Ellen meanwhile milked Penny and Pie, set out their hay and grain. She stood over Simon. “Want me to finish her?”
He sighed, turning the three-legged stool over to her. “I most got her clean, didn’t I, Mama?”
“Just about.”
“That Auntie’s comely, Mama.” He was leaning against her while the white liquid purred in her bucket, foaming, hot.
“Ne’er know her for my sister, would you, Simon? Like a peacock sister to a hen.” Her gray eyes were level with his blue ones. She was stirred. He’s a fair boy.
“You’s a little hen, Mama.”
“You’re my chick, then.”
“Peep. Peep.” He took her hand as she picked up the pail. Nearing the house, they heard the piano and voices raised. Genevieve was carrying the alto.
O Robin, Robin Redbreast O Robin, Robin dear O Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year
“Mercy.” Ellen set the pail in the kitchen, began to help Maria with the meal. Simon stationed himself beside the parlor door to listen to the singing. He was discovered and with cries and kisses they drew him to them.
After supper Frankie remained in the kitchen with Ellen. Simon went up to bed. From the parlor came Anton’s deep voice and an occasional question from Genevieve. Maria was knitting and Dyke listened while he smoked a cigar. Frankie polished the plate she was holding. “Don’t you like Gen, Ellie? Don’t you like her? We’ve got a flat, you know.”
“You wrote you left Uncle.”
“I left last February. The market crash changed him, Ellie. He wouldn’t eat and stayed up nights going over papers. He got real crabby. Stingy, too. You’d never have recognized him. I stopped all my lessons. I was glad.”
“I see.”
“He turned Mrs. Quimby out on the street.” Frankie was smiling, prim.
“Oh?”
“When I left, he closed the house up. He went to a flat he has in East Chicago. You know he’s bad, Ellie?”
“How?”
“He keeps a woman,” she whispered. “He’s had that flat for years.”
“For lack of wood the fire goes out, Frankie.” Ellen was stiff.
“That’s a cute saying, Ellie. Where’d you hear it?”
“You’re so scatterbrained, Frankie. And I ne’er had any use for whisperers.”
“You like my hair, Ellie? Gen says I look like Janet Gaynor.”
“Who’s that?”
“Ellie. A movie star.”
“When did you first meet this Gen?”
“She’s my best friend.”
Dyke stepped into the kitchen. “Hey.”
“Hello, Dyke. Wouldn’t Gen let you talk?”
“No.”
“She’s like that. She has no use for men. Except for one like Pa there. A good farmer.”
“You sure are different, Frankie. You’re plumb pretty.” Dyke stood his ground, blushing.
“I always liked you, Dyke,” Frankie was bold. “Remember how we used to argue about him, Ellie? I said he was tall and he’d do because I wasn’t particular?”
“Frankie,” Ellen cried.
“Come out and look at the stars, Frankie. Please.”
“Go on, you two. I’ll finish up.” Ellen went into the parlor after a few minutes. She sat down by Maria.
Genevieve looked up alert. “I thought Frankie was with you, Ellen.”
“She went out with Dyke a spell ago.”
“Oh, dear,” the woman laughed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Gaddy. I’ll be right back. I want to hear more about what you were saying.” The heavy sound of her shoes was heard on the porch.
“Why doesn’t she leave Frankie and Dyke be?” Ellen asked.
Anton was filling his pipe. “She sees the case I’ve got here farming.”
The two came in noisily, hand in hand; Dyke followed. “Here’s your little girl, Mr. Gaddy. I’m afraid this young man was hiding her from us.”
“What do you think, Genevieve,” Anton was asking, “of my daughter becoming a fine musician?”
“Well, in time she could be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She’s got talent. And she’s a beauty. When I get more money saved, I’m going to get her the best teacher I can find.”
“I just love you, Pa,” cried Frankie. “And this dear house. And Ma and Ellie and everyone.”
“Tsk, tsk, such a little girl,” said Genevieve. She stood by the piano.
Woodman, spare that tree Touch not a single bough In youth it sheltered me And I’ll protect it now
Ellen was pressed to make fudge and coffee. Dyke was left in the parlor with Anton and the visitors came into the kitchen to help. While the two cracked nuts, they chattered in steady rapport. Ellen stepped into the hall, put her hands on her ears. “That ox.” Obscurely, she resented the older woman, missed the old way in which Frankie would turn to her for approbation and counsel. She could overhear Anton in the next room.
“Yes sir, boy, this fellow had a dog to run his treadmill. He sat in the shade and ground axes and knives for folks on the grindstone that dog turned for him.”
