Chapter XII: Part 12

The music ceased and the fiddler was leaning back. The banjo-player wiped his brow. “Hell, it’s hot.” Dan and Ellen came up to sit on the platform edge. Dan was smoking. They watched the crowd at the bench where a barrel of cold beer was rolled on its side next to tin pitchers of Mrs. Silvers’ iced lemonade.

“You sure can handle those strings,” Ellen was telling the fiddler.

“Been doing this off and on since I was ten. Maybe this child will die this away. Maybe I’ll be like that Callahan.”

“Who’s he?”

“It’s a song. Fiddler Callahan killed somebody so they were about to hang him. Says if anyone would play his fiddle while he was being strung up, they could keep it. He begged at the crowd for it was a notion he had. Nobody’d do it, so when they were fixing to trip the gallows he quit pleading, and busted it to pieces over the coffin they had ready for him.”

“Look,” Dan stood up, grinding his cigarette on the floor. “Could you play ‘Lord Lovel’ for her to sing?”

“Sure thing.” The fiddler was taking up his bow.

Ellen looked past the swaying lanterns into the June night.

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate
Combing his milk-white steed
When up came Lady Nancy Belle
To wish her lover godspeed

Lord Lovel went away then, vowing to return. But when at last he did, the Lady Nancy had died.

He mounted on his milk-white steed
And he rode to London town
And there he heard the death bells ringing
And the people mourning all round

He ordered the grave to be opened wide
And the shroud to be turned down
And there he kissed her clay-cold lips
And the tears came trinkling down

“That was keen,” the banjo-player said. “You two want to try a Hound-and-Dog?”

“Come on, Ellen.”

“All right,” she was whispering. “I want to be woven into a part of all you undertake to do.”

“That’s why you’re my girl.” His shaven hard cheek was on her hair, the red-checked shirt was tight against the white dress. And the people were all about but far away.

* * * * *

Summer put her hand on the earth and all things flourished. In early hours earthworms coupled on damp paths. Grain fields turned yellow. Mowers and reapers hummed busily across the countryside. Mulberries and cherries ripened. The children spread an old sheet under the trees and shook the branches. They gathered the corners and ran to the kitchen. “Berry pieth and cherry pieth,” chanted Hannah and Grace.

Now that school was out, Simon was given a string of cows. He put his arm about their necks and the light of possession and love gleamed. One of them had leaped the fence and got to the bull when too young. Her teats were small and short. Simon’s hands were coaxing them patiently.

“We’d have sold that one if it wasn’t for you, Simon,” Dan shouted from his milking stool.

“Can’t abide a short-teated cow,” Sudduth said. “Come on, Lady, let those big bubbies down for me,” Sudduth was nudging the heavy udder with his fist; the cow chewed, serene.

Simon told Ellen, “Dan might let the colt be mine if Pearl got caught with one.”

“Colts are worth a lot.”

“Well, so Dan said,” the boy insisted.

They were driving over to the Doughertys. Penny gave Simon Little Tiny’s kid. It was brown with white stripes on its face and legs. “The daddy’s a Toggenburg,” Penny said. “It ought to milk proud.”

The boy was entranced. “Hey, Clate. Hey, Anse. This be a fine yeanling.”

Anse stood aside and said nothing, but Clate swaggered. He began to tell Simon how to care for the kid.

“Oh shut up, Clate. I know about burnt flour when she gets the scours.”

“You named it yet, Simon?” Penny asked.

“April.”

“That’s a fair name.” Ellen could see Penny was pregnant again. She’s liable to have another as puny as little Jess is.

Then they were waving from the truck windows as they went down the narrow winding lane. “Seems I’m always saying goodbye to Penny, Dan.” He smiled at her across Simon who held the little doe on his knees. Used to be I worried over the past, how it clutched at me. Now that’s fallen away and I’m looking ahead, making this foreign place mine.

* * * * *

The days were dropping, one upon one. Ellen and Dan would seek each other out. Their gladness was contagious, so that Sudduth was gallant with Adele, and Mom more attentive to Pop. Sometimes in the evenings they would sit on the board seat nailed between two oaks in the yard. “Ellen, we ought to get married now. We don’t have to wait till fall.”

