In the cold clear weather the cows would seek sunny spots in the barnyard, at night crowding into steaming groups. The goats found a plank leaning against the chicken house. Ellen came on the younger ones bounding madly on the corrugated tin roof, their hoofs rattling. The daring skewbald Pie snorted and leaped skittishly from the high slanted roof to the ground. She was galloping back to the plank, short tail erect, up on the roof again, sure-footed. They seemed like wild animals Ellen had come on in the woods, unable to contain their spirits. Penny, who was heavier and not inclined to frolic, stood on the ground, ears flattened in worry. Ellen patted her and she tossed her beard, fretful.
The girls were gathering walnuts and butternuts. They shucked them and threw the hulls in the kitchen stove. Dyke Burwell drove up in a buggy with his father. Ellen saw them through the window. Dyke sat helpless, holding the reins, while the men met and walked to the barns. Joe Burwell turned his head, bellowing, “Hitch Blacky to the post, you dang fool, and get in where it’s warm. You got a corncob for a head?”
At the kitchen door Dyke was rapping, timid. Ellen opened it, her hands stained with walnut juice. She was blocking the entrance. “Well?” He cast his eyes to his hobnail shoes. She saw the two men disappear in the distance. “We’re busy baking.” Cruelly, she closed the door on him.
“Ellie Gaddy!” Frankie was running quick-footed after the stout ungainly boy. She led him to the parlor where she gave him black and white beans to string clumsily for decoration. Ellen heard her vivacious voice and later the piano tinkling and Frankie’s falsetto.
When I was a lady, a lady, a lady When I was a lady, a lady was I And this way and that way and this way And that way And when I was a lady, a lady was I
“That makes two geese in there,” Ellen told Maria briefly.
* * * * *
On the evening Garland was to arrive, the Gaddys were waiting in vain. Anton took out the letter that had come from Chicago, studied it again, squinting through his reading glass. “Hit’s today for sure. That’s what it says here. Lay down that red carpet on the twenty-second. That’s his way of saying it.”
“You know, Mester Gaddy,” Maria said, “today the sun entered Capricornus. First day of winter.”
Anton reflected and went for the almanac. “Hit says unsettled here. I’ve noticed these folks will often hit it right. Could be he’s run up against a storm.”
The roast was kept on the back of the stove, reheated until the juices dried. The chores were finished. The family had dressed for company. Late dusk set in and Anton grumbled, “Put it out and we’ll eat. I’ll say grace.” They picked at the food by lamplight. The man spoke suddenly, “This meat’s not fit for hogs.” He pushed his plate and got up, began to pack his pipe.
Frankie made sniffing sounds. “He’s not coming, that’s what. I can’t bear waiting and not knowing.” She ran up the stairs, her footsteps fading; the loft door slammed mildly from afar.
The next forenoon Garland was wheeling a yellow Reo into the lane; he pressed the horn, “Ah-roooooo-ga!” Frankie flew out to greet him. Ellen was hesitating at the door, her hand shielding her eyes from the winter sun. She saw the familiar derby and Garland’s arm about Frankie as Anton came from the barnyard. “Broke down at Minetta, An. Had to stay overnight. Why the hell don’t you have a telephone installed like everyone else?” Garland was waving at his car. “How do you like it? Brand-new touring style. The latest.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Had her up to forty miles on route sixty-six.”
Anton preceded them into the kitchen. Garland was looking at Ellen as he came to the steps. “Well, puss?” He pinched her thigh, his small blue eyes gay. “How’s the wandering little wench?” He wagged his finger.
“Reckon I was a poor niece to you last winter after your kindness.” She gazed at him, candid. “I ne’er meant it so.”
“Put on weight, haven’t you, hon? You look good. Pretty.” The color rose in her face, relieved that he would let the past rest. “Got a boy friend yet?”
“No,” she was smiling. He met her eyes. At the sight of the clipped mustache in the squared smooth face, a part of her loneliness had drawn away. They walked into the house, his arm on her shoulder.
Maria was in the bedroom doorway, twisting a towsack towel in her hands. “Who be you?”
“Ooman,” roared Anton, “it’s my brother then.”
“Not peddler.”
“Ooman. You’re plaguing me.”
“Shut up, An. She hasn’t seen me for a year. Hello, Maria, I brought you a present, too. It’s in my car. A pressure cooker to save you work.”
