found reasons to drive past the Gaddy farm. They would peer

fearfully at the two old Offuts and exchange words about them. They

named it a ghost farm.

part five

and each alone

Walk together toward the trees

Where the road runs out of sight

In the green beyond the leaves

The green cove below the light

27

Pop Wasilewski’s bees were suddenly swarming at winter end. On a sunny

day from a secret impulse half the colony was awake, one by one whipping

out to cluster on a fence post. The bearded old man brushed the

yellow-brown insects into a new hive while the smoker puffed. Ellen was

laughing to Mom, “I ne’er seen such a body, he’s that clever with bees.”

“Pop’s always been like that.”

Ellen had lost weight and because the work over the winter had been

largely indoors, she was pale. But her body had fought for its health,

and she moved in the household with vigor again. Over a few weeks she

had thought she would have Dan’s baby, hoped wildly that it was so. But

her time came again then in its regular pattern and she accepted it.

Gradually she healed. There had been the moments when she forgot he was

dead, “I’ll have to tell Dan the do-hickey’s broken on the wash

machine.” The day would shatter about her where she stood trembling.

Mom still leaned on Ellen, crippled by her loss. “You’re like a daughter

to me.” Mom would humor herself by constant thoughts of Dan. She talked

to Ellen about when her son was a baby of two staggering after her in

the rose garden, and when older he would fetch her a blue eggshell or a

butterfly wing he found. “I want you to stay here always, Ellen. This is

your home.”

Adele, so wounded by the loss of her premature baby that Dan’s death had

scarcely grazed her, would talk about the infant yet. “He’d have been

four months old today.” Adele had written in the page of the Bible:

Jason Wasilewski. September 17, 1936. Died the night of his birth.

Mourned by all.

“You’ve got to quit thinking of it,” Mom said. “Sakes, it’s your duty.”

Adele was eager in self-reproach. “I just get my mind on it somehow.”

The ruins beyond the line of smashed willows were left untouched. Only

the children would wander through the wrecked debris, playing. “Thith

ith the dining room. I am Mithith Hannah.”

“Simon, you be the father.” The half-demolished walls loomed like

ghostly monuments. The roof was shattered, snow had drifted around

timbers, melting, rotting them. In half-empty kegs of nails wild mice

explored.

The farm work had fallen heavily on Sudduth. Dennie and Simon were

roused at daybreak to help at chores before they hurried to school.

Evenings, they hustled out again to the barnyard. Sudduth’s back ached

him like a recurring plague. “In spring I’m going to have to hire a man,

Mom. I can’t do it all. He can sleep in the barn.”

“No, we’ll give him Dan’s room.” Mom’s voice was strained.

“Thanks, Mom.” Sudduth had become more dependable over past weeks. He

made his plans resolutely. “I’ll put rye in the old corn field. And if

you don’t care, Pop, we’ll sell the sheep. They’re ruining the pasture.”

“That’s just fine with us, Sudduth. Whatever you say.”

Ellen had gone out to help with the milking, a pail in her hand. Sudduth

protested gravely at first, “It’s not our way to let women do barn work,

Ellen.”

“But I’m most happy here. I get tired of the house.” She sat on the

three-legged stool, the cow’s hot breath on the back of her neck,

snuffling, curious. It was licking her with a rasping tongue.

“See here,” Simon shouted. “Old Belle’s begging Ma to milk her.”

“All right, Ellen.” Sudduth was won over. “If you want. Thanks.” And he

soon forgot that it seemed strange to have a woman at the barn.

Ellen would think about Penny, wondering if her last baby had come

wellborn. If work ever lightens, if Sudduth hires a hand like he says he

might, Adele and me can drive over to see the Doughertys in spring.

She was in the sitting room one morning after breakfast, ironing by the

windows. Mom was holding a small black volume, with pictures of the

little boy, Dan, pasted into it. “Ellen, I’m afraid you’re forgetting

him.”

“Dan wouldn’t want us mourning him fore’er.”

The phone rang. “You get it, Ellen.” Mom pored over the photographs.

“All right.” It was Western Union. Ellen listened quietly. She whispered

into the mouthpiece, “Read it again, please.” The distant strange voice

was almost inaudible. And the message was repeated. She hung the

receiver onto its hook. She leaned against the table, put her hand to

her mouth.

Mom looked up, urged, “What is it, Ellen? What is it?”

Her words fell of themselves, “Something’s happened to my pa.” Request

presence Ellen Gaddy at inquest, the voice had said, cause of death

suicide. Why would he do that? And him ever a good Catholic. He wouldn’t

dare. And in the suddenness memories came rushing through the unbarred

door. Anton was loving and he sought this daughter out. Guilt clutched

her. He was dead too, now. She was stunned, but yet unable to weep. “I

have to go to Louisville, Mom, and claim the body.”

That afternoon she packed. Adele was ready to drive her to the station

and the family had gathered to say goodbye. Mom was kissing her, “Land.

You’ve got to come back, Ellen.”

“I will if I can. I want to go to our farm in Millville when it’s o’er.

And I have to see my sister, too.”

“I won’t go to Millville, Ma,” Simon cried out. His tow hair was mussed,

his young face worried.

“Don’t take Thimon,” Hannah and Grace piped. “Let Thimon thtay.”

“You see?” Pop shouted. “Sell your farm and be one of us, Ellen.”

“Old Belle won’t give down her milk tonight,” Sudduth said.

“How can you resist us?” Adele put her arm about Ellen.

“Oh Ma,” said Simon, “I want to stay right here.”

“Maybe you will.” But Ellen was remembering the old orchard and the

little hills, the stony soil where crops were hard-won, goats bounding

down the pasture lane, hoofs hammering the ground, snorting and tossing

their beards. She turned to the Wasilewskis, “I’ll write you-all if

Simon has to come. Just as soon as I know.”

* * * * *

The corpse in the refrigerated drawer looked fragile and unprotected.

The morgue smelled of mingled odd odors. “That’s him.”

