In the hour he was free before milking, Anton had taken his gun. He set out, Jack at heel. He plodded through likely spots, and as he came up out of the woods he heard a crow call, signaling. He glimpsed in the distance the fox they hunted. Its summer fur was scraggly and yellow-red; it was digging at a woodchuck hole on the edge of the field. Jack had seen it too; he fell behind the man, who was slipping noiseless through the high orchard grass.
Then Anton had stopped short. He had come upon Frankie and her friend, sitting with hands about their knees in the grass. The older woman was leaning over to kiss Frankie on the lips. Frankie laughed, tossing her shining bobbed hair. Anton forgot his quarry. Jack whined and growled as the fox clawed at the earth. The man moved in dourly upon the women in the afternoon sun. He stood before them with legs set like trees in the grass. “What’s going on here?”
Frankie lifted her head. “We’re singing, Pa.”
Her companion was getting up. “We were just enjoying ourselves out here, Mr. Gaddy. My, your Frankie’s a pretty thing.”
Anton strode from them. They saw him spit amber juice into the weeds. Jack galloped, yapping, for the fox had slunk off. Frankie giggled, “Oh, Gen. You shouldn’t have.”
That evening the man was stalking restive between kitchen and parlor. Genevieve sought to draw him into a discussion. “I was reading about a new commercial fertilizer, Mr. Gaddy.”
“Shit,” he growled and went to stand on the porch. Car lights glared as Dyke Burwell’s Oldsmobile arrived in the yard.
Dyke called from the darkened window, “Hey!”
“Come in, boy.”
The lights cut and Dyke walked toward the porch. “Frankie home?”
Anton saw suddenly that Dyke was a man now, bulky and tall, stooped somewhat from the weight of his awkward upper body. “Hum. She’s here.”
They stood together, embarrassed by the companionship they felt. They were looking off into the half-dusk of the yard. “Getting hot.”
“Hum.”
“Could rain, Mester Gaddy. Ma says if she can feel toes on her missing leg, it’s rain for sure.” They were leaning against the porch posts. The older man stirred, unhappy. Dyke was talking in a soft monotone, relating a joke.
Anton interrupted him, “I’d like to shoot that varmint.”
“Well, like I was saying, Mester Gaddy, a bird came o’er then and muted on him. Hell, he says looking up, now you know, Lord, this is just going a trifle too far.” Dyke snickered, hopeful, but Anton remained glum. The young man scratched his neck. “You say Frankie’s home?”
They went into the house. Anton’s voice was cold, “Dyke, I want you to take Frankie here to the movie house in Bethel. That way Miss Wheeler and I can talk about the farm.”
“You are sweet, Pa. But I don’t care to.” Frankie yawned, getting up from her chair. “Here we are on this old Kentucky home and why go to the flickers? We see them all the time in the city. But you’re thoughtful, Pa.”
So instead Frankie coaxed Dyke to sing with them. Ellen saw how Genevieve’s black eyes glinted when Dyke spoke to Frankie. She saw Dyke’s confidence wither as he appeared a poor thing. Genevieve was saying, “Frankie told me you keep house for your mother?”
“I help her, Miss Wheeler.”
“I think it’s wonderful you mop and dust like a daughter. That’s an accomplishment.”
Ellen walked out of the room and onto the porch. A shadow was drifting by the hen house fence. “There’s that fox, Pa.”
Anton grasped the gun that stood by the loft stairs. His body mingled with the shadows. His face was vacant-eyed, as he slipped past Ellen, like a cat that spies a bird flutter to its nesting bush. After the family was in bed and Dyke had driven away, Anton returned. He flung the yellow-furred carcass at the base of the porch steps. The dog worried it until Sam arrived at dawn and dragged it into a field for buzzards to pick.
Simon came in dirt-stained to where the family and Sam Offut sat at the noon table. His hair was over his eyes and he brushed it back. He held a box-turtle he had found. He was clutching it to his shirt and standing within the door. Ellen said, “Go clean up. And put that turtle away, Simon. You’re late. Now run.”
But Simon went to stand at Anton’s side. The man continued eating, pushing his food with his knife, his head bent in hunger. Simon spoke so that Ellen knew he had thought how he would say this all the way to the house, ever since he caught the turtle. “Da says they’s seven kinds of meat in a turtle. E’er heard that, Granddaddy?”
“Who’s Da?” Anton threw his knife with a clatter.
Simon was staring, open-mouthed.
