Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go tend the goats, Simon.”

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

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

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

“Because her daddy was a white one.”

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

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

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

“Just about.”

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

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

“You’s a little hen, Mama.”

“You’re my chick, then.”

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

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

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

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

“You wrote you left Uncle.”

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

“I see.”

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

“Oh?”

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

“How?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s that?”

“Ellie. A movie star.”

“When did you first meet this Gen?”

“She’s my best friend.”

Dyke stepped into the kitchen. “Hey.”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“Frankie,” Ellen cried.

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

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

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

“She went out with Dyke a spell ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right, Gen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Genevieve, “Let’s be calm.”

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

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

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

“Nonsense,” said Genevieve.

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

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

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

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

“Quit jawing,” Ellen said savagely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should I make you another?”

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

“What do you want?”

“I’d like a horse to name my own.”

“Maybe someday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dyke called from the darkened window, “Hey!”

“Come in, boy.”

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

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

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

“Hum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I help her, Miss Wheeler.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon was staring, open-mouthed.

“Who’s Da, boy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Sunday the two Gaddy sisters were sitting on the porch. Lily Garrett walked up to them in her shapeless Mother Hubbard dress. “I’ve come to make lavendery sticks for the last time with you-all.” Lily was sweating through her padding of fat.

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

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

“I’ve got news for you.” Lily’s face was shaking as she laughed. “Craig Hedrick’s making me his wife.”

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

“Just to mass,” said Ellen.

“I can’t ask you to a wedding.” Lily was raising her large arms to her hair. “We’re only going to the priest. The bans have been read and we’ve got no time for fancy doings. Craig’s bought the farm next to him. He’ll be working o’er a hundred acres this summer.”

“My,” said Ellen.

“We’ll drive straight home from the priest and go to work, he says. He’s going to get a tractor with lights so he can work nights. Law, he’s a goer.”

“Calling him a goer makes me remember Mandy York,” Frankie was saying. “When she was out hoeing with us that time and she said, I’m smart, I’m a good duster and a good sweeper and a good hoer. We laughed at how it came out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s in the field. Sam lets him ride Blueberry. He thinks he’s a man sitting up there holding on the hame knobs.”

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

“A mite.”

“Can’t say he takes after your side.”

In the silence, Ellen was binding the stalks with yarn; the sweet oil scented her fingers.

“Craig’s got no use for you, Ellie. Reckon he’ll not let me come down this way when I’m Mrs. Hedrick.”

“You think a lot of him, Lily?”

“It’s like this. I’m built so big most fellows laugh at me. Papa’s glad to get me settled. He’s going to help us where he can. I allow I’m a sight lucky to catch Craig.”

Ellen had never heard the flighty Lily speak so seriously. She seemed nearly sad as she came to this turning in her life.

“You’ll make him a good wife.”

“I aim to. I’d like to have a child like yours.” They worked awhile, the murmurs of the other two coming from the end of the bed. “I don’t know if it’s right to tell such a thing on my promised husband, but I knew you long before him.” Lily’s face fired red. “He says you be free with men, Ellie. Says he could name the ones you’ve slept with.”

“There’s lots of tales told, Lily.”

“Says you weren’t even married.”

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

“You’re twisting my words, Ellie. But I’ll say more.” The hot sun drenched them, drew the last moisture from the flower bed. Lily’s curls lay straggled on her sun-browned neck and Ellen waited. “I’ll be glad when Craig won’t let me come here to visit you-all. I know he wanted you for a wife. He tells those tales for the hate he bears you. Being as you slighted him.”

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

“I’ve seen a little silk rose he keeps. It came off that blue hat you wore when you went to Chicago that time. How’d he come by it?”

“Oh Lily.”

“You won’t tell. And knowing I took what you wouldn’t have, I’d as lief bide away from you.” Lily’s eyes brimmed as she bent over the handful of pale-purple blooms.

Ellen trembled. “If you feel that way.” She was working down the perfumed rows, away from her childhood friend. “I don’t care.”

The visitors were planning to leave the following weekend. Genevieve Wheeler was due at her desk in the Featherbone Works on Monday morning. On Wednesday night Anton awoke to the stutter of thunder. He shuffled barefoot, to close windows in the kitchen and parlor. As he was returning, he stopped a while at the calico curtains of the partitioned room where his daughter and Genevieve slept. He overheard their whispers. Grinding his teeth, he took the cloth in his violent fist. But he released it and went to the bed where Maria was snoring, mouth half open. “Hail, Holy Mary,” he whimpered. He prayed, envisioning his mother Nell, clad in a blue gown like the Virgin, her bright red hair flowing about her shoulders. He wept secretly, fashioning words he would say as he banished Frankie forever.

The night’s rain drew upward to the hot sky. The sticky air was clinging as the family slowly collected for breakfast. Frankie and Genevieve were seated, Maria was placing a dish of fried potatoes on the table before joining them. Ellen had brought a hot skillet of eggs from the stove. She lifted them onto plates with her iron spatula. “I’ll take two, Ellie,” Genevieve cried. “This country air’s given me an appetite.”

“Oh, Gen, you always take two.”

A bumblebee, caught at the glass, was buzzing. Simon ran in. He had washed at the pump and water was dripping from his hands. “Morning, Simon,” said Frankie. “Why does an old maid go to church so early on Sunday? Don’t tell him, Gen.”

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

Anton came in. The screen door cracked behind him like a breaking stick. The people turned. He spoke softly to his younger daughter. “The Bible says, were they ashamed when they committed abomination? Nay, they were not. Neither could they blush.” He wiped his face with an arm dusted with chaff of hay and hair of cows. Ellen heard the bee mumble at the glass and her hand, holding the skillet, was tiring. “You be not welcome under my roof now, girl. The Lord God’ll have a reckoning day for you.”

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

“Shut your jaw. Unnatural ooman.”

Frankie was still, a paleness blanketing her features. She was wearing a high-throated shirtwaist, the color of her hair brilliant against its whiteness. Her linen skirt fitted her small hips. Her hands rested in her lap. Frankie had turned, after months of terror and insecurity in Garland’s house, to the gentle dominion of the older female. The grip of her father’s hand had gradually fallen away and she had begun to think of the home farm as a place in one of the tunes they would sing, nostalgic and typical.

First the farmer sows his seed Then he stands And takes his ease

They were gay in the small Chicago flat. Now the old fear of Anton was absent. She was waiting until he would speak again into the sultry kitchen.

“You be gone.” His voice was a blade cutting a cord. “When Sam and me get back from the wheat this noon. Christ, you be not my daughter any more.” He stalked to the door and out.

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

“I don’t know,” sighed Ellen.

“Now he ne’er ate his breakfast,” Maria was complaining, “with his fretting. But here comes Sam. He’ll eat good.”

“There’s simply no talking to Pa when he’s set like that, Gen,” Frankie laughed. “He gets so sore.”

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

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

Frankie laughed again. “So she can be there when the hymns are given out, silly.” She got up, brushing her skirt. “Oh, Ellie, don’t worry. You know Pa. And we did have our visit. You’ll see, we’ll be back next summer.” Frankie was going to the bedroom.

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

“You want to go berrying by the lake?” Ellen set the skillet down on the stove. Her voice was unsteady. “They’re real thick, Simon. All you have to do is shake them in the pail. You take Jack for company. Watch out for snakes, mind.”

Sam was coming up the porch as the boy took the lard pail and marched off, his hand on the dog’s back. Simon’s hair was white in the summer sun. His cap, grimy and wrinkled now, perched on his head. Ellen turned to free the imprisoned bee still tumbling at the pane. Maria spoke, “Want these cold eggs, Sam?”