“Thank you, Miss Gaddy,” said the officer.

“I don’t want him to stay there. Can I take the body?”

“Certainly. When the inquest is over.”

“How soon?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“I’ll call you. I’ll find a funeral home.”

“You notify them he’s here. And we’ll make the arrangements.” Then the

officer was telling Ellen how Anton had hung himself by a leather belt

in a woman’s flat.

“A woman?” She was bewildered.

“Says her name’s Rose Ay. Maybe you’d want to see her, miss. She doesn’t

live far from here.”

“Rose Ay?” Ellen stood beside the tall desk. The vein was throbbing in

her forehead, the oval of her face stayed white in the bright glare of

the waiting room. She was probing dully, raking into the past.

“Do you know this woman?”

“No.”

“Are you all right, Miss Gaddy? You look sort of shaky. You knew it was

suicide by hanging?”

“Yes. You said you’d give me her address, Mester?”

The officer tore a sheet from a pad, scribbled on it. “This is the

easiest way to get there.” He handed her the paper. “Turn left outside.”

She was following corner signs then, and house numbers. In the streets

winds were moving undisputed, brutal, and the city quailed and shrank

upon itself. Finally Ellen was entering the brick building. She sensed

the subdued trace of urine and must that corrupted the hall air. A

woman’s deep voice was berating behind walls. And a radio came muted,

Oh sister Phoebe, how merry were we

The night we sat under Tom Jones plum tree

A man was on the upper stairs, pausing. He was coming down a few steps.

“Hello, Ellen.”

She peered into the obscure light. “Who are you?”

“Christian Ay.” The shadows crouched quiet about him along the steep

stairwell. “Guess you’re here to talk to my sister.”

The cheekbones and broad mouth were Simon’s, the stocky body. But his

hair was different, no longer blond. And he was grave-faced. “I thought

it was you,” she said thinly.

His voice rent the stillness, “I’m sorry about Mr. Gaddy.”

“Did you know he’d been coming here?”

“No, indeed.” He came down another step.

She backed away. “I say, did you? That it was my pa?” She was plaintive,

cornered.

“Not till my sister called me.”

“What did he want of her?”

“She says they’d have been married.”

“Well. I don’t understand.” Jazz blared from the radio as a door opened

and shut. She put her hand up and dropped it, aimless.

“You are coming to see Rose?” he was asking.

“Yes.”

“It’s that door at the head.” He gestured, disturbed with the awkward

moment, at her air of incredulity. “Right up there. You can’t miss it.”

As she was passing, he stood aside by the wall. His face was harassed,

lined. She looked at it. “Your home’s in Louisville?”

“On the outskirts. Twenty minutes from this place. Someone said you

weren’t living in your home town any more.” The music, overloud, was

persistent through the hollow walls. He was speaking then, abrupt,

“Come. I’ll go up with you.”

“Yes.” She preceded him to the landing, where a white square of daylight

existed at one end of the dirty passageway. He was knocking. In a

moment, while she shifted constrained, quick steps approached. The door

was opening.

“Well, Chris.” Rose spoke nervously, “I thought you’d gone. Who’s that?”

“Ellen Gaddy. His daughter.”

“No kidding. How do you do?”

Ellen was staring at the woman in the tight skirt and spiked heels.

Coldly she observed the waved thick dark hair, the wide white face, the

pale irises of the eyes outlined in black. She was rudely brushing past

Rose, hasty, and then checking herself in the center of the room, by the

bed. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Rose shrugged careless. “Would you like tea, Miss Gaddy?”

“If it’s no bother.”

“Here’s a chair for you.” Christian was pulling one up. He took her

coat. “I’ll hang it on the clothes tree.”

“Now, thanks.” He was speaking with his sister over by the small stove.

Sunlight was coming through the gray windows, drifting onto flimsy

curtains and two narrow long mirrors. The simmering kettle and the quick

disquieted whisper of the woman were playing on the air. I should never

have come. I’ve got no business to be here. I wondered if I’d hear of

him, or see him.

Rose was bringing the tea on a black lacquer tray. “Get a table, Chris.”

“Sure.” He placed the low table before Rose’s chair and sat down

opposite Ellen.

Rose was pouring and passing the cups. “Well, here we are, Ellen. It is

all right to call you Ellen?”

“Yes.”

The woman was impetuous, “Give Mama the news, Chris. She’s been after me

for years to go home, Ellen. At last I’ve made up my mind.”

Ellen was sipping the weak hot tea. Rose was brash and Christian seemed

embarrassed by it. Pa was going to marry her. I don’t believe that.

Besides the church would not have brooked it.

“Honestly, Chris,” Rose was saying, “I can’t get over you quitting the

store.”

“I’ve made plans to leave Louisville,” he said to Ellen with a slight

grin, aloof. “Getting out of the city.”

“I think he’s nuts,” Rose laughed, brushing at her heavy hair.

“And how about you? Come, do you think I am?” Christian raised his

brows.

“No.” Ellen listened idly, half attending, refusing to make an effort.

In the hallway he had seemed vaguely like the young man she had once

loved. But he wasn’t at all. I shouldn’t have expected it. He was a

stranger, changed, his aspect stern. He glowered now at his sister.

“Chris is going shares on a feed concern.” Rose was mocking. “Grinding

stuff for farmers. Banana oil. Did you ever?”

“It’s a nice small town, now. Troy is a good way from the city.”

Ellen was remembering the gossip she had heard in Grady Love’s store.

“How will your family like the move?”

“I’m going alone.”

“He lives with Mama,” Rose said. “They have The Standard Shop over at

the other end of Louisville. Mama’s getting old. That’s another reason

why I’m going back there.” She was speaking warmly to Ellen, “You know,

Daddy never mentioned much about you.”

Ellen caught her breath. “Who?”

“Mr. Gaddy. Your father.” Rose was motioning lightly, smiling.

Ellen put her cup down. Her face was firm and molded, guarded. But she

spoke unsteadily. “Reckon I have to go now.”

