“Let’s write them,” Frankie cried.
“Wonder if they have cows.” The desire caught in Ellen’s throat to lay her hands on the silken hair and smell the pungent kine breath.
“Sure,” Genevieve said. “I guess. Cows and pigs and chickens. The works. We’ll write them, Ellen.”
“And we’ll call you,” Frankie promised, “as soon as we find out.”
“I don’t get it,” Genevieve said. “Wouldn’t you rather find something here in Chicago? My kind of work’s so much more interesting than the drudgery of a farm. It’s stimulating.”
“No, Miss Wheeler.”
“You could live with us,” Frankie offered. “You could do steno work like me.”
“I’ll bet Garland would be tickled silly if you’d stay with them,” Genevieve said.
“Vi’s such a slob,” Frankie giggled.
“She’s not,” said Ellen. “She’s good.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t good,” Frankie was shrugging. “But she’s a slob. She’s perfect for her Chicken.”
“Garland thinks he’s taking care of the downtrodden,” said Genevieve.
“She’s good,” Ellen repeated.
“Why don’t you stay, then?” Genevieve asked.
“They need a housekeeper,” said Frankie.
“I’d rather be on a farm, if I could. Besides, Simon can’t bear to be cooped up.” But Ellen knew she wanted to be away from Garland and his wife, and Frankie and Genevieve Wheeler. She wanted to leave all ties, to start on new ground.
The next day, Frankie called to say they had mailed the letter and when the reply came would let Ellen know without delay. Ellen walked through the park, Simon beside her. Leaves were dropping, scudding into damp niches, mingling with soot particles and bits of paper and debris that gathered in gutters. Sleet sheeted from a dull sky. They returned to the house. Violet was bringing a bowl of popcorn into the living room. Garland urged Ellen, “_Top Hat_’s at the Acme tonight. With Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Why don’t you come with us, puss?”
“I don’t care to.”
“Make me some fudge, Ma.”
“All right.” When Garland and Violet had left, they went into the kitchen. Simon sat in the rocker while Ellen was hunting through cupboards for ingredients.
“When you reckon Uncle will get my kitten, Ma?”
“Soon, he said.”
“Wonder if Leona’s kid sprouted horns?”
“Uncle says the man that washes dishes at the restaurant has a cat that littered. But they aren’t weaned yet.” She was stirring the hot mixture in the iron pan, the strong odor of chocolate filled the air.
Simon stared at the red-and-white checked linoleum, held the arms of the chair to keep it from movement. “Reckon Sam milks the goats out good?”
She poured the thick fudge on a buttered cold plate. Her body was tense and unyielding. Her braids lay like marble coils about her head. “Uncle says those kits are spotted. Black and white and orange.”
Simon got up and followed her into the living room. He was nibbling at a sweet brown square, his eyes looking past the ruffed curtains to the steady noise of the street. “I say, Ma, I get to honing for them.”
* * * * *
It was two weeks before Frankie came for an evening again. “Why in the world did you and Uncle move from the old flat, Vi?” She was laughing. “It takes us an hour to get over to this side.”
“Did you e’er hear from those people, Frankie?” Ellen asked.
“Who?”
“About that farm.”
“Oh yes. We meant to call you. Gen’s got a letter from them.”
“It’s here somewhere in my bag.” Genevieve searched.
Ellen took it quickly to slit it open.
Mrs. Gaddy.
I hear you want to hire out. Winter work is light here. Can you come say latter part of Jan.? If satisfactory would pay 4 & half dollars per week and board. Child to work according to size. My wife raises chickens. Needs help with them and house. Also garden-stuff. That is all I have to say.
Matthew Paul Wasilewski Hidden Creek, Ill. Rt. 1
“Well?” asked Gen. “Good or bad?”
“They’ll take us. But not till after winter.” She colored. “I know where Hidden Creek is. Penny Dougherty lives near there.”
“Well,” said Violet when she heard the news, “I’m glad it’s not till January at least.”
“It’s that I hate putting you and Uncle out.”
“Nerts, you don’t. We wish you’d stay.”
“Can I have my own horse there, Ma?”
“We’ll see if you can leastwise have a chicken.”
“Let me have it as soon as it hatches. I’ll give it all its feed and raise it for a pet.”
“Never heard of a pet chicken,” Violet said.
“When’s Uncle going to bring me the kitten, Aunt Vi?”
“I’ll get after him again, Simon. He’s always busy.”
“I’d love a spotty kitten.”
Ellen cleaned the house as the weeks flowed. With strong yellow soap she scrubbed into corners, taking a pleasure in the dark lather that would form in the ancient dust. She pulled down drapes, hauled dingy frayed rugs out on the line strung in the yard and set Simon to beating them in the cold autumn sunlight. “You got to polish brass with wood ashes mixed in oil. Hit’s the only way,” she told Violet. “It mars our hands but the brass comes shiny like new.”
