Chapter IV: Part 4

The whistle was shrieking as the train coursed into the suburbs late in the night. The cars slunk past small sharp-angled houses, massive factories belching fire, streets of lighted stores and cafes, slow-moving people and streetcars, trucks, wagons and horses or mules, buggies, automobiles. The coach cars were strung with yellow window links that curved on the track ahead into a tunnel. Ellen saw muffled groups of people under bright station lamps. Her journey was done. She reached the cold cement of a pillared runway, stood impotent, bewildered, jostled by passengers on their separate ways. She was clutching her bag in one hand, the other in her coat pocket held her handkerchief in which the money was knotted. A familiar voice spoke in her ear, “Well, here’s the little country wench.”

It was Garland, suave in a tight-fitting suit and spotted tie, a derby on his head. He carried a fur coat, his face seemed old and yellowed in the glare of the platform. He kissed her mouth and she felt the mustache, clung to him. “I thought I got lost, Uncle.”

“Porter.” Yellow taxicabs were waiting in a line. They got in one and drove a long time. She was asleep, her head limp against the hard leather. Garland was waking her. “This is it, sweet.”

She stumbled after him up granite stairs. He stooped over to unlock a door, pushed it open and they went into an unlighted hall where a staircase reared. “How about something to eat? Some hot milk?” He flashed on a light overhead.

“I reckon I’d better just sleep, Uncle. I’m beat.”

“Your room’s up here.” He was climbing ahead on the broad uncarpeted steps, carrying her valise. A musty odor lingered about them.

“My, you’ve got a big house, Uncle.” Her voice was loud in the echoing vestibule.

“It’s big all right.” He preceded her down the hall and opened a door, stepped in and snapped the button of a wall lamp. An orange bulb glowed faintly. “If you want more light, there’s one by the bed.” It was a high-ceilinged room with a dark red rug. The wide ornate bed was covered with a heavy magenta spread and on the wall was a round mirror in a gold-scrolled frame. Through the mesh curtains hanging in front of the windows Ellen saw lamps in the street underneath and tree branches twining still and soundless. The doorbell grated below. “Goodnight, hon. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” He was gone.

Ellen attempted to draw the heavy drapes that hung at the sides of the windows, but discovered they were fastened there. She was fumbling at window shades, drawing them down. She heard voices raised below, stiffened to listen. Through the floor boards came a woman’s faint thin laughter. Then all was still. She pulled the chain of the bulb over the bed; in the sudden whiteness dust balls in the corners were exposed, and stained paper on the walls. She put the light out. Below all remained quiet. She folded her dress on an armchair. Cautious, she left the room, found the bathroom around an angle in the hallway. When she turned the spigot, water spurted and roared. Shy of disturbing the household, she washed meagerly, then hurried back and turned off the orange wall light. She crept into the cold foreign sheets. And when she slept it was as if her fears backed off. In dreaming Christian Ay was taking her hand in his. In his way he was laughing as if there was an old joke between the two of them.

When she came downstairs in the morning, her footsteps resounded in the vestibule, at the end of which was a door. It opened into a large green-carpeted room. Somber-colored chairs and sofas were flanked by trivial tables bearing bric-a-brac and crystal and cloisonné ash trays. On a corner table, in a ponderous silver frame, was a daguerreotype of Nell Gaddy, garbed in a ruffled shirtwaist and a wide straw hat tipped with an egret’s wing. Beyond she could see the dining room and her uncle at an oval table, his breakfast and a newspaper spread before him. He waved his hand, called out. He was shaking a little silver bell. She crossed the expanse of the green carpet to sit at the table by him. She sensed the odd odor of his house. It was the strangeness of another lair.

“Mrs. Quimby.” Garland was speaking to an aproned bulky woman at the swinging door. “This is my niece, Ellen. She’ll be visiting here.”

“Pleased, be sure,” said Ellen.

The woman turned away, grim, reappeared with a plate of bacon and eggs and a cup. Gray-black hair wisped about her face, a formless dress was belted on her full hips and buttoned down the front under the apron. Her eyes were colorless. She set the food before Ellen and withdrew.

“Don’t let her ways bother you, puss. You’ll get used to her. She’s a gem. Been with me years.” He was pouring her coffee. While Ellen ate he spoke rapidly, “Sleep well? You do what pleases you. The house is yours. I’ll tell Mrs. Quimby you’re mistress. Like that?” He was tapping the chair arm with his finger. “Want to go for a walk? That’s Redding Street out front. Pretty district here. Old. Want me to invite some friends for a party?” He drank the last of his coffee in haste, jingled the bell again. The housekeeper instantly opened the door, her mouth a penciled line. “Make my niece at home, Mrs. Quimby. Fix her a good lunch. Don’t know what time I’ll be back.” He hurried to the vestibule, returning in a raccoon coat and black spats. He was holding a cane and a black felt derby together in one hand. He looked down at her. “Not much to say, puss. You like my house?”

“I do, Uncle.” Ellen couched her words with care, “Be my speech queer like you told Pa my sister’s was?”

“Well, of course you talk the same as her, hon. But I don’t want you to change. Frankie’ll be living here in Chicago. So that’s different, see?”

“I’d fain live in Millville all my days.”

He kissed her and she smelled the perfumed lotion. He eyed her quizzically. “Such a little innocent. Don’t ever change, sweet.” The outer door was slamming after him.

