“Not at all,” he answered.
Three
Ray’s sister Martha and her husband came to the church to act as witnesses to our union. Martha resembled Ray in that she had the same shade of red-brown hair, but hers was thick and unruly and refused to stay back in a knot at the back of her head. Instead, pieces of hair stuck out around her face like the arms of a sunburst. She was ruddy-skinned from years spent outside in the sun and was older than Ray, probably by about ten years. When we met, she introduced herself and her husband, Hank, a lean cow-bone of a man who moved forward to shake my hand, every inch in slow motion.
“We’ve been blessed with four children, ranging all the way from sixteen down to five,” Martha said. She adjusted her fabric belt and straightened her hat. Her hands looked roughened by hard work, but were broad and steady. “We hesitated to bring them today. Thought maybe we’d let you get a chance to settle in first.”
Hank walked to the church window. Each of his steps started at the hip and rolled down his leg to the foot, one muscle at a time. He pointed outside and spoke on low speed, too. “My family land sets just east of yours.”
“Soon you should come for supper,” said Martha.
The ceremony itself was over in minutes. Reverend Case skipped the part about kissing the bride, and I wondered if he had done so at Ray’s request or simply as a matter of his own kind consideration. After he pronounced us, Martha came forward to squeeze my hand, and before leaving, she gave me a warm casserole dish wrapped up in cup towels.
“You must be tired from all your traveling,” she said as she passed it over.
In the truck, I rode beside Ray and held the dish in my lap. He drove us north out Red Church Road, a dirt one-lane that cut wide-weaving arcs out of prairie and field. Ray informed me that our farm, as he now called it, sat at its end.
By then it was well into afternoon. Darts of sunlight came through the windshield, and Ray had to shade his eyes from the glare. I gazed out the side window and soon found myself lost in the rows of crops that fanned away as long arms, blending into shoulders at the horizon and ever moving as we passed them by.
“I don’t have a ring,” Ray said out of the silence.
I was reminded of the column in the Rocky Mountain News that featured Molly Mayfield doling out advice to lonely servicemen and their sweethearts. In the midst of this war, one girl had written in to complain that her fiancé had yet to come up with a diamond engagement ring. I didn’t read the column, but everyone else did, so I always heard about the stories anyway. “I don’t need one.
I felt him glance my way one time, then again. “Maybe later.”
The Singleton farm did indeed sit at the end of the road. Just over the last bridge that crossed a dry creekbed, I could see the spinning flower-top of a windmill and the peaked roof of a barn. As we drew in closer, I could see other weather-beaten outbuildings, a few cows grazing at pasture, and a distant grove of trees. And in all directions now, fields of crops spread away like green stripes on a uniform of brown dirt.
Across an open area of tread-striped dirt sat the house, its stair steps of roof shingles etched into blue sky. I stepped down from the floorboard before Ray had a chance to come around and assist me. In front of the house, I saw the remnants of a flower garden, one that looked as if at one time or another a woman had cared for it. I could see the female touch in the now tilted over and faded whirligigs and in the polished stones arranged on the soil as ornaments. I could also see neglect in the form of weeds, dried leaves, and randomly growing lilac bushes that had managed on their own to survive.
I asked, “Was the garden your mother’s?”
“Yes,” he said, then removed his hat. “Don’t have time to look after it now.”
The house was a white framed one-story with steps that led up to a covered porch. Inside, a combined kitchen, den, and dining area made up the largest room. In the center stood a round oak table with claw feet, and along one wall sat a sagging divan covered with a slipcover.
“A good-size icebox,” Ray said as he swung open the door to give me a look.
He showed me a bedroom that had belonged to his parents and a bunkroom where he, Martha, and his brother Daniel had grown up. He saved the best for last—a bathroom he had recently converted with indoor plumbing. Until that moment, I hadn’t considered living without such conveniences. But on the drive out, I’d seen many a farmhouse with an outhouse slumped behind it.
The bathroom, a large square-shaped room that probably had once been used for putting clothes through the wringer, scrubbing, and ironing, now held a tall sink, commode, a tub with overhead shower, and a washing machine. Along a bar on the wall hung several towels, all of them bleached white and smelling of laundry soap, and in the sink I could see the chalky remains of scouring powder. Obviously Ray had tried to clean up the place, but had forgotten some of the most telling details. Cobwebs draped the line where wall met ceiling, and all over the house, the wood floors were as scratched and scarred as those in a grammar school classroom.
After Ray brought in my luggage, we sat together at the table and shared Martha’s casserole of beef, carrots, potatoes, and dumplings. After taking a few bites, Ray stopped and wiped his face with a napkin. “How was that train ride out of Denver?”
I seemed to remember answering this question several times already. “Fine.”
A few minutes later, he said, “Bet that ride was tiring. Do you need to lie down?”
“The seats were comfortable. No, I’m fine, thank you.”
We both finished large portions of the casserole, then out of the cupboard Ray brought the remains of a cake. “Mrs. Pratt from church,” he explained. “She makes something for me nearly every week.”
“How nice,” I said. “Let’s hope she continues.” Then I laughed.
