Chapter 12

Near the last of November there was a circle around the moon foretelling the wet weather. The downpour held for ten days, the pregnant sky slate-colored, the deluge continuous. Muck and soggy manure were deep now in stables and yards and paths. When Ellen went out to her chores she would wear Anton’s discarded rubber boots. Maria and Frankie had sickened when the rain first began. They were lying together in the big bed in the downstairs room, Anton sleeping nights in the guest bed. Though the fever of the invalids was abating, their harsh coughs were hanging on. Anton soaked inner bark of black cherry and elm, boiling it down to a thick brown brew for them to sip when the seizures came on. Ellen’s eyes were on him as he was moving about the kitchen, preparing the medicine. His loose lips drooped in concentration. “Feed a cold and starve a fever. Hear, girl?”

“Maybe we ought to get a doctor, Pa?” She whispered it, confiding.

“Nary a satchel doctor has set foot in this house, even when your ma bore you youngens.” His voice surged, “I don’t work with charms and tie papers on the sick. The way heathen folk do. I use herbs and healing trees. Like my folks before me and theirs before that.”

“A doctor might know of something new.” She was persistent.

“Now what do you reckon a doctor be? He uses the same herbs as me. He puts them in fancy bottles and gives them new names. The Word tells, remove not the ancient landmark which thy fathers have set. That goes for all old-timey ways.”

“I know, Pa.” The sharp-scented steam was filling the kitchen. Ellen took a bowl of spongy warm dough, overturning it into a bed of soft flour on the bread board.

Anton set the jar of warm liquid on the table by her. “Hum. Now, that’s ready for those two.” He pulled on his heavy jacket and fur cap, departing into the drizzle.

Ellen worked the dough down and covered it with a towel. She would prepare flannel bags of heated earth when the chills came on Maria and Frankie, heaping blankets high. Then their fever would be reborn and take possession again. “Mam,” Maria whispered hoarsely to Ellen once, “tell Pap he better make up another sweater tea if the back of this fever don’t break soon.” Red-faced, Maria threw back the covers. Pity moved in Ellen. When she came from the barn, she would leave her muddy boots on the porch and wash herself. She wore a fresh apron into the bedroom. She would bring the invalids a bowl of pudding and a plate of toasted fresh bread, walking softly.

“There’s a bit for you to try and eat, Frankie. You got to have food, Pa says, now the fever’s waning.”

“Wish I had ice,” complained the girl. “Go get the chamber pot for me, Ellie.”

No action, no word or roughness disturbed the tranquil edge of Ellen’s spirit. She was gentle-spoken. “It’ll be clearing off soon. The red cock crowed on the fence this morning. First time he’s flown off the ground.”

Frankie was sighing. “Christmas is less than a month away. And I’m missing all my lessons. I might ne’er get to go with Uncle Garland to the city.”

“Sure you will, now.” Ellen took them warm water to bathe their faces. She scrubbed bed linen in a tub on the kitchen floor, wrung the clothes out, pinned them on the lines she strung through parlor and kitchen. All the while she bore herself proudly and carefully, feeling her necessity and how they were all leaning on her. Surely her father saw she was keeping his house alone now, cooking for Sam and the sick ones, besides her work out of doors.

At length a fragment of moon reappeared in the daytime sky, and the sun was there too, embryonic, feeble. Maria came out of the bedroom to grind beans for breakfast coffee, a long maroon sweater draped over her flannel nightdress. Anton wrapped Frankie in a quilt and sat her in a chair at the table. He was filling her plate. “Now you got to eat.”

The slender girl laughed, her skin pallid, her red hair seeming to prosper unnaturally under the illness, lying abundant. “Do tell at her,” said Maria, “and my hair’s falling out. When I was a youngen I lost hit all in the epidemic. Pure bald. Had to wear a string-knit cap for nigh on a year. He knows.” Her lips continued to move.

“I was thinking, Pa,” said Ellen, striving to keep her newly won role, “I’ll start cleaning the candlesticks outside after this to get away from that mess in the sink.”

“This little old thing.” Anton touched Frankie’s hair, beaming. “Just look at her, you-all.”

The tears stood in Ellen’s eyes. And days that she had made full became empty once more. She felt her pride and her beauty fall away.

She was cutting down a few of the hard cheeses from the rafters in the smokehouse. Grady Love would take them in trade for the staples they needed. There was little to carry in the basket these days. In the unseasonable weather the hens had nearly stopped laying. She used water-glass eggs to cook with, put down in a crock during the summer. There was no cream or butter, the dairy taking all the milk that was produced. It was late in the day before she got started. She put on her heavy coat and boots. “I’ll be back in time to fix supper, Ma. So don’t fret if it gets dark. Days are so short now.”

