* * * * *
The days were dropping, one upon one. Ellen and Dan would seek each other out. Their gladness was contagious, so that Sudduth was gallant with Adele, and Mom more attentive to Pop. Sometimes in the evenings they would sit on the board seat nailed between two oaks in the yard. “Ellen, we ought to get married now. We don’t have to wait till fall.”
“No.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I’d like to wait.”
“Your family’s Catholic. You want a priest?”
“I don’t care about that, but I’d like to see Adele and the children moved. Then I want to wash the walls and wax the floor. I’d as soon have a proper wedding.”
“I see.” He was kissing her, and her earnestness faded as she made herself to him.
But the next day she said, “I thought I’d write Frankie and my uncle and aunt. And even my pa. I’d like them to come here if they can and stand as my family when I marry.”
“All that nonsense.”
“I’d like it that way.”
“Suppose I’ll have to wear a flower in my buttonhole?”
“Yes. And Simon has to have a suit.”
“Does he get a flower too?”
“Yes.”
“What’s next?”
“The minister. We can have Adele’s Presbyterian. That little sad one. I’ll have flowers in vases standing about. And the minister should have a flower too.”
“He doesn’t have a buttonhole.”
“I thought he did.”
“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll get married now. It’s up to you, honey.”
* * * * *
That was in August. In mid-September the roof struts of Sudduth’s house were in place. The boards and shingles were nailed and fitted. Adele was moving laborious, the child big in her, sighing, “All my plans to leave this house so orderly for you, Mom.”
“Don’t you worry, Adele. Things are good enough.”
Ellen went out often to see how the building was progressing. Every nail driven was bringing the day nearer. Mrs. Daniel Matthew Wasilewski. I’ll write Ma, too. The nurses could read it to her. She might know what it said. I’ll go see her this winter. You can’t tell, in a year or so we might even be having a youngen. I could walk out to Dan where the corn was ripe, “Here’s your son I just happened to have.”
The morning was bright and moist. The wind was drifting steadily from the southwest. Ellen had been picking tomatoes since breakfast and she was walking down to meet the men before the noon hour. They had been cutting hay in the field next to the new house. It was edged by a row of heavy-trunked willows. Long ago when posts had been cut and set, they had rooted in the easy way of a willow, and made heads, sprouting in summer rains. “What do you call those fence trees, Dan?” she was calling. Simon waved boldly as he clattered past her with the team and mower, heading for the barnyard. The men dropped their forks and came up to meet Ellen.
“Those are golden osier willows,” Sudduth explained. “Pop planted them before we were born.”
“Dinner ready?” Dan took Ellen’s hand as they were walking through the sweet-odored drying alfalfa.
“I don’t know. Mom’s getting it. I’ve been in the garden.” The air was lightly misted though the sun was bright. There were cumulus clouds in the sky. The south wind continued to blow.
“Hope we get this hay in all right,” Dan said.
“This has been the best year yet,” Sudduth said. “Good and dry. Not a load lost.”
“I don’t think we’ll lose this one. Knock on wood. The storm’s way off. The hay’ll be cured by early afternoon. We can get it in quick. Simon’s a help. He’s fast and he’s got the hang of it.”
“It’s not twister weather, is it?” Ellen asked.
“You’re not afraid of a wind?” Dan’s yellow eyes laughed, so she knew he was thinking of the day in the barn when he first kissed her, and she him.
“I’m not.”
In the afternoon, Ellen was in the middle of the tomato canning. At the kitchen door were four full bushel baskets; depleted ones were stacked outside. She was scalding the fruit, packing it into hot Mason jars. Rows of empty jars waited upside down on the table, the filled ones were boiling in the canner. Mom came in. “I’ll help out for a spell.” She fanned herself with her ample apron. “Sakes, the air’s close.”
Ellen could feel how the wind had stopped. A piece of fear plucked at her. “Isn’t the hay in yet?”
“They’re going at it real hard. They even gave Dennie a fork. He’s out working alongside Sudduth. Land, the rain’s not too far off.” Mom frowned. “Sudduth says the last cutting of alfalfa is like grain, it’s so high in protein.”
“I know.” Ellen was pausing. “Mom, is this twister weather?”
“It’s a little early for them. Doesn’t feel like it to me. We’ll know if Sudduth comes tearing in.” She turned to the sink. “Now, let’s get this mess put up.”
