Now and then she thought of the child, Simon, developed a curiosity, now that she counted the passion buried, to see if this relic bore any resemblances. “I have a notion to visit Penny Dougherty,” she was saying to Anton. “She’s invited me. Says she’s got guineas and we can have a clutch of eggs if we want. I could raise us a flock. Set the yellow hen on them.”
“Guineas. And that worthless ooman,” he scoffed.
“Guineas are no work. You turn them loose and they pair off and care for the eggs by themselves. When you want a meal you catch them where they’re roosting.”
“It’s a far piece to Weems Crossroads but for guinea eggs. And I declared you’d not set foot off this place save to be married. So I said.”
“I’m twenty. And I’ll be gone o’ernight. I promise, Pa.”
“I don’t like it. You’re a froward one. It costs a mort of money going on the train. All to see some poor trash.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Pa.”
“You be back in a day, girl. You got beans to plant, and the cabbages to set out now the killing frosts are gone.”
“I’ll do it, Pa. Day after tomorrow. Soon as I get back, I’ll set them out.”
So she found herself walking up the lane to the familiar small house. Penny greeted her, and her fine features seemed a little thinner. She was laughing, “You came for Simon.”
“Oh Penny, let me see that baby girl you wrote about, Blossom.”
“She’s in here, Ellie.”
While they looked at the sleeping child, Ellen whispered, “I can’t take Simon. Pa doesn’t know.”
“That’s all right. We love him, Ellie.”
“I brought more money.”
Three little boys were trooping through the doorway, shouting. The baby awoke, began to wail. Ellen saw Simon, nearly three now. He was dressed in a blue-checked pinafore, and his small bottoms were bare. He was smallish and fair with round blue eyes. He looked at her soberly and never smiled. Clate had forgot Ellen, and Anse, thin and dark, clung to Penny. Simon was leaning on the wall, his fat thumb in his mouth. Luke arrived amid the bedlam and the children shouted to see him, “Da’s home.” Ellen saw Simon squealed and leaped with the rest.
They took her out to the field to see the goats and the old donkey. Clate was prompted to recite, lisping.
When the elm leaf Be big ath a mouthe’s ear Then to thow barley Ne’er you fear
All the while nearby was Ellen’s son, gazing dumb. His foster mother called him to her. “This is your own ma, Simon. Like I told you.”
In the morning Ellen was returning on the train. She had a setting of spotted guinea eggs in a box. Her mind was on the beans to be planted; she wondered whether Love’s would have flats of young cabbage plants in yet.
* * * * *
The country seemed prosperous. But among the farmers were muffled noises of protest. Anton Gaddy growled when he got ninety-eight cents for wheat that had brought two dollars and thirty-four a bushel after the Great War. Corn dropped to seventy-nine cents, though it used to be good for a dollar to a dollar-fifty. He spoke to Sam, “Reckon you could get by with a little less a week? I’m pure strapped for cash. You could take a hen maybe.” He shrugged nervously.
“All right.” Sam scratched his back.
“Pick one of the old ones with a yellow beak and ears.”
“Now Mester Gaddy. I wouldn’t take a good layer.” Sam was squinting up, his eyes sharp in his leathery face.
“I hate it, being strapped, Sam.”
While they were talking, restless, the stock market was plunging. The depression was on. When Anton heard next week from N. J. Bilberry of the crisis, he said, “Now there’s somewhat for those rich folk to fret about. It’s no worry to us.”
Anton felt vindicated in his way of life, wondered idly if Garland had been affected. And he wished Frankie would write again. Her piano recital of last March had been a failure, the few letters she had written since ignored the subject. The flame in Anton’s life that burned through this daughter dimmed, bewildering him, causing his dream to lag. “Hum. Frankie’s going to make that music yet before the crowd. I’ve got to send her some money again, come the evening mail.”
Then a letter arrived from Chicago.
Dear Father,
It is not necessary to direct any more checks to me. You need money worse. I moved from Uncle’s house a while ago to an apartment. I’m going to get a job. Uncle is sick so we won’t drive down. I will spend Yule in Chicago. Uncle lost his Oakland. The government men took it away. He had a considerable loss in the market. He has real worries. One of his friends jumped out of a window.
