Chapter 27

Pop Wasilewski’s bees were suddenly swarming at winter end. On a sunny day from a secret impulse half the colony was awake, one by one whipping out to cluster on a fence post. The bearded old man brushed the yellow-brown insects into a new hive while the smoker puffed. Ellen was laughing to Mom, “I ne’er seen such a body, he’s that clever with bees.”

“Pop’s always been like that.”

Ellen had lost weight and because the work over the winter had been largely indoors, she was pale. But her body had fought for its health, and she moved in the household with vigor again. Over a few weeks she had thought she would have Dan’s baby, hoped wildly that it was so. But her time came again then in its regular pattern and she accepted it. Gradually she healed. There had been the moments when she forgot he was dead, “I’ll have to tell Dan the do-hickey’s broken on the wash machine.” The day would shatter about her where she stood trembling.

Mom still leaned on Ellen, crippled by her loss. “You’re like a daughter to me.” Mom would humor herself by constant thoughts of Dan. She talked to Ellen about when her son was a baby of two staggering after her in the rose garden, and when older he would fetch her a blue eggshell or a butterfly wing he found. “I want you to stay here always, Ellen. This is your home.”

Adele, so wounded by the loss of her premature baby that Dan’s death had scarcely grazed her, would talk about the infant yet. “He’d have been four months old today.” Adele had written in the page of the Bible: Jason Wasilewski. September 17, 1936. Died the night of his birth. Mourned by all.

“You’ve got to quit thinking of it,” Mom said. “Sakes, it’s your duty.”

Adele was eager in self-reproach. “I just get my mind on it somehow.”

The ruins beyond the line of smashed willows were left untouched. Only the children would wander through the wrecked debris, playing. “Thith ith the dining room. I am Mithith Hannah.”

“Simon, you be the father.” The half-demolished walls loomed like ghostly monuments. The roof was shattered, snow had drifted around timbers, melting, rotting them. In half-empty kegs of nails wild mice explored.

The farm work had fallen heavily on Sudduth. Dennie and Simon were roused at daybreak to help at chores before they hurried to school. Evenings, they hustled out again to the barnyard. Sudduth’s back ached him like a recurring plague. “In spring I’m going to have to hire a man, Mom. I can’t do it all. He can sleep in the barn.”

“No, we’ll give him Dan’s room.” Mom’s voice was strained.

“Thanks, Mom.” Sudduth had become more dependable over past weeks. He made his plans resolutely. “I’ll put rye in the old corn field. And if you don’t care, Pop, we’ll sell the sheep. They’re ruining the pasture.”

“That’s just fine with us, Sudduth. Whatever you say.”

Ellen had gone out to help with the milking, a pail in her hand. Sudduth protested gravely at first, “It’s not our way to let women do barn work, Ellen.”

“But I’m most happy here. I get tired of the house.” She sat on the three-legged stool, the cow’s hot breath on the back of her neck, snuffling, curious. It was licking her with a rasping tongue.

“See here,” Simon shouted. “Old Belle’s begging Ma to milk her.”

“All right, Ellen.” Sudduth was won over. “If you want. Thanks.” And he soon forgot that it seemed strange to have a woman at the barn.

Ellen would think about Penny, wondering if her last baby had come wellborn. If work ever lightens, if Sudduth hires a hand like he says he might, Adele and me can drive over to see the Doughertys in spring.

She was in the sitting room one morning after breakfast, ironing by the windows. Mom was holding a small black volume, with pictures of the little boy, Dan, pasted into it. “Ellen, I’m afraid you’re forgetting him.”

“Dan wouldn’t want us mourning him fore’er.”

The phone rang. “You get it, Ellen.” Mom pored over the photographs.

“All right.” It was Western Union. Ellen listened quietly. She whispered into the mouthpiece, “Read it again, please.” The distant strange voice was almost inaudible. And the message was repeated. She hung the receiver onto its hook. She leaned against the table, put her hand to her mouth.

Mom looked up, urged, “What is it, Ellen? What is it?”