Violet, thin arms akimbo, followed, protesting. “Look at you, Ellen. Let it be. We don’t mind. Come on and sit.”
“I’d rather finish this off first, Aunt Vi.” She felt a compulsion to drive her body as if that would make the days shorter.
19
There was a heavy fall of snow in the early afternoon. All city noises were dulled. Violet had spread newspapers before her and she was sipping hot tea. “Says here they found a frozen man on the el steps, people walking around him. You think they figured he was sleeping?” The telephone rang and Violet picked it up. “Hello. Yes, we’ll accept it. Hold the line, ma’am, she’s right here. It’s Millville, Ellen.”
Ellen grasped the phone. She could scarcely hear the voice of Sam Offut. “Ellie? Your Ma’s acting queer. Mester Gaddy’s got to pull her out of the wardrobe to get the meals. You best come and do somewhat with her.”
“Oh, Sam.”
“She’s not been the same since you left. I allow I don’t know how we’ll make out at butchering.”
“Is Pa all right?”
“For Gawd, Ellie. He thinks she’s being ornery. But I don’t know. Seems like she’s off her head to me.”
“Where are you, Sam?”
“At Love’s. I traded a basket of eggs. The hens are doing good for this weather. I says to the central, there’s a Garland Gaddy lives at Chicago. He’s got my boss’s niece there. Ellie Gaddy. Can you get her to this phone? She says, collect? I says, look, I got no money. Can you fix it so I don’t have to pay? Lo and behold, I was about to walk out when Stacey hollers, it’s for you, Sam. How about this age of miracles?”
“I’m hanging up, Sam. I’ll come some way.” She cut off his voice. “What do you reckon that call cost, Aunt Vi?”
“What’s the matter, Ellie?”
“I want to know. I’ll pay it back.”
When Ellen told Frankie, the young woman laughed as if embarrassed, the light catching in her blue eyes. “I’m done with all that, Ellie. You can go.”
“Haven’t you got any pity for Ma? Uncle says she has to be taken to a place the state runs.”
“When she’s there, we’ll go visit her. And Gen and me will give what money we can spare.” Frankie’s full face was set, her mouth pouting.
* * * * *
Ellen and Garland were going by train to New Hope, leaving Simon in Violet’s care. Garland hired a man to drive them to the Gaddy farm. The corduroy country roads were uneven because of the freezing and thawing of winter, and they were jostled in the back seat of the worn-out Model T. Garland was relaxed as he stared out at the countryside. His jaw had dropped, the flesh was folding on his face about the age lines. Shaving his mustache had given him a guileless expression, and with Violet not present, he had laid aside his forced lusty manner. They were passing Bailey’s Woods. Ellen recalled the glowbugs that had lit the path sides with fitful orange lights when she played there as a child on summer evenings. Now dead twigs of tree branches tangled and meshed like spiders’ webs. A winter wren on a lean bough was whistling, “Teakettle, teakettle, teakettle!” and with a whirr fading down the road toward the sky where gray clouds lived uncared for.
“It’s not your father’s fault about Maria, puss.” Garland was speaking suddenly. “Don’t go blaming it on him.”
“Who’s laying it to him?” flashed Ellen.
“You know, Maria had a hard childhood. Her people were queer, you might say. Her mother was over forty when Maria was born and her father going on sixty. Christ. Must have near starved some winters back in the hills. He’d go off and leave the two of them to fend for themselves. Probably half crazy.”
“I don’t think so.” Ellen’s mouth was stubborn.
“Anton said he was a hunchback. Had Maria’s dowry stuffed in a gunnysack fastened with binder twine. Fifteen hundred dollars in coin and bills.”
“That’s the way he was. I don’t call it so queer.”
The house appeared uninhabited as they approached. Jack came out from the hole he had made for warmth in the earth behind the leaf-bare bushes. He watched them dull-eyed, uncertain. Garland called at the bottom of the porch; there was no answer. He set out for the barns while Ellen went up into the house. The porch was littered with mud and manure, in the kitchen the floor was tracked and the usual order on Maria’s shelves and table was broken. Ellen guessed that Sam had been making an effort to clean up and wash the dishes. Her pulse was pounding as she glanced at the bedroom. She draped her coat on a hook and drew off her winter boots. She went slowly into the room and over to the dark standing closet. The heavy crucifix was looming on the wall over the bed by the light from the little windows. It was a dream. From another time. She was in the cellar of her childhood, her feet fixed and immovable. There was someone behind her with a stick, waiting to perform a vague frightful act. Her heart was beating like a living stone as she dragged open the double doors to the closet.