When she finished her trading and was on the way home, Ellen took the short cut by Bailey’s Woods to visit Amanda York and to warm herself. She knocked at the door of the double cabin. Amanda was wearing a bright red dress, her hair made into a gleaming braid down her back. She drew Ellen to the fire that hissed and sparked. “You know I got a beau, Ellie?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Jerome Hatfield. Smithy Hatfield’s son. He’ll be coming by soon. Stay to meet him, Ellie. He’s real nice.”
“You going to marry him?”
“He’s asked me.”
A car was heard approaching. Then doors were slamming outside, and male voices shouting. “Mandy?”
“Ask your maw can we come in?”
“We got a present for you-all.”
“That’ll be Jerome,” laughed Amanda. “They’ve been drinking, this being Saturday night.”
“This one’s a heavy basket,” called a twisted voice that Ellen knew. “Rome Beauties are right solid apples.”
Three young men came in. Craig Hedrick was carrying one handle of a basket. He hesitated, seeing Ellen, his face frozen. They set the basket down. She saw a dark scar across his forehead lit by the dancing fire.
“Oh, you boys been tasting bootleg,” cried Mrs. York. “Come have some soft cider to cool you off.”
Amanda was running to fetch glasses. Ellen followed, whispering, “I’ve got to go, Mandy. Ma and Frankie are sick in bed and it’s dark by now.”
“Oh, Ellie, I wish you could stay. Craig,” she was crying, “take Ellie Gaddy home in your auto.”
“No,” Ellen breathed.
Amanda whispered, “I’ll make a match for you, Ellie. He’s a nice fellow. Got an eighty-acre farm all his own. But he’s afraid of girls.”
“Hurry up with the glasses, Mandy,” called Jerome. Ellen saw him pushing Craig’s ribs with an elbow. “Take her home, Craig.”
Amanda brought the tray and Ellen hung behind her. “Ellie, you know Craig here? And Jacob Haas and Jerome Hatfield.” She was pointing them out with a nod. “The last is the meanest.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The silence was awkward. The three men leaned on their legs abashed, their faces heated by the fire and the liquor they had drunk.
“Ah, here we are.” Mrs. York was pouring the cider. Ellen shook her head, turning away.
“Well, Craig,” persisted Amanda. “Cat got your tongue? Thought you told me you knew Ellie and went to school with her?”
“Craig took her for a drive once. I heard about that,” crowed young Haas.
“Did you, Craig?” cried Amanda. “When?”
“Come on, let’s hear. When?”
“I’ll walk,” whispered Ellen. “I’d rather.” The young men were shuffling near the fire; someone spilled cider on the stone hearth and Amanda was bringing a mop. Ellen found her basket and boots by the doorway. Outside in the dog-trot the adjoining cabin was dark, unused in winter. She was buttoning her coat. The night was chill.
As she reached Sweetincreek Road the wind gathered itself and whirled strongly about her, up the sleeves of her coat. There was just light enough to follow the road. She drew her coat to her, fought the wind. The way was endless, the few dried leaves still cringing in the trees rattled and the wind had its way with them. In a darkened corn field an animal was slipping along rows of shocks. She heard a distant car engine. It became louder, lights were shining faintly behind her. She was turning into the ditch at the roadside, stumbling down the incline to crouch there. Headlights beamed close at hand. The car stopped by the ditch, a voice was calling thickly, “Ellen? I’ll drive you home.”
“I want no help from you, Craig. I’ll walk.” She climbed out and started up the road.
The car was following. “Get in, Ellen. I’m not going to hurt you.” He swung the door open. She stepped up and into the seat. There was the tart whisky trace. With a jerk the car started. He drove fast down the road, the thin tires bumping over hardened ruts. “Thought you were a new field of daisies, you whore,” Craig was saying. “You’re nothing but a brush field where a plowshare drove through. I found that out.”
She held a frightened silence.
“E’er a man in the county has slept in that field. So I hear.”
He’s blind drunk. She stared ahead where the road crouched dark before the car lights.
“Why won’t you sleep with me too, Ellen? Why did you hit me with that dung-fork?” He began to sniffle.
“You’re stark crazy.” She put her fingers on the door latch.
“You ran off with a rich fellow, I heard. And got knocked up. Had a brat off some’eres.” He was making gruff crying noises.
“You’re just simple crazy.”
