Chapter 6

Garland Gaddy, in a new green Ford, was returning to the home of his youth. As he drove up the lane, Anton was in the barn on his knees while the old cow Bramble, delivered him twin heifers. But Garland’s nieces bade him welcome. They showed him the feather bed and he was well pleased. He took Ellen in his arms. “You’re a handsome wench, hon. Last Christmas you were a child and here you’re nearly a woman. What does Anton say when the young men come sparking?” He pinched her thigh, smiling warm.

“You’re plaguing me, Uncle. But he’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t he, Frankie?”

“Oh he is.”

At night when the festive meal was over they sat in the parlor. The wind growled, and above the alders at the pond the moon bobbed like a ball on a chain while water-shadows trembled. Anton kept a fire roaring, carrying armfuls of oak logs from the kitchen and piling them on the hearth. Garland brought out a fifth of contraband whisky, setting the bottle on the round table. The two men tasted from the heavy kitchen glasses. “This be good moon, Gar.”

“Well, it beats needle beer. Place I get it has all their hooch analyzed and tested by a registered chemist. Ought to be good. Cost fifteen dollars a bottle.”

“Christ.” Anton was impressed. “Smithy sold me some Jackass Peach Brandy from Virginia. Fifty cents a pint jar.”

“Better watch out for that junk. Break you down inside. Internal bleeding. I wouldn’t drink a thing made down here in the Bible belt.”

Ellen was sent to the cellar for a bottle of pale sweet wine that Anton made yearly from his scuppernong grapes, the vine of which had been planted five decades ago by Jules Gaddy, the father of the brothers. Ellen had put a scarf at her neck and it became her. She poured the wine, and came behind her uncle in his chair. When she put her head against his while he was talking, her hair fell on his shoulders. And she loved him.

Garland Gaddy was the middle one of three brothers, a bachelor. He was a head taller than Anton, overweight, not yet fat. His small eyes were light blue, his once-blond hair had turned gray, he trimmed a neat mustache. His jaw was square, his lips full. He wore hand-cut dark suits, vivid ties. As a child he had shared with Anton their mother’s neglect, had run away from home at nineteen to prowl the states from coast to coast, brawling and scattering his seed. Then when he was twenty-nine, Anton offered him the sum of fifteen hundred dollars in cash, Maria’s dowry, for his half the farm. Garland had accepted, hitchhiking to Chicago with the bills sewn into his belt. He soon was co-owner of a thriving burlesque house. Now, over twenty years later, from his office on State Street he handled a set of neighborhood theatres where vaudeville and the silver screen vied for public approval.

Anton was affected by the abundance of festive food, the polished house, and the women’s raiment. Maria even, had laid aside the sack apron she usually pinned on and was wearing her churchgoing black dress and an ecru crocheted collar. Anton nearly begrudged the honor they paid Garland, although his pride assured him that the tribute was to himself. “Say, Gar, I call to mind when we were youngens, and Ma was honing for that black driving rig. You recollect? Our sir had but two gold dollars. So he went to Trader Bocock. Said, Bocock, you can have this gold and all the rocks you can haul out of that rye field if you’ll trade that rig to me.”

“She get the buggy, Pa?” asked Frankie.

“Bet she did, hon,” Garland said.

“What did the trader want of rocks?”

“I don’t know. But Bocock had the field cleaned before spring plowing,” said Anton.

“Ma managed to get what she wanted pretty near every time,” Garland said.

“Hum.” Anton packed his pipe, pushing with his thick thumb. “Had her hands full. Say, Frankie, play for us, and sing the prayer you learned.”

Frankie obeyed.

Angel of God, my Guardian dear To whom his love commits me here E’er this day be at my side To light and guard, to rule and guide

“That’s a special prayer, you know, Garland. Priest says it’s worth a hundred days’ indulgence. Sing it once more, Poppet.”

“I better learn that one.” Garland kept time with his hand. He got up to stand by the upright piano, tapping his foot. “You know the old one—Captain Jinks?”

“I don’t think so, Uncle.”

“Goes like this.” Garland made several false tries before he sang in off-key:

I’m Captain Jinks of the horse marines I feed my horse on corn and beans And court the ladies in their teens For that’s the style in the army

“That’s a new one, Uncle,” Ellen said.