The hours passed, the first ever spent away from home, away from the ritual of farm work. Ellen saw how mealtimes were varied to suit the whim of Mrs. Quimby, how Garland was blind to the management of his house. He was gone for many hours in a day, often returning after she was in bed. He had little time for her. She would wander through the house to sit in the sun-bright bay window in the dining room, to tune in the cumbersome radio set on the marble table in the other large shaded room. Her plight and its urgent solution lay untamed, twisting in the back of her mind. She went upstairs, past the closed doors of the hallway to the blue-and-white statuette she had placed on the highboy beside the bed. “Deliver me,” she prayed.

On her third day in the house she came to the kitchen, seeking companionship, and pushed the door. Sarah Quimby stared from where she sat reading a paper booklet. In her hands was a steaming mug that she set on the galvanized table top with a sharp click. Behind the dour-faced woman was a double-doored wood icebox trimmed in bronze, and above it swung three or four canary cages. The pale yellow birds were silent, heads cocked, alert. On the sink was a disarray of food and newspapers and opened cans. The hard-wood floor was littered with crumbs and dust. “There’s many a fine secret Sarah Quimby knows, miss.” The housekeeper’s voice was high-pitched and her finger wagged. Ellen let the door swing shut. “I know goings-on,” the woman was shrilling behind it.

Confused, Ellen went to sit in the bay window. “Old witch,” she murmured, laying her hand on her cheek. Frown lines were drawing across her forehead.

Don’t place your affections
On the green sycamore tree
For the leaves they will welter
And the balls they will fall
If you can’t love arightly
Don’t love none at all

In the round mirror in her room, Ellen was deliberately examining her figure clad in a flannel chemise. It was evening, the wall lamp burned. She placed the strip of cloth about her waist, making it firm. Then she put on the dark dress she had made for this visit. To the figure in the glass she breathed, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mester Ay.” The hurt eyes looked back from the white oval face. The breasts even now were swelling so in five months’ time they would grow hard and full, the pink nipples brown. She touched her girdled waist, bitter. “I’ll bind it tighter and maybe it’ll strangle.”

There was a knock and Garland appeared in the doorway, remote in a severe black suit and bow tie. “You put me in mind of my mother there.” He looked at her heavily and turned, drawing the door shut with a dull sound. She stood a moment, then moved to the windows, pulling up a shade exposing the windy lean night. Yellow street lamps bloomed stark and shorn tree boughs swayed. She was weeping after a while, darkly.

Later she glided down the long staircase where the echoes lived, and into the big room. A score of people were milling in the blue mist of tobacco smoke and the vague sensuous odors of perfume. In their hands were stemmed glasses and morsels of food. The air stayed hot and unreal, the voices an undulating drone above the clicking and chinking of dishes. Garland came across the room, ruddy-faced, waving a glass at her, his breath strong. “This is my niece. The one I told you about. The little goat-girl from the Kentucky hills of home.” He took her arm. He was like somebody else; fine wrinkles were etched about his soft-skinned jaw and across his brow. He spoke loudly to a white-haired tall man. “This is Ellen.”

“Mester,” she whispered, and she said, “Lady,” when it was a woman as he took her around the room. Her head throbbed, she wished the night done. Garland left her and she stood apart, waiting. Then he found her again, urging her to sing. “This niece of mine can do the old-time songs up so prettily. Go ahead, puss. Any tune.”

Her voice was high and steady while the women’s gems glistened and the men turned murmuring to each other, puffing long black cigars.

E’er a night when the sun goes in
I hang down my head and mournful cry
True love, don’t weep nor mourn for me
I’m going away to Marble Town

“Say, that’s good. You know any faster ones like ‘Bam, Bam, Bamy Shore,’ Miss Gaddy?” cried a modish blond young woman. “We could dance to that.”

“No.” Ellen’s voice was small. “Reckon not, lady.”

“Well, how about ‘Alabamy Bound’?” called another female voice. “That’s from the South.”

“I don’t know it,” Ellen said.

“It’s got rhythm.” The blond girl tapped her feet. “Come on, Nadine, let’s dance.”

“Vo-do-dee-o! Whoopee!” They raised their hands as though to pat-a-cake, swayed and juggled their feet, short skirts exposing slim legs.

Five feet two, eyes of blue
Can she hug
And can she woo

Garland was setting his glass down. He began to wail too. He shuffled, linked arm in arm with one of the bejeweled women.

She says that
She’s my little baby
My little jazztime baby

There was dancing, noise, laughter, squeals. Ellen, afraid of the strange faces, the clever women, conscious of her unfashionable attire, had retreated to a chair in a dim-lit corner. Mrs. Quimby opened the dining room door. The woman was austere in a white starched apron, a ruffled cap askew on her hair. “The dinner is served, sir.”

When the last guest had gone, Ellen turned to the broad staircase and put her hand on the balustrade. Her skin was transparent, a blue vein beat in the temple. She was holding herself tense. Garland looked at her a moment, his little eyes flickering. “I should have made you rest, hon.”

“No.” She shook her head.

“You sang so pretty.”

“No, Uncle. It’s no song for city folk.” She flushed, near tears. “It sounded queer, for a fact.”

He glanced, curious, at her. “Where did you pick up those songs?”

“Well, Talithie Gentry of the grammar school used to sing to us. But I learned the most from Penny Dougherty. Pa hired her two summers back when Ma took sick.” She sighed, aware of her plainness.

Garland was laughing, “Did you like the party?”

“Pa still calls Penny that roaring woman. He couldn’t abide her. Thought I’d die when she first went. It was so lonely.” And she added, “I remember ary tale Penny sung.”