“I’ll come with you,” Christian said.

“You don’t have to run yet,” Rose was protesting. “Daddy used to come

up, you know, for the waterfront auctions.”

“Don’t call him that, woman.” Ellen’s voice rose high. She was crossing

the room, groping for her coat where Christian had hung it.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Rose said, hurt. “I thought a lot of him.”

“Thank you for the tea.” Ellen felt her hands shaking.

“I’ll see you to your hotel.” Christian was taking her coat from her

hands, holding it while she put it on.

“You don’t have to.”

He was picking up his cap. The door closed behind them and they heard

the tap of heels receding. They went down the stairs. “Rose means well,”

Christian said. When he had hailed a cab, he looked at her. “You’re

wishing you’d stayed away.”

“But no.”

They were sitting in the leather-smelling interior. The meter clicked.

There were house fronts, wood and brick, cafes and corner saloons

blazoned with neon. Pigeons strutting in lonely gutters, pecking,

winging across streets. Christian was saying, “I’m sorry about your

father.” They looked out of opposite windows. A parked van was unloading

enormous handled baskets of gladioli and roses. There were people on

foot. And bicycles, and trucks blaring, cars, a dray hauled by mules,

red pompons on black bridles, and shouting teamsters. The taxi was

halting. Christian paid the driver. They were standing before an old

graystone structure.

“You read the Bible, Christian?”

“No.”

“I do, sometimes.” Their minds were running inward on their separate

thoughts. He twisted his soft cap, frowning at the pavement. Her hands

were in her coat pockets. “There’s a part goes, from out of the populous

city men groan and the soul of the wounded cries out.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” he whispered. The city lowered about them.

“I’ve got no mind for it here.”

“Nor I. I know just what you mean. I don’t like it either. That’s why

I’m moving to Troy.”

“It’s unnatural.”

“It takes all kind.” His face softened. “Are you all right? Is there

something I can do?”

“No.” She turned to the stone steps.

“I’ll try to come to the funeral.”

She watched the last sunbeams striking against him as he merged into the

moving people. He doesn’t remember. He’s forgot it all. I don’t give a

care.

But in the night Ellen dreamed of him. He was the way he had been long

ago, swaggering and strong, laughing. It was a peaceful dream. As she

came awake Christian was putting his hand on her hair. She cried into

the dark, “Dan? Dan, I loved you.” She was weeping in the unfamiliar

hard hotel bed.

* * * * *

Ellen was unable to get permission for a Catholic burial. The priest had

been firm. “Absolutely. There is no possibility of it. Madam.

Unquestionably he died in mortal sin.” He looked down at Ellen, fierce,

“When were you last at confession? Madam.”

She went from him, telling herself, “I’ll get Father Tompert in

Millville to say a mass for him. There, he will.”

The funeral was costing over two hundred dollars. Ellen had wired

Garland and he sent the money. She intended to reimburse him for her

share but it would take time. All her wages were rapidly disappearing in

train and hotel costs and meals. The coffin would be oak, chemically

treated to endure. The sermon would last twenty minutes. They would

engrave a stone. Anton Gaddy. 1877-1937. At Rest. Beloved Husband and

Father. There were things she had heard, customs attending a death. The

clothes should be removed and hung on a line outside. The body should be

anointed, silver coins laid on the eyes. And someone should sit with the

corpse so a cat or something strange didn’t get to it. The tearing of

the winding sheets, the telling of the bees so they didn’t leave the

hives. And there lay Pa in the new-fashioned way. I misdoubt Pa would

have cared for the way I handled things here.

Then she was spotting, in the entrance way, Garland and Frankie and

Violet, who had arrived from Chicago just in time for the service. She

hurried down the aisle to greet them. She clung to Frankie, who was

plumpish in her fur coat, holding Ellen’s hands, crying, “It’s her hair,

Vi. Look how Ellie’s wearing it. She’s so sweet.”

“I was afraid you-all would be late,” Ellen laughed.

“Let’s make her go back on the train with us, Vi.”

“Nerts. She won’t. Ellie’s a country girl.”

“I’d say the country agrees with this wench.” Garland was fatter, his

square jaw lost in sagging folds. He kissed Ellen’s cheek. “I suppose

this puss has got her a beau now?” His small eyes were merry, sunk into

the flesh.

“Oh Uncle.”

The organ began to play and they were taking their seats. We never said

one word about Pa. We talked about ourselves all the time. She glimpsed

Christian on the opposite side of the room by the far wall. At first she

didn’t recognize him, a short man in a large gray overcoat, holding a

gray cap. He was nodding to her, sitting down, bunching his coat on his

knees.

The last words were being spoken over Anton. Her father had been quick

to quote the Bible at them all, relishing the Old Testament. But the

funeral text was taken from Paul. Behold, I show you a mystery. The

trumpet shall sound and the dead be raised. She was remembering her

slaughtered goats. Her ire rose once more at that secret deed of his

against her. Now she stilled it. Reckon there’s more to it than I could

ever piece. He must have had a great sadness to take his life.

They followed the hearse to the cemetery. The crank squeaked as the

coffin was lowered. Earth to earth. Dust to dust. Behold the tabernacle

of God is with men. And there shall be no more death. Neither shall

there be pain. For the former things are passed away.

Garland was taking the party to a steak-house for dinner. He went back

into the kitchen to talk with the chef, to approve the cuts before they

were broiled. Then Ellen began to tell them about the second tornado

that had struck without warning near Weems Crossroads in Illinois, how

it killed the older Wasilewski brother and tore apart a new-built house

on the farm. “I might have married him, had he lived. We talked of it,

Dan and me.” Her mouth twisted and she looked down at her plate. “I’d

have had a life there.”

“Oh Ellie. Why didn’t she tell us, Vi?” Frankie appealed.

“Shouldn’t have stayed after it happened, puss.” Garland was tapping the

table with his finger. “Should have come to us.”

“Say, how’s Simon?” Violet asked. “How’d he take it, Ellie?”