“Can’t you wait till tomorrow?” Frankie was asking. “Don’t go.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, Frankie. I’m strapped for salt and soda. Pa’s out of tobacco. You try to nap.”

When she finished her trading and was on the way home, Ellen took the short cut by Bailey’s Woods to visit Amanda York and to warm herself. She knocked at the door of the double cabin. Amanda was wearing a bright red dress, her hair made into a gleaming braid down her back. She drew Ellen to the fire that hissed and sparked. “You know I got a beau, Ellie?”

“No. Who is he?”

“Jerome Hatfield. Smithy Hatfield’s son. He’ll be coming by soon. Stay to meet him, Ellie. He’s real nice.”

“You going to marry him?”

“He’s asked me.”

A car was heard approaching. Then doors were slamming outside, and male voices shouting. “Mandy?”

“Ask your maw can we come in?”

“We got a present for you-all.”

“That’ll be Jerome,” laughed Amanda. “They’ve been drinking, this being Saturday night.”

“This one’s a heavy basket,” called a twisted voice that Ellen knew. “Rome Beauties are right solid apples.”

Three young men came in. Craig Hedrick was carrying one handle of a basket. He hesitated, seeing Ellen, his face frozen. They set the basket down. She saw a dark scar across his forehead lit by the dancing fire.

“Oh, you boys been tasting bootleg,” cried Mrs. York. “Come have some soft cider to cool you off.”

Amanda was running to fetch glasses. Ellen followed, whispering, “I’ve got to go, Mandy. Ma and Frankie are sick in bed and it’s dark by now.”

“Oh, Ellie, I wish you could stay. Craig,” she was crying, “take Ellie Gaddy home in your auto.”

“No,” Ellen breathed.

Amanda whispered, “I’ll make a match for you, Ellie. He’s a nice fellow. Got an eighty-acre farm all his own. But he’s afraid of girls.”

“Hurry up with the glasses, Mandy,” called Jerome. Ellen saw him pushing Craig’s ribs with an elbow. “Take her home, Craig.”

Amanda brought the tray and Ellen hung behind her. “Ellie, you know Craig here? And Jacob Haas and Jerome Hatfield.” She was pointing them out with a nod. “The last is the meanest.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The silence was awkward. The three men leaned on their legs abashed, their faces heated by the fire and the liquor they had drunk.

“Ah, here we are.” Mrs. York was pouring the cider. Ellen shook her head, turning away.

“Well, Craig,” persisted Amanda. “Cat got your tongue? Thought you told me you knew Ellie and went to school with her?”

“Craig took her for a drive once. I heard about that,” crowed young Haas.

“Did you, Craig?” cried Amanda. “When?”

“Come on, let’s hear. When?”

“I’ll walk,” whispered Ellen. “I’d rather.” The young men were shuffling near the fire; someone spilled cider on the stone hearth and Amanda was bringing a mop. Ellen found her basket and boots by the doorway. Outside in the dog-trot the adjoining cabin was dark, unused in winter. She was buttoning her coat. The night was chill.

As she reached Sweetincreek Road the wind gathered itself and whirled strongly about her, up the sleeves of her coat. There was just light enough to follow the road. She drew her coat to her, fought the wind. The way was endless, the few dried leaves still cringing in the trees rattled and the wind had its way with them. In a darkened corn field an animal was slipping along rows of shocks. She heard a distant car engine. It became louder, lights were shining faintly behind her. She was turning into the ditch at the roadside, stumbling down the incline to crouch there. Headlights beamed close at hand. The car stopped by the ditch, a voice was calling thickly, “Ellen? I’ll drive you home.”

“I want no help from you, Craig. I’ll walk.” She climbed out and started up the road.

The car was following. “Get in, Ellen. I’m not going to hurt you.” He swung the door open. She stepped up and into the seat. There was the tart whisky trace. With a jerk the car started. He drove fast down the road, the thin tires bumping over hardened ruts. “Thought you were a new field of daisies, you whore,” Craig was saying. “You’re nothing but a brush field where a plowshare drove through. I found that out.”

She held a frightened silence.

“E’er a man in the county has slept in that field. So I hear.”

He’s blind drunk. She stared ahead where the road crouched dark before the car lights.

“Why won’t you sleep with me too, Ellen? Why did you hit me with that dung-fork?” He began to sniffle.

“You’re stark crazy.” She put her fingers on the door latch.

“You ran off with a rich fellow, I heard. And got knocked up. Had a brat off some’eres.” He was making gruff crying noises.

“You’re just simple crazy.”