“Not homesick are you?”

She went up a stair, avoiding his sharp look. “No. It’s the late hour makes me gossipy. Home we’re ne’er up this late.”

“Oh yes, want to ask you about church tomorrow. Guess you’d say I’m a pretty bad Catholic. Manage to make Christmas mass and send a big check to the cathedral and that’s about it.” He wagged his head, looking up at her. “But I know Anton brought you girls up strict. Bet he used a switch like our folks taught us.”

“He did.”

“Want to go to mass?”

“I’d liefer not.” She rubbed her forehead, reflecting. “If you think it’s not wrong to cross his will?”

“You mean Anton’s will? Chrissake, I’m all for it. I wouldn’t tell him. Now, sleep in the morning. Get a good rest. I’ve got some business so I’ll likely be gone.”

“I ne’er knew you to be such a rich man, Uncle. When you came to the farm.”

“Good night.”

As she entered her room, she heard the rasp of the doorbell and a woman’s voice that cut off when the door shut between the vestibule and the living room.

The next day large flakes were floating soundless beyond the cold bay window. Ellen heard a crash in the kitchen, knew another dish had slipped. Over the trill of the canaries came a loud grumbling. The swinging door was opening. “I can tell you a secret, miss.”

“I’ve ne’er a wish to hear it.” Ellen stood up from her chair.

“Don’t put on airs, miss. Your family’s not much account.”

“I reckon I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mr. Gaddy’s the one amounted to something in your family. You’re a poor relation.” Mrs. Quimby smiled slyly. “You know Mr. Gaddy keeps a woman? A bad woman. On the east side. You know what they are, miss? He keeps her for his pleasure.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Ain’t you the fool. Where you think he goes nights, looking like Douglas Fairbanks? Think that’s on business?”

“Hit’s proper to have a lady friend.”

“And not make her his missus? Keep rooms for her. Pay her to wait for him. Give her gold. All these years he’s kept one. Different ones. I tell you he’s lucky to find a respectable woman like me to run his house.”

“I won’t listen. I won’t listen,” Ellen was repeating to herself, running through the house, over the green carpet, away from the voice. She turned the key in her door, threw herself on the magenta coverlet, her hands over her ears. “He doesn’t want me or need me any more than Pa. I’m like some contrary varmint that no one’ll have any truck with.” Her self-pity was like wind to a fire. She got up, sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs, trembling in wrath.

“I put a curse on Christian Ay who did this to me. Forever, take away his joy, Mary Virgin. For what’s been wreaked on me. Make him suffer.”

Suddenly she was rising. She had seen it in an instant. “It just came o’er me. I’ll go there.” She was lifting down the traveling bag, opening it on the bed. She packed her few possessions. “I lay a curse on him. Virgin my witness.” She counted her money, folded it in the handkerchief. The feverish tenor of the past days was sliding away and she was cooled again. She rested, and in the night as she was going out, she stood a letter on the highboy.

Uncle, I’m beholden for all your kindness. I am going to St. Louis
to see someone. If Pa asks after me will you tell him I will try to
be home in summer. Please don’t try to find me.

niece Ellen

At the station she purchased a ticket, sat for a few tired hours on a bench, her shoes and satin hat wet from the falling snow. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Her hand rested on the valise. She boarded the train and found a seat. Through the window she watched the red coal of sun lift itself. The landscape was evolving into farm lands, far-stretched, and sleeping villages. The snow began to melt as they rumbled southward into Illinois.

She was dozing. Out of memory sprang an incident involving Anton. It stirred no warring of anger in her, only the same wonderment she had experienced at the time. The way of women had come on Frankie, catching her unaware one night when she was eleven, frightening her, so she whimpered to Ellen, “I’m dying. Ellie, don’t let me die.” Maria had kept a pristine silence on all matters pertaining to the body, as her own mam had done with her. It was a secret, never articulated. Ellen had whispered to Frankie and they planned. All the while in their whispers lay a thrill of dread, for it was a field of unknowns. The morning was Sunday and the girls were dressing for mass. Anton opened the loft door upon them. “What’s going on here? We’ll be late again. Now move, you two.” Frankie was nude and gazed, naive, at him. Ellen plucked a garment from the bed and laid it before her sister. The man ripped it from Frankie’s hands, threw it at her feet. He turned on Ellen, “Not so froward, girl,” and stalked out while the two stared. They had dressed swiftly, mute. But nightly, for many years, Frankie would have an urgent compulsion to look under her bed before she went to sleep. And Ellen developed a fear of something skulking and concealed when she was sent to the cellar on an errand.

She was unburying this, mulling it, half asleep. By noon she became wakeful and light-headed, bought a sandwich from a vendor who came shouting through the stuffy car. The train was halting before a gray clapboard station house bearing the flecked inscription WEEMS CROSSROADS. Bag in hand she walked the deserted streets. The air was less chill, the sky a high blue. She was questioning a storekeeper, then turning down a muddy road leading into the country. She passed farms and came to woods where black trees dripped. Brash crows were cawing somewhere out of sight and neglected clouds floated in fresh winds. By a fenced-in burial ground, melting snow outlined gravestones. A Mason jar full of sticks tipped on its side and a withered wreath lay on a plot enclosed with a black iron paling. Gray granite markers were graven with dead names and dates. A cow leaned over the cemetery fence in the distance to crop grass inside; it was bearing heavily with its soft neck on the sagging wire.