“No.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’d like to wait.”

“Your family’s Catholic. You want a priest?”

“I don’t care about that, but I’d like to see Adele and the children moved. Then I want to wash the walls and wax the floor. I’d as soon have a proper wedding.”

“I see.” He was kissing her, and her earnestness faded as she made herself to him.

But the next day she said, “I thought I’d write Frankie and my uncle and aunt. And even my pa. I’d like them to come here if they can and stand as my family when I marry.”

“All that nonsense.”

“I’d like it that way.”

“Suppose I’ll have to wear a flower in my buttonhole?”

“Yes. And Simon has to have a suit.”

“Does he get a flower too?”

“Yes.”

“What’s next?”

“The minister. We can have Adele’s Presbyterian. That little sad one. I’ll have flowers in vases standing about. And the minister should have a flower too.”

“He doesn’t have a buttonhole.”

“I thought he did.”

“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll get married now. It’s up to you, honey.”

* * * * *

That was in August. In mid-September the roof struts of Sudduth’s house were in place. The boards and shingles were nailed and fitted. Adele was moving laborious, the child big in her, sighing, “All my plans to leave this house so orderly for you, Mom.”

“Don’t you worry, Adele. Things are good enough.”

Ellen went out often to see how the building was progressing. Every nail driven was bringing the day nearer. Mrs. Daniel Matthew Wasilewski. I’ll write Ma, too. The nurses could read it to her. She might know what it said. I’ll go see her this winter. You can’t tell, in a year or so we might even be having a youngen. I could walk out to Dan where the corn was ripe, “Here’s your son I just happened to have.”

The morning was bright and moist. The wind was drifting steadily from the southwest. Ellen had been picking tomatoes since breakfast and she was walking down to meet the men before the noon hour. They had been cutting hay in the field next to the new house. It was edged by a row of heavy-trunked willows. Long ago when posts had been cut and set, they had rooted in the easy way of a willow, and made heads, sprouting in summer rains. “What do you call those fence trees, Dan?” she was calling. Simon waved boldly as he clattered past her with the team and mower, heading for the barnyard. The men dropped their forks and came up to meet Ellen.

“Those are golden osier willows,” Sudduth explained. “Pop planted them before we were born.”

“Dinner ready?” Dan took Ellen’s hand as they were walking through the sweet-odored drying alfalfa.

“I don’t know. Mom’s getting it. I’ve been in the garden.” The air was lightly misted though the sun was bright. There were cumulus clouds in the sky. The south wind continued to blow.

“Hope we get this hay in all right,” Dan said.

“This has been the best year yet,” Sudduth said. “Good and dry. Not a load lost.”

“I don’t think we’ll lose this one. Knock on wood. The storm’s way off. The hay’ll be cured by early afternoon. We can get it in quick. Simon’s a help. He’s fast and he’s got the hang of it.”

“It’s not twister weather, is it?” Ellen asked.

“You’re not afraid of a wind?” Dan’s yellow eyes laughed, so she knew he was thinking of the day in the barn when he first kissed her, and she him.

“I’m not.”

In the afternoon, Ellen was in the middle of the tomato canning. At the kitchen door were four full bushel baskets; depleted ones were stacked outside. She was scalding the fruit, packing it into hot Mason jars. Rows of empty jars waited upside down on the table, the filled ones were boiling in the canner. Mom came in. “I’ll help out for a spell.” She fanned herself with her ample apron. “Sakes, the air’s close.”

Ellen could feel how the wind had stopped. A piece of fear plucked at her. “Isn’t the hay in yet?”

“They’re going at it real hard. They even gave Dennie a fork. He’s out working alongside Sudduth. Land, the rain’s not too far off.” Mom frowned. “Sudduth says the last cutting of alfalfa is like grain, it’s so high in protein.”

“I know.” Ellen was pausing. “Mom, is this twister weather?”

“It’s a little early for them. Doesn’t feel like it to me. We’ll know if Sudduth comes tearing in.” She turned to the sink. “Now, let’s get this mess put up.”

They worked swiftly. But their minds were with the men who strove to save the hay.

