Dorothy Garlock (13 page)

The breakfast he had eaten so enjoyably a few minutes ago suddenly turned on him. His stomach churned. Pain on the top of his head knifed down between his eyes. His life had been anything but peaceable since he’d brought Harriet home from Lansing last fall. To say that Esther had been unpleasant about an addition to the family would be putting it mildly. Since that time he’d had the feeling that he was on a runaway train headed for disaster. The premonition had become a reality the night Harriet died. She was so young and appeared to be healthy. He hadn’t given a thought that she might die in childbirth. He had protected her against Esther’s bad temper as much as he could, but he couldn’t be in the house all the time.

Until now he had been content here on this farm, planting his crops, tending his animals and doing the thing he loved to do above all else, working in the shop he’d built beside the barn. The two trips a year downriver to Dubuque, and an occasional trip to the races at Prairie Du Chien, had added variety to his life. But this morning, before Esther arrived, he’d had a glimpse of family life that had always eluded him.

Poor Esther. For the past year, a hint of something Owen had not wanted to think about had lurked in the back of his mind. Several incidents had surfaced that forced him to believe that what he suspected was more than just a hint. Esther was becoming more radical, more possessive, more unreasonable, more bitter. She still went to church; she was still friendly and helpful to the neighbors, but while she was here at the farm she was a harsh tyrant. Hettie, in her child’s world, was occasionally hurt by Esther’s sharp tongue, while Lily and Harriet had taken the brunt of it.

Owen had been shocked to the core of his being when he returned from Lansing with Mrs. Fairfax and learned that Esther had tied Harriet to a filthy bed and gagged her. And he was even more shocked by Esther’s steadfast refusal to allow the bed to be changed. Two questions had pounded in Owen’s brain since that time. Would the girl have lived if she’d had better care? Was Esther responsible for her death?

Ana’s accusing eyes, staring at him from across the bed, still haunted him. This morning, her scornful words had scorched him like no others had ever done.
Weak-kneed. Henpecked. Not enough guts to run his own household.
Was that the impression he gave outsiders? Over the years he had gradually given in to Esther because it was easier than constantly butting heads with her.

Owen’s thoughts switched to Paul. Paul had resented their sister’s dictatorial manner. He was young, his sap was rising, and Esther’s constant criticism rankled. She had been after Paul to marry Lily since the girl was fourteen. Both Owen and Paul were fond of Lily, and someday Paul might have given in to Esther’s demands. When it seemed that he might be leaning in that direction, Owen had been forced to talk to him to prevent a disaster and Paul had left home.

Thinking about it now, Owen thought that Esther didn’t believe that he’d ever marry. Paul would have been the one to bring a strange woman to the farm. With Paul safely married to Lily, whom she could manage, there would be no challenge to her authority here.

Soren came out of the barn leading the team. Owen left the porch and crossed the yard. Ordinarily he would have unhitched the horse from Esther’s buggy and let it into a fenced enclosure beside the barn. This morning he went on by, leaving the horse tied to the fence.

“Owen,” Soren said as soon as he reached him. “You may think this is none of my business and that I’m speaking out of line, but I’ve got to say what’s on my mind.”

“Say it.”

“There was no call for Esther to treat Ana the way she did this morning. It was mean and humiliating to Ana.”

“I know.” Owen pressed his fingers to his temples.
Ana.
She had not asked
him
to call her Ana.

“Esther doesn’t bother me . . . much,” Soren was saying. “I know how she is, and I know that she doesn’t want me here. But as long as Pa is here, I’m coming back.”

“Good Lord, Soren!” Owen looked at him with worry on his face and alarm in his eyes. “This is your home, and it will be, as long as there’s a stick of it standing.” He grabbed his cousin’s shoulder and squeezed. “Gawdamighty! Don’t ever think about
not
coming back.”

“Pa said there’s a sow down.” Soren turned his face away and hunkered down to work on a kink in the chain attached to the drag. “He expects her to farrow before noon. He said to tell you that he’d keep an eye on her.”

“This is birthing time. I’m expecting litters from two more sows, calves from two cows, and the sorrel mare should foal any time now.”

“That black and white cat that hangs around the barn has a mess of kittens in the loft.” Soren’s old grin was back.