“Who’s Da, boy?”
“Da,” Simon blurted, cradling the turtle, the spiny legs scratching his soft flesh.
“Pa, that’s Mester Dougherty,” cried Ellen. “The youngens called him that.”
“Don’t speak his name again. Mind, boy?” Anton picked up his knife. Genevieve and Frankie exchanged small knowing smiles.
Ellen pleaded, “This is a land turtle, Simon. The kind you eat’s a water turtle. Go wash now.”
* * * * *
Later on, the women were clearing the dishes. Anton was puffing his pipe. From the direction of the hog pens came a squealing. Through the screen, Ellen saw a score of young pigs spreading out toward house and barn. After them stumbled Simon, trying with aimless movements to round them up. His face was worried, his body blundering. She pushed the door to go and help him. Anton spoke behind her. “Stay there, girl.”
Ellen knew what had happened. Simon had been sent out as soon as he had eaten, to move the twenty yeanling pigs to new quarters. Anton had directed him to move them one at a time. But the child had tried to shoo them in a drove, the way he did the geese or cows. The baby pigs were fractious and ran out like wheel spokes. Sam was hustling from the barn. Ellen watched the two men break sticks, then shouting, gather the pigs into their new pen. The little boy’s shoulders were rounded, hands dangling helplessly. Sam returned to the barn. Anton called the boy to him. He cut a switch from a locust tree. Simon was moving slowly across the yard. Ellen came out on the porch. “Get in the house, girl. Lest I switch you for your brat to see.”
Ellen went up the stairway to her room. “He’s bound and determined to have it out. But it’s because he’s plagued at Frankie.” She sat dry-eyed on the bed. Her head was throbbing.
* * * * *
Afterwards she found Simon in the field with the goats. He held his hand on the neck of one doe and scratched under its beard. His face was streaked and dirty. “I was bad, Mama.”
“You sure could use a bath. Come on, let’s get the tub down.”
* * * * *
On Sunday the two Gaddy sisters were sitting on the porch. Lily Garrett walked up to them in her shapeless Mother Hubbard dress. “I’ve come to make lavendery sticks for the last time with you-all.” Lily was sweating through her padding of fat.
“What do you mean, last time?” Ellen got up to greet her.
Frankie and Lily kissed. “You haven’t met Gen yet, Lily.”
“I’ve got news for you.” Lily’s face was shaking as she laughed. “Craig Hedrick’s making me his wife.”
“Ellie went with Craig once, didn’t you?” Frankie asked. “I remember.”
“Just to mass,” said Ellen.
“I can’t ask you to a wedding.” Lily was raising her large arms to her hair. “We’re only going to the priest. The bans have been read and we’ve got no time for fancy doings. Craig’s bought the farm next to him. He’ll be working o’er a hundred acres this summer.”
“My,” said Ellen.
“We’ll drive straight home from the priest and go to work, he says. He’s going to get a tractor with lights so he can work nights. Law, he’s a goer.”
“Calling him a goer makes me remember Mandy York,” Frankie was saying. “When she was out hoeing with us that time and she said, I’m smart, I’m a good duster and a good sweeper and a good hoer. We laughed at how it came out.”
“Her baby is doing good on your goat’s milk,” Lily said.
“I still can’t believe Mandy’s dead,” cried Frankie. “But now here’s Gen.”
The older woman came down the stairs. “Who’s this?” She was linking arms with Frankie.
“This is my friend, Lily Garrett, Gen.”
“You certainly look hot,” Genevieve said. The two walked away to the lavender bed.
As they were plucking the flowers, Lily talked softly to Ellen. “Where’s Simon?”
“He’s in the field. Sam lets him ride Blueberry. He thinks he’s a man sitting up there holding on the hame knobs.”
“He’s a pretty child. Does he take after your husband?”
“A mite.”
“Can’t say he takes after your side.”
In the silence, Ellen was binding the stalks with yarn; the sweet oil scented her fingers.
“Craig’s got no use for you, Ellie. Reckon he’ll not let me come down this way when I’m Mrs. Hedrick.”
“You think a lot of him, Lily?”
“It’s like this. I’m built so big most fellows laugh at me. Papa’s glad to get me settled. He’s going to help us where he can. I allow I’m a sight lucky to catch Craig.”
Ellen had never heard the flighty Lily speak so seriously. She seemed nearly sad as she came to this turning in her life.
“You’ll make him a good wife.”