Chapter 22

The weather turned brisk, the temperature fell, the dew had frozen in a white sprinkle. Mouths of animals and men steamed. The excavation for the cellar of the new house had been completed, a square gash in a rise of land at the far end of the farm. “Now let it freeze,” Mom was saying. “They can still lay cinder-block.”

“It’s like a dream come true,” said Adele, “them building our house. Land.”

The little girls had spread old mail-order catalogs on the kitchen floor. They cut and snipped, squabbling. “It’th mine. You shut up, booby.”

“You see, Mom?” Adele pleaded. “It’s not right you should have to put up with this commotion.”

Ellen was savoring the friendly companionship of the two women. The girls she had known—her sister, Lily Garrett, even Amanda York—had been younger than she. And they had leaned on her. She could never look up to them or turn to them for advice. There was a freshness in her relationship with these older women.

“Just wait till Ellen sees my roses, Adele. They’re a sight, all pink and white.”

“You know, Ellen, Pop can tell to the exact how many flowers each bush has every year,” Adele said.

“Keeps it in his head.”

They worked, their hands busy in the baking, they talked idly, “He’ll say, this white rose had only fifty-one buds last year.”

“Every rose, he’ll count.”

The cold air rushed in as the door opened. “There. That cake fell,” said Mom. “Land o’ Goshen, I’m peeved.” Dan came in, leading Simon, who was tear-stained. “You will slam doors on baking day, Dan.”

“Dammit. Sorry, Mom. He bumped his knee, Ellen. Fell down.”

Simon was pulling his torn pants leg up to reveal a soiled bruise. He held his tongue between his lips; phlegm was dripping from his nose. “Hit don’t hurt now,” he mourned. Ellen washed the wound. Her mind was apart from the accident. Wonder why Dan came in with Simon. He needn’t have. Simon’s ten and not a baby. Maybe Dan’s thinking on me. I don’t want him. Nor any man. She was wrapping the strip of cloth about the knee.

Dan was lighting one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. “Press my suit today, Mom, will you? I’m taking Star to the grange dance.”

“All right, Dan.”

As the two went out Mom shouted, “And don’t slam it.”

“Star’s his girl,” Adele was telling Ellen. “She’s lots younger than him.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Mom said. “She’s nearly nineteen.”

“And Dan’s over forty.”

“Wish they’d set the date,” said Mom. “Keeps me on edge.”

“You think Star’ll settle down to being a farmer’s wife?” Adele asked. “After all, she’s used to a maid doing the work. Why, I bet she can’t cook even.”

“She loves him. That’s what counts.”

“She’s an only child. She gets whatever she wants.”

“Star’s so pretty,” Mom told Ellen.

“Her folks have spoiled her,” said Adele. “But Dan’s crazy about her.”

“Marrying will settle her. She’s the nicest looking girl in the countryside.” Mom was complacent.

“Dan wants his bull to have the best blood lines. He’s got to have the latest machinery, the newest hybrid seed.” Adele sawed the air with a flour-streaked hand. “I wouldn’t be his wife.”

“Well, you’ve got Sudduth.”

“Praise the Lord,” Adele was laughing, an edge to her voice.

“When are they getting married?” Ellen asked, quiet in her relief, detached.

“Didn’t I tell you there might be a big event this fall? The date’s not fixed, but when the house is built, there’ll be nothing to stop them.”

“Sudduth figures that’s why Dan’s in such a stew to get the cellar dug.”

“Now there. I forgot the eggs,” Mom was saying. “They have to be gathered at ten, two, and after supper. Maybe you’d better take over that job too, Ellen.”

Every Saturday afternoon Ellen would find an envelope on her dresser, in it four and a half dollars. When she laid them in her drawer she felt a wealth and a peace. She was moving less uncertainly in the new household. She was the hired girl and the value set on her talents gave her a self-respect. On Sundays, Pop, Mom, Adele and the three children would go to the Presbyterian church in Hidden Creek, Adele driving the Dodge car. Sudduth and Dan would work on the new house. Ellen walked out with Simon to see the farm, for during the week she was too busy. Simon showed her the gray horses he groomed and she patted sleek brown-and-white cows, fastened in metal stanchions, munching hay, their tongues curling about the wisps. “Aren’t those stalls modern, Ma?” They passed the hog lot where white-banded pigs were squealing and snuffling at a trough of water in the cement lot. “They’re not dish-faced like Granddaddy’s pigs.”