Garland was pulling her hand, drawing her beside him. “You sing with me.”

When they had finished, Ellen offered, “Want to hear one of Penny’s tales?”

“That roaring ooman,” growled Anton. “Tell you, Gar, she couldn’t cut an onion or hold a scrub brush without she was screeching some foldilay.”

“Let’s hear it, puss.” Garland sat back in his chair. Ellen stood behind him to sing while Frankie played. Anton bit his pipe in his yellowed teeth and the smoke wreathed. Maria knitted, her lips moving occasionally with an inner thought.

I courted pretty Pol the livelong night Then left her next morn before it was light

The song told of how Pol went riding off with the man and then,

They went a bit further and what did they spy But a new-dug grave and a spade lying by, Willie, O Willie, I’m afraid of your way I’m afraid you will lead my poor body astray Pretty Pol, pretty Pol, you’re thinking just right I dug on your grave the best part of last night

And Willie stabbed the girl and put her in the grave.

He threw a bit of dirt o’er her and started for home Leaving no one behind but the wild doves to mourn

“Now, if that ain’t a dumb fool story,” Anton snorted.

Ellen looked down at Garland and he patted her hands, placing them on his shoulders. “I liked it.”

“You e’er hear,” she asked quickly because of the tears that were trapped by her father’s scorn, “it will strengthen a man’s eyes to have a mustache?”

“Well,” he laughed, “I’ll keep it then.”

Uncle’s so kind. It came on her as he was stroking her wrists.

Anton lifted his head. “My sir said his grandsir in France owned a sporting hog one time. You mind that story, Gar?”

“He called her Slut,” Garland said. “He was a gamekeeper in one of the king’s forests. Bred his own dogs, taught them to stand and back game. They say he was watching the men and saw the pups weren’t responding. Little black shoat went by, not a wild hog, she was the kind that ran loose in the forest those days. Made a wager with the men, he could train and break the shoat faster than they could the dogs. He penned her, taught her to come to her name. She pointed small game and partridge. After awhile she’d retrieve rabbit and pheasant, careful, too, she didn’t harm them—all sorts of game. Did better than his dogs. And backed them when she saw them point. That hog’s nose was so true she’d point a bird fifty yards away. In a straight line. That’s the story anyway.”

“He win the bet?” Frankie asked.

“Oh sure, hon.”

“Came when he hollered,” said Ellen. “Wish I could have seen that.”

“Did she run good or was she too fat?” asked Frankie.

“She was trim. She’d come at full gallop. Excited like the dogs when she saw a gun.”

Maria said, “They must have set store by that beast.”

“You bet,” Garland turned to her, “and you know, Maria, when Slut was ten years old she weighed half a ton and they still hunted with her.”

“Ain’t that a tale, Frankie?” Anton demanded. “Those were the olden days. Then there came the time of Napoleon the Bonyparty. Pa’s grandsir had to soldier under him. He’d watch o’er the old country and if some land like Germany was trying to conquer a scroungy sort of a country, why Napoleon the Bonyparty, he’d say no. He’d get in front of his army and go lick Germany or whate’er land it happened to be. He stayed in France between wars and our great grandsir belonged to his company.” Anton shrugged with pride. “That fellow wasn’t the king, he worked for himself. He made his living that way, watching o’er the old country.”

“Say, my great great grandsir,” claimed Frankie, “knew Napoleon the Bonyparty.”

“Well,” Garland was laughing, “tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. Let’s hit the hay.”

Ellen stayed awake far into the night. The wind was tugging at her window and the lonely dark pressed down. Her lips were dry and her mouth became as cotton. I’ll tell Uncle tomorrow for sure. At length she lapsed into a fitful sleep while in the parlor below the fire died to coals and field mice came from the walls to nibble crumbs and nut meats fallen on the rugs.

At breakfast Maria was stirring a pancake batter while the girls fried sausages and potatoes, set out slices of blood pudding, crocks of jam and sorghum. “I favor lacing griddle-cakes with hot sausage fat,” Anton said. “Sweetening takes the taste out.”

Garland, clad in a red shirt, new hunting pants and shining engineers boots, beamed. “Good old country sorghum for me. Well, pusses, what’s new? Anyone dream about a pointing pig? Or poor Pol? Or Napoleon?”