In the far field, Simon was perched on the load that towered, dwarfing the two dappled grays. Dan was throwing great forkfuls to him and Simon laid it deftly back, stepping it down, his small arms muscled and brown. Sudduth was unloading the truck at the barn, stacked with the previous load. The farm buildings were like toys in the distance, sharp-edged in the air which had a peculiar transparency. The movements of the man and boy quickened. Dan pitched up the last of the hay. “Whip them if you have to, Simon.”

The youngster clambered into the driving seat, gathered the leather reins. The team pawed, rattling the harness. “I will, Dan.”

“Get it in the loft fast. Sudduth’ll pitch it up.”

Simon, overworked, sweated heavily, drops running down his face. His bleached hair curled damp, his shirt and pants clung to his skin. He shrilled, “Get in there. Major. Pearl!” The wagon was lurching through the stubble.

Dan began to stack the hay that remained. By now the nimbus rain clouds were hovering low in the bruised sky. The man worked at a rapid pace. The temperature was falling, dusk descended, the air was dense. He was bent into his tool, trying to beat the rain in the race.

A greenish-gray cloud tumbled slowly on the skyline to the west. Suddenly the wind came up, crying. Dan lifted his head, feeling the heat. The cloud had begun to spin. “Holy God,” he muttered. The stout willow fence teetered and creaked, the hay was swept wild, swirling. A purplish tongue licked downward, hunting, moving toward the hay field.

Dan shook his fists at it, rearing lean in his high leather boots. “Dammit. Turn!” The long thick line veered crazily and then sucked back into the wounded cloud. But it was slipping down again, howling. “Turn. Turn!” His voice was nothing, his throat rended. The menace was swerving below the neighboring farm where it had come through in the spring. He was tearing his throat again, his loins on fire with fear. “Now, dear God. Turn!”

Objects were fluttering, grotesque, like bugs in the dark pulsing. They were dying pigs and turkeys and a broken cart, small barns shattering glass, boards, dust, manure. Pieces of houses and ripped posts. Ravaged fruits from gardens. Drying hay, dust, chaff, dirt. Over Dan’s head a drove of birds winged abruptly, disappearing to the north. The heinous rhythmic humming was constant.

The world was as if under water, green-blue, unreal, glowing. Simon was in the far barnyard, tiny on the stacked child’s wagon, attempting to pitch the hay to the loft alone. The three women, like dolls, were fluttering into the yard. Dan plunged into the shallow ditch bordering the field; he flattened himself, cowering. The ugly dancing shadow advanced. “No.”

Then the roof of Sudduth’s bare unpainted house was rising weirdly. In deliberate motion it was wheeling above the field. The man stumbled up from the trench in rage, disbelief, clawing the air dazed, with his powerful hands, as if to replace the mighty shower of timber where he had nailed it with sweat and struggle. The roof was engulfing the field and the golden osier willows were breaking. The noise was tremendous.

* * * * *

When they rode out to the hay field, Ellen was beside Sudduth in the truck. Warm silent rain blew gently against the windshield. Lumber and rubble were scattered and Sudduth had to drive around the larger planks, skidding in the mud. The prone figure was stretched face up amid the litter. Sudduth braked and Ellen was tearing at the door. She ran, believing him dead. She lifted the two-by-four from his body. She knelt, uncertain. His eyelids were flickering and they opened. “Hi.”

“Sudduth,” she called evenly. “Get a doctor. Hurry.” She was touching the wet dark face, leaning over to keep off the constant rain.

“You came.”

“Dan?”

“It didn’t turn,” he whispered. The rain was streaming from his carven face, his soaked black hair.

“Where do you hurt?”

“Dying. You know that?” He was moving narrow wood lips.

“No, Dan.”

“Sonofabitch,” he was sighing.

“Don’t die.”

“I won’t.”

“The doctor’s coming. Do you hurt somewhere?”

“Damn wind.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Never comes twice.”

“Dan?”

“Never. No.” His mouth was thickening, his body was broken and when he heard her voice he came back through an effort of will. “Ellen?”

“I won’t let you.” Her cheek against his, she cradled him in her arms. “Holy Mary?” The rain was pouring sweet and hot, releasing the sun-baked alfalfa odor. Her lips clung to his wet cool face.

“Poor Ellen.”

