Chapter IX: Part 9

Ellen saw her old friend Lily again one day. She had not visited with her since Lily had become Mrs. Craig Hedrick five years earlier. If they met, Lily would walk away, turning her head aside. It was late August. Ellen and Maria were making apple butter, the spicy fragrance filled the kitchen. There was a gentle knock and Ellen put down her wood ladle, wiping her hands on the brown-stained apron. “Yes?”

“Don’t you know me, Ellie?”

“Lily.” Ellen opened the door wide. “Come on in.”

“I was just hankering to see you. It’s fierce lonesome at home. I ran off.”

“What do you mean?” Ellen was taking the old tone with her at once. “Hush your crying.”

“Craig sent me to hoe the truck beans. Hit seemed I couldn’t bear it any more. I up and walked away.” Lily’s blond curls that she had always taken such care with, were pulled into an untidy knot at the nape of her neck. She was stouter. “I’m afraid to go back. Craig was running the tractor in the corn and his man was working the mules. He told me I must clean the bean patch.” Her small mouth was puckered, unhappy.

“Why are you afraid? He’s your husband.”

The woman heaved a breath. “He’s taken to whipping me like Papa did. So I told him I was carrying a child to make him stop.”

“Well, then?”

“I’ve got no child. I can’t seem to get caught. Craig wants one as bad as me.”

“Let’s have some coffee.” Ellen was going to the kitchen. “Ma, you know Lily. She’s Mrs. Hedrick, remember?”

“Hey, Mrs. Gaddy.” Lily was eager.

“Hey there, Lily. How’s Mester Garrett’s bees?”

“Oh, my husband says Papa’s making a sight of honey this year. He’s got o’er twenty hives now. I’ve not been to see him myself these many months.” Ellen laid cups on the table while the water came to a boil. She put out a dish of hot apple butter, slices of fresh bread. “It’s like coming home here, Ellie. We used to have fun, you and me and Frankie. I always loved fun.”

“You know,” Maria spoke up from her thoughts, “I had another girl, named Frankie. I dassn’t say her name. Mester Gaddy won’t brook it. She’s dead.” Maria was wagging her head, knowing.

“Here’s your coffee, Ma,” Ellen said.

“Is Frankie dead?” Lily whispered.

“No, and Ma knows it. It’s a way she has, like a child, sometimes. She can’t seem to keep it straight.”

“She can’t?”

“You e’er think of seeing Doc Trumbo, Lily? Maybe he could help you and Craig to have a child.”

Lily’s eyes were trailing Maria, breaking bread and spooning the brown preserves. “Reckon we could try that, Ellie.”

“I always thought a heap of Craig,” Ellen said, “for taking o’er like he did when old Mester Hedrick was killed so sudden.”

“He doesn’t have to beat me.”

“You e’er think about how it was for him, Lily, back then?”

“No.”

Maria broke in, “But there’s a little boy lives here now. Named Simon. I’m his granny.”

Lily spoke slowly, “I can’t even go to see my papa and mama any more. I’m not allowed to go home.” Grave, she was watching Maria.

“Craig’s a good man.”

“I know, Ellie.”

“You have to stop being a girl some day. And think on the ways of a woman.”

The three drank their coffee. Presently Lily was pushing back her chair; she spoke deliberately, “Reckon I’ll get back to my house. I have work to do. It’s a long walk. Bye, Mrs. Gaddy. Ellie.” Her retreating steps were heard on the stones in the yard.

Suddenly Ellen was caught in a burst of tears. She put her hands to her face, sobbing hoarsely. She ran up the steep stairway, her bare feet noiseless. “I vow at that girl.” Maria took the ladle to stir the mixture, thick and hot in the iron kettle.

Upstairs, Ellen was standing in the middle of the room, shaken, uncontrolled. She turned abruptly to the trunk along the wall and dragged open the heavy lid. She rummaged through the contents until she came on the two undelivered letters she had written Christian Ay. She ripped them into shreds in a heap on the floor. “I hate Lily and Craig and all the ugly ways of folks.”

When she came down, her face appeared smoothed and untouched. But she was holding her head in such a way that when Anton saw her going to the woodshed, he crossed himself and muttered, “There, I thought it was you, Ma.”

* * * * *

Simon was in the fourth grade. Every morning found him trudging three miles to the school on the Millville Pike. Until the weather turned cold he would go barefoot, for catalog shoes cost a dollar thirty-nine. He went down the lane in the flat morning sunlight, talking to the dog. He carried his lunch in a lard bucket. Holes were punched in its tin lid and it contained a bunch of concord grapes and biscuits spread with jelly. “Stay, Jack.” The dog’s movements were stiff. He settled on the bank amid blue-flowered chicory, head on forepaws, brown eyes fixed on the retreating figure. A tufted titmouse whistled in a cottonwood along the road. “Peet-O. Peet-O!” It joined the chickadees and nuthatches that trooped in the upper branches.

In the afternoon Simon returned late, scarcely recognizable, upper lip swollen, dry blood caked on his face. The skin was puffing out around one eye, the sleeve of his shirt was torn. Anton caught sight of him coming up the lane and ran shouting, “What is it, Poppet?”

Simon halted, scuffling his feet; he began to whine.

“Speak up, son.”

“That fellow mocked me.” Simon was sniffling and as he was led to the house, his voice rose to a wail.

Ellen called from the window, “What ails him, Pa?” She came out the door, shading her face, hurrying down the steps in the sweet-scented fall air.

“He’s not going back to that school.” Anton’s face was hot, his breath thick as he passed her, leading the child. “Crapping bastards are about to kill him.”

Ellen followed into the kitchen. Anton was lifting Simon to the table. “Get a pan of water,” he told Maria. He removed the boy’s shirt, examined his lip.

“Pa. You can see he’s been fighting. Let’s find what happened.”

