In his way Simon tried not to make errors that would aggravate his grandfather. He had developed a spasmodic pain in his chest that would come at odd moments. He told no one of it but sometimes when he thought about it, believed he would die. Then he lay vacantly staring upward as he had done in the Dougherty shed in the vague days before he came to live here. At times he dreamed of Anse Dougherty pinching his arm, whispering, “Gaddy brat. Gaddy brat.” He awoke struggling and muttering. When Ellen questioned him, he couldn’t remember the details of the dream. She would sing, soothing, until he slept.
Dear mother, I said, come and bind up my head You ne’er shall bind it any more Sweet William he died of the wound that he bore And Fair Ellen, she died also
In 1934 another drought smote the farm. This time the condition was prevalent over the Midwest, involving dust storms and soil erosion. Over these depression years there were no visits from Garland Gaddy. At Christmas he would send a package through the mail. It would be placed on the parlor table. Ellen’s parents went straight to bed when they returned silent from midnight mass. On Christmas morning the family would find cigars for Anton, and for Maria and Ellen mittens or a wool scarf. Garland was unsure of Simon’s age. When he was six, Garland sent him the book _Ben Hur_, and when eight, a set of ABC building blocks. Ellen wrote to thank him, urged him to come at the next holiday. “Some time,” she told Simon, “I’ll show you Chicago. And your great-uncle who lives there.”
“Don’t I have an aunt there, too?”
“Yes. Some day maybe you’ll meet her. Don’t ne’er say her name to Granddaddy.”
“I know. That’s Auntie. She brought me a yellow hat one time.”
Ellen never heard from Frankie, but once Garland put a card in her package of fur gloves: “Love from Uncle and Frankie.” So she knew that they saw each other and it was a comfort.
The years were sweeping by. In 1935 the Federal dole was stopped and the national relief program got under way. Anton was told that for twenty-five dollars he could have a WPA privy constructed. Since the old one was in ramshackle state, he decided to go ahead. “Christ, Sam, hit must be fifteen feet down.” They stepped within the new-painted door, looked into the openings. “It’ll take a hundred years to fill that hole.”
“More, Mester Gaddy.” Sam paused. “I recollect Pa. He hung the door on the last shithouse we Offuts had. Swung it in by mistake. Said it e’er plagued him after that, for when he sat out there he liked to have a door swing out, so he could watch the neighbors go by along the road. He’d call out to them if he had a mind, friendly-like.”
“Well, I’ll take the cow barn any day. For a fact. It’s a sight more natural.”
Simon was growing. He was nine, stocky and strong, heavy for his age. The bones of his shoulders were knobby so he would appear undernourished when shirtless. Ellen laughed at him for his diffident ways. “You’re shy as a field-raised calf, Simon.” If the boar broke loose though, or if a new heifer kicked because her udder was hot and tender, Simon was fearless. He laid his hands on her when she kicked out, vicious, or walked up to the great angry seed-hog.
Once Anton thrashed the red horse with the lines. It was harnessed with another and when the load began to move, it reared, balking in the traces. Anton whipped it. The boy loved the red horse—he hurled himself before it so the lines were lashing him. Anton saw the white stripes. “What foolishness now?”
“It’s the blinders, Granddaddy.”
And it was true. This horse had always worn the bridle with blinders. The wrong bridle had been put on and he saw things in a new way, frightening him. Simon was sent for the other bridle and then the horse pulled squarely with its mate. “Beasts are plagued fools sometimes,” the man said. But the boy’s eyes were gazing straight ahead, as red welts rose on his cheek and arm. He grit his teeth against the familiar pain searing his breast.
Anton went into Millville to the priest one afternoon and had Simon baptized. When they returned, he told Ellen. She protested, “Pa, it doesn’t matter. But you could have said you were going.”
“And he’s riding to mass Sundays too, along with us, proper pious. I can’t hinder you from being a heathen, but I’ll save my grandson.”
Ellen glanced down at Simon. The man was pressing him, “You want to go along with me, don’t you, boy?”
“Yes, Granddaddy.”
“Well, all right, Simon. You know your mind, I reckon.” She watched them go, saw Simon running to bring the cows and start the feeding.
Ellen was twenty-six. She was quite handsome but there was a coldness in her bearing. Her oval face was sober, gray eyes austere, she wore her hair plaited tightly and pinned in a circle around her head. She never knelt in the honeyed grass at night as she once had, weeping over the lost love and her restive longings. It was as if a scar had formed, protective, and a part of herself was sealed off underneath. She moved quietly through the days as if waiting. And she seemed satisfied.