“Don’t talk.”

His face was gray and seamed. It twitched, wounded. A red dot was appearing at the side of his mouth.

“Don’t,” she breathed.

His dulled greenish eyes were seeking her. For a few minutes she wasn’t sure he was gone. A thunderbolt tore exultant about the field, rolling passionate. A new torrent of rain swept like an enfolding blanket. She wasn’t aware. She lay upon the lifeless body reciting Hail Marys over and again. Pray for us sinners now. Amen.

The truck sped down the drenched slick mire of the lane. The doctor jumped out, pried Ellen from the body. “Is he dead?” she asked. Sudduth was leading her to the truck cab. They wrapped a rug about the limp figure and laid it in back on soggy hay chaff. She looked at it through the rear window.

“I’ll ride out here,” the doctor called, climbing over the rear bumper.

Sudduth was driving through the field, avoiding the litter of boards and shingles. “Jesus.” He wagged his head, aimless. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Ellen.”

She watched the two men carry the body upstairs. Then she went into the kitchen, still in her wet hay-flecked dress, clinging. Vaguely she knew Mom was crying and the doctor was using the telephone in the sitting room. She lifted one of the heavy bushels by the door and set it down by the sink. She dipped tomatoes, peeling, packing them hot in jars, measuring teaspoons of salt out. No one paid her any mind. Sudduth called the children, shrilling, insistent. He took them all, even the little girls, to the barn with him while he did the chores. Upstairs, Adele began to cry aloud, and soon moaned at regular intervals. Mom was hurrying back and forth, hair wisped, mouth unsteady. She looked in at the kitchen door. “Land. I’m glad you’re finishing them, Ellen. Like the doctor says, the living come first.”

Adele’s premature baby died in the night. Adele turned her head and wept into the pillow. She believed an all-seeing God was punishing her because she had tried once to rid herself of it. At breakfast Mom asked Ellen if she could stay at home to care for Adele while they went to the funeral. “I can’t, Mom. I would, but I have to go see him.”

“Well, the boys can get Adele what she needs, I guess.” Mom moved her body cautiously; she had not grasped the two deaths yet. She was turning to Ellen. “Sakes. I really did want you and him to marry, Ellen. I know you’d have been to him what Star Webster never could have.”

“Well, Mom,” Ellen shrugged, “want me to make up the rest of the bacon or fry ham?” She was dry-eyed.

“Finish the bacon.”

“Simon,” Ellen was asking at the table, “did you get that last hay in before the rain?”

“No, it’s bad soaked, Ma. We can spread it in the yard. Reckon it’ll dry good enough.”

“You-all do that. Even if it’s leached, it’ll still make horse feed.”

“Jesus, I got a back this morning,” Sudduth said. “I don’t know.”

Ellen appealed to Mom, “You got a black hat?”

“You can wear Adele’s.” Mom patted Ellen’s shoulder. “It’s even got a veil. At least I think it has.”

When she had dressed, Ellen came into the sitting room. Sudduth was pacing the floor, tears coming steadily down his thin face. Pop sat shriveled and fragile in his overlarge Sunday suit, his bony hands protruded from the sleeves like bird legs. The sun stretched itself over the room, catching the luster of the stuffed red-and-black tanager under the glass bell on the table. I hate the sun and I hate the prying light. “It’s a beautiful day,” she was saying. She had watched dawn unfolding out of dark, felt the dry thickening in her throat.

“Let’s go on out and wait for Mom,” Sudduth said, stiff.

Ellen walked with them, getting into the back seat with Pop. She folded her handkerchief, unfolded it. Sudduth started the motor and let it idle. After a while, Mom came to the house door, a fleshy large figure in black, veiled. The children stared, circling her, restless. “You be good and do what Adele says,” Mom told them.

“Don’t punch me, Grace.”

“I never touched you.”

“Where’th everybody going?”

“It’s the funeral of Uncle Dan,” said Grace. “He’s dead. And they’re going to plant him in the ground.” They watched the car go down the road, milling in a group, close to each other.