“We’ll send you to the parochial school. Like decent Catholics. Your ma’s let you run amuck.”

“Please, Pa.”

“The heathen can kill him before you give a care.”

“Simon.” But the boy had fastened his frightened eyes on his grandfather, clinging to the harried look on the man’s face. Ellen turned away, inarticulate. Later, she was in the shed, milking her goats. Simon shuffled in, stood at the pen gate. The goats nibbled his shirt buttons and rubbed against him as he was stroking them.

“I slopped the pigs and watered the team, Ma.” She waited. He was speaking again, “Reckon Leona’s least kid will have horns or not?”

“Simon, what happened today at school?”

“Looks to me like she’s a muley one.” He bent over the kid, moving the skin on the top of its head with his finger. “If horns were sprouting, it wouldn’t move free like that.”

Ellen got up from the stool to strain the milk into a can. She began to draw the white streams from another doe.

The boy said suddenly, “Granddaddy takes care of me.”

She looked at him to see his eyes cold upon her. He was fingering his enlarged lip. She was startled. He’s turning from me. Pa’s getting hold of him. She put her head against the soft warm side of the spotted doe.

“Granddaddy frets about me.”

“Tell how you got in the fight, or I’ll whip you for a fact.”

His eyes were down. “There’s a game at recess. We use a ball belonging to that Penn Hamm. He stores it in the drawer of his desk. Time and again I asked him could I take it home for one night. But he wouldn’t say yes.” Simon looked up. One eye was nearly shut, the bruised skin blue.

“So?”

“I studied on it and hankered after it. Yesterday I slipped it from his desk and put it in my pocket. After school was out.”

“You could have had a ball if you’d told me.”

“I wanted that ball.”

“What then?”

“Penn said I snitched it, and I said I didn’t. He sat under the tree and called me bastard Gaddy brat.”

“You stole his ball, Simon. He was angered. And folks used to call me a Gaddy brat. Some still do, and I don’t care.”

“He called me that. He laid for me coming home. I wrestled him for it but he got his ball back.”

“Why, Simon?”

“I wanted it.” His eyes were like small empty caves. “And I lost my lard pail too.”

The night meal was pregnant with unspoken words. Then as Anton was leaving the kitchen he told Ellen, “I’ll take him to the sisters tomorrow.” She looked at him from where she was sitting. His short body leaned against the door casing. “Why I even got to jump on him to say the Lord’s Prayer right.” He cut a slice of apple tobacco with his slender knife. “Trespasses, he says, like heathen. The school taught him that. The Lord said debtors. Forgive us our debtors.” He walked softly into the other room.

Simon was sent to bed. Ellen came into the parlor. “Pa, this isn’t right. Simon stole that Hamm youngen’s ball. He’s got to learn. He should go back and own up. He’s nine and he knows right from wrong. You’re always preaching the Bible and this is the time to stand by what it says.”

“Haw. I’ll say a thing here, girl.” He was speaking fast, harsh. “He has no daddy, since you begot him in whoredom. Now I let him come here like a son. I look on him so. Don’t stand against me.”

“It was the same with Frankie. You pulled her out of school too. You know it.”

“You’re mourning because I didn’t take you out.” Anton rolled the quid in his mouth, continuing gently, “You know, this boy’s a good bit like my brother, Marc. Minds me of him.” He settled into a chair. “Some way Ma favored Marc o’er Garland and me.”

“I know why.”

“What do you know?” he drawled.

“He was handsome. Not ugly like you.”

“How come you say that?”

“I know somewhat else.”

“Speak hit.”

“He wasn’t your full brother. Nell Gaddy ne’er wanted you or Uncle. That’s a fact.”

“What?” he roared.

“She married your sir because she got caught. Like me with Simon.” Ellen moved to stand over him, by his chair. “She ne’er wanted you, I say. She loved Marc for his daddy’s sake.”

The man rose like an unleashed bull. He struck her so she reeled against the sofa. “I’ll kill you for that lying tongue.”

She slipped from his hands, ran outside, down the path through the hill field to the orchard. She stopped running there. Night fog was drifting in low spots, the sky was clouded. She leaned against a twisted apple tree until she seemed composed. Her face became like the glass of the pond where there was no wind and mist was caught above. Later she wended up to the house to sit on the damp garden wall, waiting until the kitchen and the bedroom candles flicked out.

In the morning, as she was pumping water into the blue pail, Anton went by to the house. He looked past her as if she were not there. She had told Simon earlier that he must go back to the Millville school, knowing Anton would refute her word. But she went through the motions, she hunted for a lard pail in the pantry, made up the lunch. She saw her fingers were shaking. The boy pushed his chair back and took the lunch pail. Anton said, “You and me are going to the Catholic school, boy. Did you forget? Let’s go harness Moll and Red.”

Simon looked at him. Ellen knew the child was pleased and yet would hide this from her. He said like a question, “Bye now, Ma? I’m going now, Ma?”

Sam was already in the field when Anton came back late in the morning. He was cutting cornstalks, making tall shocks that would cure until the long white ears were garnered. Anton joined him, swinging the heavy blade. “Put my boy in a proper school, Sam.”

And Ellen was planning. She scrawled a letter quickly.

Dear Uncle Garland,

This is a thing I should have done long ago. I have to leave home.
Could you find a farmer who would hire me? My boy is 9 now. Wages as
deemed fair. Please answer by return post. And obliged.

Ellen

The next few days she moved pallid-faced, watching for the mail car. She gathered honey, lulling the bees with smoke. She cut the combs into a galvanized washtub. The soft stuff oozed and mingled, yellow, black, and amber, in a heavy pool. Some of the comb she let drip free, and laid it in a tree fork for the bees to use again. She fastened the lids back on the hives. While she was doing these things, it was as if her bones might break were her movements too sudden. Then the RFD car was leaving a letter.