Her words fell of themselves, “Something’s happened to my pa.” Request presence Ellen Gaddy at inquest, the voice had said, cause of death suicide. Why would he do that? And him ever a good Catholic. He wouldn’t dare. And in the suddenness memories came rushing through the unbarred door. Anton was loving and he sought this daughter out. Guilt clutched her. He was dead too, now. She was stunned, but yet unable to weep. “I have to go to Louisville, Mom, and claim the body.”

That afternoon she packed. Adele was ready to drive her to the station and the family had gathered to say goodbye. Mom was kissing her, “Land. You’ve got to come back, Ellen.”

“I will if I can. I want to go to our farm in Millville when it’s o’er. And I have to see my sister, too.”

“I won’t go to Millville, Ma,” Simon cried out. His tow hair was mussed, his young face worried.

“Don’t take Thimon,” Hannah and Grace piped. “Let Thimon thtay.”

“You see?” Pop shouted. “Sell your farm and be one of us, Ellen.”

“Old Belle won’t give down her milk tonight,” Sudduth said.

“How can you resist us?” Adele put her arm about Ellen.

“Oh Ma,” said Simon, “I want to stay right here.”

“Maybe you will.” But Ellen was remembering the old orchard and the little hills, the stony soil where crops were hard-won, goats bounding down the pasture lane, hoofs hammering the ground, snorting and tossing their beards. She turned to the Wasilewskis, “I’ll write you-all if Simon has to come. Just as soon as I know.”

The corpse in the refrigerated drawer looked fragile and unprotected. The morgue smelled of mingled odd odors. “That’s him.”

“Thank you, Miss Gaddy,” said the officer.

“I don’t want him to stay there. Can I take the body?”

“Certainly. When the inquest is over.”

“How soon?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“I’ll call you. I’ll find a funeral home.”

“You notify them he’s here. And we’ll make the arrangements.” Then the officer was telling Ellen how Anton had hung himself by a leather belt in a woman’s flat.

“A woman?” She was bewildered.

“Says her name’s Rose Ay. Maybe you’d want to see her, miss. She doesn’t live far from here.”

“Rose Ay?” Ellen stood beside the tall desk. The vein was throbbing in her forehead, the oval of her face stayed white in the bright glare of the waiting room. She was probing dully, raking into the past.

“Do you know this woman?”

“No.”

“Are you all right, Miss Gaddy? You look sort of shaky. You knew it was suicide by hanging?”

“Yes. You said you’d give me her address, Mester?”

The officer tore a sheet from a pad, scribbled on it. “This is the easiest way to get there.” He handed her the paper. “Turn left outside.”

She was following corner signs then, and house numbers. In the streets winds were moving undisputed, brutal, and the city quailed and shrank upon itself. Finally Ellen was entering the brick building. She sensed the subdued trace of urine and must that corrupted the hall air. A woman’s deep voice was berating behind walls. And a radio came muted,

Oh sister Phoebe, how merry were we The night we sat under Tom Jones plum tree

A man was on the upper stairs, pausing. He was coming down a few steps. “Hello, Ellen.”

She peered into the obscure light. “Who are you?”

“Christian Ay.” The shadows crouched quiet about him along the steep stairwell. “Guess you’re here to talk to my sister.”

The cheekbones and broad mouth were Simon’s, the stocky body. But his hair was different, no longer blond. And he was grave-faced. “I thought it was you,” she said thinly.

His voice rent the stillness, “I’m sorry about Mr. Gaddy.”

“Did you know he’d been coming here?”

“No, indeed.” He came down another step.

She backed away. “I say, did you? That it was my pa?” She was plaintive, cornered.

“Not till my sister called me.”

“What did he want of her?”

“She says they’d have been married.”

“Well. I don’t understand.” Jazz blared from the radio as a door opened and shut. She put her hand up and dropped it, aimless.

“You are coming to see Rose?” he was asking.

“Yes.”

“It’s that door at the head.” He gestured, disturbed with the awkward moment, at her air of incredulity. “Right up there. You can’t miss it.”