“I see they’re not. They’re a different kind.” The shouts of the men were faint on the air, mingled with the low lonesome bawl of the new bull. Some day I’ll tell Simon what Pa did. And why we had to leave.

“Wonder how little Rhodie is, Ma?”

“Oh, Simon.”

“And fat old Pie. And Leona. If their hoofs are cut regular.”

“I don’t know. You still honing after them?” Reckon I’ll tell him sometime what Pa did to my goats, cutting their throats. “You miss your granddaddy?” She was looking off to the bowl of sky. The far calls floated and echoed in it.

“Reckon he was e’er good to me.”

“It’s nice here, on this place.”

“And there was old Jack. I set store by him.”

“Dennie’s feist is pretty.”

“He’s a scrappy thing.”

“Well.” They walked back.

Dan wore a white shirt on Saturday nights, with a blue detachable collar. He knotted on a brash necktie and brushed his shoes, stood at the doorway to the sitting room where the family convened. He seemed older to Ellen when dressed in the brown suit, his lean body pinched into tight cloth, the tough skin of his face emphasized. He was leaning against the frame, the birthmark a dull red. He tapped tobacco into thin paper, licked the edge, twirled the ends, all in a quick motion. “How’s this tie, Ellen? Too loud? Think my girl will take a second look?”

“I reckon.” She was patting the cat, inwardly disturbed.

“Well, if she was smart,” Sudduth mocked, “she’d run the other way fast, wouldn’t she Pop?”

The old man cackled. Ellen felt stiff and plain, smiled faintly as Dan walked out. I’d never be that Star.

On weekday nights Dan played the piano. His energy was contagious, it was as if his day had just begun. In the lamp glow their faces turned to where he sat.

There are many flags in many lands There are flags of every hue But there is no flag however grand Like our own red white and blue

The family were joining in, swept away by his exuberance and health. Sometimes Ellen sang with them.

Then hurrah for the flag, our country’s flag Its stripes and white stars too There is no flag in any land Like our own red white and blue

She was saying, “I know a languishing one, Dan. ‘Lord Lovel.’ You know it?”

“I can play the tune if you’ll sing.”

“All right.” He found the keys easily.

They like me here. She dwelled on it. It’s not like home where Pa jeered when I sang Penny’s songs and Ma never heard me.

Lady Nancy she died as it might be today Lord Lovel he died tomorrow Lady Nancy she died out of pure pure grief Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow

It was the first week in March, on a warm windy day, when the bees swarmed. Pop had on an old hat decked with a bee veil, he was wearing long gloves and had tied strings around the bottoms of his overalls. He carried a smoker to still the swarm that hung like a living sack on an oak branch. Ellen saw him from the window. He stooped and moved until finally the bees were in the new hive, their angry droning muffled, subsiding. The old man came in, taking off the veil. “Hee. Only got one sting.”

“My sister Frankie and me used to beat pie pans and make a racket when our bees wanted to swarm.”

“How come?”

“That’s so the workers can’t hear the queen calling.”

“Did it keep them in the home hive?”

“Two-three times it did. But the queen’s call is strong.”

“Don’t tell the boys. They’d call it a superstition. They go by the book too much for me.” His teeth flashed through his beard.

Before going up to bed, Ellen went out into the night. There was a light fog. She was curious about the bees, went to listen to the new hive. From it came a faint contented purr. She laid her hand on the wood. It’s like they’re one creature, like the whole drove’s got but one mind. Her hand was feeling the movement within, the insects changing position endlessly. While she was standing enclosed in the darkness, she heard Dan humming as he came back from the barnyard. His boots rasped on the pathway. She was waiting for him to pass but he sensed a presence, and stopped. “Who is it?”

“It’s me. Ellen.” She could see the coal of his cigarette. The air was balmy, brought up during the day from the south.