Ellen came to a dilapidated mailbox set on a stake under a bare-branched catalpa. She read, Luke Dougherty. She went up the mire of the lane. A flock of speckled guineas were trotting in the wet meadow. She knocked at the door to a narrow weather-washed house set beside a shed where bearded goats were lolling. A hen began to cry in the way they have when they have just laid an egg, and somewhere back of Ellen the guineas screamed. A small pretty-featured woman with clear eyes was there in the doorway.

“I came to you, Penny. Will you have me in?”

8

In a few minutes Ellen was seated in a wood armchair, a blanket about her, a heated soapstone under her feet. A pot of beans on the range was giving off a warm strong odor. There were two rooms in the tiny house. Into this one were crowded the cookstove, a table, a woodbox, two scratched chairs, a stool, a cupboard, a low cabinet. Washing of dishes, clothes, and baby was done in a dark-blue enameled basin, the water thrown out the door. From under the table a child was peering; in his teeth he gripped a piece of bacon rind, in his hand was a metal mixing-spoon which he beat on the floor.

“This is Clate,” said Penny. “He’s a real noisy one.” As Penny bent to take the rind from him and lift him, Ellen saw she was great with another child. The little boy squealed, laughing as he was swung high, and his mother held him for Ellen to see how well formed he was and how red his cheeks were.

“He’s fair, Penny,” Ellen said quietly, “but I’m afraid I’m too young for bearing one. I had to help my goat with hers.”

“Ellie, you hush. It’s a long ways off. I’ll be here. Birthing’s nothing. It’s too short to remember. And look what you’ve got.”

“I hate it. I hate what’s in me. I ne’er want to see it.”

“I’ll make coffee. Luke’ll be home. He’ll be glad you came, Ellie. He knows how I’m one for company. There, I’ll have a new baby in March.”

“You know, Penny, I studied all this time. On a sudden I said, why there’s one.” Ellen was made helpless by her gratitude. “You’re so good.”

“We got ten acres here,” Penny laughed. “Luke’s pa signed this place o’er to us last fall. The soil’s right clayey but it’s rich enough. We’re getting by. I look for spring to come. I’m going to eat boiled greens every day.” She planned, “There’s an attic where you can sleep. I aim to put Clate up there when he grows a bit. It’s hot in summer.”

“I missed you at home, Penny. When you went.”

“We had times, didn’t we? How about when we gathered those sponge mushrooms in the woods and spread them to dry on your pa’s hog barn roof?”

“You were singing ‘Charlie’s Sweet’ and we ne’er saw Pa there.”

“We had the times though, Ellie.”

“All on a sudden it came to me there in the city.” Ellen was earnest.

Penny was holding Clate while he drank milk from a mug. She wiped what he spilled and sat him in the training chair, handing him a piece of corn pone. “He’s waiting till I lift him out. Then he’ll go pee on the rug. Such a small man.”

They drank coffee adulterated with chicory. Penny got up to mix cornbread, stirring in a handful of crumbly cracklings. Ellen felt how the woman listened and waited while she talked, gathering herself. At last dusk assembled and a bird began to call. A step was heard outside and he came. “Look here, Luke. Ellie Gaddy. She’s come to bide a while with us.”

And love lay in the corners of the house. Penny, her apron high over her unborn child, moved more gracefully than before. Her face softened and all the while she hummed and sang. “Now Luke, you visit with Ellie and I’ll catch the milking.” She threw on a shawl, ran out light-footed, a lard pail in her hand.

“Be glad to see this thaw come,” the man said. “I’m that eager to lay out our garden.” Luke was mindful of Penny’s signal with her finger on her lips and so he made as though Ellen had been somewhat expected. He put logs in the stove, and lit candles, telling of the farm where he was employed. “They name it Webster’s Stock Farm. He’s got a dozen of us hands to help all winter. He’s a rich man, got a big white house. He owns these shorthorn cattle. And he’s got little old Jersey cows that he shows at all the state fairs. He brings home ribbons and silver cups and sets them in a fancied-up room. Sometime I aim to go along to one of those fairs.” Tall, black-haired, round-faced, his virility charged the room. He sat in his mild way on the stool, holding his son, who played with the shiny suspender clasps on the overalls and then made water on his father’s leg.

Then they were eating cornbread and beans and thick chunks of fatback and soft onion. Penny would feed Clate from her plate. The smell of tallow candles burning was sweetly pungent and they made a ruddy glow over the faces. Afterwards Penny held a light while Luke went up to the attic by the ladder in the bedroom. He was carrying gunny-sacks of hay, stooped over for the roof was low. Penny handed quilts up to him. Then Ellen took her clothes from the valise and hung them on pegs in the beams. She put her statue of the Virgin beside the pallet and slept well.

Below in the bedroom, Penny lay in Luke’s arms. “I’m proud she came to us, Luke.”

“So good you are, and then my bright-eyed little wife,” he murmured, drowsing.

But Penny was wide awake. “All the world and she thought of us.”

By mid-February they were making a garden. They cut potato eyes, planting them in deep rows, mulching them with litter and leaves against frost. Luke strode up whistling, bearing onion sets and seeds in brown paper bags marked in pencil with the name of the plant that would come up. They spaded, put in lettuce and onion beds, rows of radishes, turnips, parsnips, peas and Swiss chard. Penny came to Luke where he knelt. “This one’s new. Tendergreen Mustard. How come you got it?”

“I saw it was a new kind, only forty-five days to mature. I knew how fixed you were on an early garden.” They gazed at the grains of seed.