He was swerving the Ford into the lane of her home. He braked so that she threw her hands against the dashboard, bruised her fingers on the tiny crucifix screwed there. Her basket slid across the floor carpet making a rough sound. “I’m just drunk. Worthless drunk. I’m sorry for what I said, Ellen.” He was leaning to her and she remembered his hairy arms.

“Get away from me.” The handle turned. She ran to the house, the basket swinging wildly. His car remained where it was; she glanced back from the porch. She was pushing the door open, the kitchen was warm and smelled of security. She went to the bedroom door, taking off her coat.

“You were gone so long, Ellie,” Frankie whined.

“I had to put the potatoes on,” Maria said.

Ellen tugged at her boots. “I tarried a while at Mandy’s.” She was busying herself with supper, making a clatter with the dishes. She hummed and when she sliced the ham she closed her eyes, blinking tears. He called me a whore.

“I thought I heard a car drive up,” Maria said.

“Someone out on the road, I reckon.” She heard the motor start then. Craig would drive back to the York cabin. He and the others would sit around the fire, eating apples and popping corn in an iron basket. They would laugh about that queer Ellen Gaddy.

Anton came in, his long-jawed face ruddy from the harsh wind. “I brought your twists of tobacco, Pa. I set them on the shelf o’er there.” I hate them all. Men are a pack of tormented hogs.

Christmas 1926 was approaching. Preparations were under way for Garland’s annual visit. Frankie told Ellen with enthusiasm, “I’m just going to sit and study grammar. So don’t look for help in the kitchen from me.”

“Oh Frankie, stop worrying about it.”

In the evening the younger girl was arranging dried everlasting in the parlor vase, the thistle-like blooms shaking palely in her hands. She turned to Ellen, blithe. “I’m that eager to see Chicago, you know. Pa says I can get dresses from the catalog. You help me.”

Ellen brought it out and they selected. “You’re like a wild one, Frankie. Setting such store on the times you’ll have. Just do as Uncle says and it’ll come out well.”

Frankie had suppressed her misgivings. By her lively chatter and protestations she covered the small voice of panic beneath.

Anton came in to where they sat. “Order stout, hear? Not cheap. I declare this is the day. Get her new boots too, girl.”

“She’ll more need pretty slippers, Pa.”

“And get chills-and-fever? She can be warm and comely too, I say. Just spend it. I got it,” he said recklessly, and went to paint the black sink in the kitchen in honor of Garland’s coming.

Ellen enjoyed the readying for the holidays. “Where are the straws I pulled from the new broom you got, Ma? I’m bent I’ll find them to judge if my cakes are done right. Frankie,” she cried, “stop studying. Come beat this icing for me.”

“I don’t know, Ellie.” Frankie entered the room, reluctant. “How do I sound when I talk?”

“Why, you sound like a lady. Whip this up, will you?”

“All right.” Frankie poised the spoon, reciting, “The deluge drowned, the earth around.”

“That’s real clear, Frankie.” Ellen took pride in her cakes, liked to start the batter with her hands, feeling the fresh lard blend to the sugar. “I despise to waste making a cake with fat-drippings. They should be delicate and light.” She was washing her hands, beating the eggs to a froth with her mother’s wire whisk. Her health and good will surged strong from some inner store.

After mass on Sunday, Anton left his women-folk to speak with Joe Burwell who pressed him, “Borrow my new fence stretcher, Gaddy. Hit beats a crowbar and pliers to a fare-thee-well.”

“I’ll try it one time. All my fences are rotting on me. Hell, I’d rather set up rails any day than stretch wire.”

Joe Burwell’s son Dyke was approaching the sisters and Maria on the church porch. “Hey.”

“Hey, Dyke,” Frankie cried.

The boy was nineteen or twenty, fleshy and large. He was smiling weakly at the girls, in anguish. Frankie blushed, Ellen looked down, scowling. Anton was calling them to the waiting wagon.

“He’s cute,” Frankie whispered and looked back.

“You can have him. I heard he does dishes and washes and scrubs for his ma.”

“I wouldn’t mind. He’s tall. But how come he does her housework?”

“She’s a one-leg. She hitched a horse up without the blinders and it scared off and ran the spring-wagon o’er her. They had to cut her leg clean off above the knee.”

“Say.”

“She wore out three wood legs till she took to pushing a chair before her. Had a baby too,” Ellen concluded luridly, “couple of years after.”

“Well, all the same he’s tall. I’m not so particular.”

In the cold clear weather the cows would seek sunny spots in the barnyard, at night crowding into steaming groups. The goats found a plank leaning against the chicken house. Ellen came on the younger ones bounding madly on the corrugated tin roof, their hoofs rattling. The daring skewbald Pie snorted and leaped skittishly from the high slanted roof to the ground. She was galloping back to the plank, short tail erect, up on the roof again, sure-footed. They seemed like wild animals Ellen had come on in the woods, unable to contain their spirits. Penny, who was heavier and not inclined to frolic, stood on the ground, ears flattened in worry. Ellen patted her and she tossed her beard, fretful.