Before the services, in the carpeted stuffy room, Ellen went up on the dais to look at the body. The casket was heavy. There was satin and white and purple cloth about him. He wore his brown suit. His hands were folded on each other, they had lost their sun color. Those men had their will with his body. Their prying hands. The almond tree shall blossom and the caperberry shall fail because man goeth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets. There was a slight reek of incense. His eyes were shut, his face puffed out so the familiar creases hardly showed. His hair was combed flat. They drained off his blood and pumped somewhat in his body, didn’t they? To keep back the death smell? He had a false look; it was the birthmark, they had hidden it with paste. Reckon he heard death bells in the air when it roared to him? Or the silver cord be loosed or the golden bowl be broken or the pitcher at the fountain. And the dust return to the earth as it was. That’s the husk of Dan. All I’ve got is a memory. I can’t recall him. I forget. She struggled, throat tight, to bring to mind how he moved and laughed, how he would be grease-stained from working under the machines, how he was alert and strong and moved quicker than the others. How he was awkward when he ran his fingers on her hair. But the statue slept, its hawklike features impassive.

The organ struck up like breaking soft boulders. She moved as if she was of glass. For who knoweth what is good for man in his life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow? She was going down the steps to sit by Mom in one of the blue plush chairs. The carpet made footfalls noiseless, the organ pushed her. She sat in the bruised music. Dan would be proud of how quiet I am. She didn’t feel tears pouring until she discovered her wet hands; she wiped them dully with the handkerchief. She knew she had been robbed once more. Praise ye the Lord. He telleth the number of the stars. He calleth them by their names.

The minister was walking up onto the dais, patting his head where hair once flourished. He stared at the floor and straightened his coat. The head undertaker nodded. The organ hushed. “Behold the Lord God will come with strong hand. Yes. He shall gather the lambs with his arm and carry them in his bosom. Yes. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to pay our last respects.”

What I can’t understand is why Dan didn’t see it coming and go to the barn on the wagon with Simon. When we ran out to look, I waved and called. But he just kept shocking the hay up. I can’t understand why he never saw it making there in the south sky. He should have come in with Simon. I don’t know why.

“Dust to dust. Yes. Ashes,” the preacher intoned. That man was going to marry us. Daniel Wasilewski took Ellen Gaddy in marriage. So it would have been written. “Lord, make me to know mine end. Yes. And the measure of my days that I may know how frail I am. Behold, Thou hast made my days as a handbreadth. Oh yes.”

The service was done, the organ was rolling muted hymns over plush upholstery. The undertaker bent his head in a gentle unctuous way to Mom. They walked out to where the sun dazzled the trees in a gilt sheen. They were rumbling slowly down flat roads toward the cemetery. Ellen asked Pop, “Why must they go so tormented slow?”

“It’s the custom, Ellen.”

“I’d rather put him straightaways in the earth. Fast. I got no use for all this furbelowing.” She looked through the windows to the bright day. Under her black veil, water ran down. “Why’d he die, Pop?”

“He was in the way when it struck.”

“I told him to come in,” Sudduth cried out. “I told him.”

“Shut up,” Mom flared, and sighed.

At the open grave, the metal-bound box was lowered. Now they’ll wait until we go away. They’ll take down the purple canopy and fold the green grass rug. They’ll drive off, leaving a man to cover the hole. He’ll throw dirt on the box with Dan in it. And it’ll be all over.

Simon came to her that evening where she sat by the windows in the cold lavender air of dusk. The silence was delicate, like ringing. The family had taken the noise away. They were with Adele or in their beds. The boy touched her shoulder. “Ma?”

She started, striking his hand from her. Then she spoke quickly, penitent, “What is it, Simon?”

“Don’t grieve. Here, I brought you one of the kittens.”

And because he was so kind and tender in his youthful shy way, all the walls she built broke suddenly. She bowed her head and wept.

“Oh, Ma, I loved him too. He wasn’t afraid of ne’er a thing.” The boy’s voice was laden. He began to cry. Holding the kitten in his arm, he was putting his head in her apron.

“Don’t weep, Simon,” she sobbed on his hair.

Later she cradled in her hand the tiny black kitten. Through the window she was watching the north wind blow as autumn cast itself on the cringing landscape. I shall go softly all the years in the bitterness of my soul.