Dear Puss,

This is delightful. You know I have opened my Redding Street house
again on the north side. I’m a married man now, you see. Are you
surprised? Violet and I would be glad to have you and Simon visit
with us until you can get a job. You might learn my wife a few
things about housework! I am sending ten dollars herewith. Come
soon.

Uncle Garland

She put the paper in her pocket. O my strength, deliver my soul from the sword, my darling from the power of the dog. Save me from the lion’s mouth.

Courageous, she went to Anton. “Simon and me are taking the train to Chicago to visit Uncle Garland for a spell. He’s got married and he wants us to come.”

“You will not.” He ravened. “No.”

“By the law, Simon’s mine.”

The child was coughing; he clutched his chest. But the two who fought over him didn’t see. Their eyes narrowed, and the pale gray irises of father and daughter were glinting in the same way. Ellen said they would leave in the morning. She ordered Simon to his room after the night meal. He went, meek.

Anton strode out to the corn field, tearing off his shirt. He dragged aside the standing shocks just built. Furious sweat drops were forming on the hairs of his chest. He snapped off the soft unseasoned ears, hurling them in great piles until dark engulfed the field. Reaching for the next stalk, he stumbled, falling. He lay panting a moment before getting to his feet, and came to the house to lie emptied and exhausted beside his sleeping wife.

Sam and Ellen milked without him in the morning. They breakfasted and then Ellen went to the door of the bedroom. She was looking across at the unkempt bent figure on the bed under the crucifix, elbows on knees. At length she turned away, taking Simon’s hand. He held his other over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re not afraid?” he queried, timid.

But Ellen was speaking to Maria. “I’ve got to go, Ma. You see that?”

“Where you off to? Is Mester Gaddy going?”

“No. Just us two.” Ellen kissed her. “It’s all I know to do, Ma.”

Maria went to gaze at her husband. “Why’s he setting there?”

Ellen fled with Simon. They were overtaken down the road by Dr. Trumbo, who gave them a lift in his rattletrap Nash to the station at New Hope. A north wind blew up, keening in the corners of the unheated station. It struck down dry autumn leaves and herded them into desolate piles. They boarded the train at noon. Simon mounted the iron stair before her. He turned and peered from the windows at the retreating town.

“Don’t put your feet on the clean seats, Simon.” Ellen did not look back.

* * * * *

Anton had shaken his head at the noon meal his wife proffered him. He stared at the floor. In late evening he arose at last from his position on the bed. Maria was in the parlor poring over her gilded Bible. Anton took a long thin butcher knife from a kitchen drawer. He went onto the half-dark porch, taking down the lantern that hung on a bent nail and lighting it. He was making his way then with measured gait to the woodshed. Wind coming out of the north chattered in the branches of the hackberry. The yellow light was shedding over the pen of goats lying in oat straw. They blinked up at him. Rhodie, who was skittish, arose and snorted. As the man was fumbling with the gate latch the other beasts got to their feet, one at a time, sensing an outsider, Leona’s pair of three-week kids turned to her warm side when she stood, seeking her udder. Feverish, Anton was seeking a peg, feeling with his fingers. He hung the lantern, his breathing quickening.

The first doe he grasped was Penny. When he bent her old neck back by the beard and the red ran down into the fur, she died almost gently. The clever ones saw his game. Rhodie was rearing upon the furthest stone wall; her hoofs made a subdued pattering. Leona’s white throat came next, for she was foolish and made no play at running away. Her two kids were dispatched too, uttering feeble birdlike sounds. And then Jenny and Babs, baaing low, were snared by their shaggy beards. Their taut silken throats were bending to the knife. The hot blood spouted on the straw and the man’s boots. He was lunging for the spotted Pie, powerful and large, catching her by a hind leg. She pulled loose, and bleating, kicked out, striking him on the neck, making a dark bruise. “Haw. Come here now.” He threw his body at her, encouraged the struggle. He took a pleasure in the battle, prolonged its ending, letting her heave, crying in alarm beneath his weight. Then he was dragging her along the straw to the knife he had dropped. Rhodie was the last. In a silent crazed way she was still leaping against the far wall. This doe had always been apt to startle since she had been left untended over a winter and spring as a yearling when his daughter Ellen had been away in Illinois. Rhodie’s small hoofs were beating again and again upon the wall. Anton trapped her by the collar. She made no sound, dropping slowly to the bedding.

He breathed loud, threw his hand as if he had spoken and were justifying himself to someone. He walked out of the shed leaving the gate ajar, the lantern flaming. He strode to the bedroom and knew his wife. In the frost of the following morning Sam would come upon the stiffened bodies of the animals and bury them in a near field.

18

While the wind of late September hurled in dreary gusts about them, the two stood in the chill of the next morning before the brownstone front of the house on Redding Street. They were walking up wet granite stairs strewn with blown leaves. Ellen rang the bell. The woman who opened the door was tall and narrow-shouldered. Her eyes were dark, and like a dog’s seemed to beg. Her hair was a brown mane, piled sleek. She put her hands on her hips. “Hi. You must be Chicken’s niece. I’m Violet. Come out of the wet.” She was preceding them into the living room. The old green carpet was shoddy. The trivia of ornaments that had burdened the mantle and end tables had been taken away. The oval dining room table had been moved into this room and the drapes replaced with white ruffled curtains that drooped as the starch wore out.

“This room’s bright now,” Ellen said.

“I like ruffles and trimmings. Is this Simon? Chicken told me about you. I’m Aunt Vi. Sit down. I’ll get some lunch.” She bustled out.

“I’m tired, Ma.”

“So am I, Simon.”

“Are we e’er going back to Granddaddy’s?”

“Maybe some day.” She was pushing aside the curtains, looking down into the street where traffic moved.