The girls were gathering walnuts and butternuts. They shucked them and threw the hulls in the kitchen stove. Dyke Burwell drove up in a buggy with his father. Ellen saw them through the window. Dyke sat helpless, holding the reins, while the men met and walked to the barns. Joe Burwell turned his head, bellowing, “Hitch Blacky to the post, you dang fool, and get in where it’s warm. You got a corncob for a head?”

At the kitchen door Dyke was rapping, timid. Ellen opened it, her hands stained with walnut juice. She was blocking the entrance. “Well?” He cast his eyes to his hobnail shoes. She saw the two men disappear in the distance. “We’re busy baking.” Cruelly, she closed the door on him.

“Ellie Gaddy!” Frankie was running quick-footed after the stout ungainly boy. She led him to the parlor where she gave him black and white beans to string clumsily for decoration. Ellen heard her vivacious voice and later the piano tinkling and Frankie’s falsetto.

When I was a lady, a lady, a lady When I was a lady, a lady was I And this way and that way and this way And that way And when I was a lady, a lady was I

“That makes two geese in there,” Ellen told Maria briefly.

On the evening Garland was to arrive, the Gaddys were waiting in vain. Anton took out the letter that had come from Chicago, studied it again, squinting through his reading glass. “Hit’s today for sure. That’s what it says here. Lay down that red carpet on the twenty-second. That’s his way of saying it.”

“You know, Mester Gaddy,” Maria said, “today the sun entered Capricornus. First day of winter.”

Anton reflected and went for the almanac. “Hit says unsettled here. I’ve noticed these folks will often hit it right. Could be he’s run up against a storm.”

The roast was kept on the back of the stove, reheated until the juices dried. The chores were finished. The family had dressed for company. Late dusk set in and Anton grumbled, “Put it out and we’ll eat. I’ll say grace.” They picked at the food by lamplight. The man spoke suddenly, “This meat’s not fit for hogs.” He pushed his plate and got up, began to pack his pipe.

Frankie made sniffing sounds. “He’s not coming, that’s what. I can’t bear waiting and not knowing.” She ran up the stairs, her footsteps fading; the loft door slammed mildly from afar.

The next forenoon Garland was wheeling a yellow Reo into the lane; he pressed the horn, “Ah-roooooo-ga!” Frankie flew out to greet him. Ellen was hesitating at the door, her hand shielding her eyes from the winter sun. She saw the familiar derby and Garland’s arm about Frankie as Anton came from the barnyard. “Broke down at Minetta, An. Had to stay overnight. Why the hell don’t you have a telephone installed like everyone else?” Garland was waving at his car. “How do you like it? Brand-new touring style. The latest.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Had her up to forty miles on route sixty-six.”

Anton preceded them into the kitchen. Garland was looking at Ellen as he came to the steps. “Well, puss?” He pinched her thigh, his small blue eyes gay. “How’s the wandering little wench?” He wagged his finger.

“Reckon I was a poor niece to you last winter after your kindness.” She gazed at him, candid. “I ne’er meant it so.”

“Put on weight, haven’t you, hon? You look good. Pretty.” The color rose in her face, relieved that he would let the past rest. “Got a boy friend yet?”

“No,” she was smiling. He met her eyes. At the sight of the clipped mustache in the squared smooth face, a part of her loneliness had drawn away. They walked into the house, his arm on her shoulder.

Maria was in the bedroom doorway, twisting a towsack towel in her hands. “Who be you?”

“Ooman,” roared Anton, “it’s my brother then.”

“Not peddler.”

“Ooman. You’re plaguing me.”

“Shut up, An. She hasn’t seen me for a year. Hello, Maria, I brought you a present, too. It’s in my car. A pressure cooker to save you work.”

“Now I forgot it was you coming today.” Maria was suddenly complacent. “Tinie Bilberry’s got a bread-mixing outfit. Hit’s made to save work too. The handle turns like a churn and the dough comes out ready for the pans.”

“Does hit shape the loaves too?” asked Anton grimly. “I allow men are turning from the Lord God’s ways with these contraptions.”

“Next year I’m going to bring you a sewing machine, Maria. I saw a treadle one you could use, seeing as your husband won’t put in electricity till doomsday. You got to look to the future, Anton. Rural electrification. Let machines do it.”

“Next you’ll say get a newfangled automobile,” Anton predicted.