26

The winter was passing. It had been long. As its last days dragged, in Louisville, a false spring came on as it often does in that season. Outside the city the first glimmers of growing had appeared, tiny green spears in barley fields, and hesitant statuesque spring flowers. Wake-robins bloomed in woods, dark red and hidden, like grief. In the city a soft evening wind moved. Anton Gaddy was parting from Dyke Burwell at the truck. He settled his round hat firmly. Dyke was coaxing, “Hey Mester Gaddy, whyn’t you come with me this once? There’s this here old girl. Must weigh near a quarter ton. Now I mean that pussy’s buried.”

“I’ll see you here at the Chevy, boy.” Anton was impatient. “Tomorrow morning.”

“All right. But they got skinny ones too. If you’d rather. They got all kinds.”

Anton was rushing away down the street, his flewlike lips sagging, a frown over his long face. He was preoccupied, afraid. He believed he was losing the woman Rose. For more than a year now he had been visiting her apartment. At one time he and Dyke had made excuses to each other that there were auctions and sales that must be attended. But gradually they had shed the pretense and now traveled the seventy miles often. Dyke would come by the Gaddy farmhouse to see Anton. “Got an old cow that’s no good. Reckon I’ll take her to the auctions.” And Anton would reply, “Before God, leave the fool beast be. Haw. Let’s take off for Louisville right now.”

He was halting outside the brick building. The last few times here a man had come down the darkened stair and once he saw him stride away on the street. The man’s cheekbones were broad and high, he was stockily built with a bold way about him. Anton had confronted Rose with it when she let him in. “You’ve had company, I see.”

“I might.” She had smiled, tantalizing, throwing back her heavy dark hair.

“I told you to e’er wait for me.” Rose denied it then and said she was teasing. But it had festered in him.

Anton looked up now as he came into the doorway. The figure was there, at the bottom of the stairs. He stood aside while it brushed by. His heart began to thud, an anger started in his bowels. On the stairs he was breathing heavily. “Like to take the strap to her.” But he was held from physical action. She might slip away. He was never sure of his grip on Rose, winced from her laughter. He had thought of asking Father Tompert about a dispensation to make her his wife. But he put off the issue, fearing the priest’s flat refusal, his suspicious eyes. Anton’s old peremptory ways had given over to some hesitancy. His younger daughter and then his grandson had evaded him. His belief in his mother Nell’s, fidelity and excellence had been ravaged. Even his faith was wavering. He lived with feelings of frustration, of powerlessness, of guilt in sin. He was bent on Rose with a measure of desperation. As he was about to rap, the door swung open as if the woman were waiting.

“Oh it’s you.” As if surprised she said it and laughed, her wide soft face impudent.

“What’s this you say? Hum. I told you I was coming.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased to see you. Did I?”

He was coming after her in his heavy coat, placing his hand on her buttocks as he was used to do. “Rose?”

“You don’t own me, Daddy,” she railed, eluding his grasp. She was wearing a sheathed dress instead of her flowered housecoat. “You’ll muss my make-up. I’m going out.”

She had on high slippers so that she was taller than Anton. This somehow angered him. “You’re going to meet that man. That whoreson that just was here.”

“No, Daddy.” Her voice was light.

“I’ve caught him coming out three-four times now.”

“He’s young,” she mocked.

“I’ve got a power in me yet. You know that.”

“Look.” She was picking up her purse and coat, and a green beret with a matching feather. “Look, I need some things for supper. I’ll be back a little late.” She put on the hat, her eyes moist and teasing. “But I’ll be back, Daddy. You wait.” She was out the door, her high laugh stringing behind.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing his overcoat and hat. “I’ve got a mind to whip her. Got a mind to kill her. Punish her for lying.” He was whispering into the room. His coat dropped from his shoulders and was sliding to the floor. He pulled his shirt open roughly at the neck, tearing the tie. Noises came from throughout the building. A door slapped shut. Steps were ascending and descending. He waited for each to be Rose. His sickness for her churned in him. He could feel his potency failing, shrinking. “She’s wanting a young stud.”

