Chapter 23

The storm was already forming. The radio reported a twister passing briefly through a small town in Kansas. Throughout the troposphere of the Midwest certain conditions prevailed as the ancient pattern of the spawning of the tornadoes got under way. In corners of the Southwest, winds were gathering and moving across the continent; they drove warm wet air before them in a mass hovering close to the earth. In the fluctuations of these winds, gigantic columns of air would rise rapidly, a mile or so in diameter. At the spreading foot of these tall clouds, rain would gather and often local storms occurred under them. To complete the scheme, eight kilometers above ground the cold jet stream was rushing constantly in from the West at tremendous speed. This was the pattern. And when the summit of a rising cloud was hit by the jet stream, it began to twist counterclockwise. The movement was transferred in a spiral down the length of the column into the ugly widespread base. A whirling funnel of great power would lick downward. This was a tornado.

It sucked dust and stones, any object not fastened down. Its duration was from a few minutes to sixty or more. And no one could predict where it would strike. People who lived in these areas had a way of watching the sky during certain months. If there was a sudden drop in temperature or the sky darkened, if the wind rose, they fastened barn doors and herded their families into rooms where shades were pulled, or into cellars. It happened so fast that sometimes there wasn’t enough time and they were caught in the open. And if a noise was heard suddenly like a monstrous machine at high speed, they might pray as they crouched, waiting.

A few miles from Hidden Creek, Illinois, a gray-white cloud pillar was rising now, churning. Rain clouds at its base were low-spread and frowning. Over the land it became so dark that twilight descended though it was mid-afternoon. Ellen Gaddy was gathering eggs. “It’s making up a storm, biddy,” she said to the hens, “I heard the raincrow just this morning.”

Adele was shopping in Hidden Creek. Sudduth was distracted because she had taken the girls with her in the Dodge. Hannah had a stye and they planned to stop at the doctor’s. “I said, Adele, it’s fixing to storm. You ought to stay home,” Sudduth was explaining. “She should do what I say. I’m supposed to be wearing the pants.”

“Adele’s smart,” Pop soothed. “She’s all right.”

Pop and Mom and the boys were going down the cellar stairs, Sudduth pushing them before him. Ellen followed. Dennie was carrying the feist dog and Simon three cats. “Get a move on, Simon,” Sudduth was muttering, “Hurry.” Then on the last step he tripped, sprawling on the cement. “God damn it.” His voice was shrill, near tears.

“We’d pull the shades and stay in the house because of lightning.” Ellen went over to Mom. “But we ne’er would go down to the cellar.”

“Land, we always do.”

Pop and Dennie sat with Simon on a crate in a corner. Sudduth was rubbing his back. He leaned on the wall and whined, “Don’t you be sick now, Dennie, or I’ll swat your bottoms.” He ran his hand nervously across his face.

The boy laid his small head in the fur of the dog. He was pale. Pop turned to him, “Say, Dennie. Let’s you and me buy a sofa. Might as well set the storms out comfortable.”

Then Ellen remembered. “Where’s Dan?”

“He was working,” Sudduth said, “on the dump rake last I saw. I hollered to him to come.” He was rubbing his palm across his face again. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll go see.” Ellen ran up the stairs.

“Ellen,” Mom called.

“I’ll be all right.” The sky was massed with rolling cloud of blue and green and purple. In the north, lightning erupted in a yellow flare and the blacked clouds hanging before were outlined. A jagged orange bolt cracked through them. She was exhilarated. It’s a sight. And those folks are all hiding from it. She heard a rushing noise. The wind was coming. It tore at her hair, loosing it from its bonds. Within her, joy leaped again, like youth and first experience. And underneath she quailed. She was rounding the corner of the barn, running toward the shed.

She heard his shout and Dan was in the wide barn doorway, scowling, booted feet spread. His black hair was wild, the wind had whipped his shirt out, the birthmark burned like a new wound. He cried again, “You damn fool.” She was stopping, poised.

He strode out and pulled her arm, hurrying her to the barn. She protested, “I was afraid for you.”

“For me? You fool.” He was roaring above the wind. “Dammit. Look there.” He pointed at an inky cloud where a tongue licked downward and retreated. “That’s a twister.” Like a long thick snake it shot down to the earth and a whining roar commenced.

Dan’s hand was gripping hers. They were dashing to the stalls in the middle of the barn. She was suddenly afraid. “Now they’d talk of cyclones, but I ne’er saw one before, Dan.”