“I sure am honing for greens,” the woman sighed.

The next week thunder was rolling, thumping, across the gray sky. They waited for the downpour. “In a month it’ll come on twister weather,” said Penny. “There was one here last fall. Lady down the road had just boiled up water for her tea. The wind pulled off the roof and sucked the kettle up. Her and the least youngen got scalded.”

“Friend of mine,” Luke said, “was in the barn. Tore the door off and him holding on, flying through the air.”

“Was he hurt?” asked Ellen.

“Not as I know. He lived.”

A thunderbolt pealed directly over the house. Ellen said, “Thunder in February prophesies frost in May. That’s what I’ve heard Ma say.”

“I’m afraid,” said Luke, “we’ll lose our garden. This one’s a gully-drencher.”

Rain was falling day on day. The sprouting seeds washed up, water collected undrained on the clay of the garden bed. Pairs of rubber boots were always standing muddy at the door, for the privy was set far back from the house. The dirt-floored cellar, reached by a trap door in the kitchen, was flooded. The jars of preserves that stood on slat shelves were immersed. Their lids rusted and the labels soaked off. “If I hold it up to the light I can see some what it is,” Penny said cheerfully, “but you’re liable to get blueberry jelly, Luke, when you ask for blackcap.”

In time the clouds spent themselves. The water seeped away, the sun was brilliant and refreshed, the earth warmed. The people went out to make a new garden.

Luke was walking up the lane one night leading a gray donkey by a rope. “Mester Webster gave it to me. It was for his daughter, Star. She tired of it and so she’s got a pony instead.”

“How come he let you have it?” Penny was pleased.

“You mind that cow I told you of a while back that had milk fever? Well, I nursed her. He claims it was my hands that pulled her udder around. This morning he says, you can have this beast if you’ve a mind. Thought I might rig a plowshare and maybe work him.”

“That would be a sight,” said Ellen.

Luke tied the beast in the shed to a ring in the wall. Ellen was petting one of Penny’s seven goats. “Hey there, Tiny.” She wondered how her does Rhodie and Penny were making out, if Frankie was good to them, or whether they blatted in the woodshed pen. Frankie was ever apt to be careless.

In the stable, fastened apart from the does, was a shaggy buck goat with a long beard. His rank odor dominated the air. He baaed affectionately at Luke who was scratching his back with a stick. “Good old Brownie.” The animal turned to lick the urine he excreted in the habit of the rutting male goat.

“I’ll be glad when it gets nice so Brownie can live outside again,” Penny said. “I’m always afraid that smell will make the milk taste.”

“That smell’s healthy,” cried Luke.

“Penny, how come your goats are muley?” Ellen was asking. “My two have got horns.”

“Well, most of them were born that way. But Luke knows how to stop the buds if they start to push through.”

“You rub a stick of this strong acid stuff on, Ellie. I learned it at Webster’s. It hurts them a bit.”

“You have to do it careful,” Penny said.

“Seems like the horns are so pretty though,” Ellen sighed, remembering.

Days were going by. Ellen felt her waistbands tighten. She found it hard to grasp that a living child would come from her, believed it would die. One day she was in the shed where a dozen hens ran loose, their nests known, a few porcelain doorknobs kept in them to lure them back. “Poor things. Giving them a mock egg.” Ellen pitied the innocent fowl and she would turn rocks over for them in the yard so they gathered to peck the crawling life beneath. When she was bending to collect the eggs from a nest under a hay manger she felt the child kick. She arose, leaning against the side of the stall, frightened. She knelt again to take the eggs, walked to the house slowly. In the evening she said, “I felt it move.”

“That’s nothing.” Penny was turning to Luke. “Why don’t you see if you can get a good rooster from Mester Webster for me? I could raise a flock this summer off those old hens.”

“He’s got White Rocks,” Luke said.

“That what I’d like, a blooded rooster of a heavy breed. Then I could trade eggs, too.”

“I was in the shed,” Ellen said, “when it happened.”

“Just wait, Ellie,” Penny was jogging Clate on her lap, serene, “till it starts getting knobby and takes to rolling o’er all the while. Wait till it gets a little bigger.”

“I’ll wait.” Ellen was bitter.

At breakfast Penny asked Luke to buy chicory and soda at the store. “And get me a piece from that bolt of blue-check flannel, Luke, for Clate’s outgrown his nightdress.”

“I don’t get paid till the fifteenth.” Luke put on his straw hat. “Now I doubt the store will credit us any more.”

Ellen got up hastily. “Wait, Luke.” She climbed the ladder to the attic, came back to put nearly twenty dollars on the table. “My uncle gave me this.” She was eager. “You’ll know how to use it. It’s yours.”

Penny picked up the bills and turned them over, her eyes downcast, her lower lip in her teeth. She laughed, “Get shed of that store bill first, Luke. Then buy that length of cloth for Farmer Clate. And if you see some, get pink muslin too. The new one could be a girl.”

“I’ll look if there’s a little share at the store to make a turning-plow,” said Luke, “like I wanted to get for that little ass to pull.”

So they thanked her. For the first time Ellen sang when she milked Penny’s goats.

Mist was rolling heavy in the hollows between hills one morning. March gusts had blown in the night, seeking cracks, but Luke had banked the foundation well with straw and manure so the family was snug within. Ellen came carefully down the ladder. She smelled hidden odors, saw Penny asleep in the bed, and from the crook of her arm came a mewling sound. There was a black-haired child wrapped in flannel, born while Ellen slept. She turned quickly to the kitchen where she heard Luke talking to Clate who babbled in reply. Luke looked over at Ellen as she came in. “That bugger’s going to feel awful silly in pink muslin, Ellie.”