“Will we live in this rich house?”

“For a spell, I reckon.”

“How do I call that lady?”

“Aunt Violet, you say. And be mannerly.”

“I’m not hungry, Ma.”

“Take off your shoes. I’ll give you dry socks from the bag.” They waited until Garland’s wife returned with a tray of hot milk and coffee, slices of poundcake and a plate of bananas.

“You like bananas?” she asked. “I do. I feel like one of the quality when I have bananas around.”

“Where’s Uncle Garland?”

“He’s at one of the restaurants. He’s got two, you know. He gets home about four-thirty and goes back till late at night. Have a banana, Simon. They’ll rot before you can snap your fingers.”

“I don’t want any. Go away.”

“Simon.”

The boy began to weep softly, laying his head on the arm of the chair. “I’m hot.”

“He doesn’t look good, Ellen. Let’s put him to bed.”

“Pay no mind to his talk, Aunt Violet.”

“I don’t,” she said cheerfully. “Nerts, I forgot to make up your beds. Wonder where I stored the sheets this time?”

Upstairs in a little room, Simon was undressed and put to sleep. He drowsed uneasily. The bedstead was of black-enameled iron. There was a battered wood bureau and a cane-bottom chair. Simon awoke, whimpering, “Ma? Did Anse take back his ball?”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know, Ma. What did I say?”

She felt the dry heat of his forehead. Violet came in the doorway. “Hi, Simon. Brought you some ice cream.” She offered him the little dish.

He sat up, his blue eyes darkening. “I ne’er meant what I said, lady.”

“I don’t mind, Simon. Eat before it melts.”

“Do you have any tonic in the house?” Ellen whispered.

“I think Chicken would say call the doctor.”

“My pa ne’er had one. Only satchel doctor I knew let a friend of mine die.”

“Didn’t you have one when he came?” Violet was nodding at Simon.

“No.”

The boy finished the ice cream, laid the dish on the faded bedspread. He stroked the sheet, closing his eyes. “Sing about that William, Ma.”

She waited until Violet had gone.

It was in the merry merry month of May
When the meadows were fresh and gay
Sweet William hung his bugles round about his neck
And he went riding away

He slept. Ellen went downstairs to help with the housework. Violet knew little about it, made simple chores tedious, and in her careless way laughed it off. “Chicken says, I’ve got a niece at least that’s a model housekeeper.”

“I like things to be in the place they live.”

“You take last night. The soup was ready but I forgot and put the potatoes in late. They weren’t done. Nerts. Good thing Chicken brings things home from the restaurant.”

While she was talking, Ellen busied herself. She boiled starch for the wilted curtains. “How long have you and Uncle been married?”

“I’m what they call a common-law wife. I guess I can tell you, being Chicken’s family so to speak. We’ve lived on the east side ever since thirty-two. Or was it thirty-three? Last year Chicken gave me a box of stationery with Mrs. Garland Gaddy on it. He says, we’ve got a checking account, you and me, the National Trust.”

“That sounds like Uncle.” Ellen stopped scouring the bronze-trimmed icebox, wiped her hands.

“All the time he’d had it in his head. I’ve never written a check, I don’t know how. Let him do that. But there’s my name with that bank.”

“My.”

“He told me your husband died, Ellen.”

“I’ve got to look at Simon.” She was going upstairs. The covers were thrown back, the boy’s face reddened. When he opened his eyes, they stared at her bloodshot.

“Penn didn’t want that ball,” he breathed.

She was rushing down the long echoing staircase. “Call Uncle’s doctor, Vi. Simon’s really sick.”

She went back. The voice met her, wheedling, “I didn’t wet the quilt, Da.”

“Don’t talk, Simon.”

“I saw that burying-beetle. He made a grave for the speckled thrush. He dug all about the body till it settled in the earth.”

She laid a wet cloth on his forehead. Her hand was pushed away strongly. Now God, shall I give up my first-born for my transgression? The doctor arrived. The watch began. For nearly three days the fever would possess Simon’s body. Garland came and went but Ellen didn’t notice him, that he was changed, his hair whitened, his figure grown portly, his mustache shaved so his face had lost its sharpness. His blue eyes looked out shrived. Ellen saw only Simon. She sat in the cane-bottom chair and watched. Simon was laying his hand on his breast, “Now there’s that pain. I won’t tell Mama.” His voice rose, “Granddaddy clobbered old Jess.”

Ellen asked the doctor, “How come he grabs at his chest? I’ve seen him do that before but he said it didn’t hurt.”

“He might be afraid of something, Mrs. Gaddy, that he’s not aware of. Some anxiety. It’s possible.”

Late in the night, Ellen was sitting alone in the glare of the small overhanging bulb. The doctor had said that only time would reveal the extent of the child’s malady and his strength to combat it. Gusts were rattling the house eaves, rain drummed insistent on the glass behind the stained brown shade. Her eyes sought patterns in the striped wallpaper. “Gaddy brat. Bastard Gaddy.” Simon was crying in the way of the young, without effort, his tears wetting the pillow.

Violet came in, her brown hair hanging to the waist of her dressing-gown and bound with a clasp. “I had a brother,” she said, “was sick like that as a child. He came through. The doctor thinks Simon’s getting better. He told me when he went out.”

“Don’t cry. Why does he cry, Aunt Violet?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s thinking thoughts we can’t know of.”

“Reckon you’re right,” Ellen sighed.

“I know one way to stop it, but you might think it improper.”

“What, Aunt Violet?”

“I doubt the quality ever heard of it. It’s a way people did where I was brought up. Even with babies. We lived in the slums, all in one room. Mom would stroke my brother’s privates. She was forced to hush him so Dad could get his sleep. And it quieted him right off.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll just use the wet cloth.”