“He’s grown and he likes farming.”

“Do bring my nephew and visit us,” Frankie pressed, “come on, Ellie. Gen

would love it.”

“No, I’ve got to take my own way. I can’t go to you folks. Tell me about

your job, Frankie. Do you still like it?”

“I’ve been promoted, Ellie. And Gen has a new office and twice the pay.”

Garland was seated close to Violet, his arm was about her. He was

ordering coffee for her and desserts to be brought for everyone. “What

are you planning to do about the farm, hon?”

“I’m going there as soon as I can.”

“Are you really?” Frankie cried, surprise on her round face.

“Want to come with me?”

“No, thanks,” Frankie said swiftly. “Not me. I don’t want any part of

that.”

“But, Frankie.”

“And that’s the truth. I don’t want my piece of that farm. I can’t stand

it.”

“You two can do it legally,” Garland said, “if Frankie means it.”

“You make out the papers, Uncle, for me to sign. It should be Ellie’s.

She likes it and needs it.” Frankie’s features were set, obstinate.

“Funny,” said Garland, “An and me decided the same thing when we were

just the age of you two. He bought me out of my rights and I signed over

to him. When he married.”

“You might change your mind sometime, Frankie,” Ellen said.

“No. Ellie looks so doubtful,” Frankie smiled. “She thinks everyone

wants to be a farmer.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Ellen said. “At least I’m going to pay you for

your share.”

“That’s silly. We have all we need. We’ve got good jobs. You have Simon

to look out for.”

They began to remember Anton then because Garland had used his name.

“Uncle used to come at Christmas time, Vi. We’d butcher and bake,”

Frankie was saying, “and then go to midnight mass in that little

church.”

“They watched out for my soul,” said Garland, “and Frankie was to be a

concert artist.”

“No, Chicken!”

“That was Pa’s idea,” Frankie told Violet grimly, then giggled, “not

mine.”

It was time for their train, they were getting up in a rush. They

laughed, bustling out together. Garland, from the middle of the street,

waved a taxicab down. The women were waiting under the marquee. “Give my

little nephew my love, Ellie,” Frankie said, and whispered, “I’m sorry

about that man you were going to marry.”

“You wouldn’t know your nephew, Frankie. He’s not a baby, he’s not

little.”

“Come see us, Ellie. Gen would honestly love it.”

Violet took Ellen’s hand impulsively. “We’re redecorating the house. Why

don’t you come back with us and have a real visit?”

“I can’t.”

“Goodbye, Ellie.”

“Goodbye. Goodbye, Aunt Vi. Uncle.” She was walking back to the hotel.

The streets were damp, the narrowed sky strip above the buildings clear.

There was a purple circle of mist about the moon. Lone figures were

moving in lighted areas. They gave her a message. Call Mr. Ay at the

following number. She went into a phone booth, for there was a void now

that they were all gone. She told him she would go to the Ay home

tomorrow for supper.

28

Christian Ay had called for her in his year-old V-Eight Ford. The

Standard Shop was an echoing large building, half dark. They were

passing aisles of goods spread out on counters and under glass, their

footfalls drumming. At the base of a dowel-railed staircase, barely

illuminated by a tiny skylight, he took her arm. She looked at his face

cast into the new lines. His brown hair was smooth, his broad mouth

disciplined. Only his eyes are the same, blue like that flower. He was

waving in back of them at the laden counters. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s nice.”

“You’re polite. It’s not. It’s a decent living.” He was smiling, formal.

“Now it’s quite a thing, Ellen, meeting you again.”

She looked away, moved from under his hand up the stair. “Oh, yes.”

“Are you angry about Rose and your father?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re sure you don’t hold it against me?”

“No.”

“Well, shall we go up?” They went through a cluttered office space at

the stairhead and into a linoleum-floored room.

Mrs. Ay was hustling from the square table she had been setting, a

white-haired short woman with a quick smile. She spoke in a clipped way

to Ellen, “Had tea with my daughter, Miss Gaddy? Sorry about your

father. Too bad. It’s hard. I know. I lost my husband many years ago.

Suddenly. Heart attack.”

“I had heard of it,” Ellen murmured.

“Rosie said she knew your father too. Said she’d had dinner with him.

Heard Rosie’s coming home? She tell you? Nearly twelve years she’s lived

in that flat near Market Street. Determined to show she was independent.

It’s a bad section. Time she came back to the Shop, don’t you think?”

She was gathering her apron in her small hands. “Oh dear, that’s the pie

shell burning.” She ran out.

“She gets that way when we have company.” Christian grinned. Then he was

meeting her eyes, intent. “She hasn’t kept track of Rose any more than

me. They go shopping together or Rose eats here with us two or three

times a year. I might as well tell you she doesn’t know Rose had it in

mind to marry anyone.”

Ellen looked away. “She’s nice.” A speckled bird with a long iridescent

tail was mounted beside a clock on the sideboard. “That’s a fine cock

pheasant there.”

“I shot it at Brinker’s farm that summer.” His voice for an instant was

surging with the old eager sound.

Mrs. Ay was back. “Soup’s on.” She carved the roast swiftly with a long

blade, heaping the plates. “You like mashed potatoes? We aren’t fancy

here.” There was a bouquet of artificial daisies in the center of the

red-checked tablecloth. They ate hungrily. “Chris says he knew you, Miss

Gaddy, that time he worked near Bethel.”

“Ellen lived only three miles from me.”

“I’ve been away from Millville more than a year now,” Ellen said.

“Why’d you leave, Ellen?”

She gazed down at her napkin. “I wanted to work out.” Why did I say

that? I had to look after your youngen. I ought to tell him that. Her

mind worked it over. She sat absent while Mrs. Ay began to talk.

“After Kate left us, Chris nearly convinced me we ought to sell this

here store and buy a small farm.”

“Kate was my wife,” Christian said. “I got married the spring after I

came back from Brinker’s.”

“He wanted to grow truck crops. Store’s much safer. Better investment.