“I ne’er,” giggled Frankie, “but tell another story.”

“Well, you know that same great-great-grandfather of yours that trained Slut, went to Russia with Napoleon’s army. There was a bad winter and Napoleon beat it back to France. He let most of the troops die in the snow without food.”

“I don’t take much stock in that,” said Anton. “I doubt Bonyparty did that.”

“Now, Anton, you know Pa used to talk about it. How they conscripted all the men of the village, twenty-three of them. And only his grandfather came back.”

“He must have been strong. They say he was a good-looker, too,” said Anton. “Finest in the village, a proud one.”

“Doesn’t look like you or me inherited much from him,” laughed Garland.

“Reckon Marc took after him,” Anton said, “for he was the dandy of us three boys.”

“Well,” Garland asked, “what you pusses got to report this morning?”

“One of the barn cats brought in a little mole yesterday,” said Frankie.

“You didn’t know I lost my white kid last summer, Uncle,” Ellen said. “He was but two months old.” Lines still edged her eyes when she spoke of it. “You ne’er got to see him.”

“I was telling about the mole, Ellie.”

Garland listened to them, then said suddenly, “Now An, here’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up. Been thinking a lot about Frankie here. About her coming up to the city next year. You see, I want everything to go right. She needs to make a good impression from the start. Now you folks don’t realize it, but you practically talk like first settlers with that old-fashioned country dialect. Think Frankie could take lessons in grammar or speech this coming year to correct some of that?”

Anton had been spearing sausages and pancakes with a fork. He paused. The blood was leaping to his cheekbones, his freckles stood out in vivid specks. He made a guttural sound and scraped his chair back. He spat the food from his pendulous lips on to the table before him, hurled the sausage and fork to the floor. “Hit do be my sir’s tongue and my ma’s and before God, hit’ll be that girl’s. She’ll go forth with hit and no more farting teaching mesters will I suck upon.” He flung himself from the house.

Ellen began to weep. Maria was taking up a cloth to clean the table and the floor. Frankie looked at her uncle and her eyes were wary, her voice small, “You’re not afraid?”

“Jesus Wept, no, puss. Have another flapjack and I’ll talk to him when he cools off. That squirt always had a hot temper.”

Ellen snared the largest of the geese by a stout pink leg. She bore it to the stump, placed its head between the spikes and cleaved the neck just below the jaw. She threw the beheaded bird from her to flail its wings and flop about. She handed the head to Jack, eager and knowing. “I see you licking your chops.” She tore the down from the breast, stuffing it into a sack. She brought a pail of boiling water, scalded the carcass and finished the plucking. She gave the entrails to the chickens to pick, washed the heavy bird under the pump, hung it near the sausages dangling from the eaves in the shed.

In the kitchen, Anton was tipping his chair back. He took from his pocket a twist of tobacco leaves and sliced the end with his jackknife. He thrust his short legs in front of him, balancing. “Hell, Gar, might be it’s as you say and Frankie’s speech is queer to city folk. But what matters her way of speech if she’s to make music? If you say so, why I’ll get her a grammar mester. But hark at me, Gar,” and his eyes were glinting, “don’t ne’er speak again such as you did there before them oomen-folk. Like what I say ain’t gospel.”

“Chrissake, get off your high horse. They know you’re boss.” Garland ground his cigarette butt in a plate and laughed. He ran his little finger across his mustache, touching his sensuous lips. “I was always big enough to lick you if it came to that, now wasn’t I?”

“You’ve tried hit.”

“I always give you good advice. Now here’s another bone I want to pick. Indoor plumbing.” He hit his fist on the table. “You think you’ve progressed because you dug a new privy ten years ago. Maria and those young girls haul water from the well like pioneers. This is December nineteen twenty-five. The century of progress.” Again the fist.

“They got a sink and a clear drain that our ma ne’er had,” Anton drawled, tobacco juice staining the corners of his mouth, “and she ne’er had a deep hole like our shithouse but just a board and a shed. Nor that sweet-water well that Witch Lufty found. I see you’ve gone soft in the city.” The farmer was pleased, for now the ground was familiar. He backed down only when there was jeopardy to his younger daughter’s future.

“Yes, guess I was going soft, Anton, when I got you that loan back in the war when times were bad. So you could buy good milkers and get shed of that worthless herd you were supporting. Guess it’s soft to buy a good breed of chickens or thoroughbred hogs.”