“How is he?” Garland’s rasp sounded from the door. “Just closed up the restaurant. Busy tonight. It’s after midnight.”

Ellen didn’t turn. “He’s better, it seems.”

“He is, Chicken. The first time he’s resting good. I’ll go make your tea. You want some too, Ellen?”

“Sure she does, Vi.”

She pattered away down the hall. “Won’t be long.”

Garland was coming in by the bed. “Poor fellow. He’s a fine kid, puss.”

“I know it.” Tears began to flow down her tired face. “You-all been so good. Taking us in, Uncle.”

“Chrissake, hon. It’s Anton, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Was he mistreating the kid?”

“No.”

“Hell, then he was lording it over you?”

“Not that, I don’t mind that.” She was whispering, weeping. “Seemed he didn’t care for Simon’s good.”

“Hell, that’s An. Wish there was some way to make him see the light.”

“Only to have him do his bidding.”

“What makes that bastard that way? I’m fed up with him. I’m done.”

“To make Simon a part of him like his own son would be.” Ellen was looking up. She saw that Garland was old. He had always seemed young, vigorous. “When I got your letter, Uncle. Saying we could come here. It was like a way opened up.”

“Your letter to me was pretty plain. I thought I knew what the trouble was. I suspected Anton then.” His small angry eyes cooled. “You know how tickled Vi is with you both?”

“I like her.”

“We’ve been married a long time. Since about thirty-two, I think.”

“Like I wrote,” she looked at Simon who breathed evenly in sleep, “I want to get a job right away, though.”

“How old is he anyway?”

“Nine, now.”

“Frankie told me she thought your husband had died.”

“Yes.” The wind rushed, pushing rain sharply against the pane.

“Frankie said what a nice kid Simon was. She’ll be glad to see him, too. We’ll have her over.”

“I’m so tired, Uncle.” She looked at him, vacant. “I can’t think so good. Does Frankie live near here?”

“Just you take it easy.” He put his hand at Simon’s forehead. “Feels cool to me.” The humming of Violet who was mounting the stairs came, and then dishes were rattling in an adjoining room. “Let’s go have some hot tea and ginger-bread. Do you good, sweet.”

“I’d better stay here.”

“You can come back. In a little while.” He jerked the chain dangling from the overhead light. He drew her from the darkened room.

Ellen slept late into the morning like one drugged. Simon dozed. The fever had disappeared, with it went the constriction in his chest. When he roused, Violet tiptoed up to amuse him, making shadow-pictures on the wall with her thin hands. “I used to do this for my brother.”

Garland came home, stood in the doorway. “There’s nobody like my Vi, Simon.”

“Do the little goat now,” the boy whispered.

Ellen went down to the kitchen in the evening. Violet was in a rocker by the tin-topped table. The radio was blaring.

The music goes round and round
O-o-o-o-o-o
And it comes out here

The woman snapped it off. “Hi. How is he, Ellen?”

“Fine. I promised him a kitten. Reckon we could find one?”

“I’ll tell Chicken. He’ll get you one somewhere. Have a cup?” They sat in the kitchen room that was littered as in the days of Mrs. Quimby’s reign. Years of neglect and Violet’s efforts had done little to improve it. The chipped sink was touched up, the cupboards were painted cream color, and a square of red-and-white linoleum was on the wood floor. The fireplace was still unused, the opening blocked. “If times get better, we’ll fix the house up, Ellen. Get an electric icebox and a new stove and sink.”

Ellen drank the tea. “Violet, did Uncle look for a job for me yet?”

“He’s watching the want ads. We’d like you to stay here as long as you can. Have you ever worked out?”

“No.”

“I have. Since I was eleven. One place they had a special French toilet in their bathroom. When they finished their business on the regular one, they switched to it. It washed them off with a spray. Now it was outlandish.”

“Those French are tormented clean folks. My great grandsir was one.”

“You don’t say.”

The front door slammed. “Where are you, Vi?”

She bayed, “Here, Chicken.”

Garland was pushing the swinging door. “Home is the sailor, home from the sea. And the hunter from the hill.” He kissed Violet’s cheek. “I’ll have some of that tea.”

“Ellen wants you to find Simon a kitten. He likes pets.”

“I’ll ask Charlie. He’s got cats. Charlie’s my dishwasher. Say, we’re going to have company in a couple of hours. Frankie’s coming.”

“I just remembered supper,” Violet cried. “Nerts, I’ll never get it together.”

“Yes, we will,” Ellen gathered the teacups. “How’s Frankie’s piano-playing now, Uncle?”

“Oh, hon,” Garland was laughing, “when did you see her last?”

At six-thirty, Frankie arrived, Genevieve Wheeler, stout and amiable, just behind her. “How’s the farm, Ellen?”

“It’s fine, Miss Wheeler.”

“Take my coat, Gen, will you?” Frankie’s red hair was long and she wore a pearl comb in it. Her fine features had filled out and she had lost her frailness, was somewhat plump.

“All righty. I’ll go put these chocolate eclairs in the frig.” Genevieve was striding vigorously into the hall.

“Oh sure, Ellie. We’ve been visiting Uncle and Vi ever since Pa tossed me out. We live on the east side.” Frankie’s eyes appraised Ellen. “You’re different. Older, I guess.” She had her hand on Ellen’s arm, was kissing her cheek.

Ellen drew away. “And I am older, so what’s that if I look it?” She spoke sharply from the wound.

“Did Pa make you go? We didn’t believe Uncle when he said you were in the city. And Simon, too.”

“I told Pa I was leaving.”

“Are you raising Simon Catholic?”

“Well, Pa took him to church, but I don’t go. I got weary of the prayers and such.”

“Pa know that?”

“I talked to Father Tompert once and he said I was right. So Pa gave in.”

“I always got a kick out of the way you defied him, Ellie. I never dared. How is he?”