“It’s a good thing she had them in the loft. Old Digger will kill them if he gets a chance.”

“He knows they’re there. He had a barking fit till Pa threw some cobs at him.” While they were talking, Owen helped Soren attach the iron drag to the chains. “Pa says that field down by the stream is ready to plant. The Watson boys harrowed and dragged it for you.”

“Good of them. I didn’t know they had worked down there. If you’ll drag the north field, I’ll get the bag of seed corn and the planters. We’ll finish that field today. I meant to ask you, Soren, if you saw anything of Foster when you came through Lansing.”

“I saw him. He was drunker than a hoot owl, and the barkeep told me he had been that way for a week. He’ll not be here until his money runs out.”

Owen shook his head. “He’ll kill himself.”

“It’s his life.”

“I hate to see it wasted. He’s smart as a whip. Always has been.”

“It was tough enough getting shot up during the last week of the war, but to come home and find your wife’s belly swollen with another man’s child was tougher.”

“He worshiped that woman,” Owen said hooking the chain to the doubletree. “Watch that mule’s hind legs,” he cautioned when Soren bent to hook the chain to the other side. “He’s a mean son-of-a-bitch.”

“Pa told me.” When Soren straightened and picked up the reins, he looked at Owen from across the backs of the mules. “You’ve not said much about your wife.”

“There’s not much to say. She was young and . . . foolish.”

Soren looked at him with a puzzled frown. “Did you love her?”

“No.”

“What are you going to do about your boy—turn him over to Esther?”

“No.”

“Have you decided what you’ll do?”

“I’m thinking on it.”

“You’re not giving out anything, are you? You haven’t changed a bit.”

Owen grinned. “Did you expect me to?”

“No.” Soren said in the same curt tone Owen had used.

*   *   *

Ana tidied up the bedroom.

Later she stood beside the window looking out at the apple orchard she had not noticed before. The suckers had been pruned from the limbs and the brush cleared away from beneath the branches. The trees, planted in neat rows, were budding. In a few weeks they would be in full bloom. It was as neat and as clean an orchard as she had ever seen.

Overhead, the sky was blue with an occasional white cloud, the air was warm, and robins were building nests in the lilac bushes. The honeysuckle and bridal wreath were in bud. Evidence of spring was everywhere except in her heart.

She turned from the window and took a dark gray washskirt and a waist of white lawn out of her trunk. Dainty tucks down the front and embroidered flowers decorated the shirtwaist. Ana had decided that she was not going to let Esther intimidate her into keeping to her room, and when she went out she was going to look her best if only to boost her own confidence.

She washed, cleansed her teeth with
Pearl
toothpowder, then dressed. The wide band on the skirt emphasized her small waist and soft full breasts. After brushing her hair vigorously, she swept it straight back from her forehead, puffed it, then twisted the long honey-blond tresses loosely and pinned the coil to the back of her head. Curls at her temples escaped from the pins, but there was no help for that. After she tied a black ribbon, a symbol of mourning, around her upper arm, she picked up the soiled diapers and left the room.

In the kitchen Esther was scrubbing on a black iron kettle; her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. The front of her apron was wet. Strands of gray-streaked dark hair had come loose from the tight knot on the back of her head and were plastered to her sweat-dampened forehead and cheeks. Her eyes glittered in her bony, gaunt face.

“Where can I find a bucket and some soap?”

Esther bent her head lower over the pot and ignored her.

“Mrs. Knutson, I’m trying to get along with you. Tell me where I can find a bucket so I can wash the baby’s diapers, and I’ll get out of your way.” Ana waited a full minute for an answer. When none was forthcoming, she said, “Very well, I’ll use the wash basin.”

Esther dropped the tool she was using to scrape the pot and moved quickly between Ana and the end of the shelf where the wash basin sat beside the water-bucket. Her eyes were so full of hatred that Ana took a step back.

“You’ll not use
my
wash pan to wash that brat’s shitty drawers.”

“Then tell me what to use,” Ana said patiently.

“Use the horse trough. It’s good enough for that slut’s brat!” Esther spat, her thin lips drawn back from her teeth in a snarl.