As she was passing, he stood aside by the wall. His face was harassed, lined. She looked at it. “Your home’s in Louisville?”

“On the outskirts. Twenty minutes from this place. Someone said you weren’t living in your home town any more.” The music, overloud, was persistent through the hollow walls. He was speaking then, abrupt, “Come. I’ll go up with you.”

“Yes.” She preceded him to the landing, where a white square of daylight existed at one end of the dirty passageway. He was knocking. In a moment, while she shifted constrained, quick steps approached. The door was opening.

“Well, Chris.” Rose spoke nervously, “I thought you’d gone. Who’s that?”

“Ellen Gaddy. His daughter.”

“No kidding. How do you do?”

Ellen was staring at the woman in the tight skirt and spiked heels. Coldly she observed the waved thick dark hair, the wide white face, the pale irises of the eyes outlined in black. She was rudely brushing past Rose, hasty, and then checking herself in the center of the room, by the bed. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Rose shrugged careless. “Would you like tea, Miss Gaddy?”

“If it’s no bother.”

“Here’s a chair for you.” Christian was pulling one up. He took her coat. “I’ll hang it on the clothes tree.”

“Now, thanks.” He was speaking with his sister over by the small stove. Sunlight was coming through the gray windows, drifting onto flimsy curtains and two narrow long mirrors. The simmering kettle and the quick disquieted whisper of the woman were playing on the air. I should never have come. I’ve got no business to be here. I wondered if I’d hear of him, or see him.

Rose was bringing the tea on a black lacquer tray. “Get a table, Chris.”

“Sure.” He placed the low table before Rose’s chair and sat down opposite Ellen.

Rose was pouring and passing the cups. “Well, here we are, Ellen. It is all right to call you Ellen?”

“Yes.”

The woman was impetuous, “Give Mama the news, Chris. She’s been after me for years to go home, Ellen. At last I’ve made up my mind.”

Ellen was sipping the weak hot tea. Rose was brash and Christian seemed embarrassed by it. Pa was going to marry her. I don’t believe that. Besides the church would not have brooked it.

“Honestly, Chris,” Rose was saying, “I can’t get over you quitting the store.”

“I’ve made plans to leave Louisville,” he said to Ellen with a slight grin, aloof. “Getting out of the city.”

“I think he’s nuts,” Rose laughed, brushing at her heavy hair.

“And how about you? Come, do you think I am?” Christian raised his brows.

“No.” Ellen listened idly, half attending, refusing to make an effort. In the hallway he had seemed vaguely like the young man she had once loved. But he wasn’t at all. I shouldn’t have expected it. He was a stranger, changed, his aspect stern. He glowered now at his sister.

“Chris is going shares on a feed concern.” Rose was mocking. “Grinding stuff for farmers. Banana oil. Did you ever?”

“It’s a nice small town, now. Troy is a good way from the city.”

Ellen was remembering the gossip she had heard in Grady Love’s store. “How will your family like the move?”

“I’m going alone.”

“He lives with Mama,” Rose said. “They have The Standard Shop over at the other end of Louisville. Mama’s getting old. That’s another reason why I’m going back there.” She was speaking warmly to Ellen, “You know, Daddy never mentioned much about you.”

Ellen caught her breath. “Who?”

“Mr. Gaddy. Your father.” Rose was motioning lightly, smiling.

Ellen put her cup down. Her face was firm and molded, guarded. But she spoke unsteadily. “Reckon I have to go now.”

“I’ll come with you,” Christian said.

“You don’t have to run yet,” Rose was protesting. “Daddy used to come up, you know, for the waterfront auctions.”

“Don’t call him that, woman.” Ellen’s voice rose high. She was crossing the room, groping for her coat where Christian had hung it.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Rose said, hurt. “I thought a lot of him.”

“Thank you for the tea.” Ellen felt her hands shaking.

“I’ll see you to your hotel.” Christian was taking her coat from her hands, holding it while she put it on.

“You don’t have to.”

