“Luke and me were talking about you last night. How’s that Simon?”
“He’s big, Penny.” She was looking at the child in the blanket. “What do you call this least one?”
“Jess. He’s a bit peaked.”
Ellen took the bundle. The child was like a tiny aged man. It slept, scarcely breathing. “Say.”
“I was right ill while carrying him. Have you come to spend the day, Ellie? You know how I always was one for company. Ernie,” she was calling, “stay out of the kitchen, now. Blossom, you watch him.”
“I brought a cake for the youngens.”
“There, Ellie.”
“How’s your goats? How’s old Tiny?”
“Tiny died. Must have been three years ago. But there’s a daughter out of her, Little Tiny. We got fifteen head now.”
“Where’s the donkey?”
“We let him go when times got bad. The boys’ll show you around after a spell.”
“Where are Clate and Anse?”
“In the orchard. Blossom’s minding Ernie for me. He’s ailing today. She’s good with him.” Blossom was in the doorway, brushing her unkempt hair from her face, her eyes soft like a rabbit’s. She was eight, sober with responsibility.
“Blossom,” Ellen was calling, “I brought you a daisy cake.” The child smiled politely and retreated.
“She’s not used to folks,” Penny said.
“Where’s Melinda, Penny?”
“She’s been gone four years. She came down with the scarlet fever.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Four years to the month. We put a marker on her grave. Says, Under the Shadow of His Wings. Luke got it from the mail-order house.”
“I heard Luke’s in charge of one of Webster’s barns now.”
“Yes, he is. And Anse was right sick with that fever too.”
“I’m working for some folks now, Penny.”
“I was going to ask you how you got to come.” Penny was putting her arms out suddenly, “You want to give me Jess? I’ll see if he’s hungry.” She gave her breast to the baby and Ellen saw that despite her many children, Penny was still rounded with milk. Her neck was thin, the bones prominent.
A pale boy of two came out the door, clad in a short checked pinafore, his bare feet dirty. He pulled at Penny’s dress, whining. “Don’t now, Ernie,” Penny said, mild.
“You ought to let your ma be,” said Ellen. The child waved his hand, petulant, at her.
“Leave him alone,” Penny spoke sharply. She laid her hand on the boy’s cheek. “I lost a baby that came before Ernie.” The child had put his head in her lap. Ellen watched them. She’s like an old cow that has one calf after the last. And if you try to mind it for her, she’ll drive you off with her horns.
At noon, the boys came dashing in. Clate was sunburned, a brawny boy of eleven. Anse, shy and tall, shook Ellen’s hand, blushing. “The table’s too small or we’d set it proper.” He went to lean on the wall where he watched the other children eat, so that Ellen would see the way he scorned the lot of them. When they finished, Ellen cut the cake. The layers were yellow, and butter-coloring had been stirred into the frosting to make it yellow, too. They sat about in the grass and felt the breeze move.
“Wish you’d come more often, Ellie. I haven’t done a lick today,” Penny said.
Clate was clapping his hands. He tapped his foot, throwing back his curly brown hair. The children were joining in as if it was a thing they did often, gathering close to their mother.
Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man Whipped his wife with a frying pan Combed his head with the wagon wheels Died with a toothache in his heel
Penny asked about Ellen’s goats. “How are they faring with you out working?”
“Pa butchered them.” She let Penny think it was done with her consent. “I miss them.”
“Now we got a kid at the barn, Ellie, for Simon. It’s Little Tiny’s. You tell Simon it belongs to him because he used to milk Old Tiny for me.”
“Simon’ll be proud, Penny.”
It was shortly after two when Ellen heard the truck’s noisy motor. Her breath caught. There he was. He drove up the lane and parked. He called, genial, as he came up, “Hello, Mrs. Dougherty. I know your husband. I’ve talked to him over at Webster’s.”
Penny held her hand out in welcome. “Howdy.”
“Come see my sheep.” High bleats were audible from the truck bed. Blossom brought Ernie out, lifting him to see the beasts with sawdust caught in the gray wool. “I bought a ram and three ewes. They’ll be breeding this fall.”
“Dog. Dog,” babbled the child.
“Now you two come again,” Penny was saying as Ellen and Dan got into the truck.
“There’ll be no holding Simon when he hears about that kid. Goodbye, Blossom.” She waved to the little boy, “Bye now, Ernie.”