“The same.” It tasted bitter. “It’s us that have got to change.”

“I’m glad you left. But how are you going to get along? Are you staying here?”

“No, I want to find a place on a farm, Frankie. So I can work and Simon can help with the stock.”

Genevieve was in the doorway, hearty-voiced, “I know a farmer might be able to take you, Ellen.”

“Where, Gen?” Frankie was asking.

“Down in the state somewhere. Wasilewski’s the name. One of their cousins works in my office. He was reading a letter yesterday about his aunt getting old and wanting to hire a girl. Sounded nice.”

“Let’s write them,” Frankie cried.

“Wonder if they have cows.” The desire caught in Ellen’s throat to lay her hands on the silken hair and smell the pungent kine breath.

“Sure,” Genevieve said. “I guess. Cows and pigs and chickens. The works. We’ll write them, Ellen.”

“And we’ll call you,” Frankie promised, “as soon as we find out.”

“I don’t get it,” Genevieve said. “Wouldn’t you rather find something here in Chicago? My kind of work’s so much more interesting than the drudgery of a farm. It’s stimulating.”

“No, Miss Wheeler.”

“You could live with us,” Frankie offered. “You could do steno work like me.”

“I’ll bet Garland would be tickled silly if you’d stay with them,” Genevieve said.

“Vi’s such a slob,” Frankie giggled.

“She’s not,” said Ellen. “She’s good.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t good,” Frankie was shrugging. “But she’s a slob. She’s perfect for her Chicken.”

“Garland thinks he’s taking care of the downtrodden,” said Genevieve.

“She’s good,” Ellen repeated.

“Why don’t you stay, then?” Genevieve asked.

“They need a housekeeper,” said Frankie.

“I’d rather be on a farm, if I could. Besides, Simon can’t bear to be cooped up.” But Ellen knew she wanted to be away from Garland and his wife, and Frankie and Genevieve Wheeler. She wanted to leave all ties, to start on new ground.

The next day, Frankie called to say they had mailed the letter and when the reply came would let Ellen know without delay. Ellen walked through the park, Simon beside her. Leaves were dropping, scudding into damp niches, mingling with soot particles and bits of paper and debris that gathered in gutters. Sleet sheeted from a dull sky. They returned to the house. Violet was bringing a bowl of popcorn into the living room. Garland urged Ellen, “_Top Hat_’s at the Acme tonight. With Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Why don’t you come with us, puss?”

“I don’t care to.”

“Make me some fudge, Ma.”

“All right.” When Garland and Violet had left, they went into the kitchen. Simon sat in the rocker while Ellen was hunting through cupboards for ingredients.

“When you reckon Uncle will get my kitten, Ma?”

“Soon, he said.”

“Wonder if Leona’s kid sprouted horns?”

“Uncle says the man that washes dishes at the restaurant has a cat that littered. But they aren’t weaned yet.” She was stirring the hot mixture in the iron pan, the strong odor of chocolate filled the air.

Simon stared at the red-and-white checked linoleum, held the arms of the chair to keep it from movement. “Reckon Sam milks the goats out good?”

She poured the thick fudge on a buttered cold plate. Her body was tense and unyielding. Her braids lay like marble coils about her head. “Uncle says those kits are spotted. Black and white and orange.”

Simon got up and followed her into the living room. He was nibbling at a sweet brown square, his eyes looking past the ruffed curtains to the steady noise of the street. “I say, Ma, I get to honing for them.”

* * * * *

It was two weeks before Frankie came for an evening again. “Why in the world did you and Uncle move from the old flat, Vi?” She was laughing. “It takes us an hour to get over to this side.”

“Did you e’er hear from those people, Frankie?” Ellen asked.

“Who?”

“About that farm.”

“Oh yes. We meant to call you. Gen’s got a letter from them.”

“It’s here somewhere in my bag.” Genevieve searched.

Ellen took it quickly to slit it open.

Mrs. Gaddy.

I hear you want to hire out. Winter work is light here. Can you come
say latter part of Jan.? If satisfactory would pay 4 & half dollars
per week and board. Child to work according to size. My wife raises
chickens. Needs help with them and house. Also garden-stuff. That is
all I have to say.

Matthew Paul Wasilewski
Hidden Creek, Ill.
Rt. 1

“Well?” asked Gen. “Good or bad?”

“They’ll take us. But not till after winter.” She colored. “I know where Hidden Creek is. Penny Dougherty lives near there.”

“Well,” said Violet when she heard the news, “I’m glad it’s not till January at least.”

“It’s that I hate putting you and Uncle out.”

“Nerts, you don’t. We wish you’d stay.”

“Can I have my own horse there, Ma?”

“We’ll see if you can leastwise have a chicken.”

“Let me have it as soon as it hatches. I’ll give it all its feed and raise it for a pet.”

“Never heard of a pet chicken,” Violet said.

“When’s Uncle going to bring me the kitten, Aunt Vi?”

“I’ll get after him again, Simon. He’s always busy.”

“I’d love a spotty kitten.”

Ellen cleaned the house as the weeks flowed. With strong yellow soap she scrubbed into corners, taking a pleasure in the dark lather that would form in the ancient dust. She pulled down drapes, hauled dingy frayed rugs out on the line strung in the yard and set Simon to beating them in the cold autumn sunlight. “You got to polish brass with wood ashes mixed in oil. Hit’s the only way,” she told Violet. “It mars our hands but the brass comes shiny like new.”

Violet, thin arms akimbo, followed, protesting. “Look at you, Ellen. Let it be. We don’t mind. Come on and sit.”

“I’d rather finish this off first, Aunt Vi.” She felt a compulsion to drive her body as if that would make the days shorter.