“Hell, those are beasts where we make our living. Hit’s not the same.” Anton stumped to the stove and lifting the round iron lid with the poker, spat on the coals. They sizzled. “And I paid that loan back, Gar. Hard cash from crops and milk.” He replaced the lid with a violent noise.

“I give up. Chrissake, you’re stubborn.” Garland arose. “I suppose you’d declare you’ll never run in a line and wire the farm for electricity?”

“I was born by lamplight and I’ll see that I die by it.”

“Well, I’ve got two or three Christmas packages in the Ford.” Garland was going to the door. “Good a time as any to bring them in. Frankie,” he shouted, “call off that practicing and come with me. Jesus Wept, this is a holiday.”

Anton was sawing his fist in the air, exhorting, “Remove not the ancient landmark which thy fathers have set, says the Word. Mind, Gar.”

That evening an austere meal of bread and cabbage soup was consumed. By custom the family semi-fasted before communion. They would wait to eat of the festive food when they returned from midnight mass. After supper the girls popped corn and cracked nuts to put on the table. Ellen boiled up a pan of taffy at Garland’s suggestion. She buttered her hands and pulled it with him until it cooled into long pale sticks. But all his jokes and laughter did not rouse her from her lassitude.

At mass she moistened her tongue to swallow the dry communion disk. It seemed to her that now truly the door was closed on her childhood. As she returned to the pew she grieved, weighing what she had read in her Bible. If thou hast done foolishly in lifting thyself, or if thou hast thought evil, lay thine hand upon thy mouth. For as the churning of milk bringeth forth butter and the wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood, so the forcing of wrath bringeth forth strife. I’ll have to find a way to leave my home, a place to go and drop this wayside colt.

Garland drove the green car back down the road to the farm. He was talkative and his mood had passed to his brother. “Tell you,” Anton was yawning, “I’ll ne’er forget that Christmas I passed shivering and repenting while sleeping up against the cows, and thinking of you and Marc warm in the quilts. I’d been whipped on my knees for leaving the cow gate open. You remember it? That was one.”

The car lights beamed down the corduroy road. The night was parted like great doors swinging open on hinges. I haven’t told Uncle yet. A light fall of snow was starting and the wind hushed.

The store-wrapped gifts that Garland had laid on the table in the parlor were opened Christmas morning. Anton was puffing at a hand-rolled cigar. “If you be setting and your hands be idle, hit’s a good enough pleasure,” he said, stinting. “I even heard they’re rolling cigars now with a machine.”

Ellen opened her package, took out a hat of crushed blue satin, a silk rose on its soft brim. “My, that’s fair.” Her voice was tremulous because of his care for her.

“Put it on, hon,” he was saying. “Ordered it special from the milliner. You know, satin’s the thing this year. Say, when she wears that to mass, Anton, you’ll have to keep the beaus back with a shotgun.”

Maria smoothed her fingers over a black crepe de Chine dress. Frankie ran to try on one of pink wool, to fling herself upon Garland while her father smoked in his chair, tracing her movements with a jealous eye. “E’er see the glass bowl-garden Frankie made me last summer, Gar?” he asked. “Hit’s setting in the bedroom window.”

Ellen was drying the breakfast dishes when Garland came into the room. He had on a bright striped jacket and brown corded jodhpurs. His gray hair was neat, his square jaw shaven. “Don’t you ever get tired of all this work, puss? You never get a change, hidden out on the farm here by yourself.”

“It’s my home, Uncle. And I love the earth and its doings. Sometimes in the summer it comes on such an hour like when the Lord God walked in the garden of Eden. Sometimes a wind passes o’er the earth that’s fair and all its bounty is spread before.” The wetness stood in her eyes as she was blurting it.

“I know, but you’ve got your future to think about. You should meet people. Get around. Your father dotes on Frankie too much, never gives a thought to you. It’s not right, you know.”

“It’s his way.”

“You got a boy friend?”

“No.” Water filled her eyes again.

Garland tapped the table. “It’s your father. Keeps you kids cloistered like a pair of nuns.”

Ellen was stacking the dried silver in the milkglass jar. She turned to him, desperation fringing her tones. “I would as lief go from the farm awhile, to see the world outside.”

