part three

Let it be what it is she said Let it wait as it must It will choose soon or late Let it wait Love has life not of us But of love she said Let it lie where it must

14

Ellen was cutting across the field to the York cabin in the late May morning. Amanda York had married the smithy’s son, Jerome Hatfield. The couple lived in one side of the cabin. Jerome and Mr. York cared for the apple orchard surrounding it and worked in the Bethel Stone Foundry. During the winter and spring Ellen had watched Amanda grow heavy with child, taking vicarious pleasure in the young wife’s joy. “If it’s a boy,” Amanda had claimed, “we’re going to call it Junior. Wonder if it could be baptized Junior, Ellie? I doubt it’s a Christian name.”

At the cabin door Ellen called, “Hey, Mandy. Anybody home?” She heard the hoarse pained cry from within.

Mrs. York was shuffling out of the bedroom. “Ah, hit’s you, Ellen.” Her face was yellowed with fear, eyes staring with wakefulness.

“Mandy’s been taken?” Ellen asked.

“Doc Trumbo’s here. It’s not coming right. Ellen, you think somewhat could happen to her?”

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

“I put the ax under the bed. She ought to have had it by now. She’s been at it since noon yesterday. She’s giving out. She’s quit trying.”

Then there was a scream from the room beyond, animal-like in travail. Ellen was recalling a spotted heifer that couldn’t bear its calf; Anton had hitched the team, and taken it from the womb. The scream circled the room and after it, like a splintering of glass, a thin cry echoed. “Ah, Doc’s got hit now.” The woman was scurrying away. Ellen followed slowly into the blood-odored room. Amanda lay oddly flat on rumpled stained sheets, her eyes shut in a white face. On the pillow her dark hair flowed. Ellen took her hand.

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

“It’s o’er now,” Ellen said.

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

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

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

“All right.” Ellen went to the table where the doctor was binding a cloth about the infant’s navel. It feebly squirmed its thin-skinned damp red body and wrinkled its face. “She wants it, Doc.”

He glanced up at Ellen. “Let’s see, you must be one of those Gaddys. Your father hasn’t much use for satchel doctors, either, has he? You know these women never called me till an hour ago?”

“Mandy wants to see her baby.”

“They call me in at the last minute. Think they can do it all themselves. Like Indian squaws.” He wrapped the child in the warmed flannel that he took from Mrs. York and laid it by its mother’s face. “Lie still there, girl. I’m going to look at you now.” He spoke softly, disappeared into the kitchen to wash his hands.

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

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

Amanda’s breath rattled. She was drawing strangled gasps as if she had run a long stretch. Her eyes became fixed on the hewn-log walls, the cracked calking. She shuddered, the labored breath struggle faded and ceased.

Mrs. York sucked in her words, “My girl.” She put a hand out to touch the tired face, screamed, “Ah, Doc.”

Dr. Trumbo stumbled on the threshold in his haste. He was lifting Amanda’s wrist, laying it down, speaking sharply to Ellen, “Good Christ, where’s this girl’s husband?” He picked the sleeping infant up.

“I’ve got to cover the mirror,” Mrs. York mumbled, hurrying indecisively about the room. “So the baby doesn’t die as well. And stop the clock hands. Now what else must I do?”

“Jerome works at the stone foundry, Doc. Same as Mr. York. I can call them from Love’s store.”

“First take the child here. This old one’ll be no more use.” He turned to Amanda’s body again. Ellen laid the baby in the cradle. It was sleeping, its face like an inflamed pansy, lost amid ribbons and ruffles.

“Ah. You did it, Doc,” Mrs. York keened. “You were busy with yourself and your washing and you let it happen. I didn’t want you here. It was only because Mandy made me. She’d have come through but for you.”

“Now, Mrs. York,” he began.

The woman appealed to Ellen, “Don’t ne’er have a child, Ellen Gaddy. Don’t ne’er get caught with a child.” She grasped her arm, the tears squeezing from her old eyes, watering the wrinkles of her face.

“I’ve got to go, Mrs. York.”