Ellen and Maria laid out the noon dinner. Ellen was warmed in her uncle’s love. In the evening she sat by him on the sofa. Or if he was standing, she linked her arm in his. When he laughed and said Frankie’s way of speech wasn’t a whit altered from last year and that Anton had got a reaming on the grammar teacher, her jealousy was assuaged.

But Anton angered, “That fellow’s been coming for a year. And there was one we had before him that quit on me.”

“Hold on,” Garland was crying easily. “Chrissake, Frankie’ll be all right. You did what you could.” He nodded kindly to the girl’s stricken face. “Let’s hear you play something, sweet.”

The next morning Ellen was in late from her barn work. She stopped in the hall at the parlor door, hearing Garland’s emphatic voice within, “She’s not well, I tell you, An. You’re so used to her you don’t notice. But she acts downright queer.”

“Shaw.”

“She needs psychiatric care. Mental aid. Look, I’m worried about her. Your attitude doesn’t help, God knows. You’re as enlightened as a bushman.”

Anton laughed, “You modern city folk. Such know-alls.”

“I’m not sure if I should have brought that pressure cooker, either.”

“Well, that’s a fact. I wouldn’t have any truck with it. What’s it got o’er a good fire for cooking? You tell me.”

Ellen wandered into the kitchen to look at Maria with new eyes. She saw the two men going to the barn, her uncle clad in one of the country costumes he affected, jodhpurs and boots, a dark red turtle-neck sweater. And Anton wearing stiff new overalls and a fresh-made black shirt.

When the time had arrived for midnight mass, Ellen was taking her place at the communion rail with the others. She waited while the priest stopped at Garland and then Anton and Maria. Then Father Tompert spoke in Latin above her and in the cold church all became quiet. The fleeting fear washed over Ellen. Am I lost? Pa thinks I’m a pure maid. But his God knows I’m not. When she was going back to the bench, she fortified herself. They that stumbled are girded with strength. She had read it when she searched in her father’s worn Bible. I’ve done no wrong. I have my God. And she rebuilt her peace.

They were driving back to the farm in the Reo. The girls tucked their feet in the narrow floor space, sniffed the new interior. They savored the luxury of the shallow seat. Frankie was giggling, “We’re like soft city ladies.” Ellen laughed into the dark.

Anton was pulling at his pipe, the fragrant smoke mingling with the fresh biting wind that whipped from the open windows into the back seat. Garland inquired, “Where’s your fancy blue hat, hon? With the rose on it, that I brought you last year? I see you’re still wearing that old cap.”

“It’s cold tonight,” Ellen was evasive, “so I wore this warm wool one.”

At home, they ate from the laden table. Then the women came into the parlor, leaving the kitchen in disarray. They sat by the fire that was cracking as the dry wood caught. “I’m going to help you girls do those dishes in the morning,” Garland cried. “You’ve got to keep me company. I used to be in demand as a dishwasher in the old days at some of the best hotels. Now I insist.”

“Such foolishness,” Anton mocked, lighting one of the fresh cigars and settling in a chair.

Ellen brought a bowl of wrinkled sweet winter apples. “Have a russet, Uncle?”

“Ellie, I’ll play if you’ll sing.” Frankie was at the upright piano.

“Go ahead, pusses.” Garland had produced a bottle of bootleg rum; he poured two glasses. He waved his hand until they finished the tune.

I don’t want no more of your weevily wheat I don’t want none of your barley But I want some more of your pretty white flour To bake a cake for Charlie

“I vote for Christmas!” Garland’s face heated. Ellen was remembering the party in Chicago where he had seemed a stranger. Here he was his old self once again. When he came yearly to the farm, the tenor of the home would be transformed, and Ellen esteemed by him above her sister. She wondered if Anton ever noticed. I’m strong like their mother, that Nell they talk of. And Frankie’s not.

Anton finished his glass, set it down. “If you-all want to hear about it, we saw a crowd of doves once so thick they blacked the sky.”

“Turtledoves?” Frankie asked.

“Passenger pigeons,” said Garland. “I remember them, too. Extinct now. That was when we were boys.”

“They sounded like a twister when a flock came o’er,” said Anton. “Our sir took us three youngens to see them. That was in eighteen-eighty.”

“Not that far back.” Garland was yawning.

“Yes it was. For Ma named it time and again. Eighteen-eighty.” Anton was animated by the memory.

“Well, if you say.”

“You and me were still wearing shirt-tails, Gar. Marc was in pants. He’d have been about ten. It was down where Maria’s folks lived.” He nodded. “At Seven Mile Run. They shot them down and left the squabs to die. They shipped them in barrels till the market was so glutted they had to feed them out to the hogs.”

“How many you reckon were in that skyful of doves, Pa?” Ellen was asking.