Simon spent his hours with the beasts of the farm or trailing his grandfather. When he felt the need for Ellen, he sought her out, standing near her. They were alike in many ways, shy, spare of words. She taught him songs, and read to him from the Bible and the almanac. He brought home an average report card and she signed it, “Mrs. Ellen Gaddy.” He queried her, “How come I got no daddy?”
“He’s dead, Simon.”
“Tell, what was he like?”
“I can’t rightly remember. Like you, I reckon.”
“If more comes to you about him, will you tell me, Ma?”
“I will.”
“Granddaddy says he be the same as a father to me.”
“Well.”
* * * * *
Ellen saw her old friend Lily again one day. She had not visited with her since Lily had become Mrs. Craig Hedrick five years earlier. If they met, Lily would walk away, turning her head aside. It was late August. Ellen and Maria were making apple butter, the spicy fragrance filled the kitchen. There was a gentle knock and Ellen put down her wood ladle, wiping her hands on the brown-stained apron. “Yes?”
“Don’t you know me, Ellie?”
“Lily.” Ellen opened the door wide. “Come on in.”
“I was just hankering to see you. It’s fierce lonesome at home. I ran off.”
“What do you mean?” Ellen was taking the old tone with her at once. “Hush your crying.”
“Craig sent me to hoe the truck beans. Hit seemed I couldn’t bear it any more. I up and walked away.” Lily’s blond curls that she had always taken such care with, were pulled into an untidy knot at the nape of her neck. She was stouter. “I’m afraid to go back. Craig was running the tractor in the corn and his man was working the mules. He told me I must clean the bean patch.” Her small mouth was puckered, unhappy.
“Why are you afraid? He’s your husband.”
The woman heaved a breath. “He’s taken to whipping me like Papa did. So I told him I was carrying a child to make him stop.”
“Well, then?”
“I’ve got no child. I can’t seem to get caught. Craig wants one as bad as me.”
“Let’s have some coffee.” Ellen was going to the kitchen. “Ma, you know Lily. She’s Mrs. Hedrick, remember?”
“Hey, Mrs. Gaddy.” Lily was eager.
“Hey there, Lily. How’s Mester Garrett’s bees?”
“Oh, my husband says Papa’s making a sight of honey this year. He’s got o’er twenty hives now. I’ve not been to see him myself these many months.” Ellen laid cups on the table while the water came to a boil. She put out a dish of hot apple butter, slices of fresh bread. “It’s like coming home here, Ellie. We used to have fun, you and me and Frankie. I always loved fun.”
“You know,” Maria spoke up from her thoughts, “I had another girl, named Frankie. I dassn’t say her name. Mester Gaddy won’t brook it. She’s dead.” Maria was wagging her head, knowing.
“Here’s your coffee, Ma,” Ellen said.
“Is Frankie dead?” Lily whispered.
“No, and Ma knows it. It’s a way she has, like a child, sometimes. She can’t seem to keep it straight.”
“She can’t?”
“You e’er think of seeing Doc Trumbo, Lily? Maybe he could help you and Craig to have a child.”
Lily’s eyes were trailing Maria, breaking bread and spooning the brown preserves. “Reckon we could try that, Ellie.”
“I always thought a heap of Craig,” Ellen said, “for taking o’er like he did when old Mester Hedrick was killed so sudden.”
“He doesn’t have to beat me.”
“You e’er think about how it was for him, Lily, back then?”
“No.”
Maria broke in, “But there’s a little boy lives here now. Named Simon. I’m his granny.”
Lily spoke slowly, “I can’t even go to see my papa and mama any more. I’m not allowed to go home.” Grave, she was watching Maria.
“Craig’s a good man.”
“I know, Ellie.”
“You have to stop being a girl some day. And think on the ways of a woman.”
The three drank their coffee. Presently Lily was pushing back her chair; she spoke deliberately, “Reckon I’ll get back to my house. I have work to do. It’s a long walk. Bye, Mrs. Gaddy. Ellie.” Her retreating steps were heard on the stones in the yard.
Suddenly Ellen was caught in a burst of tears. She put her hands to her face, sobbing hoarsely. She ran up the steep stairway, her bare feet noiseless. “I vow at that girl.” Maria took the ladle to stir the mixture, thick and hot in the iron kettle.