Dr. Trumbo continued, “She’d been hemorrhaging. These things will happen. I packed her, did everything humanly possible. I came too late.”

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

“You’ve got the child.”

“I don’t want hit.”

Ellen stood a moment in the cabin passageway before starting up the road toward Millville. “There’s a thing I keep trying to remember.” She spoke aloud, dazed. At the store she cranked the iron handle to the wood box that hung on the wall. “Central?”

“You’ll have to speak up, Madam.”

“Give me the Bethel Foundry.” When she had told Jerome, and heard the click at the other end, she walked out slowly.

Stacey called after, “Tell Maria Gaddy that eggs are down three cents again. They’re hardly worth trading.”

Ellen didn’t hear. A light mist of rain had begun and a sweet smell like the breath of cows was coming from the red plowed fields. The thing that had slipped her mind was back. It was the struggle to bear her own child, the way the throes had struck her in an open field and how she’d dragged herself to the shelter of the pear tree. The sweet heavy scent of crushed grass and blood and the fluttering of goldfinches were mingled into the memory.

After a week Jerome Hatfield came to speak to Anton. “Our baby’s ailing. Doc says she might hold down goat milk.” His face was haggard, his form stooped in exhaustion.

“My daughter’s got the goats.”

“I want to buy one from her.”

Ellen went to the woodshed and tied a rope to Rhodie’s collar. The doe had a little female kid at its side. “You keep Rhodie for as long as your baby needs the milk, Jerome. And raise the kid for the baby’s own.”

“I’m beholden.” He was lifting the goats into the wagon, fastening them there. He drove away, Rhodie baaing plaintively. Ellen watched them go. Here’s the land flowing over with milk and honey. The spring grass is pushing through the red land until it’s all pink and green. And Mandy’s dead. All about was death. The early dark of morning sometimes would be interrupted, awakening her, by Jack’s bark, followed by shotgun blasts and her father’s gruff tones. Ellen would know he had gone down in his mackinaw to kill some varmint in the barnyard. There was no escape from death, no way you could forget it was waiting. Ellen was resentful, disbelieving that some day her own strength would wither. I’m glad it wasn’t me when I bore that child back there. I recall I saw the evening star. And when Luke and Penny came, I got up from the orchard floor and walked to the house myself while Penny carried him. But then I pushed him from me, turned my back on my first-born.

* * * * *

She spoke up that night after the Gaddy supper had been eaten. The May rain was falling weighted, somnambulant, the air was close. “I hid it from you, Pa. Before I came home that summer when I’d run off from Uncle Garland.”

“You played the harlot.”

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

“You were in St. Louis.”

“No. I went to Weems Crossroads in Illinois. I was afraid of you. The boy’s there now. I saw him when I went to get that clutch of guinea eggs that turned bad. Now I want to bring him here, Pa.”

Anton was stumping into the hall; he returned with the wide belt that he held by its buckle. “Before God your lying tongue is an abomination. Name the times I’ve said it.”

Ellen looked at him stony-faced. “Reckon I’m too old to whip, Pa. I’m twenty-one and the mother of your grandchild.”

He paused. “The father of a fool has no joy.” His heavy mouth was shaking. He drew the strap repeatedly through the palm of his hand, the harsh sliding noise rippling into the corners of the room like stones tossed in a pond. “My brother Marc, lusted. You be bound to do the same. He ran off from the college where my ma sent him. To a whorehouse. At St. Louis. And there’s where she went to get him. Dead. Now I’ve always claimed you had his blood, girl.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed and shone. “You know what Marc was to your ma?” Her nerves shivered to their ends as her temper swung on her. “I know what that Nell did.”

Anton halted at bay. “Don’t say her name. She was a saint, girl. She sits at Mary’s right hand even now.”

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

Anton slapped the belt limply against his overall pants. He turned to a thin-legged doweled chair that was by the wall. “A harlot,” he said softly. “Upon e’er a high hill and under e’er a green tree, thou wanderest, playing the harlot. So says Jeremiah.” He let the strap drop, lifted the chair by its rungs, crashed it violently, splintering, to the floor. “Defiled.” He went from the room.