Swiftly, in the dull light, in the musty smell of the unused stable, he had his arms about her. His yellow-green eyes glittered, laughing, “Lady Nancy Belle.”

It came upon Ellen the way Craig Hedrick was grabbing with a band of steel while she struggled. That had haunted her dreams so she would awake in a sweat sometimes. And there was Uncle Garland’s hand seeking incestuous under her coat that lonely winter, so she had to drive the memory from her, suppress it, divorce it from her uncle whom she loved for his goodness. These things flooded up when she saw Dan’s weathered face, his shut eyes and hawknose, the red scar bending. She fought, violent, her hands hard against his blue shirt. “Bullying bastard.” The words were framed out of fright, without volition.

He shoved her against the stall’s side planking, furious because her struggle disconcerted him. “You little bitch, what do you mean? You’ve been licking after me ever since you came.”

“That’s not so.”

“Dammit, Ellen. You aren’t going to get raped again. You’re not that lucky.” His yell was coming under the hurricane wind. He was gripping her arms, forcing his hard mouth against hers.

By the stiffness of her lips and body, she resisted. But suddenly it all was falling away and a gentle hotness came up within her. She was parting her mouth and his tongue was seeking its softness. She moved her arms, laid them about his neck, holding him, feeling the coarse hair at her fingers. Wish I was Star. And there was the distant storm racket.

He let her go, laughed regretful, “What were those names I called you? Dammit, Ellen, you are pretty. I never noticed that.” She felt it too, though her dark-blue dress was long and her low-cut shoes soiled because she wore them at her work about the Leghorns. “I never saw you before. Look at your hair. The wind’s blown it out.”

Hail clattered on the galvanized tin roof. Thunder rolled. She leaned upon the worn wood of the manger, where bites of cribbing horses had made notches during long winters. She was putting her hand to her yellow hair, tucking it up while he watched. The thing that had happened, she felt it. How she would never be rigid and tied again, how she was free. Courage had replaced her hidden fears. Then it was that she came up to kiss Dan. And she put her head against his opened shirt, his tall strength, she felt the even thrusts of his heart. His hard arms were holding her and he stroked her hair. “The rain’s come,” she said, “it’s all o’er.”

“Did you see that twister come out of that cloud?” He was releasing her.

“First one I e’er saw, Dan.”

“We’re safe for another year, now. They never come twice.”

“Why’s that?”

“The law of averages.” He was going down the aisle then to the doorway. “The rain’s letting off.”

She was following, seeing the cuff was untucked from one of his heavy boots, the smoke of his cigarette drifting blue. “What are you looking at, Dan?”

“Nothing. Smells good. I like a storm, even a mean one.” He looked down at her, absent.

“I always did too.” The wind rode on bright clouds. She felt he was many miles away. Wonder if he’s thinking on Star. Well, I don’t care.

They went into the light drizzle, met the family streaming from the house. “You scared me, Ellen,” Mom shouted. “You two all right?”

“Was there a storm?” Dan cried. Ellen laughed. Dennie and Simon skipped, whooping.

“I heard it,” Sudduth frowned. “Bet it went through Hidden Creek. Adele could be killed.”

“Oh, Sudduth,” Mom said.

“And the girls.” Sudduth added.

“Now,” said Pop.

“And she’s with child.”

“What’s that?” Pop said.

“No, she’s not,” Mom was soothing.

“She’d have told us, Sudduth. She was just taking Hannah for that stye.”

“She didn’t want it. She tried to kill it with vinegar.” Sudduth leaned his skinny body forward eager, his thinning hair damp, his black eyes full of tears. “She was going to try arsenic.”

“But a baby.” Mom twisted her hands. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, we have our own affairs, you know.”

“I’m going to have a look around.” Dan was striding off.

The two boys came running. “The lines are down. And one of the chicken sheds is a sight.”

“Let’s go see,” Sudduth led the way. His parents came behind, whispering.

The people moved about Ellen, words were spoken, but it was as if it flowed separate from her, reached her through a blurred wall. Everything was new, everything changed. She went to the field where the Leghorns were kept. She righted an overturned coop, discovering a dead hen under it. The rest were huddled safely beneath a shed. She got a dipper of cracked grain. The white flock was coming up one by one, clucking, bobbing brilliant red combs and wattles, discarding their fright as they pecked the seed in the clean afternoon sunlight.