“Now I forgot it was you coming today.” Maria was suddenly complacent. “Tinie Bilberry’s got a bread-mixing outfit. Hit’s made to save work too. The handle turns like a churn and the dough comes out ready for the pans.”
“Does hit shape the loaves too?” asked Anton grimly. “I allow men are turning from the Lord God’s ways with these contraptions.”
“Next year I’m going to bring you a sewing machine, Maria. I saw a treadle one you could use, seeing as your husband won’t put in electricity till doomsday. You got to look to the future, Anton. Rural electrification. Let machines do it.”
“Next you’ll say get a newfangled automobile,” Anton predicted.
Ellen and Maria laid out the noon dinner. Ellen was warmed in her uncle’s love. In the evening she sat by him on the sofa. Or if he was standing, she linked her arm in his. When he laughed and said Frankie’s way of speech wasn’t a whit altered from last year and that Anton had got a reaming on the grammar teacher, her jealousy was assuaged.
But Anton angered, “That fellow’s been coming for a year. And there was one we had before him that quit on me.”
“Hold on,” Garland was crying easily. “Chrissake, Frankie’ll be all right. You did what you could.” He nodded kindly to the girl’s stricken face. “Let’s hear you play something, sweet.”
The next morning Ellen was in late from her barn work. She stopped in the hall at the parlor door, hearing Garland’s emphatic voice within, “She’s not well, I tell you, An. You’re so used to her you don’t notice. But she acts downright queer.”
“Shaw.”
“She needs psychiatric care. Mental aid. Look, I’m worried about her. Your attitude doesn’t help, God knows. You’re as enlightened as a bushman.”
Anton laughed, “You modern city folk. Such know-alls.”
“I’m not sure if I should have brought that pressure cooker, either.”
“Well, that’s a fact. I wouldn’t have any truck with it. What’s it got o’er a good fire for cooking? You tell me.”
Ellen wandered into the kitchen to look at Maria with new eyes. She saw the two men going to the barn, her uncle clad in one of the country costumes he affected, jodhpurs and boots, a dark red turtle-neck sweater. And Anton wearing stiff new overalls and a fresh-made black shirt.
When the time had arrived for midnight mass, Ellen was taking her place at the communion rail with the others. She waited while the priest stopped at Garland and then Anton and Maria. Then Father Tompert spoke in Latin above her and in the cold church all became quiet. The fleeting fear washed over Ellen. Am I lost? Pa thinks I’m a pure maid. But his God knows I’m not. When she was going back to the bench, she fortified herself. They that stumbled are girded with strength. She had read it when she searched in her father’s worn Bible. I’ve done no wrong. I have my God. And she rebuilt her peace.
They were driving back to the farm in the Reo. The girls tucked their feet in the narrow floor space, sniffed the new interior. They savored the luxury of the shallow seat. Frankie was giggling, “We’re like soft city ladies.” Ellen laughed into the dark.
Anton was pulling at his pipe, the fragrant smoke mingling with the fresh biting wind that whipped from the open windows into the back seat. Garland inquired, “Where’s your fancy blue hat, hon? With the rose on it, that I brought you last year? I see you’re still wearing that old cap.”
“It’s cold tonight,” Ellen was evasive, “so I wore this warm wool one.”
At home, they ate from the laden table. Then the women came into the parlor, leaving the kitchen in disarray. They sat by the fire that was cracking as the dry wood caught. “I’m going to help you girls do those dishes in the morning,” Garland cried. “You’ve got to keep me company. I used to be in demand as a dishwasher in the old days at some of the best hotels. Now I insist.”
“Such foolishness,” Anton mocked, lighting one of the fresh cigars and settling in a chair.
Ellen brought a bowl of wrinkled sweet winter apples. “Have a russet, Uncle?”
“Ellie, I’ll play if you’ll sing.” Frankie was at the upright piano.
“Go ahead, pusses.” Garland had produced a bottle of bootleg rum; he poured two glasses. He waved his hand until they finished the tune.
I don’t want no more of your weevily wheat I don’t want none of your barley But I want some more of your pretty white flour To bake a cake for Charlie
“I vote for Christmas!” Garland’s face heated. Ellen was remembering the party in Chicago where he had seemed a stranger. Here he was his old self once again. When he came yearly to the farm, the tenor of the home would be transformed, and Ellen esteemed by him above her sister. She wondered if Anton ever noticed. I’m strong like their mother, that Nell they talk of. And Frankie’s not.