“Course you would, sweet.” He was hearty. “That’s only normal. Now what chore comes next?”

“Tending my goats.” She was taking her coat from its hook. “Want to come?”

With the dog trailing after, they took the path over which Ellen had sped light in the summer past. She fed her does and was standing at the gate while they ate, her eyes absorbed. Garland smoked his cigarette, observing her a while. “How would you like to visit me in Chicago, sweet? Work’ll be light here till spring. They can get along without you.”

She breathed soft, “Pa’d not have it.”

“He doesn’t need you. Got your sister to keep him company.”

“He does so need me.”

“Well then, he can let you have a vacation.” He smiled. “Does he ever strap you now you’re a grown girl?”

“No, but I call to mind when I was a child and once Ma said I picked at a rhubarb pie from the pantry shelf. I ne’er knew of it being there. Pa cut a hickory, length of his arm, and beat me. Made me kneel. Said I lied. I won’t squall and that gets his back up.” She rubbed with her finger the area between the black stub horns of Rhodie, veiling her eyes. “Reckon I’d love to visit at your house.”

“Well, it’s high time. I’ll throw a party when you come. I’ll talk to Anton this afternoon. Tell him it’s only logical for you to be first since you’re the oldest. He’ll let you. You’ll see.” He was putting his arm around Ellen. She leaned against him with a sigh. “You’re a sweet girl, hon.” He kissed her, lingering on the young mouth.

Ellen decided not to say more to him now. I’ll wait till I’m at his house to tell him he must help me.

Anton wasn’t averse to Ellen’s journey. Garland had emphasized how he was making ready for Frankie’s arrival the next year, and he spoke of the money he planned to spend on her.

Maria said suddenly, “Who’ll do the trading if Ellie goes off?”

“Enough jawing on this,” cried Anton. “I’ll send Sam, ooman. Ellie’ll not be gone two-three weeks.”

Garland laughed, “Her turn comes first. You don’t mind, do you, Frankie?”

“Oh no, I want her to go. Maybe I could do the trading, Pa? Just while Ellie’s gone?”

“No, Poppet. Say, is she riding back with you in the auto?” Anton inquired.

“I guess not. No, I’ll be going by way of St. Louis. I’ve got some business to look after. Then I’ll drive on up and get the house in order. I’ve never gotten ready for one of these young ladies before.”

“She’s taking a train then?” Anton was persistent.

“This is my treat. I’m giving Ellen the ticket money. It’s an extra Christmas present.”

“Well. If you want,” Anton said, relieved.

Ellen stood by them pale, her eyes fastened to her uncle. He nodded, “Come the middle of January, puss. Leave here on the fifteenth. I know the train. There’s only one out of New Hope that goes to Chicago.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“It’s foolishness.” Anton walked out.

Before Garland left, he came on Ellen alone, slipping her an envelope of money. “No need to mention this to your father. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Just tell him I gave you enough for your ticket.”

“All right, Uncle.” She held the extra money tightly in her apron pocket.

On the morning after New Year’s Day, Garland was jaunty in his yellow driving cap and raccoon coat. The girls were helping him carry his bags out to the Ford. Then he unfolded the hood, examined the interior. “That’ll do.” He fastened the hood down, removed the figured radiator cap and dipped a finger. “Water.”

Frankie brought a pail from the pump. “Can I do it?”

“No, this is fine.” He poured until it flowed over, replaced the cap, and opened the car door. “Here goes one more year.”

“Wish you’d stay on a while,” said Frankie.

“There,” Maria said, “I love that dress. I ne’er had a silk one before.”

“That’s crepe de Chine, Maria,” Garland laughed, “it’s the style.”

“It’s not silk, ooman,” Anton said, “that stuff’s too dear.”

“Yes, is it,” Garland said. “It’s one kind of silk. Well, here I go.” His gloved hand was waving from the window. The exhaust rose in a fog, dogging the car in the chill air.

The days sped. It was time for Ellen to leave. She had bought a length of dark heavy cloth with some of the money Garland had given her. She made it into a dress, cutting so it hung in loose folds on her hips. “I can feel where it lays hard in me. Soon the cleverest stitching won’t hide it.”