I came down the mountainside Give my horn a blow Everywhere them pretty girls Says yonder goes my beau

I went down in the valley green To win to me my love When I was done with that pretty little girl She turned to a turtledove

The tongue that Ellen and Dan saw had spun over a path fifty yards wide, catching a neighbor’s cow shed from an angle, sucking rafters aloft, strangling a cow while her bull calf brayed feebly below. It had prowled across the level land, come upon turkeys in a corn field, the gobbler shrieking insanely, flapping, trailed by his harem of hens. They were sucked into the wind like dust. Green oat shoots were rooted out so that when the field ripened later there was a clean swath across its bottom third. Varied incidents had occurred; a nest of newborn rabbits was flipped up, numbers of birds that clung to fence corners were torn loose and pounded into obstructions, the mortality among the insect life was untold. It had circled Hidden Creek. Adele was at the doctor’s office, calling to say she would be home as soon as her shopping was finished.

“That’s fine,” Sudduth said in a low voice to Mom and Pop in the doorway. “That God-damn stair. I wrenched my back good.” Through coming years he would try out different chiropractors. For weeks at a time the pain would recede, then each movement would drive a dull fire as he dragged his way about the farm. The family would laugh at his self-concern, taking it as Sudduth’s way. He talked about “that first twister of thirty-six,” like men talk of a battle. When he spoke to his children’s children, putting a hand on the small of his back, it would seem to them that Sudduth had by himself stemmed a tornado in its path.

Mom stood apart now from her younger son, whispered irritably to Pop, “That boy’s still a baby. You know, I’ll be glad when they all clear out to the new house. I plumb admire Adele for the way she puts up with him.”

The next evening a chill wind was blowing. Ellen went to her room for a sweater. The furnace was not stoked in these spring days and there were no fireplaces. As she was coming out, putting it on, she saw Dan leaping softly up the stairs, two at a time. He laughed, catching her arm, pushing her back into her room. There he was kissing her. She breathed to him, “You know what I read in the Bible? Dan’s a lion’s whelp.”

“Ellen. Your lips are soft.” He put his finger on them. A hot flood was taking her breath. He was loosing her, chucking her chin. “And I’ve got a date. Dammit, Star gets her dander up if I’m late. I’m out of gas, too. I’ll have to stop on the way.”

Ellen went down the steps to the kitchen where the dishes waited. Jealousy was rankling, but her gray eyes were mellow. I’d not get my dander up, was he late. Through days to follow, Dan would come on her, take her aside to kiss her. If she went out in the night, sometimes he followed. And if she knew he was in the tool shed, she went to see if the chicken house door beyond was locked. If he met her in the hallway, alone, he led her back to her room. They heard footsteps passing in the hall as his mouth lay on hers. He bided his time, careful, waiting on her shyness. “Come here, honey.”

So the days of March went by, and April started. Spring, and Dan’s in the same world with me. Ellen and Adele were laying out the kitchen garden. Ellen’s hands in the earth were like a mother’s. She had never seen such black rich soil. She held a clod, kneeling in her soiled damp skirt. She was crumbling it. “Look here, Adele. Ne’er a stone or pebble. Where I used to live they’ve got stone fences every way you turn. Sometimes a rock grows so big in a field they plow in a ring about it. Sam Offut claimed those rocks were nailed to the center of the world where the fire is. To hold the earth together.”

“Land.”

“Sam was full of tales. This is a fine garden.”

“I call it a dirty job, though. I’d rather work at the house, Ellen. I like my hands clean. Dirt makes them dry and the nails break easy.”

“I don’t mind.” Ellen was putting her hands down in the soft loam she had spaded.

Adele brooded. “I’m going to have another baby.”

“I’m glad for you.”

“That Sudduth. He won’t let me alone.”

“I always liked the Scarlet Globe radish. It’s the first one up.”

“When I just got home from the hospital with Grace, there he was, hanging his pants on the bedpost. First thing.”

“Wonder if it’s too early for sweet corn? We could put in a few rows.”

“Hannah came when Grace was only ten months old.”

“You’re supposed to put it in by sundown on the tenth of May.”

“That man.”

The breeze sprang up like a promise, stirring the hair of the women. Ellen knelt in the earth, her friend stood tall and hurt, the seed unfolding within her. The circle of sky was porcelain blue. A lone hawk held his wings still and floated away.

On Sunday Ellen spoke up at the breakfast table, “Would there be room in the car for me and Simon to go along? I’d like to see how the Presbyterians do.”