Rain or shine you’re not dependent. It’s just getting nice too, we’ve

got three girls at the counters. I can sit down in the afternoon.”

“I knew you’d been married,” Ellen said.

“Divorced. Three years ago.”

“Too young when they did it in the first place.” Mrs. Ay was shaking her

head, reproving. “Chris is headstrong. Like his father before him. I

told him it wouldn’t work.”

“Come, Mama, let’s keep some secrets from Ellen.” He was coloring,

pushing his chair back.

“Well, I’ll get that pie.” Mrs. Ay got up. “Shame the crust had to

burn.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

“I meant to write you, Ellen. You know? Back there when we were kids?”

He laughed, still flushed, the skin wrinkling around his blue eyes.

“Well.”

“How come you aren’t married?” The silence came down, overlaid thinly

with the whisper of the clock on the sideboard.

Mrs. Ay slammed the kitchen door as she returned. She was cutting the

cocoanut cream pie into large pieces. “You rather have something else,

Miss Gaddy? There’s jello in the icebox.”

“No, this is fine. It’s very good.”

“So after Kate ran away like that,” Mrs. Ay was saying, “why Chris kept

wanting to sell. Not me. He’s putting his share into something now that

suits him. Over in Troy.”

“You only live once,” Christian said dryly, “isn’t that right, Mama?”

“I’ll be running the shop here with Rosie. The luck of my daughter

coming home. And in my old age.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Christian said, “she’s not so old.”

Ellen was helping them collect the plates then, Mrs. Ay insisting on

leaving them stacked beside her sink. The evening was moving on. The

older woman had brought out a pot of coffee and she stood in the bedroom

doorway, her figure slack and weary. “Good night, Miss Gaddy. You come

visit again.”

“Good night.”

Christian and Ellen were silent now on the chintz-covered davenport

where the winter twilight faltered. Cars were whirring in the street

outside, horns blew faint, lights shuddered and vanished on the ceiling.

“Reckon it’s time for me to go.”

“No. Wait.” He put his arm along the sofa behind her. “I can’t get over

you, Ellen. You’re just the same. I had thought you’d be different.”

The lingering noise of the clock was beating heavily upon time. She

waited.

“I did intend to write when I had to quit that job with Brinkers.”

“I wrote to you. That autumn.”

“You did? My father’s attack had come out of the blue. He left the

accounts in bad shape. We almost lost the business. You know what that

meant those days.”

“I wrote you. Twice.”

“Funny. I didn’t get them.”

“I know. They came back.”

“I’d have answered.”

“I didn’t have the right address.”

“Did you try Mr. Brinker?”

“He didn’t know either.” She sighed.

“Say.” He dropped his arm onto her shoulder. “I feel badly about that.”

She had stiffened, but he was bending his head gently, hunting a thing

lost, a fragment of his youth when time had been ground easily beneath

the heel of his fired blood, his just-discovered manhood.

But the anger was grating in Ellen. She cried to him compelled, as if

she had memorized it, “Once I laid a curse on you. Curse him, I said! I

swore it on the Virgin.”

“Come, what kind of talk is that?” He reddened, withdrawing himself. He

was taking a pipe from a nearby ash tray, filling it from his pocket

pouch. He scratched a match, fragrant smoke sifted into the half-dusk.

“A curse?”

“You don’t believe in such things?”

“Why would you do that?” He was looking at her, discomfited, inquiring.

She made a movement to rise, impatient. “I don’t know. It’s getting

late. I don’t want to talk.”

“I’m curious, Ellen. Why did you?” he pressed.

“It’s no use.” She twisted her fingers, at bay. Like I said that time.

I’ll go all my days in bitterness.

“Come on,” he was grinning. “We were such babies. Were you in love with

that young squirt?” He drew on the pipe, then he was laying one hand

over hers, the palm cool and hard.

“There is a child.” Now it was said.

“You have a baby? You were married then?”

“Simon. He’ll be eleven the first of July.”

The stillness stayed. Then he removed his hand, swift. His pipe knocked

as he was putting it in the ash tray. He stood and was walking across

the room to the dead pheasant. He looked up at it on the sideboard. He

struck his fist into his palm, his back was to her. “By damn.”

She cringed, waiting.

“I never once thought of that. I didn’t.”

She listened to the chatter of the clock at the side of the stuffed

bird. His voice was intruding suddenly.

“Brinker’s farm. That horse. What was his name? That stallion. Next

morning I got the wire about my father.” His words were fast. He slapped

his fist again.

And she shrank, wishing herself on the street, away from him. She

recoiled from his ferocity, his vitality. Hate, hate, the clock was

spelling it out. I hate him. I do.

“A boy, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know about me?”

“I told him his father’d died.”

“All these years.” He whispered it. “By damn.”

“Well.” Her voice sounded frail. “It’s past and done. It’s o’er.” It was

as if the room were empty and the clock, as it unwound, harped on dead

walls.

“No.” He moved quickly over the floor to stand above her, stocky and

angry. The pulse of traffic was heard, ghost lights were shifting

disturbed, on the walls about them. “I’d have married you. You know

that. Don’t you?”

“I thought you would.”

“You know I would. Why didn’t you find me?”

She was shaking her head. “I tried.”

“I was there. In Louisville,” he cried.

“No.”

“Why didn’t you go to Carl Brinker? For the child’s sake.” He shouted,

towering.

“I wrote. I didn’t know what to do. Where to turn.” She felt tears

gathering. “I couldn’t even confess it. I’ve left the church since and I

don’t care. But I dreaded it then. The sin.”

“El?” Christian was leaning down, he put a hand along her cheek. He was

pulling her beside him. They were about the same height and his eyes,

dark and gentle, were gazing into hers. His teeth flashed in the dusk.

“Remember that silly rabbit?”

“I turned it loose,” she flared and tore away from him, to the table

across the room, where the paper daisies were in a white bowl. She felt

the tightness catch her and the quiver as she began to weep.

“And the primrose from Mrs. Brinker’s kitchen? In the red pot?”