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

“You got a child, Ellie?”

“A little boy, Ma. Named Simon.”

“I had a boy baby once. But he was a betimes child and had no life. I named him after Mester Gaddy for he wanted it. But they took him. He’s moldering out some’eres. I ne’er liked rain some way. Seems a boy would be unhappy and turn about in a wet place.”

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

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

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

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

“No, the damn fool foreigner was killed. His folks have raised the child till now. And you’re fixing to bring it here.” He paused to eye Ellen with scorn. “Does it favor the Gaddys?”

“Reckon so, Pa.”

“What’s hit called?”

“Simon Gaddy.”

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

“I’d rather not.”

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

“I’ll tell it in the priest’s house, but not in the confessional.” She said bravely, “I’ve got a mind to leave the church.”

Impotent in frustration and wrath, Anton turned away. He was heard bawling commands to the team as he plowed up and down, making ready for the corn-planting.

They were standing before Father Tompert in the parlor of the rectory. Ellen, emboldened by her first successful stand against her father, spoke candidly to the Jesuit priest. “It’s like the church wants to boundary God, Father. And He is thus and so. And if you say at such a time such a prayer you’ll get off so much sooner to paradise. This is false to me, Father.”

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

Father Tompert said, “I’ll speak with your daughter alone, sir. Wait outside this room. If you please.”

Then Ellen told the priest what was in her. And she added, “In the gospel of Matthew the Lord himself says, don’t pray where you’re seen of men. But enter into thy closet. And when you’ve shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret. And use not vain repetitions.”

The priest saw she loved God. He saw her mind was bright and she had thought this thing out. The wise Jesuit was not uncommon among those consecrated to the cross of his faith. He spoke to Ellen. “It’s not your kind that need the mother church, Ellen. We’ll wait till you’re ready to come again to us. Till then, the Lord be with thy spirit.”

He was walking to the door. She laid her hand on the sleeve of his cassock. “Father, is it wrong to lie to the neighbors and say I had a husband?”

He looked at her while a bell tolled somewhere outside over a stitch of time. She saw his eyes were an indigo blue and the pupil in the center was a dormant coal. “For the sake of the child, perhaps not. In the eyes of God it may have been a marriage. I don’t know.” He folded his arms, went to the door. His face was smooth, his body moved ageless below the black frock. “Don’t worry about your daughter, sir. She’s in no danger of damnation. God is with her.”

Ellen put on the faded dotted Swiss dress in the morning. She combed her hair, plaiting it tightly in a new way she had. Anton counted money into her hand. Maria was concerned about the census taker whom Tinie Bilberry had reported was coming and no telling at what hour. “Now, whate’er will I say to him? He be the government. I’m that fretted. Do you have to go now, girl?”

The train coughed and clanged into the Weems Crossroads station. The road to the Doughertys seemed longer than Ellen remembered. She was passing the burial ground. A group of black-clad people were ringed at a fresh grave, cars and buggies were parked by the roadside. She hurried by. Amanda had been laid in the ground like that, for rain to rot and worms to suck until she would be as earth herself, her rosy face and gleaming braid living on in Jerome Hatfield. And a day might come when his daughter would ask, “Now tell, Pa, what was Mammy like?” And Jerome would say, “Seems I can’t remember. Appears to have fallen from me some way.”

Ellen reached the mailbox, went up the lane and heard a guinea cry. It came to her on a sudden that she was terrified, as if she had been sent to the dark cellar for supplies again. Something lurked there in the shadows. She lifted her skirts and fled toward light and Penny and the gray-streaked house with door open and unscreened.

Ellen studied her son that evening. They took the meal out under the crab apple tree. Its leaves, not yet green, were coated with soft white hairs. Its pink flowers were like the wild rose, their spicy odor hovered where the five children gathered to be fed. Penny’s smallest child, Melinda, climbed on a stool, reaching her hands to the food. Blossom stood by Anse, who was four now and tall for his age, his dark head looking down on Simon’s blond one. And Clate was the leader and spoke what they all should do. “If it wasn’t for Clate,” Penny said, “I’d ne’er get this troop together. And we’ll have another Dougherty come Christmas. Seems I be e’er in this strait.”