“Dog.”
Penny laughed, “He’s a case.”
The cake tin was rattling on the floor. Ellen smoothed her rumpled skirt. “That Penny. I ne’er knew a body like her.”
“Got her hands full with that gang.”
“She lost two. One was a little girl I saw a few years back. A pretty one.”
“That’s no way to live. But you ask that kind of a woman. They’ll pick it again if you give them a choice.”
“That’s how some women are.”
“I suppose. You ought to know.” He was laughing at her. “Me, I like things under control.”
“You sure are acting braggy today.”
He flushed, reaching for her shoulder and pulling her beside him. “Hello.”
“Did you see Star?”
“No, I didn’t.” His hard fingers were within her dress on the tender underarm.
“Dan?” The April air was suggesting lilacs unsealing, tight dark purple buds becoming a feathery lavender, the vague pressing fragrance was turning Ellen back into the past. She was riding home in the Ford pickup from the circus, she was sixteen. She stirred now.
“What is it?”
There had been a pair of baby shoes dangling from the dashboard. It was hot in a late afternoon. The birds were still. Christian Ay was saying, “Want me to stop along the way?” It was long past, it was a dream. But the world had been new and fresh. Like today.
Then it was Dan again. He was turning off the highway onto a lane bordered by a grove of horse chestnuts. “Now then.” He was braking the truck on the grass sward beside the trees. He opened the door on his side. “Come on,” he was shouting.
They ran into the shade, under the low branches, where the grass was sun-speckled. Ellen was crying, “Smell the air.”
He was drawing her down beside him. She saw blue innocence flowers in the moist grass amid wood sorrel. He was touching his hand on her face, her hair. His eyes were greenish in the shaded light. His flat thin mouth was demanding. His fingers were large and rough and at once tender. She felt them quiver. “Ellen?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be.” And he was unskillful for Ellen had lived lonely all of her days.
Her head was on his arm, tears flowing from somewhere.
“I really didn’t know, Ellen.” They stayed there a long time. She had fallen asleep. The shadows in the chestnut branches spreading made a network. The blue was far beyond. The small flowers were bowing to the breeze, a catbird started to warble, harsh, very clear, twitching its tail. After a while another bird called back from afar. Dan was waking her. “It’s nearly four. My arm’s asleep. I was afraid I’d disturb you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
The lambs bleated from the bed of the truck. “Yes, you were.”
“All right.”
“Are you pleased?”
“We had better go.”
“We will in a minute.”
“You were ugly this morning.”
“I’m trying to show you how sorry I am. What do you think that was all about?” He was grinning.
She ran from him to the truck. He came after and swung open the door for her. He made up a cigarette while she waited; he tapped the Bull Durham pouch, pulled the drawstring with his teeth. Then they were driving homeward. She leaned into his arm until they nearly reached the Wasilewski house. She had picked a horse chestnut leaf, and showed him the print of a hoof where the leaf was torn from the twig that held it; even the horseshoe nails were there, five of them. She twirled the leaf in her fingers. She sighed, smiling at him, already regretting the incident in the grove. And him plighted to Star Webster.
24
In the morning Adele was urging her daughters through breakfast so they would be ready for church on time. Simon cried, “Wish I had my kid here, Ma. I’m naming it April for it was born this month.”
“I’ll stay at home today, Adele,” Mom said. “I want to ready up the fruit cellar. We’ll be canning before we know it. Applesauce and berries.”
The little girls clamored, “Pleathe. Let us stay too, and play with Thimon.”
“Well, I’m going,” Dennie said. “We’re hearing about that Goliath.”
“Girls,” said Adele, “I’m surprised you don’t want to hear that story too.”
“Wish April was here,” Simon was saying, “trailing after me.”
“Star’s coming for supper tonight,” said Mom.
“I forgot that.” Dan rubbed the blemish that colored the taut flesh of his cheek.
“Be nice to see Star again,” said Adele. “When was she here last?”
“Let’s see,” said Pop. “It was snowing, wasn’t it?”
“Did you meet her, Ellen?” asked Adele.
“No.” Ellen felt the hot flush creep over her face.
“Then it must have been before the thaw, Pop,” Sudduth said. “Because right after that Ellen came.”
“You’re wearing your hair a new way, Ellen,” Mom said. “It’s very nice. Soft like that around your face. You used to pin it so tight.”