19

There was a heavy fall of snow in the early afternoon. All city noises were dulled. Violet had spread newspapers before her and she was sipping hot tea. “Says here they found a frozen man on the el steps, people walking around him. You think they figured he was sleeping?” The telephone rang and Violet picked it up. “Hello. Yes, we’ll accept it. Hold the line, ma’am, she’s right here. It’s Millville, Ellen.”

Ellen grasped the phone. She could scarcely hear the voice of Sam Offut. “Ellie? Your Ma’s acting queer. Mester Gaddy’s got to pull her out of the wardrobe to get the meals. You best come and do somewhat with her.”

“Oh, Sam.”

“She’s not been the same since you left. I allow I don’t know how we’ll make out at butchering.”

“Is Pa all right?”

“For Gawd, Ellie. He thinks she’s being ornery. But I don’t know. Seems like she’s off her head to me.”

“Where are you, Sam?”

“At Love’s. I traded a basket of eggs. The hens are doing good for this weather. I says to the central, there’s a Garland Gaddy lives at Chicago. He’s got my boss’s niece there. Ellie Gaddy. Can you get her to this phone? She says, collect? I says, look, I got no money. Can you fix it so I don’t have to pay? Lo and behold, I was about to walk out when Stacey hollers, it’s for you, Sam. How about this age of miracles?”

“I’m hanging up, Sam. I’ll come some way.” She cut off his voice. “What do you reckon that call cost, Aunt Vi?”

“What’s the matter, Ellie?”

“I want to know. I’ll pay it back.”

When Ellen told Frankie, the young woman laughed as if embarrassed, the light catching in her blue eyes. “I’m done with all that, Ellie. You can go.”

“Haven’t you got any pity for Ma? Uncle says she has to be taken to a place the state runs.”

“When she’s there, we’ll go visit her. And Gen and me will give what money we can spare.” Frankie’s full face was set, her mouth pouting.

* * * * *

Ellen and Garland were going by train to New Hope, leaving Simon in Violet’s care. Garland hired a man to drive them to the Gaddy farm. The corduroy country roads were uneven because of the freezing and thawing of winter, and they were jostled in the back seat of the worn-out Model T. Garland was relaxed as he stared out at the countryside. His jaw had dropped, the flesh was folding on his face about the age lines. Shaving his mustache had given him a guileless expression, and with Violet not present, he had laid aside his forced lusty manner. They were passing Bailey’s Woods. Ellen recalled the glowbugs that had lit the path sides with fitful orange lights when she played there as a child on summer evenings. Now dead twigs of tree branches tangled and meshed like spiders’ webs. A winter wren on a lean bough was whistling, “Teakettle, teakettle, teakettle!” and with a whirr fading down the road toward the sky where gray clouds lived uncared for.

“It’s not your father’s fault about Maria, puss.” Garland was speaking suddenly. “Don’t go blaming it on him.”

“Who’s laying it to him?” flashed Ellen.

“You know, Maria had a hard childhood. Her people were queer, you might say. Her mother was over forty when Maria was born and her father going on sixty. Christ. Must have near starved some winters back in the hills. He’d go off and leave the two of them to fend for themselves. Probably half crazy.”

“I don’t think so.” Ellen’s mouth was stubborn.

“Anton said he was a hunchback. Had Maria’s dowry stuffed in a gunnysack fastened with binder twine. Fifteen hundred dollars in coin and bills.”

“That’s the way he was. I don’t call it so queer.”

The house appeared uninhabited as they approached. Jack came out from the hole he had made for warmth in the earth behind the leaf-bare bushes. He watched them dull-eyed, uncertain. Garland called at the bottom of the porch; there was no answer. He set out for the barns while Ellen went up into the house. The porch was littered with mud and manure, in the kitchen the floor was tracked and the usual order on Maria’s shelves and table was broken. Ellen guessed that Sam had been making an effort to clean up and wash the dishes. Her pulse was pounding as she glanced at the bedroom. She draped her coat on a hook and drew off her winter boots. She went slowly into the room and over to the dark standing closet. The heavy crucifix was looming on the wall over the bed by the light from the little windows. It was a dream. From another time. She was in the cellar of her childhood, her feet fixed and immovable. There was someone behind her with a stick, waiting to perform a vague frightful act. Her heart was beating like a living stone as she dragged open the double doors to the closet.

Maria’s birdlike eyes looked up from where she sat, clad in a long maroon sweater and a worn housedress. “I got my little boy here, Mam. He’s a bit cold. But he’s not dead by a long sight. That whippoorwill was wrong.” She had cradled a pillow in the crook of her arm. Her hair was loosely braided, gray wisps straggled over her face.

“Ma,” Ellen whispered.

Maria was frowning. “Shut the doors. I allowed he was out there in the ground moldering and turning. But he’s right here. Shut them now.”

“It’s Ellie, Ma.” But the woman bowed her head into her shielding hands, waiting until the doors would close.

Ellen went into the kitchen. “She’s stark mad.” She stirred up the fire, adding lighter-wood and a log from the bin.

The three men scraped noisily coming up the porch and into the room. They stood in their muddied boots, their breath steaming up. Anton stamped his boots and coughed, rubbing his fingers together above the stove.

“Evening, Ellie,” Sam said.

She nodded, holding herself from them, over at the side by the windows where a chill seeped in.

Anton had on his black bear-fur cap, the collar of his tattered mackinaw was turned up. He shrugged and said directly to Garland, “So hell, I’d get her out mealtimes. She wouldn’t go to mass and the last few days she wouldn’t get in bed. Hum.” He inquired softly, “Has she gone loony?”

“Would she cook for you?” Garland asked.

“Fair to middling,” said Sam.

“But always she’d set out for the bedroom,” Anton was saying, “and I’d pull her back. Like she aimed to anger me.”

“She needs a doctor, An. And care.”

“What are you fixing to do?”