Standing about the table, the children were eating corn pone and bacon and beans. There was milk and a honeycomb. Melinda sucked her sticky tiny fingers and crumbled the pone. Penny was cleaning the child’s hands with a damp rag, laughing, “I got plenty of pullets now, Ellie. Luke built a hen house. I trade eggs just like you Gaddys now. But say, the store’s paying low this spring.”

Ellen saw that Simon’s cheekbones and hair were like those of Christian Ay. He had Anton’s long chin. But there was the look of Christian about his eyes and high cheeks and broad mouth. “I wonder at him, Penny.”

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

“I allowed I’d forgot what he looked like. Time goes so fast. But Simon calls him back to mind.”

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

“I reckon.”

“I see Luke coming. We’ve been lucky. Webster laid off most of the hands when times got bad, but he kept Luke on. He’d let them all go before Luke.” Penny’s look wound itself about the man moving up the path, her love like a warm wind.

“He’ll be short and stout. Strong like a bull.” Ellen was watching Simon, who leaned against the table, his cheek on one fat hand while the other spooned beans unsteadily into his mouth.

Luke slept in the mow of the shed that night so there would be a place for Ellen. The women lay in the narrow bed. The baby girls were in cribs, the three boys in the attic room. “If you should have a trouble sometime, Penny,” Ellen said, before dozing off, “or there’s a sickness or a way I can help.”

“We’ll miss Simon. He’s quiet. He can milk Tiny even. He coaxes me to let him. He does real good for four years.”

“Those little hands.”

“And he’s one with the donkey. Why, I missed him once and hunted till I found him sleeping under it and it standing like a rock.”

Ellen awoke after midnight; she lay still until it came to her where she was. An owl called, deep-toned, “Whoo-whoo-tooo-oo-oo.” She went into the yard, walking down the lane in the warm dark. The owl shrieked suddenly from the catalpa by the road, in a voice like a woman. On noiseless widespread wings it was flapping toward her and passing. “There he’ll be, following me about the farm.” She stayed in the night until she reached the end of her fears. “Whate’er comes, it’s right to bring him home and tell he’s mine.”

In the morning Simon had on bleached canvas pants, well patched. The sleeves to his nubby sweater were too short. They were waiting for Luke to come in a truck to take them to the station. Simon’s eyes were wide. He shrank from Ellen. Penny was washing his face again. “Take your ma’s hand, now.” But Simon shook his head, threw himself upon his foster mother. “You can have this. It’s Anse’s.” Penny was handing him a yarn ball she had made by winding bright colors around a piece of cloth. “If you’ll go now with your ma.” So then Simon took Ellen’s hand. She led him while he dragged his feet, gazing back to Penny and her brood.

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

“It’s his ball now.”

On the train the boy clutched his toy and looked away. At last Ellen took a piece of string and showed him how to play cat’s cradle. He was lifting the twine from her hands and biting his lip. He cast his blue eyes on her. “I like that.”

“I do too, Simon.” The sun fought through the streaked sooted windows. The train rushed through the greening land, coming into the valleys and hills of Kentucky.

Anton was there with the buckboard. He ordered them into the high seat. He had laid his faded kerchief under his black round hat to catch the sweat from his balding head. The corners of the red cloth were draping about his florid face. “Whole county can get a look at Gaddy’s youngen toting her bastard home.”

The horses trotted down the macadam main street, past store-fronts, out onto country roads. Ellen spoke timidly, “This is your granddaddy.”

“Quit jawing.”

As they neared Millville, Ellen spoke again. “Penny said to tell you howdy. Her husband told me about a dog that grinds axes and things.” She spoke too rapidly, lines drawing on her forehead. “This man’s got a treadwheel. He runs a belt from it to his grindstone. The dog runs there in the big wheel, grinding sickles and knives too. Luke said the dog waits for the man to whistle.” She appealed to Anton.