She had given Frankie the primrose bulb from Brinkers’ kitchen. “Hope it fares well. Keep in mind to feed it cold tea. And do tend my goats, Frankie.”

“You’re only going for a week or so, Ellie.”

“Uncle said I might stay a little longer.”

Ellen was bringing salt to her two does. They licked her hands, leaning affectionate against her. She knew the places they liked best to be rubbed, along the withers and between the horns, on the silken spots behind their small pricked ears, on their throats below the beards. “Frankie’s promised to care for you.”

Maria said, “Bye now. When you reckon Mester Gaddy’ll be back from taking you to Millville? I’m out of coffee.”

Frankie was kissing Ellen fondly. “It’ll be right lonely with you off there. I’ll miss your singing, too.” Frankie’s qualms for her own leavetaking a year hence were exposed when she viewed Ellen’s breakaway. “There. I’m that eager to go to Uncle’s myself.” But she whispered, plaintive, “Wish I was little again. What if it’s not fun like you think it’ll be, Ellie?”

“I ain’t afraid,” Ellen spoke stoutly as she stepped down to where the team waited; her tan coat was covering her new dress, she wore the blue satin hat. Jack was flattening his ears and going to sit amid the weeds on the bank to await her return.

Anton drove the buckwagon, Ellen on the railed seat beside him. At Love’s she would wait to catch a ride on the milk truck to New Hope. “You be a credit to me, girl. I don’t favor your idling about in that Zion. And you’ll not lust after young men, mind.” He was nodding. “So I told my brother.” He reined in the team outside the store. Ellen went in for Maria’s coffee. She handed it up to him. “I’ll see you in two weeks’ time. You can write and I’ll make a way to get you home.”

“Yes, Pa. Goodbye.” Ellen watched the buckboard until she could barely make out her father’s round hat.

In Love’s store, she was peering through the wide window. Stacey Love rocked, vigorous, by the stove. “Hit’s a far piece where you’re going.” Grady was chopping wood and the report of his ax was heard. “I always thought a heap of Mester Gaddy’s brother.” She placed a pinch of snuff between her lower lip and teeth. “Though I ne’er had no truck with another Yankee.”

Ellen kept silence, sickened with excitement and fear.

“You’re sure looking seedy, Ellen. I was telling Grady you seemed kind of pinched this winter.” Stacey swayed back and forth.

There was a noise at the door and Lily Garrett was pushing in, her curls springing about her soft face. “Well, hey you-all.”

“Wish I had a rich uncle,” Stacey went on quietly.

“Why, Ellie Gaddy,” the fat girl cried, “where you going all smartened up? And you got a new hat. Look at that rose.”

Ellen kept her back to them. She continued looking up the road, the pulse in her throat throbbing.

“Ellen’s leaving us poor folks, Lily. Going to the big city.”

“Oh, Mrs. Love,” whispered Ellen.

“My goodness,” cried Lily, “you ne’er told me.”

“Wish I could go visiting,” Stacey said, “lie around in bed of a morning.”

“You-all heard,” Lily called to Ellen, “Buck Lemmon and Sophie Goode wedded? Kept it a secret. It was at the husking bee they met up. How come you didn’t go to the bee, Ellie? Mandy declared you were going.”

Ellen looked around. “My pa wouldn’t suffer neither me or Frankie to go, Lily. That’s all.”

“I calculate Buck Lemmon seen Sophie a sight before that husking bee,” Stacey said flatly.

“Whate’er you mean?” Lily was giggling.

“I ain’t saying,” Stacey smiled. “But you e’er see such a funny-looking girl as Sophie? I marvel at her catching a fine fellow like Buck. I can see she’s wearing stays and binding herself so it won’t show. Guess she allows she’ll fool somebody that way. Buck told me himself she’s been to see Doc Trumbo. Lazy old sow.”

“There’s the milk truck.” Ellen turned to flee. Lily was kissing her extravagantly at the door while Stacey waved a hand and renewed her wad of snuff. Ellen hailed the truck. “Can I hitch a ride to New Hope, Mester Durley?”

“Sure thing, Miss Gaddy.” Those were his last words until they reached the New Hope station.

“I’m beholden, Mester Durley,” she said as she was taking her bag.

“Sure thing.”

In her valise was the plaster of Paris image of the Virgin Mary, and Ellen was somewhat fortified by its presence.