“I’ll have to make some calls first. Where’s the nearest phone? I think the state will take her. We have to see a doctor and you’ll have to sign papers. You come with me, An.”

“Go hitch Red,” Anton said. The hired man went as bid.

“Where is she now, hon?” Garland asked Ellen.

“In the closet,” Ellen whispered. “She ne’er knew me.”

“And why should she?” Anton was glaring at her, hurt and reproachful. Like old Jess led to the sourwood scaffold in the yard. “Isn’t that right, Gar? There’s a great daughter. That one.” The door slammed after him in a gust of cold air, and Ellen shrank.

“Your ma’s probably best off right where she is, puss. She isn’t violent or anything?”

“No. Just sitting there harmless. She used to do that sometimes when Pa had his back up. I thought it was a place for her to get away. Far as I can remember she’d do that. But now she’s talking daft and she didn’t know me.”

They stood, hands hanging useless. Nothing moved. The silence was complete. Then the buckwagon clattered outside. Garland roused, picked up his homburg hat. “Be back late. Not much of a Christmas this year, hon.” From the window she watched them climb onto the seat. The chestnut horse was restive, its winter coat woolly and ungroomed, dry manure casing its flanks and legs. It carried its broomlike tail high and pawed the ground. It moved off, the two figures hunched against the cold, heads drawn down into scarves and collars.

Ellen left the house, going toward the woodshed. She called to the dog but he had disappeared. She went seeking her goats. She met Sam, and learned of their destruction from him, “You know your pa e’er was a strong-willed man, Ellie. And you be cut off the same last. I saw that when you were yet a set-along child. You’d ne’er squall when he took a stick to you. It wasn’t natural.” Sam was wagging a gnarled hand.

Ellen’s mind had only partly encompassed what he told her. She was conscious of the faint liquor scent. “What’ll I do, Sam?”

“You hadn’t ought to torment him so.” Sam was stooped over, holding one hand on a hip as if an ache lay underneath. “Being as you’re a ooman grown now, you ought to stand behind him. Mrs. Gaddy’s no use any more.”

Ellen wasn’t listening. “Where’d you put them, Sam?”

He went before her to the orchard edge. “I threw them in the wagon and toted them down here. For Gawd, took a big hole. Wore me plumb out.”

When he had gone, Ellen looked about at the familiar landscape. Penny and Leona and spotted Pie. Rhodie and the shaggy yearlings. Pa gave me an eye for an eye, it appears. Burning for burning, stripe for stripe. Because I took Simon. It’s my goats for Simon. Life for life. That’s an enduring fine trade. At last she was wending back up the hill field. Darkness dropped almost instantly as it does in the short days of the year. The bark of a dog fox was rising shakily from the woods, the eerie sound lingered. Ellen’s hands in her pockets were stiff and cold. She blew on them and rubbed them. “I’ll ne’er have truck with my pa again.”

From the house, squares of lamplight were wavering. Ellen entered, heard Dr. Trumbo’s murmur. The Gaddy brothers were sitting with him, and papers were spread before them. They all wore their overcoats, and their headgear was cast near their hands as though, in the half-warmth of the kitchen, they were passers-by with a bit of business to perform here. Ellen removed her coat. She shook the grate in the stove and laid a fresh fire. That’s all we be. Passers-by. Strangers sitting in His home, dragging the past on our shoes. If we could but lose that burden, start afresh. The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge. There’s Pa whom I ever loved, thinking of ways to make him see me since I was a least youngen, following him with my eyes, running to do for him. But I never saw Pa for himself, only for the way I wished him, like the songs that seem to happen in another land. From this valley they say you are going, we will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile. I loved Pa in the land of myself, in a valley of my mind. While Ellen was mixing the corn meal, her hand was turning the egg and buttermilk into it quickly. Tears started and fell unheeded.

She laid plates before the men and they ate silent by the mellow light. Forks and knives chinked. The smell of burning oil pervaded the room. Ellen went to where the woman hid herself. “Come get your supper, Ma.” Maria laid her head on her knees. Ellen brought her a dish and she accepted it. The doctor and Garland were lighting cigarettes, Anton puffed his pipe. Ellen finished the dishes and swept the floor. Dr. Trumbo arose then, it was time to go. He drew Maria struggling and whimpering from her place, and Ellen persuaded her to change from her ragged clothes. “Here, Ma. Take off that sweater and those rags. Put this on.” She was offering the old crepe de Chine dress. “It’s silk.”

“Well,” Maria felt of the black material. She was putting her pillow down. When she had dressed they came into the kitchen where the others waited.

“All set?” asked Dr. Trumbo.

Anton was watching his wife from where he still sat at the table. He was pushing tobacco angrily with his thumb into the pipe bowl. “There goes the last of my oomen-folk. Now who’s to do the cooking, Gar? Sam, you think?”

“I’ll get her bag.” Garland went into the shadowed bedroom.

“I’ve been a righteous man. And pious,” Anton carped harshly.

“Here we go, Mrs. Gaddy.” The doctor was taking Maria’s arm; he led the way with Ellen to the car, into the black night.

Garland was bringing Maria’s valise. He paused at the open door to the porch. Light from the kitchen made a hesitant path reaching to the top step. “Goodbye, An.” Car lights had beamed suddenly in the yard, revealing the shrouded figures of the women climbing into the back seat. Garland cleared his throat. “I’ll remember when I first met Maria.”

Anton did not move. Pipe smoke wreathed and dimmed his lined face, his strong shoulders, his powerful arms stretched on the table before him. “Man born of ooman is of few days, Gar.”

Garland was running his soft hand nervously through his white hair, fingering the place where his mustache had used to be. He hurried down the steps. “Let’s go, Doc.”

Ellen sat in back with Maria, dust from the car floor mingled with a vague clinical smell. She drew an old alpaca robe about their knees; it was damp to her hands, musty.