“I wished you dead.” Her voice was quavering. “O’er the years. I hated

you.”

He pursued her. “Look here, El.” His hands were touching her shoulders

and wheeling her to the vast warm bulwark of him. “I didn’t know.” He

was putting his fingers to the wetness on her thin face. “And I see how

it was.” He came out heavy and seeking, forged in deliberate tenderness.

“If I had known. All the time lost.”

She let his mouth find hers. And it was there, what she had wished to

sense all along, the old love restored and made real. In their common

need, they were clinging together, deaf to the brisk hammer of the clock

and the keening wind that whined in sterile streets without; they were

engrossed in their sudden solace.

* * * * *

Within a week they had married. Christian had driven over to Troy and

severed his partnership with the feed store. Ellen was helping Mrs. Ay

pack his belongings. “Has he told you about Simon?”

Mrs. Ay nodded, vigorous. “His father didn’t get along good with Chris.

Think that could have made him wild?”

“We’d like you to come see us sometime.”

“Will do that.” She opened a closet door. “Want to go through some of

this stuff? Might be a thing or two you could use. Here’s a lamp shade.

Good shape, too.”

“We’ll take it,” Ellen laughed.

Then they were driving to Millville in Christian’s car. On the way they

ate the fried chicken and cookies Mrs. Ay had prepared, and by noon they

were turning into the yard. They halloed but there was no sign of human

life at the barn. A group of doleful-eyed cows, a woolly spindly foal, a

pair of dull-coated horses gazed, questioning. Pigs were squealing in

their pen, speckled roosters and hens wandered free under the hackberry

or perched, roosting, on the porch rail. The wood bottom to the tin tub

was broken out and a gray towel was flapping on the clothesline under

the February wind.

Ellen called to the dog, but there was no response from the bushes.

“Wonder who’s caring for Jack?”

They went into the house. Dust lay heavy, the beds were unmade, the

windows closed. The air was musty, unlived in, as if the occupants had

suddenly been spirited away. “It’s high time we got here, El.”

In the late afternoon, while Christian was feeding the cows and she was

scrubbing the porch, Sam Offut arrived. “Hey there, Ellie.”

“Hey Sam. Where you been?”

“I come o’er twice a day to milk and feed. I live at my place down the

road. My ooman and me moved out of here. Folks call this farm haunted.

What are you doing back?”

“I’m here for good, Sam.” She came down into the yard, putting her wet

cold hands in the sleeves of her coat for warmth. “I’m married now. Will

you stay on with us?”

“You mean work for you-all?”

“We sure could use you.”

“Reckon not.” Hunched over, he was rubbing his hip. “See, I spent my

best years working for your pa. I liked him real well. He was a just

man. And he was a right lone man, some ways. I don’t know. I study about

him and that happenstance. Hope Jesus isn’t weeping for you, Ellie. Have

you e’er taken hold of the horns of salvation?”

“Well, Sam.”

Christian was coming from the barn, heavy-set in his stiff new-purchased

blue jeans and a storm jacket. His face was pale, winter-bleached. He

called, “Hello, Mr. Offut.”

“Heard you married up to Ellie.”

“That’s so. You going to help us out?”

“I’m too old. I got some garden and a roadside stand of sorts.” Sam

shrugged. “My ooman does a little. Reckon not.”

“Wish you could see your way.” Christian put his arm about Ellen’s

shoulder; she was wearing an old ragged coat of Maria’s she had found in

the attic room.

Sam rubbed his stubble beard. His breath had a taint of whiskey. He was

shifting his feet as if they ached. “You’ll make out. The cows aren’t

milking much. This place is right run-down. I got the lumbago the same

as my wife now. I’ve been doing the least I can get by with.”

“What do we owe you anyway, Mr. Offut?”

“You figure it out. You can get it to me sometime. I’ll say farewell to

you both.” The old man was shuffling away. “Go with Christ.”

Ellen stood next to Christian, against his warm bulk. “I always favored

Sam.” The small bent figure was going out of sight onto Sweetincreek

Road.

* * * * *

The rooms were being scoured and the floors rubbed with wax. Ellen

rooted into dark places with a harsh brush and yellow soap. When

seasonal winds blew up she threw the windows open and put on her torn

brown sweater. She washed sheets and quilts, freshened curtains, and

changed bed ticking. She lifted the crucifix from its nail over the bed

to pack it in a trunk along with the painting of the Sacred Heart and

the dusty images of Mary and Joseph. Reckon they had a meaning for Pa.

And for me as well. I made that doll into a god when I had a trouble

once.

She had fixed up the loft-room to be Simon’s, dusting out a chest and

setting it by the bed for his own. The big downstairs bedroom would be

for Christian and herself. She was surveying it. “Could you cut some big

windows in here, Chris?”

He leaned in the doorway, his high boots caked. “I’ll do it. Let in some

light.”

“And I’ll hang yellow print curtains.”

They were looking out the window at the bare bushes. A sparrow lit on a

twig, lisping, “See, peabody, peabody, peabody!”

“That’s the harbinger of spring,” Ellen said.

“And today Simon will be here. That’s my son.” The boy was due on the

afternoon train.

“The redwing blackbirds are back at the pond.”

“That’s plowing weather for sure, El. Say, the horses are shedding bad.

Would Simon groom them?”

“You might say he’s partial to horses.” She told him how the boy had

found the red colt when he was very small.

“How about the foal in the stable? We’ll call it Simon’s.”

“There. He’d have been here long since if he’d known that.”

They were at the station at New Hope then, waiting for the overdue

train. Ellen was standing beside Christian. A black-haired man, his back

to her, was rolling a cigarette. It was Dan, hawknosed, demanding, hot

and vital. She had to still herself while she turned to Christian. She

had to remember, while the pain was beating, that Dan had dropped out

for always. She took Christian’s hand. He thought it was because of

their son. “Don’t worry, El. I’ll make him like me.” When she had been

cleaning the house she had found it was one of Dan’s songs she had been

singing.