“It’s a boy then?” She was fearful.

“Sure is. Clate’s pleased with his little brother.” Luke gave the boy a drink of water from a tin cup and then handed him a piece of corn pone. Clate crumbled the food in a moist hand and threw it on the floor, shouting. Luke was sheepish. “Can you take him, Ellie? I’ve got to get to work.” He hurried from the house, his whistling ebbing.

Ellen wiped Clate’s hands. “Wish things would hold still while I study to understand.”

Little by little, she was taking upon herself the care of Clate. She would bring him to the shed and sit him in a pile of hay while she milked. “Swap ends, Tiny,” she turned the goat about, “let’s give some supper down for Farmer Clate.” The child crowed in glee, kissed her with his wet soft mouth, pulling at her braids. In the house he crawled from under the table to trail her. She had to tread carefully, watching out for him.

But Anse, the newborn one, she avoided. Penny would lay the naked red body on the bed to change and dress it while it clamored thinly in an indifferent way, fists clutching in protest. “Why doesn’t he hush, that ugly brat?” she whispered to herself.

Clate she took to see the garden coming up, sang to, confided in. “When I tell the song, I see the picture of what happens. Like ‘Red River Valley,’ that’s where the river’s muddy with red clay and always there’s summertide.” Clate was gripping Ellen’s apron; he staggered beside her. “Hold on to me, now. You should have seen me once in Chicago, when all the fine gentlemen and ladies listened to me sing.”

She came to feel her safety here, gradually putting aside the old terror. She packed the figure of the Virgin into her valise when she made order once in the attic. Waiting the months out, she left it there.

She witnessed the ways of birth around her. When Anse was born, Luke brought home a White Rock rooster as a present from Mr. Webster. It strutted like a lord before the flock of hens, scratched after fake food to bring them scurrying. Its sickle-shaped tail feathers were silken and the crimson comb trembled and folded over with its weight. Ellen picked him up to stroke the long wattles that dangled below his handsome head; he breathed coarsely through open beak. When she put him down he made staccato noises and scuttled after a hen, fanning his wing until it squatted and submitted to the embrace.

In the crab apple tree a pair of robins had fashioned a nest. Each day she held Clate up while he peered in at the four miniature blue-green eggs. The time came when he shouted to see bare nestlings just hatched, all gaping beaks. “Don’t touch them, or the mother’ll smell you and not come back to feed them.”

In the barn the does dropped their kids. Ellen ministered, impersonal, put them to the teats to nurse the first thick yellow milk. It would alter in a few days to become the familiar white fluid. Then she would milk a share out for the family.

The white cat ran from her one day and she saw a strange tom in a tree branch nearby. That night she heard them shrieking in the yard. The next morning the white cat lay sly in the haymow, licked a scratch on her paw, cleaned herself and purred.

She witnessed the ways of procreation and birth, the willing and unwilling, the casual and violent. “It’s ugly. All those ways are ugly.”

At night she lay unwieldly, turning restless to find an easy way to lie now that her body was so increased. The child rolled within and she sighed, “I’d as lief you came before your course and perished. I’m too weary to fret about it any more.”

Penny was asking her to watch Anse while he slept. “I want to put in a row of those flat white bean seeds, Ellie. They say Good Friday’s the day to put in beans and it’s way past.” When Penny returned, the baby was wailing in his basket hoarsely, small face wet with sweat and crying. Ellen was at the kitchen table, her head on her arms, Clate playing at her feet. Penny comforted the infant, cleaned him and laid him against her shoulder where he moistly hiccuped. She came in the kitchen to sit in a chair and put him to her breast. She asked mildly, “What’s wrong, Ellie?”

“I can’t seem to touch him, Penny. I looked and it seemed I wanted him to cry.”

The woman said sharply, “You’re not the first girl with a trouble, Ellie. Nor the last. You’ve got to take hold and plan. You’re not a child any more and you’ve got to act past your years, and study on the ways of your turning.”

From her quilt that night, Ellen was listening to Luke and Penny. “Shh, is Ellie asleep?” The sharp notes of love fell in the room below. When Anse whimpered they brought him to their bed. Their gentle voices came and went. “Poor thing. And it all ahead, Luke. That father, strict and always preaching the Old Testament. I got no use for him. He’ll like to kill her if she goes home.” Luke’s voice rasped faintly and Penny said, “No. Her mother that should be standing by is like a child herself. No marvel Ellie got taken in by some straying man.” Their voices made Ellen weep.

* * * * *

In June they were whitewashing the narrow house. Penny was climbing the ladder, Clate upset a bucket on himself, and Ellen, moving heavily, misshapen, was painting low spots. Anse was asleep in a blanket under the crab apple tree. When he cried, Penny would put him to a hard-filled breast while from the other, milk wet her dress as it flowed. “Let it go. There’s plenty more I reckon.”

Luke came home for supper and shouted out, “Say, look at that there rich man’s house. Who’s the master of this house?”

A pink June rose was crawling heavy-blossomed over the door where it had been trained. Bright flowers were flocking by the path, and the yard grass was green. The scene was framed and they stood about to admire it.

Then a shower was washing the whiteness into gray streaks and soon the house boards were drab as before. But Penny was satisfied. “It was a sight if only for a week. I’ll remember it clear till next spring, Luke.”