He was rising, moving to the window, the black hat still on. He shoved the window up, banging it, leaning out. There was a pale street lamp at the corner. A semi-truck came rumbling heavily over the pavement. A man stumbled across the half-dark spring-scented street. A couple were sauntering, arms about each other’s waists, the girl tittering shrill. A sailor, pants tight about his loins, stalked the sidewalk opposite: “Where’d you get the broad, Jack?”

Anton’s eyes had slitted. He was wrenching off his belt. It was the old one of thick cowhide with a weighted brass buckle. His gray eyes were dry though his defeated mouth was drawn as if to weep. He spoke hoarse, threatening, “Before God, I’ll punish that Rose-whore good. I’ll put myself into damnation. I’ll learn her to cuckold.”

* * * * *

Two hours passed before Rose returned. She was humming in time to the click of her confident heels.

In a little lovenest
Just for you and me, a dovenest

She shifted her parcels and turned the knob. When she saw the dead man hanging in the grip of the strap from the tall closet door, the body had ceased any movement. She stepped close enough to touch it with her hand; it was beginning to stiffen. Mechanically, she plucked up the overturned chair beneath it, and set it straight. A breeze blew up, billowing the curtains, and she went to the window to close it. She stumbled on his overcoat by the bedside, dropped her bags on the coverlet and caught up the phone. She spoke a number to the operator, whispering, and waited.

“Christian?” She was sitting on the bed abruptly. “You have to come here right away. I can’t explain. I’m afraid. You tell Mama I might go home after all.” She began to cry, listening. “I’ll wait. You hurry.” She returned the receiver. She was quiet, shivering. After a long time she heard a step outside, ran to the door, pulling him in. All at once sobs were convulsing her, “It’s there. Look.”

He called the police. “By damn, where’d you meet him, Rose?”

“He’s the one I wanted to marry.”

When the two officers arrived they took the body down and laid it out on the floor. They searched pockets and made notes. “Who are you?” they asked Christian.

“I’m her brother.”

They directed Rose to appear at the inquest; they questioned her, “You must have some idea why he did it, Miss Ay?”

“I don’t understand. We were the best of friends, Mr. Gaddy and me. I just went down the street for a few minutes. He was waiting for me. I was going to get some food.”

Christian was asking, “Will you notify the relatives?”

“His wife’s in a state institution,” Rose offered. “He’s had family troubles, one kind and another. Maybe that’s why it happened.”

“Here’s a letter,” the officer said. “Garland Gaddy. We’ll get hold of him.” A knock was heard. “That’s the ambulance.” The body was covered, then removed, the interns clattering as they went down the staircase. “All right, miss. We’ll notify you when we want you. Good night.” He put his cap back on.

“I’d be glad to help,” Christian said.

“We won’t need you. Just your sister. Good night.”

Christian didn’t say that long ago he had known the dead man. Once Anton Gaddy had stood scornful in high weeds, spitting tobacco juice, calling him boy.

* * * * *

Dyke Burwell was waiting at the truck in the morning, baffled, having searched cafes and bars for Anton. By afternoon he made the decision to drive back to Millville alone. A rainstorm was brewing and there was a load of soybean sacks under the tarpaulin on the truck. Dyke had known Anton was keeping a woman but that was as far as his information went. He had considered notifying the police but dismissed it. Anton would have to return by bus. When he reached the Gaddy farm three hours later, thunder was growling in the murky afternoon sky. Sam Offut ran out, followed by Eadie, her hair disheveled, her hands flapping. Eadie threw her apron over her face and wailed. Sam was yelling, hunched and beady-eyed, “Old man’s dead. Sheriff just left us. I says, call his brother in Chicago, he’ll know where those daughters be. Poor trash, walking out on their pa. For Gawd, Dyke.”

“Hey,” Dyke shouted in fear. “Who was it killed him?”

“Himself. He done it himself.” The wind smote the treetops.

“Raised his hand,” cried Eadie. “Against his soul. He’ll burn for it. Jehovah!”

Dyke helped Sam unload half the soybeans while lightning flashed nearby. Then Dyke went home and word was bruited throughout the countryside. Folks found reasons to drive past the Gaddy farm. They would peer fearfully at the two old Offuts and exchange words about them. They named it a ghost farm.

part five

and each alone
Walk together toward the trees
Where the road runs out of sight
In the green beyond the leaves
The green cove below the light

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.