“Well, when they settled, the flock stretched forty miles long and ten deep. Then one day they all flew off at once. We went to look at the giant trees stripped and ruined.”

“I’d fain have seen them,” Ellen said, “darkening the sky.”

“I notice they caught some rumrunners,” Garland said, “sneaking it in from Canada in a carload of hog carcasses.” He mourned, “No more booze.”

“Prohibition’s nothing to me,” said Anton, “I make what wine I need. I’ll give you some to take back if you want. Dandelion’s the best, I’d say.”

“I’ll take you up on that. So they don’t catch me, I’ll label it perfume for the ladies.”

Frankie was tittering, Garland stretching, and the family found their beds.

Ellen remained awake. Life, it seemed, was a long quest for love. The wind was whistling low around a corner of the house. Her mind went on what Garland had said about Maria being ill. The wind sound was bringing to memory a fall evening when Ellen was a child and a whippoorwill began to call near the porch steps, first in low-pitched chucks, then shredding the night with its cry. Maria had shrieked, “Get him off the porch, girl.” Ellen ran to open the door, the song ceased as the bird winged away. But Maria had wept, “When the whippoorwill sings on your doorstep, it brings bad luck. Hit sung on the night I lost my betimes baby. It was a little boy.” Ellen had vowed then, it’ll not be so with me. Life won’t break me whatever comes. The wind was growling, hunting. She remembered that in Illinois there was a small child of hers. She had a vague wish to see what he was like. And then, nostalgia like a memory of the dead drove through her, constricting her throat, for what dwelled between Luke Dougherty and his wife.

On Christmas, Anton was baffled to find his brother had given him a battery radio. “Hit’s a contraption, all right.” He was tuning the stations. Static clattered in, a rasping voice and a sudden blare of music. Anton was hunching himself over the instrument on the table. “Don’t help me, Gar. Leave me run hit myself.”

The girls opened black velvet boxes. Ellen was turning a gold chain over in her hand; she laid it cold about her throat. There were matched pearls for Frankie who wore her new yellow dress and flitted between Anton and Garland. “Now, gather ye rosebuds,” Garland was quoting, “while ye may. Old Time’s still a-flying. The same flower that blooms today tomorrow’ll be dying.” He thumped the round table with his palm.

“Tell more about Chicago, Uncle. What’ll it be like for me?”

“Oh, Anton thinks you’ve got such a talent,” he was chucking Frankie’s chin, “he can’t cheat the world of it. You’ll like it, sweet. I’ll let you take it slow. Afraid I gave your sister too big a dose.” He looked at Ellen, who gravely returned his gaze. “Remember how busy I was, hon? Now that’s what I like about Christmas down here. Takes my mind off my problems.”

“Give me that old-timey religion,” the radio pealed.

“Listen at that,” Anton shouted. “No telling where those barbarians are singing from.”

The holiday week wore on. Frankie in high excitement, was easily given to laughter, as easily wept. On the second of January, it was planned, she would drive in the Reo to Chicago. The sisters were washing milk buckets in the kitchen when Ellen said, “Be good for you to part from Pa for a spell.”

“Oh, you just want him for yourself,” Frankie wailed. “He’ll ne’er romp with you like me.”

Ellen tightened her lips, threw back her head, marched to her goats in the woodshed. “Scroungy brat,” she sniffed. “That’s not so.”

They were all seated before the fire in the parlor at night. A knock came at the kitchen door and Ellen went to answer it. “Why, Lily Garrett. I don’t know when we saw you last. Want to come in?”

The fat girl was encased in a bulky coat, the figure of a youth rearing behind her. “We want you to come with us, Ellie. Frankie too. We got a wagon of hay and there’s a moon to see by. Come on, Ellie, ask if you can.”

“No. Pa wouldn’t let us. Who-all is there?” She leaned forward from the security of the house.

“A whole wagonload of us. Papa let me go. Said I’d be whipped anyway so I’d as well. It’s a deal of fun.” Lily was bouncing with energy. “This is Jacob Haas.”

“Hello,” he said.

“Reckon we can’t go, but I sure thank you for asking. And Mester Haas, too.” She nodded to the dark figure.

She came back into the parlor and Garland said, “That was your fellow, wasn’t it, sweet?” His blue eyes were admiring her.

She stepped lightly across the oak floor, containing her gestures. “Oh, it was only Lily, Uncle.”

“She’s my best friend,” Frankie said. “She told me when Sophie had those twins.”

“Yes, and those brats came five months after the girl married Buck Lemmon,” Anton said. “A loose crowd.”

“They’re young, Anton,” cried Garland.

“Rakes and loose girls. Defiling the unwedded has no excuse. I’ll keep these two chaste.”