I will come to visit next summer for sure, and maybe bring a friend with me to see the dear farm and meet the old folks at home. Then like the song goes, I’ll tuck me to sleep in my old ’Tucky home!
daughter Frankie
part three
Let it be what it is she said Let it wait as it must It will choose soon or late Let it wait Love has life not of us But of love she said Let it lie where it must
14
Ellen was cutting across the field to the York cabin in the late May morning. Amanda York had married the smithy’s son, Jerome Hatfield. The couple lived in one side of the cabin. Jerome and Mr. York cared for the apple orchard surrounding it and worked in the Bethel Stone Foundry. During the winter and spring Ellen had watched Amanda grow heavy with child, taking vicarious pleasure in the young wife’s joy. “If it’s a boy,” Amanda had claimed, “we’re going to call it Junior. Wonder if it could be baptized Junior, Ellie? I doubt it’s a Christian name.”
At the cabin door Ellen called, “Hey, Mandy. Anybody home?” She heard the hoarse pained cry from within.
Mrs. York was shuffling out of the bedroom. “Ah, hit’s you, Ellen.” Her face was yellowed with fear, eyes staring with wakefulness.
“Mandy’s been taken?” Ellen asked.
“Doc Trumbo’s here. It’s not coming right. Ellen, you think somewhat could happen to her?”
“Bearing’s not so bad,” said Ellen, uncertain.
“I put the ax under the bed. She ought to have had it by now. She’s been at it since noon yesterday. She’s giving out. She’s quit trying.”
Then there was a scream from the room beyond, animal-like in travail. Ellen was recalling a spotted heifer that couldn’t bear its calf; Anton had hitched the team, and taken it from the womb. The scream circled the room and after it, like a splintering of glass, a thin cry echoed. “Ah, Doc’s got hit now.” The woman was scurrying away. Ellen followed slowly into the blood-odored room. Amanda lay oddly flat on rumpled stained sheets, her eyes shut in a white face. On the pillow her dark hair flowed. Ellen took her hand.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch the bed,” the face whispered strangely.
“It’s o’er now,” Ellen said.
Amanda’s eyes came open with an effort of the heavy lids. “Have we got our baby?”
“Yes, Mandy.” Ellen was frightened. “You rest.”
“I want to see it.” The words were barely discernible.
“All right.” Ellen went to the table where the doctor was binding a cloth about the infant’s navel. It feebly squirmed its thin-skinned damp red body and wrinkled its face. “She wants it, Doc.”
He glanced up at Ellen. “Let’s see, you must be one of those Gaddys. Your father hasn’t much use for satchel doctors, either, has he? You know these women never called me till an hour ago?”
“Mandy wants to see her baby.”
“They call me in at the last minute. Think they can do it all themselves. Like Indian squaws.” He wrapped the child in the warmed flannel that he took from Mrs. York and laid it by its mother’s face. “Lie still there, girl. I’m going to look at you now.” He spoke softly, disappeared into the kitchen to wash his hands.
“She’s fair, Mandy,” Ellen whispered, “your baby.”
“Ah, she is,” said Mrs. York, “with it all.”
Amanda’s breath rattled. She was drawing strangled gasps as if she had run a long stretch. Her eyes became fixed on the hewn-log walls, the cracked calking. She shuddered, the labored breath struggle faded and ceased.
Mrs. York sucked in her words, “My girl.” She put a hand out to touch the tired face, screamed, “Ah, Doc.”
Dr. Trumbo stumbled on the threshold in his haste. He was lifting Amanda’s wrist, laying it down, speaking sharply to Ellen, “Good Christ, where’s this girl’s husband?” He picked the sleeping infant up.
“I’ve got to cover the mirror,” Mrs. York mumbled, hurrying indecisively about the room. “So the baby doesn’t die as well. And stop the clock hands. Now what else must I do?”
“Jerome works at the stone foundry, Doc. Same as Mr. York. I can call them from Love’s store.”
“First take the child here. This old one’ll be no more use.” He turned to Amanda’s body again. Ellen laid the baby in the cradle. It was sleeping, its face like an inflamed pansy, lost amid ribbons and ruffles.
“Ah. You did it, Doc,” Mrs. York keened. “You were busy with yourself and your washing and you let it happen. I didn’t want you here. It was only because Mandy made me. She’d have come through but for you.”
“Now, Mrs. York,” he began.