Pure fury propelled Ana forward as a blinding rage possessed her. Her hand flew out on its own accord, and before she knew it she had slapped the woman’s cheek so hard it sent her head sideways.

“You hateful, miserable excuse for a woman! Don’t ever call my daughter a slut again! Do you understand me?” Angry words spewed from Ana’s mouth. “I fully intend to leave here as soon as I can, but while I’m here, I’ll take no more of your abuse, and I’ll hear no more of your slurs about Harriet or her child!”

With eyes as bright as polished agates, she stared into Esther’s face as the print of her hand reddened it. Ana had never slapped anyone in her life, but she was not one bit sorry for what she had done. She faced the woman with her jaw set and her fists clenched.

“You . . . hussy! Owen will . . . throw you out!”

“Throw me out? My foot! Your brother doesn’t have enough guts to step on an ant. And I’ll certainly not leave on
your
say-so.” Ana’s finger jabbed at Esther’s flat chest.

A sound at the door caused Ana to turn. Uncle Gus, with his hand on the screen door, stood looking from one woman to the other with a stunned look on his face. Pride and anger refused to allow Ana to feel embarrassment.

“I meant every damn word, Mrs. Knutson. Open your nasty mouth about Harriet again and I’ll scratch your eyes out!” Ana’s anger was laced with contempt and confidence. She turned back to the man who was backing out the door. “I’m sorry you had to witness that. But Mrs. Knutson and I had to come to an understanding. Can you tell me where I can find a bucket to wash the baby’s diapers?”

“There’s a small wash tub and rub-board hanging here on the porch,” Gus said through the screen door.

“If she had told me, it would have saved all that,” Ana said when she set the small tub on the washbench and put the diapers in it. Reaction set in and her voice trembled when she spoke again. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Esther can . . . try a body’s patience.”

“Do I dare go back in for warm water and soap?”

“I’ll get the soap outta the cellar. If ya ain’t in no yank, ya can draw the water and set the tub out in the sun. In a little while the chill will be off.”

Ana carried the tub out to the pump, worked the handle until the water came and covered the diapers. Then she pulled the tub out into the sun. Gus lifted the slanting cellar door and went into the cave beneath the kitchen. He returned with a bar of yellow soap.

“It’s a lovely day.” Ana had calmed until her heartbeat was almost normal. “Did you get your potatoes planted?”

“Not all of them.” Gus took this pipe out of the bib of his overalls, struck a sulphur match on the iron pump handle, and lit it. “We got a sow down ’n’ I’m keepin’ a eye on her.”

“Is she sick?”

“She’s ’bout to farrow.”

“Have little ones?”

“She’ll have ’em sometime today. We got a fresh batch of kittens the other day. The mama’s white and black. The papa must’ve been Wilson’s old gray tomcat. They’re the sorriest lookin’ little beggars I ever did see.”

Ana laughed. “Little kittens couldn’t be ugly. May I see them?”

The sights and smells of the farm were new to Ana. She’d been on a farm only one other time and that was when she had gone with her employer to visit a relative. They had gone directly into the house. Now she realized that there was so much of farm life she had not experienced—new kittens, a sow having a litter of little ones, a big white goose waddling across the yard, and the acres of freshly-turned earth that would nourish the seeds. Ana had enjoyed her small garden plot and her window box of flowers; but this was growing things on a much larger scale, and she was afraid that she could come to love it.

The sound of a sassy bluejay, the squawk of a noisy crow, a cowbell tinkling softly, combined with the rhythmic creak of the windmill as the huge blades were turned in the wind, were the melody of Spring, she thought as she followed Gus to the barn. Inside it was dim and cool and smelled of manure, hay and animals.

“They’re in the loft. I’ll climb up and bring one down.”

“Will the mother let you have one of her babies?”

“We’re on pretty good terms. She manages to be around at milkin’ time.”

When Gus backed down the ladder, Ana thought he had been unable to get one of the kittens, then he took the small, furry bundle from the bib of his overalls and placed it in her hands.

“It’s so little and it doesn’t have its eyes open.” She held the black, white and gray-splotched kitten in one hand and stroked its furry head with her fingertips. “Isn’t it sweet? How many does she have?”

“She had six, but one died.” Gus tucked the kitten back into the front of his overalls before he climbed back up the ladder to the loft.