On New Year’s Eve, Ellen was putting peas to soak in the iron kettle. Garland came looking for her. “What are you doing, puss?”

“Don’t you know it’s good luck to eat black-eye peas and sowbelly the first day of the year?”

“What really happened last spring in St. Louis, hon? It was a man, wasn’t it? I knew something was going on with you.”

She looked to her work, her fingers trembling. She felt mature, controlled. “Nothing. I ne’er reached St. Louis.”

“What I can’t figure out is how you managed to get away so quietly. I searched the stations in the morning for you. Kept it from Anton as long as I could.”

“Wish I was like you, Uncle. You got all you want.” She said it unexpectedly. “Purely I’d admire to be you.”

“Seems you could have told me your problems. You’re growing up so fast. Maybe I could have helped. Why did you run away like that?”

“I wouldn’t be Pa. But I’d be you, if I were a man.” She said it passionately, won to him by his approval of her, by his broad opinions, awed with his worldliness.

“There’s no one like you, Ellen,” he was smiling, shaking his head.

Anton called from the parlor door, “Go out and take a look at that Gladys heifer, girl.”

“I’ll go with her,” Garland shouted back. He took Ellen’s coat from the hook and held it for her. He was lighting the lantern awkwardly. He wore a fur-trimmed jacket and was pulling on kid gloves. His esteem seeped over Ellen, making her movements supple, her youth a fine thing.

The path to the barn was a river of canescent moonlight drowning the lantern glow. They walked silent until Garland said, “You know how much like my mother you are?” He reflected. “There was a way she had though, that came out sometimes. Like she really hated me.” He was speaking softer. “I’d try to make her notice the way I could work quicker and do things better than Marc. He was older. She always doted so on him.” Ellen’s quiescence encouraged him in the cover of the night. “I remember her sitting with her head up stiff in the seat of her little rig, driving her pony. Beg her to let me harness it for her, or curry it.” He murmured, “You know, you’re just the spit of her sometimes, puss. Except for your hair. Hers was more the color of Frankie’s.” He took her arm.

Ellen felt him shivering. It’s me, causing him to do that. “Venus and Mars and Jupiter are the evening stars now,” she told him. “Jupiter’s still up, he doesn’t set till about eight these days.”

In the barn, by fragile lantern light, the pregnant young cow seemed quiet. They were turning to go. Ellen noticed Sam had stuffed a burlap sack in the broken window to keep the wind out. Garland spoke again, “You know I’ve always had a thought about Marc that I never told anyone.” Ellen was listening in the near dark, amid the pungent animal odors. “He had brown straight hair and his face was different somehow. Handsome. He wasn’t like any of us.” He lit a cigarette, leisurely. “You in any hurry, sweet?” He put his arm about her and she waited to hear the secret about her dead uncle, Marc. “I don’t think he was Pa’s son at all. I think my mother married Jules Gaddy because she got caught and needed a father for her child.”

“Reckon your sir knew of it?” whispered Ellen.

“No telling. He thought the world of my mother, that I’m sure of. She got her way on everything.” He was blowing the smoke, stamping the cigarette into the musty bedding. He breathed broken, “Oh darling.” And his dry mouth was on hers, his old mouth, in desire. He was pulling at her skirt, fumbling on her thigh with his soft fingers. She tore her mouth swiftly away, turning her head.

“And Lot went up out of Zoar,” he whispered, holding her to him. “He dwelt in the mountains and his daughters with him. Didn’t know I could quote from the Bible, did you, hon? The first-born went in and lay with her father. Book of Genesis.” Hotly he held her but gently withal.

She was pushing him from her with violent hands. “Come to the house, Uncle. Now.”

Wordless he followed her up the path where moonlight bloomed cold. In the kitchen she hung her coat on its hook. She went upstairs to lie in the chill air, while the dying candle made a puddle of tallow on the table top. Ellen’s loneliness was an ache, for his kindness had garbed her. He was aged and knowledgeable. Despair had laid her bare. It’s not for love of me. He’s got no enduring need of me. His imperfection, his weakness, had come to stand between them.

In the morning Garland was jovial in a bright yellow shirt piped in red and a belt with a European clasp fashioned like a horse and rider. Ellen dawdled over her barn chores, came tardily to the breakfast table. She didn’t wear a fresh apron, she ate stolid, uncommunicative. Anton was rapt in the radio, the nasal twang.

She’s pure as the rose, like the lamb she is meek And she’s never been known to use paint on her cheek

Ellen went from the room unnoticed. She decided to clean in the parlor first. She lifted a heavy chair, viciously dropped it thudding into its accustomed place. “Can’t those old fools leave things in order? It’s clean and redd up, mop and scrub. And then they mess it all up. Hogs.” She was piling rag rugs in her arms and striding to the porch. The door slammed after her. She stood on the steps and shook the rugs, snapping them with loud whacks. The dirt whirled in the cold air. “Dust and more,” she was muttering.