“The wind’s laid,” he said. Overhead a twisted sliver of moon was freeing itself from dodging clouds. The starlight was dim, pulling at the mist gently. “What are you doing?”

“Feeling the bees move. The hive’s like an animal.”

“That’s so. It is.” She heard his body settling against a tree trunk.

“Like it’s bedded down for the night.”

The silence dwelled while she waited on him. “What happened to your husband, Ellen?”

“He died.”

“How?”

She was seeking his face, but there was blackness. “He was killed.”

“I see. How?”

After a while she said, “It was in the haying time. He was down on the wagon bed.” The words were dragged up from some other part of her. She watched that part of her talk on, fumbling, “He had a watch-eye man hired to him. That man pitched the fork down and it stuck him between the shoulders.” The fog was rising, the moon slid away in clouds. Her tongue stumbled along of itself. “When they reached him, they say he was dead already.”

“I’m sorry.”

Something welled in her then, born of loneliness. It caught high in her throat. “No. I ne’er had a husband.” She wept. But she was eased. She was speaking of Christian Ay and how she couldn’t recall if he was tall or if his hair was brown. It had happened to her when she went to see a horse belonging to the farmer he worked for. Her letters had come back unopened. Ellen’s tears stopped then, and her voice. She began to hate the man hidden behind the black curtain. A shame was rising in her so she felt her face heat.

His voice was flat. “Windy days like this one’s been can bring on a cyclone.” He hummed slowly.

Some call her Lady Nancy Belle Some call her the Lady Nancy, Nancy Some call her the Lady Nancy

A twig broke under his foot, he ceased in the middle of the tune. “A cyclone’s a sight to see, Ellen. You should watch my kid brother run when one comes. You ever have them in Kentucky?” He paused for an answer, and resumed, “Star’s home was right in the path of one last year. Her father lost a bull valued at five thousand. He’s a big Jersey breeder.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Al Webster’s his name.”

“Webster?” Ellen remembered. “Webster’s Stock Farm?”

“That’s it. You’ve heard of it?”

“You know a Luke Dougherty?”

“Sure. Tall fellow, black-haired. Runs one of the barns.”

“Luke’s wife’s a close friend of mine. They live near Weems Crossroads.” All the time the echo of her voice rang in her ears: I ne’er had a husband. I ne’er had a husband.

“I’ll drive you over sometime to see her, if you want. It’s only twenty miles or so. Come along when I go see my girl some Sunday. I’ll drop you off.”

“I hear your girl’s a beauty.” He’ll tell everyone.

“Hell, Star’s got more than beauty. She’s exciting.” His voice was heavy.

Ellen thought how it was full of love. When he goes about the farm here, Star bides in him. She softens his movements like the way Penny and Luke love each other. And when he plants the wheat, his mind’s but a part on his work. And when Sudduth and he laid the cement in the cellar, he was thinking all the while, each day’s bringing me closer to when Star’s my bride. Why did I tell him I wasn’t married?

The yellow flash from a match spurted, making shadows streak over his bent face. The smoke filtered through the warm fog. “It’s just the past year Star’s mother hasn’t had to sit by her bed when she goes to sleep.” He was tender, boastful. “She’s afraid of the dark.”

There came to Ellen’s mind the little donkey Luke had led up the lane. They had gathered around it as a wonderful thing and set baby Clate on its back. Star Webster’s father had given it to Luke when his daughter tired of it.

The red ash glowed. Dan’s harsh voice was there. “Even that’s exciting about her.” His voice drifted in the south air, “I’m glad you kept your son with you, Ellen. Instead of giving him away like lots of women would have done. Shows you’ve got strength.”

“It’s a secret.” It sounded thin and anxious as she said it.

“I won’t let it out.” Then his voice lowered, “Simon’s a good boy. You taught him manners, too.”

“Well. Good night.”

“Good night, Ellen.”

She went into the house and to her bedroom. I’m a jawing fool. In the morning when Dan came into the kitchen she managed to avoid speaking to him. But he shouted down the length of the table, “Can I have the butter, Ellen? Let’s see that grape jelly, Ellen.”

She averted her eyes, passing the plates. I don’t like him one bit.