He was picking up his cap. The door closed behind them and they heard the tap of heels receding. They went down the stairs. “Rose means well,” Christian said. When he had hailed a cab, he looked at her. “You’re wishing you’d stayed away.”

“But no.”

They were sitting in the leather-smelling interior. The meter clicked. There were house fronts, wood and brick, cafes and corner saloons blazoned with neon. Pigeons strutting in lonely gutters, pecking, winging across streets. Christian was saying, “I’m sorry about your father.” They looked out of opposite windows. A parked van was unloading enormous handled baskets of gladioli and roses. There were people on foot. And bicycles, and trucks blaring, cars, a dray hauled by mules, red pompons on black bridles, and shouting teamsters. The taxi was halting. Christian paid the driver. They were standing before an old graystone structure.

“You read the Bible, Christian?”

“No.”

“I do, sometimes.” Their minds were running inward on their separate thoughts. He twisted his soft cap, frowning at the pavement. Her hands were in her coat pockets. “There’s a part goes, from out of the populous city men groan and the soul of the wounded cries out.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” he whispered. The city lowered about them.

“I’ve got no mind for it here.”

“Nor I. I know just what you mean. I don’t like it either. That’s why I’m moving to Troy.”

“It’s unnatural.”

“It takes all kind.” His face softened. “Are you all right? Is there something I can do?”

“No.” She turned to the stone steps.

“I’ll try to come to the funeral.”

She watched the last sunbeams striking against him as he merged into the moving people. He doesn’t remember. He’s forgot it all. I don’t give a care.

But in the night Ellen dreamed of him. He was the way he had been long ago, swaggering and strong, laughing. It was a peaceful dream. As she came awake Christian was putting his hand on her hair. She cried into the dark, “Dan? Dan, I loved you.” She was weeping in the unfamiliar hard hotel bed.

Ellen was unable to get permission for a Catholic burial. The priest had been firm. “Absolutely. There is no possibility of it. Madam. Unquestionably he died in mortal sin.” He looked down at Ellen, fierce, “When were you last at confession? Madam.”

She went from him, telling herself, “I’ll get Father Tompert in Millville to say a mass for him. There, he will.”

The funeral was costing over two hundred dollars. Ellen had wired Garland and he sent the money. She intended to reimburse him for her share but it would take time. All her wages were rapidly disappearing in train and hotel costs and meals. The coffin would be oak, chemically treated to endure. The sermon would last twenty minutes. They would engrave a stone. Anton Gaddy. 1877-1937. At Rest. Beloved Husband and Father. There were things she had heard, customs attending a death. The clothes should be removed and hung on a line outside. The body should be anointed, silver coins laid on the eyes. And someone should sit with the corpse so a cat or something strange didn’t get to it. The tearing of the winding sheets, the telling of the bees so they didn’t leave the hives. And there lay Pa in the new-fashioned way. I misdoubt Pa would have cared for the way I handled things here.

Then she was spotting, in the entrance way, Garland and Frankie and Violet, who had arrived from Chicago just in time for the service. She hurried down the aisle to greet them. She clung to Frankie, who was plumpish in her fur coat, holding Ellen’s hands, crying, “It’s her hair, Vi. Look how Ellie’s wearing it. She’s so sweet.”

“I was afraid you-all would be late,” Ellen laughed.

“Let’s make her go back on the train with us, Vi.”

“Nerts. She won’t. Ellie’s a country girl.”

“I’d say the country agrees with this wench.” Garland was fatter, his square jaw lost in sagging folds. He kissed Ellen’s cheek. “I suppose this puss has got her a beau now?” His small eyes were merry, sunk into the flesh.

“Oh Uncle.”

The organ began to play and they were taking their seats. We never said one word about Pa. We talked about ourselves all the time. She glimpsed Christian on the opposite side of the room by the far wall. At first she didn’t recognize him, a short man in a large gray overcoat, holding a gray cap. He was nodding to her, sitting down, bunching his coat on his knees.