In the first of July, Luke was saying, “Webster’s in a hustle to get the buckwheat in. Says Fourth of July, wet or dry.”

“Why doesn’t he wait till the light of the moon when it starts waning?” Penny was dressed in her best, the babies were clean, their pinafores starched. One of Luke’s fellow employees was driving by in his car to take the little family to the stock farm near Hidden Creek. Penny looked forward to the outing. “Hey, Farmer Clate, come set on your potty before we go.” She turned to Ellen, anxious, “You going to be all right? How do you feel?”

“I don’t feel a thing. I might pick some berries for supper if I can haul myself down the lane.”

“Well, don’t tire yourself, hear?” Penny paused. “Maybe I oughtn’t to go, Luke. Ellie might get taken.”

The two turned in protest. “Now, you know yourself it doesn’t happen that quick. Ellie wants you to go. And Clate and me too. Even Anse is saying, Mama show me those little Jerseys that give all cream.” So the woman was persuaded and the party left, waving from the car window, disappearing down the dusty road.

Ellen sighed in the fresh morning that moved on toward the hot noon sun. Partridge repetitively whistled in the woods down the road, “Bob-white. Ah. Bob-white!” A small warm wind stirred and settled, puffs of cloud drifted very slowly, and the sky was vivid blue. Like a fall aster. Wish it was over. She was going down the warm dirt of the lane in the late morning for blackberries. She dropped the first heated ones into the tin pail; they made whining thumps until they covered the bottom. Juice was staining her fingers. When the pail was filled she toiled back up the path. At the pump she washed the dust from the berries and hung them in the well to cool. She threw water on her flushed face and arms, pumping more over her bare feet. Refreshed, she was seated in the open doorway, leaning her head against the frame. The child under the blue apron turned itself. She drew shallow labored breaths, closed her eyes. “I’m nigh to smother. Will I e’er take a full breath again?”

At noon she was restless about the kitchen. She brought fresh water in from the well, ate a square of corn pone, listless, while a bluebottle fly churned at the glass of the window. She walked to the field, carrying a bucket of water to the goats and donkey staked there. The goats drank slowly, raised mournful yellow eyes while their beards dripped. The little ass sucked noisily, slobbering, jerking his overlarge head. He took a button of her dress gently in his teeth. The girl laid her hand on his woolly shoulder and looked away to the languishing farmlands where hot air shimmered.

The flock of guineas had not come in to feed the night before. Ellen knew some of the pairs had been hiding out, setting their clutches of small strong-shelled eggs. “Some of the chicks could have hatched,” she told the donkey, “and are keeping the hens and cocks from feeding. A skunk or snake might get them.” So she took grain in her apron pocket and went past the orchard, seeking in the farthest places, calling, “Wee-wee-wee-wee. Come, wee-wee-weeeee.”

It was by a lone scraggled locust tree in an open field that a great pain smote her. She leaned upon the tree while it was subsiding. She attempted to reach the orchard and stumbling, fell. The onrush of spasms was far past her imaginings. In the intervals of withdrawal she crawled, pulled her racked body through the field. “I will not lie out here.”

A pair of guineas, followed by a stream of peeping spotted keets, flushed from a covert as she neared the orchard. She but dimly gave them heed. She was grunting, face fired red, wet from the sharp throes that came in the scorched air, in the sweet crushed grass and the round-shaped white clover blooms. She cried out hoarsely, biting her lips, detached from her sore body where the child sought its way out of darkness. Her mind was apart in a red torment where she strove unbelieving to endure. When a seizure would lapse she lay a moment supine, freed, while above in the sultry blue, a cluster of twittering goldfinches were bobbing in the Seckel pear branches.

The hand was laid remorseless again upon her. Muffled at first, it was graduating into cruel wrenching. Then she evoked the holy Virgin, swore in agony many bonds, until distracted she knew not of her body as it was arching itself. In time, from her laden womb the child had its way and was brought out upon the meadow grass. Thin wails fell on the stifled afternoon air. And overhead the finches chirruped brightly.

After long, Ellen heard the faint piping and lifted herself to see the limp warm child. She wrapped it in her blue apron and laid it at the base of the old tree. Resting weary on the grass, she waited. When the evening star showed itself hovering above the horizon as the sun began to set, her joy caught in her throat. “I came through. I’m unfettered once more.”

The Doughertys found her as the evening birds were beginning their songs. Ellen’s pallet was brought from the attic to a corner of the room below. She ate milk and berries and bread. In the early part of the night Penny put the child by her. “You got to nurse him, Ellie. He’s hungry.”

Ellen suffered the feeble seeking mouth. “Say, another setting hatched off, Penny. I saw them in the field back of the orchard. You want to go get them in?”

“Now I think you care more for those chicks than your own newborn son.”

In a short while Ellen was about the house again. Penny had Luke bring home a few yards of pink-and-white striped material and Ellen was holding her needle light. “Oh, but I’m a slim one. Look at me,” she demanded.

She told them she must go, trying to say the other thing that was in her mind. “I’ve been studying. I can’t come home dragging it. Pa’d turn me off. Could you-all find it in you to take it for your own? I’d send money for its needs.”

“It’s true what Ellie says, for I know Mester Gaddy.” Penny looked up at her husband.

“It’d be a twin to Anse,” he said.

“We’ll love your baby, Ellie. But you mark me, he’s not our blood. The day’ll come you’ll rue you didn’t make a way to keep your first-born. You can have him then.”