“You can have my place,” Pop said, “I’m mulching roses today.”

“Oh, Ma,” Simon complained.

“You’ll save Ellen yet from us heathen,” Dan said.

“I saw the sermon in the paper.” Pop was pounding his knife. “He’s taking the text, what is man?”

“I know that one,” Ellen said. “Thou madest him a little lower than the angels.”

“Ma sure knows her Bible,” said Simon to Dennie. “She’s e’er preaching it at me.”

“Simon, that’s not so.”

“I’ll learn you the song, Ellen,” Dennie was crying, “I want to live in a royal way, as a child of a king should live.”

“Tell you, Dennie, she can convert me,” Dan grinned, his eyes yellow in the early sun flooding across the table.

“And I will too.” Ellen got up to fill the milk pitcher. Her hand brushed over the top of his black head. She saw Mom start. She filled the pitcher. Now why did I do that?

Adele loaned Ellen a hat and Simon put on a fresh shirt. They were piling into the old car. Mom’s ample form filled the seat by Adele and the others sat in back. The sermon was dull. The minister was a wan tired man. “Yes, what is man?” he queried, “that Thou art mindful of him? Yes.” He said it as if he believed the question presumptuous. Ellen thought the service uneventful compared to a Catholic mass. She rose at each hymn time, stretching her shoulders.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide When other helpers fail and comforts flee Help of the helpless, Lord, abide with me

Simon shuffled his feet. Mom and Adele separated the little girls, who giggled, black eyes squinting up. Ellen looked around. I reckon it’s that people like to gather together. It’s their nature, the way sheep go in a band. Lambs of God. And I’m a solitary. They were driving home. Her curiosity was sated and she stayed at the farm thereafter.

It was the middle of April when Dan remembered his promise. He had come in for dinner, his hands smudged with cup-grease, his pants streaked. “Damn tractor again,” he was growling happily. “Ought to sue Ford for misrepresenting that pile of tin.”

“Pass down the biscuits,” Sudduth cried. “Dan, let’s raise the studs this afternoon.”

“Don’t you make a mistake now, boys,” Mom said gravely, “and get the back door to the front. Land.”

“Say, Ellen,” Dan was calling, “I’m going up near Weems Crossroads tomorrow. Want to go see Luke Dougherty’s wife?”

Ellen flushed. “There. I do.”

“Are you going to Webster’s?” Mom asked him. “And visit Star?”

“No. A fellow up there’s got sheep. I thought we might start a few lambs.”

“Better stop in to see Star,” Mom said. “Since you’re going to be up that way.”

“Sheep.” Pop was sipping his coffee through his beard. “Thought this was a dairy farm.”

“I might, Mom,” Dan said.

“It’th dripping, Pop.” Grace pointed to the coffee in his white beard. Hannah snickered.

“Girls,” cried Adele. “Manners at table. I’ll get a switch.”

“Dan, you stop in at Webster’s.” Mom’s voice was persistent. “A pretty girl needs attention.”

“We’ll leave as soon as the morning work’s done, Ellen,” Dan said. “Let’s go now, Sudduth. Get those studs up.”

“Dan,” Mom warned, as the door snapped shut.

“Sheep will ruin pasture faster than anything,” Pop said. “Pull the grass out by the roots.” He was wiping his beard where it was wet and yellowed. “Why don’t you two girls quiet down?”

“I wish he was little again so I could spank him, Pop. He’s so stubborn.”

Before Ellen and Dan drove off in the morning, he threw ropes into the bed of the truck on the litter of dry manure and straw. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled, it was unbuttoned at the neck. His face was constrained, the cheek lines tight. As they made a turn onto the main highway, the wheels shrilled. Ellen caught at the door handle. He grunted, “My mother. Women. What a nagger.”

“Oh Dan.”

“Go see Star. What’ll Mr. Webster think? Forever butting in.” He was tapping the wheel with his thumbs, the line of his lips wrathful.

“Mom doesn’t mean anything.” All the day with him.

“Let her run my kid brother. Not me. She won’t stop. I’ll be an old man and she’ll be doing it.”

“Don’t be that way,” Ellen coaxed, hopeful.

“Shut up.”