The last words were being spoken over Anton. Her father had been quick to quote the Bible at them all, relishing the Old Testament. But the funeral text was taken from Paul. Behold, I show you a mystery. The trumpet shall sound and the dead be raised. She was remembering her slaughtered goats. Her ire rose once more at that secret deed of his against her. Now she stilled it. Reckon there’s more to it than I could ever piece. He must have had a great sadness to take his life.

They followed the hearse to the cemetery. The crank squeaked as the coffin was lowered. Earth to earth. Dust to dust. Behold the tabernacle of God is with men. And there shall be no more death. Neither shall there be pain. For the former things are passed away.

Garland was taking the party to a steak-house for dinner. He went back into the kitchen to talk with the chef, to approve the cuts before they were broiled. Then Ellen began to tell them about the second tornado that had struck without warning near Weems Crossroads in Illinois, how it killed the older Wasilewski brother and tore apart a new-built house on the farm. “I might have married him, had he lived. We talked of it, Dan and me.” Her mouth twisted and she looked down at her plate. “I’d have had a life there.”

“Oh Ellie. Why didn’t she tell us, Vi?” Frankie appealed.

“Shouldn’t have stayed after it happened, puss.” Garland was tapping the table with his finger. “Should have come to us.”

“Say, how’s Simon?” Violet asked. “How’d he take it, Ellie?”

“He’s grown and he likes farming.”

“Do bring my nephew and visit us,” Frankie pressed, “come on, Ellie. Gen would love it.”

“No, I’ve got to take my own way. I can’t go to you folks. Tell me about your job, Frankie. Do you still like it?”

“I’ve been promoted, Ellie. And Gen has a new office and twice the pay.”

Garland was seated close to Violet, his arm was about her. He was ordering coffee for her and desserts to be brought for everyone. “What are you planning to do about the farm, hon?”

“I’m going there as soon as I can.”

“Are you really?” Frankie cried, surprise on her round face.

“Want to come with me?”

“No, thanks,” Frankie said swiftly. “Not me. I don’t want any part of that.”

“But, Frankie.”

“And that’s the truth. I don’t want my piece of that farm. I can’t stand it.”

“You two can do it legally,” Garland said, “if Frankie means it.”

“You make out the papers, Uncle, for me to sign. It should be Ellie’s. She likes it and needs it.” Frankie’s features were set, obstinate.

“Funny,” said Garland, “An and me decided the same thing when we were just the age of you two. He bought me out of my rights and I signed over to him. When he married.”

“You might change your mind sometime, Frankie,” Ellen said.

“No. Ellie looks so doubtful,” Frankie smiled. “She thinks everyone wants to be a farmer.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” Ellen said. “At least I’m going to pay you for your share.”

“That’s silly. We have all we need. We’ve got good jobs. You have Simon to look out for.”

They began to remember Anton then because Garland had used his name. “Uncle used to come at Christmas time, Vi. We’d butcher and bake,” Frankie was saying, “and then go to midnight mass in that little church.”

“They watched out for my soul,” said Garland, “and Frankie was to be a concert artist.”

“No, Chicken!”

“That was Pa’s idea,” Frankie told Violet grimly, then giggled, “not mine.”

It was time for their train, they were getting up in a rush. They laughed, bustling out together. Garland, from the middle of the street, waved a taxicab down. The women were waiting under the marquee. “Give my little nephew my love, Ellie,” Frankie said, and whispered, “I’m sorry about that man you were going to marry.”

“You wouldn’t know your nephew, Frankie. He’s not a baby, he’s not little.”

“Come see us, Ellie. Gen would honestly love it.”

Violet took Ellen’s hand impulsively. “We’re redecorating the house. Why don’t you come back with us and have a real visit?”

“I can’t.”

“Goodbye, Ellie.”

“Goodbye. Goodbye, Aunt Vi. Uncle.” She was walking back to the hotel. The streets were damp, the narrowed sky strip above the buildings clear. There was a purple circle of mist about the moon. Lone figures were moving in lighted areas. They gave her a message. Call Mr. Ay at the following number. She went into a phone booth, for there was a void now that they were all gone. She told him she would go to the Ay home tomorrow for supper.