But Ellen was turning away. “Not me. Though I’m beholden.”

She would walk in the morning down to the Weems Crossroads station. While they had breakfast, Clate sat on her lap, kissing her endearingly with his small mouth. “Luke, I reckon it’s the hardest for Ellie to leave our Clate.”

“Oh I love him that much,” Ellen sighed to the brown-haired child.

“We named your boy last night, Ellie,” Luke said. “Simon.”

“And we’ll call him Simon Gaddy,” said Penny. “We’ll tell him you’re his ma. So we decided in the night.”

“I love him that much,” Ellen was saying to the child she held.

Jaybird up an acorn tree
Shaking acorns down
Little Clate in a sugar tree
Shaking sugar down

part two

Take it up in your arms I said
Let it lie where it must
At your side on your breast
Let it rest
Love has life not of love
But of us I said
Let it lie where it must

9

A flicker was piping a thread of shrill notes as it flashed in flight before her. She looked back to where Penny waved from the lane end, a child on her arm. Then Ellen turned and strode down the road, carrying the valise. The heat of the July day was still far off, the morning was new-made. The stiff skirt of the striped dress brushed her legs. She had combed her hair from her high forehead in the old way, tying it loosely with a ribbon. A hot morning wind rippled along the dust of the road, interrupting for a stitch the stilled cool air. Wild morning-glories were twining on ditch banks, and in a distant field a boy drove a diminutive span of black horses through verdant corn rows. It came over Ellen how comely she was and she made her feet light. “I’m thankful for this day and for all that lie ahead.” Her life ran out before her harmonious, like a shining thread. All about there was a singing and a beating of wings and the sun glowed whitely. She was young and there was no ending ever. “Clear through the whole enduring ages, I’ll be.”

My true love up on the mountain
Bowing up and down
If I had my broadax here
I’d hew that mountain down
O get around, Jenny, get around
All on the summer’s day

On the train, she saw the countryside flowing past the window. The milk from her breasts was dampening her dress and in her discomfort she thought of the child once more. She turned her mind from him easily. She got off at New Hope and hitched a ride with a farmer from Seven Mile Run.

“Those are fine mules, Mester,” she offered.

“Um. They’re Norman mules. They’ll ne’er balk without cause. I got a brother can start a balky mule. One time him and me came on two niggers with a load of straw and a cold-shouldered mule. Well, they were plumb desperate. Built a fire under it, but it only moved up the road a piece. Far enough so’s the wagon began to burn. They had to unhitch the mule and back the wagon off to put the fire out. They were setting there when we came on them. Brother went up to the mule, took hold of its ear and whispered in it. Well, that mule walked right off. The niggers hitched up and went down the road. Told everyone Brother talked witchcraft. Um.”

“Wonder how he did start it?”

“Um. Said he twisted its ear and blew in it. Said that dazzles a beast. Brother can do it just so.” He lapsed into silence, his head drooped in the heat of the afternoon. The mules switched their tails and shimmied their skin to fight flies. Unguided, they were following the road.

When they reached Love’s store, Ellen thanked the farmer, climbed down from the wagon seat to the pike where the clay baked in the molten sun. Stacey was in the screened doorway. “Ellen? I thought you’d left these parts. Grady,” she called. “Looky here. How be you, now? Sam Offut’s taken o’er the trading for your ma. They had a time when first you ne’er came home. Where you been?”

Ellen was smiling and nodding. Grady came around the corner of the frame house; she sought his kindly tight-skinned face. “Hey, Mester Love.”

“Hey there, Ellen. I swear. Come have a glass of my ginger beer. The yeast’s working good now. Two bottles exploded all o’er the place yesterday.”

She followed him, and Stacey came after. Ellen was eager. “I visited my uncle for a spell. Said howdy to you both.”

“That so?” Stacey asked. “He kept you long.”

“Then I went to stay with Mrs. Dougherty while she had a baby.”

“Thought she had hers last year.”

“You remember Penny Dougherty?” Ellen urged. “This is her second. It’s a boy too. A likely one.” Ellen felt Stacey’s eyes searching her for the truth. “I came home to help Pa with the summer work.”

“He’ll be glad to see you,” Grady said.

“Penny wanted to be remembered to you both, Mrs. Love.”

“That’s kindly of her,” Grady said.

“Well,” said Stacey. “You’re looking right pert again, Ellen.” She was fanning herself with Grady’s hat.

Ellen sipped the ginger beer while the woman talked. “Mester Gaddy and that Sam ne’er would say where you were.” Ellen was afraid of Stacey’s tongue, conscious of the milk dried on her dress, and she wondered if Stacey could tell it was there. “I reckoned,” said Stacey, “you met up with a rich Yankee man who made you his wife.”

“Oh, Mrs. Love.”

“Now Stacey,” Grady cried, “stop greening Ellen.”

“I’m beholden for the drink.” Ellen went to the door. “I was parched.”

“Your daddy know you’re home?” asked Stacey.

“Oh yes.” She was hurrying out and down Sweetincreek Road, unconscious of the weight of her bag. Then her gait slowed. A small verging of anxiety had begun and she pushed it back with her will. She changed hands with the valise, passed over the wood bridge where the Sweetincreek flowed, and on the other side, in the swampy earth, was plucking a green-white flower. “I know this one. It’s the lily of the valleys.” She breathed the perfume, studying the stony well-worn road. “Reckon he’ll beat me?”