He was swerving the Ford into the lane of her home. He braked so that she threw her hands against the dashboard, bruised her fingers on the tiny crucifix screwed there. Her basket slid across the floor carpet making a rough sound. “I’m just drunk. Worthless drunk. I’m sorry for what I said, Ellen.” He was leaning to her and she remembered his hairy arms.
“Get away from me.” The handle turned. She ran to the house, the basket swinging wildly. His car remained where it was; she glanced back from the porch. She was pushing the door open, the kitchen was warm and smelled of security. She went to the bedroom door, taking off her coat.
“You were gone so long, Ellie,” Frankie whined.
“I had to put the potatoes on,” Maria said.
Ellen tugged at her boots. “I tarried a while at Mandy’s.” She was busying herself with supper, making a clatter with the dishes. She hummed and when she sliced the ham she closed her eyes, blinking tears. He called me a whore.
“I thought I heard a car drive up,” Maria said.
“Someone out on the road, I reckon.” She heard the motor start then. Craig would drive back to the York cabin. He and the others would sit around the fire, eating apples and popping corn in an iron basket. They would laugh about that queer Ellen Gaddy.
Anton came in, his long-jawed face ruddy from the harsh wind. “I brought your twists of tobacco, Pa. I set them on the shelf o’er there.” I hate them all. Men are a pack of tormented hogs.
* * * * *
Christmas 1926 was approaching. Preparations were under way for Garland’s annual visit. Frankie told Ellen with enthusiasm, “I’m just going to sit and study grammar. So don’t look for help in the kitchen from me.”
“Oh Frankie, stop worrying about it.”
In the evening the younger girl was arranging dried everlasting in the parlor vase, the thistle-like blooms shaking palely in her hands. She turned to Ellen, blithe. “I’m that eager to see Chicago, you know. Pa says I can get dresses from the catalog. You help me.”
Ellen brought it out and they selected. “You’re like a wild one, Frankie. Setting such store on the times you’ll have. Just do as Uncle says and it’ll come out well.”
Frankie had suppressed her misgivings. By her lively chatter and protestations she covered the small voice of panic beneath.
Anton came in to where they sat. “Order stout, hear? Not cheap. I declare this is the day. Get her new boots too, girl.”
“She’ll more need pretty slippers, Pa.”
“And get chills-and-fever? She can be warm and comely too, I say. Just spend it. I got it,” he said recklessly, and went to paint the black sink in the kitchen in honor of Garland’s coming.
Ellen enjoyed the readying for the holidays. “Where are the straws I pulled from the new broom you got, Ma? I’m bent I’ll find them to judge if my cakes are done right. Frankie,” she cried, “stop studying. Come beat this icing for me.”
“I don’t know, Ellie.” Frankie entered the room, reluctant. “How do I sound when I talk?”
“Why, you sound like a lady. Whip this up, will you?”
“All right.” Frankie poised the spoon, reciting, “The deluge drowned, the earth around.”
“That’s real clear, Frankie.” Ellen took pride in her cakes, liked to start the batter with her hands, feeling the fresh lard blend to the sugar. “I despise to waste making a cake with fat-drippings. They should be delicate and light.” She was washing her hands, beating the eggs to a froth with her mother’s wire whisk. Her health and good will surged strong from some inner store.
After mass on Sunday, Anton left his women-folk to speak with Joe Burwell who pressed him, “Borrow my new fence stretcher, Gaddy. Hit beats a crowbar and pliers to a fare-thee-well.”
“I’ll try it one time. All my fences are rotting on me. Hell, I’d rather set up rails any day than stretch wire.”
Joe Burwell’s son Dyke was approaching the sisters and Maria on the church porch. “Hey.”
“Hey, Dyke,” Frankie cried.
The boy was nineteen or twenty, fleshy and large. He was smiling weakly at the girls, in anguish. Frankie blushed, Ellen looked down, scowling. Anton was calling them to the waiting wagon.
“He’s cute,” Frankie whispered and looked back.
“You can have him. I heard he does dishes and washes and scrubs for his ma.”
“I wouldn’t mind. He’s tall. But how come he does her housework?”
“She’s a one-leg. She hitched a horse up without the blinders and it scared off and ran the spring-wagon o’er her. They had to cut her leg clean off above the knee.”
“Say.”
“She wore out three wood legs till she took to pushing a chair before her. Had a baby too,” Ellen concluded luridly, “couple of years after.”
“Well, all the same he’s tall. I’m not so particular.”