Ellen’s anger lifted and she pushed it down. The drowsy odor of flowers was flooding through the open window, and of verdant wheat spears and growing fields. The breeze stirred dust on the floor. She was leaning back against the cool leather, watching trees flash by. With her shoe she felt the tin cake pan holding a three-layer cake for Penny’s children. A bird warbled and dipped before the truck, a darting of gray. “That’s a catbird. Dennie told me. We don’t have them in Kentucky. It mocks the other birds and it mews like a cat.” She sighed.

He made no reply. The brooding silence grew as they covered the roadways swiftly. He raised his hand once and she glanced over. He was running his strong fingers over his hair that rose coarse. His lean legs were taut, his hips high on the seat, poised. His thin nostrils were spread. He’s honing for a fight, like a feisty bull. And he’s driving too fast.

“It’s along this road a ways,” she was saying, then she pointed. “There it is. That’s the Doughertys.” The house was set back near the crab apple tree at the head of the winding lane; a wing newly built at the back had changed its contour. “You want to meet Penny, Dan?”

“I’m out to buy sheep, remember?” He was lifting his eyebrows, the beak of his nose haughty. “I’ll be back to pick you up about three. I’ve got to get home for chores.”

“I’ll be waiting here. In the roadway. So you won’t have to bother to drive to the house.” She slammed the door, went down the lane swiftly, her cake pan on one arm. The truck ground its gears and whirled down the road. Ellen’s cheeks were red, she breathed deeply. She saw Penny coming into the open doorway of the house, a baby on her arm, shielding her eyes from the sun glare. The woman appeared frail, her face that had been soft was sharper-featured, the skin dry. She came to meet Ellen.

“Luke and me were talking about you last night. How’s that Simon?”

“He’s big, Penny.” She was looking at the child in the blanket. “What do you call this least one?”

“Jess. He’s a bit peaked.”

Ellen took the bundle. The child was like a tiny aged man. It slept, scarcely breathing. “Say.”

“I was right ill while carrying him. Have you come to spend the day, Ellie? You know how I always was one for company. Ernie,” she was calling, “stay out of the kitchen, now. Blossom, you watch him.”

“I brought a cake for the youngens.”

“There, Ellie.”

“How’s your goats? How’s old Tiny?”

“Tiny died. Must have been three years ago. But there’s a daughter out of her, Little Tiny. We got fifteen head now.”

“Where’s the donkey?”

“We let him go when times got bad. The boys’ll show you around after a spell.”

“Where are Clate and Anse?”

“In the orchard. Blossom’s minding Ernie for me. He’s ailing today. She’s good with him.” Blossom was in the doorway, brushing her unkempt hair from her face, her eyes soft like a rabbit’s. She was eight, sober with responsibility.

“Blossom,” Ellen was calling, “I brought you a daisy cake.” The child smiled politely and retreated.

“She’s not used to folks,” Penny said.

“Where’s Melinda, Penny?”

“She’s been gone four years. She came down with the scarlet fever.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Four years to the month. We put a marker on her grave. Says, Under the Shadow of His Wings. Luke got it from the mail-order house.”

“I heard Luke’s in charge of one of Webster’s barns now.”

“Yes, he is. And Anse was right sick with that fever too.”

“I’m working for some folks now, Penny.”

“I was going to ask you how you got to come.” Penny was putting her arms out suddenly, “You want to give me Jess? I’ll see if he’s hungry.” She gave her breast to the baby and Ellen saw that despite her many children, Penny was still rounded with milk. Her neck was thin, the bones prominent.

A pale boy of two came out the door, clad in a short checked pinafore, his bare feet dirty. He pulled at Penny’s dress, whining. “Don’t now, Ernie,” Penny said, mild.

“You ought to let your ma be,” said Ellen. The child waved his hand, petulant, at her.

“Leave him alone,” Penny spoke sharply. She laid her hand on the boy’s cheek. “I lost a baby that came before Ernie.” The child had put his head in her lap. Ellen watched them. She’s like an old cow that has one calf after the last. And if you try to mind it for her, she’ll drive you off with her horns.

At noon, the boys came dashing in. Clate was sunburned, a brawny boy of eleven. Anse, shy and tall, shook Ellen’s hand, blushing. “The table’s too small or we’d set it proper.” He went to lean on the wall where he watched the other children eat, so that Ellen would see the way he scorned the lot of them. When they finished, Ellen cut the cake. The layers were yellow, and butter-coloring had been stirred into the frosting to make it yellow, too. They sat about in the grass and felt the breeze move.

“Wish you’d come more often, Ellie. I haven’t done a lick today,” Penny said.