“I ne’er heard of that being done before, Mester Gaddy.”
“Hell, I even knew a man that fixed a treadmill for his old ooman’s cat to run her churn.”
* * * * *
They gathered at breakfast. Ellen had set potatoes to boil, fried bacon, and sent Simon to refill the blue water pail. Frankie and Genevieve were coming in sleepy-eyed, clad in gray twill skirts. The girl appeared frail and willowy beside her companion whose broad buttocks and ample breasts were constrained by her clothing. As they were sitting at the laden table, Anton and Sam hurried in. They were late. “The colt’s gone,” Anton worried. “Must have jumped the rails where it’s rotting. Jesus Wept, they’re all falling apart. We’ve got to string fence wire all o’er now.”
“Red horse tired of the meadow,” Simon piped. “He set out for to see the other side.” The child looked through the square-paned window, past the low wall of the garden, to the day that had cast off the shawl of night.
“I tell you, let’s organize a search party,” Genevieve said. “We’ll go get our hats. Don’t you agree, Frankie?”
“All right, Gen.”
“It’s up to you-all to find him. Sam and me can’t help. We got the rails to mend and the hay field to cut. Come on, Sam.”
They left Maria cleaning the kitchen, for she refused to stir without the door. They searched woods and adjacent fields. There was no sign of the missing colt. At noontime the three women met outside the house. Genevieve was bramble-scratched, the smell of perspiration thick on her as she sat with Frankie on the porch steps. “I think I got poison ivy,” said Frankie, “and I tore my stockings.”
“I brought some bug stuff with us. It’s in the bags somewhere. These mosquito bites itch.”
Ellen was bringing water from the well in a dishpan and they got up to wash. The woman grunted as she dried herself. Frankie was laughing at her, wrinkling her nose. Suddenly Ellen said, “Where’s Simon? He was with you, Frankie.”
But Frankie denied it. “He got tired. He said he was going home to get a drink.”
A hand twisted within Ellen. She was running. She heard the calls behind her. “Wait, Ellie!”
And Genevieve, “Let’s be calm.”
But Ellen ran and ran, Jack barking beside her, to fields stretching past woods, and past that, to places she had wandered before her son had gained this hold on her. All the while she cried, “Simon. Simon.” And the dog’s staccato answered.
It was late in the day when she returned. They had all assembled in the yard. “We’ve been looking, too, Ellie,” Sam told her.
“Maybe a snake’s bitten him.” An empty place trembled in Ellen. “And he’s lying some’ere.”
“Nonsense,” said Genevieve.
“He’s too little.” Ellen’s mind tried doors that were barred. “He doesn’t know the country well.” She looked at the ground.
Sam said, “Don’t fret, Ellie. He’s a steady youngen.”
The group was wavering, uncertain. “Appears you could look after your own youngen.” Anton bent for his pitchfork. “That hay’s got to be turned.”
Genevieve took a deep breath as the men went toward the field. “I’m not concerned. He’ll come home. Why, he’s a big boy.”
“Quit jawing,” Ellen said savagely.
Then they heard the men’s shouts, their distant figures were pointing. “There! Look there.”
The blood-bay colt was ambling up the lane, the boy on its back, his short legs spread, a lock of the mane in his stubby hand. His cap was set visor backwards. “I got lost, Mama.”
“Where did you find him?” Ellen ran to take the colt’s headstall.
“Down the road a ways. I got turned about.”
Ellen was leading the horse to the barn. “Well.”
Simon slid to the ground. “I lost Anse’s ball.”
“Should I make you another?”
“No.” He was petting the tall colt’s shoulder. “Mama?”
“What do you want?”
“I’d like a horse to name my own.”
“Maybe someday.”
“Mama?” He stroked the horse, looked up at her, mute. His eyes were wide. He smiled slowly, waiting.
“Fancy you finding the red colt, Simon. When none of us could.” They turned to walk to the house. He swaggered behind her, pleased with himself.
Little Tom Tinker Got burned with a clinker And he began to cry What a poor fellow am I
Anton nearly shot a dog fox a day or so after. The fences, lined with stones and weeds, had furnished ambush for the daring fox. In broad daylight even, it would slip to the hen house, kill three or four, and escape, slinging its latest victim across its shoulders. Anton would smoulder, viewing his dead hens. He told Genevieve, “Years back I had a flock of pullets just starting to lay. One morning I found a heap of thirty dead under that oak. Next week there was eighteen. I’d hear the varmint barking at night. Times he’d screech like a wildcat. I didn’t sleep till I got him. Ne’er did find the earth where the whelps were hid.”