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

She broke the silence once more. “Luke heard of a cat too.” And holding Simon in her arm, she felt him press close. He laid a chubby arm across her lap. “It turned a churn, treading a wheel for the lady of the house. Now think, Simon.”

Jack met them barking. The dog’s eyes were nearly on a level with Simon’s; the child laid his face in the fur. When Anton drove the team to the barn, the boy watched him covertly. Maria was coming on the porch in her shapeless Mother Hubbard dress. “Now here’s your granny,” called Ellen.

Maria glanced at the boy, felt her bun. “The census taker came, Ellie. I had a day. I told him all he asked. I wish he’d come again.”

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

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

15

June dawdled by. Lilacs faded and roses unfolded. Simon went behind Ellen, dropping pumpkin seeds in the young corn rows. He wore new overalls that she ordered from the catalog, and shirts she made for him. He ran barefoot at her heels. In his pocket he kept the colored ball that had been Anse’s. He spoke seldom, but Ellen would hear his piping voice when he was with the geese or with Jack and he had no fear of the heavy work horses.

Frankie had written, “We’ll be down Independence Day. My friend is coming with me for two weeks’ vacation. Oh, the dear farm and dear Ellie. Why didn’t you tell me I had a nephew, Ellie? I can’t wait to see him. You cunning sister.”

When Joe Burwell told his son that Frankie was coming, Dyke drove up the Gaddy lane in his Oldsmobile to offer the use of his car to meet the train. “It’ll be a pleasure to see Frankie again, Mester Gaddy.”

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

The two men went to the station. Ellen had hung the calico curtain across her parents’ bedroom to make the guest chamber. Simon had taken over Frankie’s old bed upstairs. She was placing a vase of catalpa blooms by the bedside on the marble-topped table. A heady fragrance seeped from the spikes of creamy scalloped blossoms specked with purple and yellow.

The car was returning. Ellen and Simon were going into the yard. Frankie threw her arms about Ellen. There was perfume in her hair, her face was accented with eye-shadow and penciled brows, her lips vivid. She was kneeling by Simon. “I’m Auntie! See what we brought you.” She took his hand and they went to Dyke’s car.

Frankie’s companion was talking with the two men. Her black hair was shingled. She was heavy-hipped, her face appearing almost delicate above her squat body. She wore no make-up and held her head back to eye the men squarely. Anton waved his hand while talking, and she nodded again at him. They came toward Ellen. “This here’s Genevieve Wheeler,” Anton said. “Did I get that name right? Haw. And from the way Frankie wrote at first I thought it was a fellow.”

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

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

“Haw.” Anton was shrugging. “Go on in and get settled, you-all. We’ll be back when we finish the chores. Coming, Dyke?”

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

Ellen followed the men to the barns. Dyke, in his black suit, was feeding the cows. Later Simon came out. He stroked the big shoulder of the brown cow that Ellen was milking. “I like Auntie, Mama,” he lisped. “She brung me this.” He wore a stiff yellow visor cap. He straightened it.

“Let’s go tend the goats, Simon.”

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

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

Leona had a high round udder and gave her milk down easily. “How come Leona’s white, Mama?”

“Because her daddy was a white one.”

Simon sat on a stool, leaning into the goat’s side and squeezing the teats so the milk came in little squirts. The animal turned to sniff the new cap and lick Simon’s neck where the tow hair curled. Then it wheezed as it brought up its cud.

Ellen meanwhile milked Penny and Pie, set out their hay and grain. She stood over Simon. “Want me to finish her?”

He sighed, turning the three-legged stool over to her. “I most got her clean, didn’t I, Mama?”

“Just about.”

“That Auntie’s comely, Mama.” He was leaning against her while the white liquid purred in her bucket, foaming, hot.

“Ne’er know her for my sister, would you, Simon? Like a peacock sister to a hen.” Her gray eyes were level with his blue ones. She was stirred. He’s a fair boy.

“You’s a little hen, Mama.”

“You’re my chick, then.”

“Peep. Peep.” He took her hand as she picked up the pail. Nearing the house, they heard the piano and voices raised. Genevieve was carrying the alto.