Garland opened the door. He was holding a cigarette, and traced his mustache with the small finger of his hand. Behind him she could hear Frankie’s high inquiring whines and the radio.

“Well, puss?” She continued her work, her soft mouth set in a line. He came over to her. “You know what you mean to me? Joie de la vie. Now that’s right. I’m past fifty, hon. If I’d have met someone like you earlier things might have been different in my life.”

She let a rug drop and in a deliberate movement took up another with a sigh. “I got a tormented lot of work to get through today, Uncle.”

“Just wanted you to know that.” He was tossing his cigarette away; he lit another and went inside. She heard him in a few minutes.

It’s beefsteak when I’m hungry Rye whisky when I’m dry Greenbacks when I’m hard up And heaven when I die

The Reo was packed, and it waited to carry Garland and Frankie away the next day. Ellen was instructed to wake the travelers early in the morning before going to the barn. The household sought their beds not long after supper. Frankie was protesting in their room, “The particular thing I’m afraid of is meeting folks, Ellie. Wish you were going to be there.”

“I’m out of patience with you. You’ve not done a lick all day, flitting about like a twitting chick.”

“All the same, talk to me.”

“Hush and leave me be. I’m asleep.”

Before dawn Ellen went into Garland’s partitioned chamber to rouse him. The light of the candle wavered across his face. For the instant she was confused, thinking it wasn’t her uncle with mouth pulled in withered upon the gums. She drew her breath sharply, and he was opening his eyes. “Ell’n?” he quavered, reaching for his false teeth in a watercup on the stone-topped bed table.

“Are you awake? I have to run.”

When she returned from the barn, Frankie had dressed, her new pearls were at her neck, her lips pale, her eyes blue-shadowed. “Must I really go, Pa?”

“It’s what we planned. And it’s for you to do. You know it be my nearest wish.” He warned her, “Don’t start up.”

“I won’t, Pa.”

He took the girl on his lap. “Look here, Poppet.” The battery set was clanging to the beat of a banjo, “Off with your coat and wet your throat with that real old mountain dew.”

“Shut it off for Chrissake,” Garland demanded, and the women started. “We’re going in a few minutes and then you can listen to your heart’s content. By God, An.”

The man switched off the radio and they sat to breakfast.

“Gladys isn’t letting her milk down so good, Pa.” Ellen leaned toward him.

“Tell Sam to let her calf bump it some. It can stay with the old one awhile. I aim to veal hit anyway.”

“Did you e’er tell Uncle about old Full-pail, Pa?” Frankie was preparing to prolong the mealtime. “That Dyke told of?”

“Listen at this, Garland. Joe Burwell went to look at a milk cow. The farmer hadn’t but led it out when his old ooman came squalling, don’t sell old Full-pail. Pray, don’t sell Full-pail, Mester. Joe’s ears pricked up. The old lady kept hollering so first thing Joe knows, he’s shelling out thirty dollars cold cash and hauling the cow home. That evening he couldn’t milk a teacup. Joe was fit to be tied. Went back and the farmer said to him, ne’er said how big the pail was.”

“That’s good,” Garland approved.

Before the sun rose much higher the bags had been put in the car. Garland returned to the porch for the pasteboard suitcases of Frankie’s things. “Away we go,” he cried.

Frankie was clinging to Ellen. “Reckon I won’t see you-all till next Christmas.”

“You’ll be too grand for us then, Frankie,” Ellen said.

Garland was getting behind the wheel. “These Reos are demons. Did I tell you I had her right at fifty on route sixty-six?”

“You take care of that girl, Gar. Don’t drive so reckless.”

“Statistics prove a car’s lots safer than a buggy. You know that?” He was looking at Ellen, “Goodbye, hon.”

“Goodbye, Uncle.” She waited for them to be gone, for routines to be reestablished and the ways of peace to come over the farm. She yearned toward spring, sick of winter’s hanging on.

“So long, Maria,” Garland was calling. Maria waved, walking back to the house.

“Bye now, Ma.” And the small figure promised, “I’ll write once a week, Pa.”

The yellow car was going down the lane and turning onto the road. Stillness descended until it rang like wounded thunder. Anton went toward the porch where Maria, in her dark red sweater and a discarded broad-brimmed hat of his, waited to follow Anton into the house. Ellen walked over to the well, putting her coat collar up. She sat on the damp covering board and shivered. From her pocket she was taking the gold-linked necklace Garland had given her. She dangled it where the sun collected to glint and catch the luster. She held it over the well before letting it drop.