Clate was clapping his hands. He tapped his foot, throwing back his curly brown hair. The children were joining in as if it was a thing they did often, gathering close to their mother.

Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man Whipped his wife with a frying pan Combed his head with the wagon wheels Died with a toothache in his heel

Penny asked about Ellen’s goats. “How are they faring with you out working?”

“Pa butchered them.” She let Penny think it was done with her consent. “I miss them.”

“Now we got a kid at the barn, Ellie, for Simon. It’s Little Tiny’s. You tell Simon it belongs to him because he used to milk Old Tiny for me.”

“Simon’ll be proud, Penny.”

It was shortly after two when Ellen heard the truck’s noisy motor. Her breath caught. There he was. He drove up the lane and parked. He called, genial, as he came up, “Hello, Mrs. Dougherty. I know your husband. I’ve talked to him over at Webster’s.”

Penny held her hand out in welcome. “Howdy.”

“Come see my sheep.” High bleats were audible from the truck bed. Blossom brought Ernie out, lifting him to see the beasts with sawdust caught in the gray wool. “I bought a ram and three ewes. They’ll be breeding this fall.”

“Dog. Dog,” babbled the child.

“Now you two come again,” Penny was saying as Ellen and Dan got into the truck.

“There’ll be no holding Simon when he hears about that kid. Goodbye, Blossom.” She waved to the little boy, “Bye now, Ernie.”

“Dog.”

Penny laughed, “He’s a case.”

The cake tin was rattling on the floor. Ellen smoothed her rumpled skirt. “That Penny. I ne’er knew a body like her.”

“Got her hands full with that gang.”

“She lost two. One was a little girl I saw a few years back. A pretty one.”

“That’s no way to live. But you ask that kind of a woman. They’ll pick it again if you give them a choice.”

“That’s how some women are.”

“I suppose. You ought to know.” He was laughing at her. “Me, I like things under control.”

“You sure are acting braggy today.”

He flushed, reaching for her shoulder and pulling her beside him. “Hello.”

“Did you see Star?”

“No, I didn’t.” His hard fingers were within her dress on the tender underarm.

“Dan?” The April air was suggesting lilacs unsealing, tight dark purple buds becoming a feathery lavender, the vague pressing fragrance was turning Ellen back into the past. She was riding home in the Ford pickup from the circus, she was sixteen. She stirred now.

“What is it?”

There had been a pair of baby shoes dangling from the dashboard. It was hot in a late afternoon. The birds were still. Christian Ay was saying, “Want me to stop along the way?” It was long past, it was a dream. But the world had been new and fresh. Like today.

Then it was Dan again. He was turning off the highway onto a lane bordered by a grove of horse chestnuts. “Now then.” He was braking the truck on the grass sward beside the trees. He opened the door on his side. “Come on,” he was shouting.

They ran into the shade, under the low branches, where the grass was sun-speckled. Ellen was crying, “Smell the air.”

He was drawing her down beside him. She saw blue innocence flowers in the moist grass amid wood sorrel. He was touching his hand on her face, her hair. His eyes were greenish in the shaded light. His flat thin mouth was demanding. His fingers were large and rough and at once tender. She felt them quiver. “Ellen?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be.” And he was unskillful for Ellen had lived lonely all of her days.

Her head was on his arm, tears flowing from somewhere.

“I really didn’t know, Ellen.” They stayed there a long time. She had fallen asleep. The shadows in the chestnut branches spreading made a network. The blue was far beyond. The small flowers were bowing to the breeze, a catbird started to warble, harsh, very clear, twitching its tail. After a while another bird called back from afar. Dan was waking her. “It’s nearly four. My arm’s asleep. I was afraid I’d disturb you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

The lambs bleated from the bed of the truck. “Yes, you were.”

“All right.”

“Are you pleased?”

“We had better go.”

“We will in a minute.”

“You were ugly this morning.”

“I’m trying to show you how sorry I am. What do you think that was all about?” He was grinning.

She ran from him to the truck. He came after and swung open the door for her. He made up a cigarette while she waited; he tapped the Bull Durham pouch, pulled the drawstring with his teeth. Then they were driving homeward. She leaned into his arm until they nearly reached the Wasilewski house. She had picked a horse chestnut leaf, and showed him the print of a hoof where the leaf was torn from the twig that held it; even the horseshoe nails were there, five of them. She twirled the leaf in her fingers. She sighed, smiling at him, already regretting the incident in the grove. And him plighted to Star Webster.