O Robin, Robin Redbreast O Robin, Robin dear O Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year

“Mercy.” Ellen set the pail in the kitchen, began to help Maria with the meal. Simon stationed himself beside the parlor door to listen to the singing. He was discovered and with cries and kisses they drew him to them.

After supper Frankie remained in the kitchen with Ellen. Simon went up to bed. From the parlor came Anton’s deep voice and an occasional question from Genevieve. Maria was knitting and Dyke listened while he smoked a cigar. Frankie polished the plate she was holding. “Don’t you like Gen, Ellie? Don’t you like her? We’ve got a flat, you know.”

“You wrote you left Uncle.”

“I left last February. The market crash changed him, Ellie. He wouldn’t eat and stayed up nights going over papers. He got real crabby. Stingy, too. You’d never have recognized him. I stopped all my lessons. I was glad.”

“I see.”

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

“Oh?”

“When I left, he closed the house up. He went to a flat he has in East Chicago. You know he’s bad, Ellie?”

“How?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s that?”

“Ellie. A movie star.”

“When did you first meet this Gen?”

“She’s my best friend.”

Dyke stepped into the kitchen. “Hey.”

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

“No.”

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

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

“I always liked you, Dyke,” Frankie was bold. “Remember how we used to argue about him, Ellie? I said he was tall and he’d do because I wasn’t particular?”

“Frankie,” Ellen cried.

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

“Go on, you two. I’ll finish up.” Ellen went into the parlor after a few minutes. She sat down by Maria.

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

“She went out with Dyke a spell ago.”

“Oh, dear,” the woman laughed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Gaddy. I’ll be right back. I want to hear more about what you were saying.” The heavy sound of her shoes was heard on the porch.

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

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

The two came in noisily, hand in hand; Dyke followed. “Here’s your little girl, Mr. Gaddy. I’m afraid this young man was hiding her from us.”

“What do you think, Genevieve,” Anton was asking, “of my daughter becoming a fine musician?”

“Well, in time she could be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She’s got talent. And she’s a beauty. When I get more money saved, I’m going to get her the best teacher I can find.”

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

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

Woodman, spare that tree Touch not a single bough In youth it sheltered me And I’ll protect it now

Ellen was pressed to make fudge and coffee. Dyke was left in the parlor with Anton and the visitors came into the kitchen to help. While the two cracked nuts, they chattered in steady rapport. Ellen stepped into the hall, put her hands on her ears. “That ox.” Obscurely, she resented the older woman, missed the old way in which Frankie would turn to her for approbation and counsel. She could overhear Anton in the next room.

“Yes sir, boy, this fellow had a dog to run his treadmill. He sat in the shade and ground axes and knives for folks on the grindstone that dog turned for him.”

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

“Hell, I even knew a man that fixed a treadmill for his old ooman’s cat to run her churn.”

* * * * *

They gathered at breakfast. Ellen had set potatoes to boil, fried bacon, and sent Simon to refill the blue water pail. Frankie and Genevieve were coming in sleepy-eyed, clad in gray twill skirts. The girl appeared frail and willowy beside her companion whose broad buttocks and ample breasts were constrained by her clothing. As they were sitting at the laden table, Anton and Sam hurried in. They were late. “The colt’s gone,” Anton worried. “Must have jumped the rails where it’s rotting. Jesus Wept, they’re all falling apart. We’ve got to string fence wire all o’er now.”

“Red horse tired of the meadow,” Simon piped. “He set out for to see the other side.” The child looked through the square-paned window, past the low wall of the garden, to the day that had cast off the shawl of night.

“I tell you, let’s organize a search party,” Genevieve said. “We’ll go get our hats. Don’t you agree, Frankie?”

“All right, Gen.”

“It’s up to you-all to find him. Sam and me can’t help. We got the rails to mend and the hay field to cut. Come on, Sam.”

They left Maria cleaning the kitchen, for she refused to stir without the door. They searched woods and adjacent fields. There was no sign of the missing colt. At noontime the three women met outside the house. Genevieve was bramble-scratched, the smell of perspiration thick on her as she sat with Frankie on the porch steps. “I think I got poison ivy,” said Frankie, “and I tore my stockings.”