O say, darling, say, when I’m far away

Sometimes you may think of me, dear

Bright sunny days will soon fade away

Remember what I say and be true, dear

Dan was a part of her, even a part of the way she would cherish her

husband.

They were watching at the coach car for Simon to step down. But he

jumped onto the cement runway from a baggage car. He had brought his

brown kid with him. He was running down the platform and it skipped

after. “Ma. Look at me. Look at April and me.”

“He’s a wild one,” Ellen said.

“He’s big.” Christian straightened himself, nervous, turning his soft

cap with his fingers.

“This is Christian Ay. Like we wrote you, Simon. Now, he’s your father.”

“I know it.” The boy was leaning over his kid, adjusting its leather

collar.

Christian took his hand. “Well now. Hello, Simon.”

“Hi.” They walked to the V-Eight, Simon leading the docile animal. It

stepped in and the boy followed, sitting on the back seat, holding the

leash, watchful.

Christian faced him. “I hear you’re keen after horses, Simon.”

“What does he mean, Ma?”

“There’s a colt in the barn,” Christian was saying, “belongs to you.”

“How old, now?”

“Ten weeks or so. Don’t you think, El?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Pearl had her colt, Ma,” Simon was hunting for her eyes. “And Sudduth’s

getting him a hired man next week.” He leaned toward Ellen. “Strong like

an ox, Sudduth says. Pop claims he’s got brains like one too.” The boy

smiled, strained.

“You want our colt?” Christian asked. “For your own?”

“Yes. Reckon I do, Mester.”

Christian and Ellen got in the front seat, and they were driving out on

the road. Near Bailey’s Woods, a flock of bluejays darted before the

car, pursuing a blinded flapping owl. Their barking was strident and

shrill as they winged after it into the winter-stripped trees, now

spattered with white blooms of shadblow. At the farmyard the three were

getting out of the car, standing in the yard. Simon had his kid tightly

by the collar.

“Well, Simon?” Ellen said.

His face became red. He stood before Christian, steady. “If it doesn’t

matter to you, I’d as lief call you Pa, like Dennie does with Sudduth.”

“That’s the general idea, son,” Christian sighed, glancing at Ellen.

* * * * *

They were lingering at the long oak table in the kitchen. Ellen moved

about, putting dishes and pots away. Christian was smoking his pipe. The

boy cried, “Simon Ay’s a good name, isn’t it?”

“You look a little alike, too,” Ellen nodded.

“Say it again, how it was, Pa,” Simon urged, “that you happened to leave

the county before you could marry Ma.”

It was later when Simon told them about Luke bringing Penny and the new

baby over to the Wasilewskis to visit Ellen. “Penny felt bad when you

weren’t there, Ma.”

“Was it a boy or girl, Simon?”

“I don’t know. She said a boy, I think. Now I disremember.”

“Simon. You knew I’d ask.” Ellen was disappointed.

Christian was speaking to her. “Luke Dougherty works for a farmer,

doesn’t he?”

“A stock farmer. Webster. He raises Jerseys and Short-horns. Blooded

beasts. Mester Webster thinks a mort of Luke too. There. I hate it, not

seeing Penny and the baby.”

Christian put down his pipe. “I’ve got an idea. You know I have to have

help here if we want to make this farm pay. It’s in bad shape.”

“I’m here. I’m a good worker,” Simon said.

“How about asking Mr. Dougherty to come in with us? You think he would?

What do you say? We could buy more land if it’s too small for two

families. We could convert one of the old sheds for them till we found

time to build a house.”

“Simon’s due in school on Monday.”

“Now, Ma.”

“I need a man. I’d have to find one. And the Doughertys did raise you,

Simon.”

“Luke would be on his own.” Ellen considered it. “Reckon he’d like that.

He’s got a way with cattle.”

“I’m rusty. I’ll make mistakes alone. I haven’t enough experience. And

I’d lose all my money.”

“There’d be Penny. She’s like my family, Chris. I’d be done saying

goodbye to Penny.”

“Clate and Anse,” crowed Simon. “They’d have to go to school with me.

We’d sleep in the barn.”

“Hold on now. We don’t know if Mr. Dougherty’ll take us up on it yet. He

might figure he’d be a fool to leave Mr. Webster.” Christian wrote the

letter and Simon took it to the mailbox. He put the red metal flag up so

the RFD car would stop.

* * * * *

While they were waiting to hear from Weems Crossroads, Simon followed

his father about. They pitched and shoveled and scraped from the

stables, scattered manure on the hilly fields, rubbed the newborn calves

with straw to clean them and put them to their dams’ inflamed fresh

udders. Simon curried and brushed the horses and his long-legged

undernourished foal. Masses of dead hair would accumulate in the litter

under the animals in their stalls. “I’ll be glad to take orders from you

for a change,” the child was telling Christian gravely. “Ma means well,

but half the time she’s wrong.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Christian grinned down at him, “might be you.”

Ellen was sitting at the table in the kitchen, writing Mom Wasilewski.

She told Mom how she missed all of them, Pop and Adele and the little

girls. She asked advice on starting a flock of Leghorns. “And we’re

fixing to send off to the mail catalog for some Italian bees. Does Pop

calculate them to be a good honey variety? I’ve heard they’re mean.” A

sadness descended on Ellen. Now that’s become my past. It never turns

out the way I figure it will. I thought to spend my days in Illinois

with Dan. Now he’s gone and that’s all lost. There came to her mind the

white buckling that had perished so long ago, strangling in a fence. She

heard Christian and Simon approaching. And their footfalls on the porch

boards washed away her grieving. The sun threw itself in a blanket on

the floor in front of them as the door opened.

“What are you doing, El?”

“Writing a letter. Thinking.”

Christian was placing his firm fingers on her shoulder. In the heat of

her love, born of gratitude, her blood mingled with his. She turned in

her chair to lean against him. “I was reading a while ago in that

gilt-edged fancy Bible in there, El. Where it says, for lo, the winter’s

past. The rain’s over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth. The

time of the singing of birds is come.”