They worked swiftly. But their minds were with the men who strove to save the hay.
In the far field, Simon was perched on the load that towered, dwarfing the two dappled grays. Dan was throwing great forkfuls to him and Simon laid it deftly back, stepping it down, his small arms muscled and brown. Sudduth was unloading the truck at the barn, stacked with the previous load. The farm buildings were like toys in the distance, sharp-edged in the air which had a peculiar transparency. The movements of the man and boy quickened. Dan pitched up the last of the hay. “Whip them if you have to, Simon.”
The youngster clambered into the driving seat, gathered the leather reins. The team pawed, rattling the harness. “I will, Dan.”
“Get it in the loft fast. Sudduth’ll pitch it up.”
Simon, overworked, sweated heavily, drops running down his face. His bleached hair curled damp, his shirt and pants clung to his skin. He shrilled, “Get in there. Major. Pearl!” The wagon was lurching through the stubble.
Dan began to stack the hay that remained. By now the nimbus rain clouds were hovering low in the bruised sky. The man worked at a rapid pace. The temperature was falling, dusk descended, the air was dense. He was bent into his tool, trying to beat the rain in the race.
A greenish-gray cloud tumbled slowly on the skyline to the west. Suddenly the wind came up, crying. Dan lifted his head, feeling the heat. The cloud had begun to spin. “Holy God,” he muttered. The stout willow fence teetered and creaked, the hay was swept wild, swirling. A purplish tongue licked downward, hunting, moving toward the hay field.
Dan shook his fists at it, rearing lean in his high leather boots. “Dammit. Turn!” The long thick line veered crazily and then sucked back into the wounded cloud. But it was slipping down again, howling. “Turn. Turn!” His voice was nothing, his throat rended. The menace was swerving below the neighboring farm where it had come through in the spring. He was tearing his throat again, his loins on fire with fear. “Now, dear God. Turn!”
Objects were fluttering, grotesque, like bugs in the dark pulsing. They were dying pigs and turkeys and a broken cart, small barns shattering glass, boards, dust, manure. Pieces of houses and ripped posts. Ravaged fruits from gardens. Drying hay, dust, chaff, dirt. Over Dan’s head a drove of birds winged abruptly, disappearing to the north. The heinous rhythmic humming was constant.
The world was as if under water, green-blue, unreal, glowing. Simon was in the far barnyard, tiny on the stacked child’s wagon, attempting to pitch the hay to the loft alone. The three women, like dolls, were fluttering into the yard. Dan plunged into the shallow ditch bordering the field; he flattened himself, cowering. The ugly dancing shadow advanced. “No.”
Then the roof of Sudduth’s bare unpainted house was rising weirdly. In deliberate motion it was wheeling above the field. The man stumbled up from the trench in rage, disbelief, clawing the air dazed, with his powerful hands, as if to replace the mighty shower of timber where he had nailed it with sweat and struggle. The roof was engulfing the field and the golden osier willows were breaking. The noise was tremendous.
* * * * *
When they rode out to the hay field, Ellen was beside Sudduth in the truck. Warm silent rain blew gently against the windshield. Lumber and rubble were scattered and Sudduth had to drive around the larger planks, skidding in the mud. The prone figure was stretched face up amid the litter. Sudduth braked and Ellen was tearing at the door. She ran, believing him dead. She lifted the two-by-four from his body. She knelt, uncertain. His eyelids were flickering and they opened. “Hi.”
“Sudduth,” she called evenly. “Get a doctor. Hurry.” She was touching the wet dark face, leaning over to keep off the constant rain.
“You came.”
“Dan?”
“It didn’t turn,” he whispered. The rain was streaming from his carven face, his soaked black hair.
“Where do you hurt?”
“Dying. You know that?” He was moving narrow wood lips.
“No, Dan.”
“Sonofabitch,” he was sighing.
“Don’t die.”
“I won’t.”
“The doctor’s coming. Do you hurt somewhere?”
“Damn wind.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Never comes twice.”
“Dan?”
“Never. No.” His mouth was thickening, his body was broken and when he heard her voice he came back through an effort of will. “Ellen?”
“I won’t let you.” Her cheek against his, she cradled him in her arms. “Holy Mary?” The rain was pouring sweet and hot, releasing the sun-baked alfalfa odor. Her lips clung to his wet cool face.