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

Ellen was bringing water from the well in a dishpan and they got up to wash. The woman grunted as she dried herself. Frankie was laughing at her, wrinkling her nose. Suddenly Ellen said, “Where’s Simon? He was with you, Frankie.”

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

A hand twisted within Ellen. She was running. She heard the calls behind her. “Wait, Ellie!”

And Genevieve, “Let’s be calm.”

But Ellen ran and ran, Jack barking beside her, to fields stretching past woods, and past that, to places she had wandered before her son had gained this hold on her. All the while she cried, “Simon. Simon.” And the dog’s staccato answered.

It was late in the day when she returned. They had all assembled in the yard. “We’ve been looking, too, Ellie,” Sam told her.

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

“Nonsense,” said Genevieve.

“He’s too little.” Ellen’s mind tried doors that were barred. “He doesn’t know the country well.” She looked at the ground.

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

The group was wavering, uncertain. “Appears you could look after your own youngen.” Anton bent for his pitchfork. “That hay’s got to be turned.”

Genevieve took a deep breath as the men went toward the field. “I’m not concerned. He’ll come home. Why, he’s a big boy.”

“Quit jawing,” Ellen said savagely.

Then they heard the men’s shouts, their distant figures were pointing. “There! Look there.”

The blood-bay colt was ambling up the lane, the boy on its back, his short legs spread, a lock of the mane in his stubby hand. His cap was set visor backwards. “I got lost, Mama.”

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

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

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

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

“Should I make you another?”

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

“What do you want?”

“I’d like a horse to name my own.”

“Maybe someday.”

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

“Fancy you finding the red colt, Simon. When none of us could.” They turned to walk to the house. He swaggered behind her, pleased with himself.

Little Tom Tinker Got burned with a clinker And he began to cry What a poor fellow am I

Anton nearly shot a dog fox a day or so after. The fences, lined with stones and weeds, had furnished ambush for the daring fox. In broad daylight even, it would slip to the hen house, kill three or four, and escape, slinging its latest victim across its shoulders. Anton would smoulder, viewing his dead hens. He told Genevieve, “Years back I had a flock of pullets just starting to lay. One morning I found a heap of thirty dead under that oak. Next week there was eighteen. I’d hear the varmint barking at night. Times he’d screech like a wildcat. I didn’t sleep till I got him. Ne’er did find the earth where the whelps were hid.”

In the hour he was free before milking, Anton had taken his gun. He set out, Jack at heel. He plodded through likely spots, and as he came up out of the woods he heard a crow call, signaling. He glimpsed in the distance the fox they hunted. Its summer fur was scraggly and yellow-red; it was digging at a woodchuck hole on the edge of the field. Jack had seen it too; he fell behind the man, who was slipping noiseless through the high orchard grass.

Then Anton had stopped short. He had come upon Frankie and her friend, sitting with hands about their knees in the grass. The older woman was leaning over to kiss Frankie on the lips. Frankie laughed, tossing her shining bobbed hair. Anton forgot his quarry. Jack whined and growled as the fox clawed at the earth. The man moved in dourly upon the women in the afternoon sun. He stood before them with legs set like trees in the grass. “What’s going on here?”

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

Her companion was getting up. “We were just enjoying ourselves out here, Mr. Gaddy. My, your Frankie’s a pretty thing.”

Anton strode from them. They saw him spit amber juice into the weeds. Jack galloped, yapping, for the fox had slunk off. Frankie giggled, “Oh, Gen. You shouldn’t have.”

That evening the man was stalking restive between kitchen and parlor. Genevieve sought to draw him into a discussion. “I was reading about a new commercial fertilizer, Mr. Gaddy.”

“Shit,” he growled and went to stand on the porch. Car lights glared as Dyke Burwell’s Oldsmobile arrived in the yard.

Dyke called from the darkened window, “Hey!”

“Come in, boy.”

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

Anton saw suddenly that Dyke was a man now, bulky and tall, stooped somewhat from the weight of his awkward upper body. “Hum. She’s here.”