* * * * *

Ellen was collecting Anton and Maria’s moth-eaten garments from the

clothespress. She had made a bonfire and was carrying them out, throwing

them upon it. She told Christian about her mother. “Frankie and Uncle

and Vi went to see her on the way down for Pa’s funeral. They said she

didn’t know them. She had a doll the nurses had given her and seemed

content, rocking it.” Ellen poked the fire with a stick so it blazed up

afresh.

“We’ll go to visit her.”

“I used to fear the past, Chris. I wanted to shake it off. And here we

are on Pa’s farm, where he ruled. I ne’er thought I’d see it again.”

“It has to be our way, though, El. That we’re building. Our own.”

“I know. I want to change all of it. So it’s new.” She stood marking the

ashes that trembled and faded.

* * * * *

In a few days the Doughertys were arriving, herded by the tall

round-faced Luke. Clate and Anse were bearing boxes and suitcases in

either hand. Ellen was taking the wailing new baby from Penny’s arms.

The young girl, Blossom, held the blanketed sickly Jess. And little

Ernie hung behind her. Penny’s face was relieved. “It’s a wonder we e’er

got here, Ellie. With this crowd.”

Ellen looked down at the baby. “What’s his name?”

“Melinda. Didn’t Simon tell you it’s a girl?”

“Now all we got is one V-Eight,” Christian was grinning. “Women and

babies first trip. Boys and baggage the next. Come, Luke.”

The Doughertys had crated and shipped their shedfull of goats when they

learned that Ellen wanted them. The animals came two days after the

family. There were fifteen all told, kids and goats. They arrived

blatting and white-eyed at the New Hope station. In a week they were

accustomed to the woodshed and the new pens there. Their mild oval

pupils would follow Ellen’s unhurried movements. She set up a block of

salt and shelled corn in their long trough while they crowded to eat.

They crunched and shoved, and the hurt of her own lost herd began to

heal.

The men were enlarging one of the bigger outbuildings for the Doughertys

to live in temporarily. They papered the rooms, tarred the roof, slapped

on a coat of white paint. “I can’t smell pigs in here any more, Chris,”

Luke was saying, “can you?”

By fall the houses and barns were wired and electric fixtures had been

put in. There was an overhead light in Ellen’s kitchen. “You sure are

reckless,” she told Christian, “with your money.”

“I’m so glad to be shed of The Standard Shop,” his face was browned and

young, “I like spending it.”

He sent for a separator for the dairy house. It spilled cream in a thin

yellow stream from one fountain while skim milk gushed from another into

tall cans. There was an electric churn, too. Christian promised Simon,

“Give us a few years and we’ll have milking machines in the barn. Wait

and see.”

* * * * *

In early spring, a young purebred Guernsey bull was strolling about in a

sturdy barred pen. It arched its crest and snorted toward the barnyard

where the cows were. It baaed in a high voice like a calf, for it was

yet immature. The men laughed at it. Luke said, “His seed’s got the

lines to build up our herd.”

“But has he got the strength in him?”

“He has. What we ought to do, though, is buy a few top brood cows from

good farms. Raise their calves by that bull. It’s the fastest way to get

a producing herd.”

“Let’s go ahead. You ride over to the next sale that’s advertised. Can

you pick them?”

“I’ll spot them easy.”

Cold fresh winds moved. Christian was drawing on his pipe. “By damn,

how’d you like to paint a Guernsey bull clear across the barn, Luke?

I’ve been thinking. And trim the windows with white? The boys could help

on that part. I’d like to see some fancying up around here.”

“Well, that’s an idea. Does no harm. It’ll bring people in to use the

bull, too. Give the farm a name hereabouts.”

And the women came to watch the painting. Penny was holding her baby

girl on her arm, Ernie at her heels. “Look at that giant Guernsey there.

Well.”

Beside Ellen tottered Jess, the undergrown brown-haired child, her

favorite among Penny’s brood. He was gripping her skirt, open-mouthed at

the men on the high ladders. Their blue jackets were paint-spattered,

their buckets dangled by baling wire from the rungs. Simon and the

Dougherty boys came running up from Sweetincreek Road, swinging their

schoolbooks and lunch pails. They dropped them by the yard fence and

went for paint brushes to join the men in the sun-dipped warm barnyard.

“Say,” Ellen called, “you might set an iron bull on the roof for a

weather vane, too. If you had a mind.”

“We’ll do it, El,” Christian was shouting down, laughing.

“I’m going to make my pies up,” Ellen told Penny. “I’ll take Jess with

me. He fancies my kitchen.”

She was walking slowly to the house. A tan puppy followed. She patted it

as she helped Jess up the porch steps. A turtledove was calling,

“Croo-ah, croo-croo.”

“There’s the saddest voice,” she sighed, “of all the birds.” She let the

small dog in the doorway. It heaved itself on the floor with a contented

snort. She gave the little boy a cracker and sat him on a rug. He

munched damply, eyes wide, watching Ellen roll out the dough. She was

fluting the edges of the crusts, deft. Her cats were stretched in the

warm sun on the window sills. She stepped over the sleeping puppy to put

the pies in the new white porcelain stove.

In the orchard below the house, blossoms were unfolding in a pink and

white mist upon the shapes of old twisted trees and new-set nurslings.

Shooting-stars and woodsorrels wasted their fragrance and birds began to

trill, as if afraid of disturbing the air, from where they swung on

branches. Gray squirrels carped at a cub-fox gliding down the path in

the woods. Ellen, at the opened kitchen window, watched hawks sweeping

in the blue and sensed the rustle of the new season. There was the green

odor of growing. She felt the ancient promise, the wheel of earth once

more.

She led the pinafored Jess, his short legs stumbling, to the bedroom. He

held onto the white spread, thumb in mouth, sleepy eyes fixed on her as

she laid out a diaper. She changed him, then straightened her laden body

as a birth pain came. Within her the child quickened in the darkness and

she was aware of its joy.