They stood together, embarrassed by the companionship they felt. They were looking off into the half-dusk of the yard. “Getting hot.”

“Hum.”

“Could rain, Mester Gaddy. Ma says if she can feel toes on her missing leg, it’s rain for sure.” They were leaning against the porch posts. The older man stirred, unhappy. Dyke was talking in a soft monotone, relating a joke.

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

“Well, like I was saying, Mester Gaddy, a bird came o’er then and muted on him. Hell, he says looking up, now you know, Lord, this is just going a trifle too far.” Dyke snickered, hopeful, but Anton remained glum. The young man scratched his neck. “You say Frankie’s home?”

They went into the house. Anton’s voice was cold, “Dyke, I want you to take Frankie here to the movie house in Bethel. That way Miss Wheeler and I can talk about the farm.”

“You are sweet, Pa. But I don’t care to.” Frankie yawned, getting up from her chair. “Here we are on this old Kentucky home and why go to the flickers? We see them all the time in the city. But you’re thoughtful, Pa.”

So instead Frankie coaxed Dyke to sing with them. Ellen saw how Genevieve’s black eyes glinted when Dyke spoke to Frankie. She saw Dyke’s confidence wither as he appeared a poor thing. Genevieve was saying, “Frankie told me you keep house for your mother?”

“I help her, Miss Wheeler.”

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

Ellen walked out of the room and onto the porch. A shadow was drifting by the hen house fence. “There’s that fox, Pa.”

Anton grasped the gun that stood by the loft stairs. His body mingled with the shadows. His face was vacant-eyed, as he slipped past Ellen, like a cat that spies a bird flutter to its nesting bush. After the family was in bed and Dyke had driven away, Anton returned. He flung the yellow-furred carcass at the base of the porch steps. The dog worried it until Sam arrived at dawn and dragged it into a field for buzzards to pick.

Simon came in dirt-stained to where the family and Sam Offut sat at the noon table. His hair was over his eyes and he brushed it back. He held a box-turtle he had found. He was clutching it to his shirt and standing within the door. Ellen said, “Go clean up. And put that turtle away, Simon. You’re late. Now run.”

But Simon went to stand at Anton’s side. The man continued eating, pushing his food with his knife, his head bent in hunger. Simon spoke so that Ellen knew he had thought how he would say this all the way to the house, ever since he caught the turtle. “Da says they’s seven kinds of meat in a turtle. E’er heard that, Granddaddy?”

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

Simon was staring, open-mouthed.

“Who’s Da, boy?”

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

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

“Don’t speak his name again. Mind, boy?” Anton picked up his knife. Genevieve and Frankie exchanged small knowing smiles.

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

* * * * *

Later on, the women were clearing the dishes. Anton was puffing his pipe. From the direction of the hog pens came a squealing. Through the screen, Ellen saw a score of young pigs spreading out toward house and barn. After them stumbled Simon, trying with aimless movements to round them up. His face was worried, his body blundering. She pushed the door to go and help him. Anton spoke behind her. “Stay there, girl.”

Ellen knew what had happened. Simon had been sent out as soon as he had eaten, to move the twenty yeanling pigs to new quarters. Anton had directed him to move them one at a time. But the child had tried to shoo them in a drove, the way he did the geese or cows. The baby pigs were fractious and ran out like wheel spokes. Sam was hustling from the barn. Ellen watched the two men break sticks, then shouting, gather the pigs into their new pen. The little boy’s shoulders were rounded, hands dangling helplessly. Sam returned to the barn. Anton called the boy to him. He cut a switch from a locust tree. Simon was moving slowly across the yard. Ellen came out on the porch. “Get in the house, girl. Lest I switch you for your brat to see.”

Ellen went up the stairway to her room. “He’s bound and determined to have it out. But it’s because he’s plagued at Frankie.” She sat dry-eyed on the bed. Her head was throbbing.

* * * * *

Afterwards she found Simon in the field with the goats. He held his hand on the neck of one doe and scratched under its beard. His face was streaked and dirty. “I was bad, Mama.”

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