He looked surprised, but he shouldn’t have been. Plenty of college coeds knew little of domestics, me among them. When Abby, Bea, and I were still small enough to sit on the kitchen countertops, we would climb up and watch Mother bake. I remembered clouds of flour floating in the air as she worked. By the time we were old enough to learn anything, however, she had become preoccupied with her charity work. She hired on a house-keeper and cook, and because it was only fun to watch Mother work in the kitchen, I never gained skills in managing a kitchen or in coming up with concoctions suitable to eat. “I never learned how to bake a thing,” I told Ray.
He blinked, looking surprised again. “Mrs. Pratt would come over and teach you, I bet. Or my sister.”
“Don’t worry.” This man was doubtless unaware that women were now going into professions alongside men, that we didn’t solely stick to household cleaning and other chores that didn’t require expansion of a bright, young, and impressionable mind. Not only were women filling the college campuses, but labor needs had resulted in jobs for women in industries that had traditionally been male dominated. Women were working as welders, engine mechanics, machinists, truck drivers, and crane operators. In factories they assembled shells, bombs, tanks, and ships. Cowgirls and lumber jills, female writers and radio announcers, even women at the stock exchange, had transformed female roles forever. “I’ll manage somehow.”
He looked embarrassed. “The truth is, I can cook a fair bit.”
“Don’t bother,” I said, smiling. “I’ll teach myself.”
At sunset, he explained to me that farmers went early to bed, then he disappeared into the bunkroom. Upon our arrival, he had placed my bag in his parents’ bedroom, so I could only assume I was to sleep in there, alone. This didn’t surprise me. Women in my condition were considered most delicate. And although Ray and I had just gotten married, we’d also just met.
I cleaned and dried the dishes, watched the waning sunset, then waited. It was so silent the whir of grasshopper wings in the front garden sounded like shouting. I found myself passing through the screen door and out onto the porch. At the railing, I stopped. A full moon slowly rose over the top fringes of d
ark distant cottonwood trees rimming the banks of creeks that fed into the Arkansas. Not yet silver, the moon reflected the honey gold of the setting sun, lighting her face from continents away.
Finally, I let myself exhale.
My father’s plan to give the baby a name had come to fruition. And in the end, he had saved himself the disgrace of preaching morality to others while at the same time housing his own daughter, a girl in trouble. Would I now be able to sleep? Certainly my body needed rest, and flailing about during the quiet hours after midnight could not be good for mother or baby. Would I grow roots here, as Clytie had? Perhaps, in this silent land at the end of the road, I would find rest.
But if I did rest, I prayed not to sleep so deeply as to dream, and most of all, not to dream of him.
Four
Once I read about the homesteaders who first populated the plains of eastern Colorado, and I learned something not widely written about in history books. The isolation of the homesteaders throughout the West drove many to the brink of insanity. The government required homesteaders to live on their claims, and because of the difficulty of travel in those days, compounded by bad weather and much work to do, many settlers went for long months at a time without social contact. This was particularly tough on the women and, for some reason, on those of Scandinavian descent, who had proportionately the highest numbers of immigrants ending up in insane asylums.
I could understand that descent. I could understand why one settler wrote in his memoirs that during his youth, he read over and over again the copy of a New York newspaper his father had put up to paper the walls. And as to the question of the Scandinavians—they had emigrated to the U.S. after living in small, close-knit villages where folk dances and community celebrations had been common. Surely their lives there had been tough at times, but never lonely.
The first morning after my wedding day, I awakened to the sounds of pans and utensils clanging together in the kitchen. I rolled over and checked my watch. Five-fifteen, and outside, still dark. Amazingly, I had slept well and could’ve used even more sleep. I thought of getting up and offering to make my husband something for breakfast. That was what farm wives were probably supposed to do. But hadn’t the man been living by himself for several years now? I flopped over, hugged the pillow to my chest, and drifted back to sleep. When I awakened after nine, the only sign of Ray was the kitchen mess from a large breakfast he had left behind.
I bathed and dressed, ate something for myself, did the dishes, and cleaned up. Then I went investigating. In the kitchen, the cupboards held basic cooking implements and pottery dishes, a fair amount of canned goods, and a breadbox. A radio sat on the countertop. In the bathroom, I found only a few extra towels and washcloths, one brush, one comb. I also found Ray’s shaving set and shaving powder, a tube of Brylcreem, but no men’s after-shave. Outside on a narrow back porch, I saw a contraption I found out later was a cream separator. A propane tank sat on the ground below the back porch.
In the room where I’d slept, the closets and dresser drawers were empty except for one pewter-framed photo of a plain-faced couple that could only be Ray’s parents. No other family photos and nothing of the brother who had been killed at Pearl Harbor. No jewelry boxes, family memorabilia, or books. Assuming I was going to remain in the same room as last night, I opened my case and unpacked my clothes. I set out my most treasured remembrances, starting with the last photo taken of my family together, intended for the church roster book. On the dresser, I placed the other belongings I’d chosen to bring with me: a small jewelry chest that had been Mother‘s, the waxed rose from Bea’s wedding bouquet, one book on ancient Egypt, and antique hatpins—my last birthday gift from Abby. Finally, I opened the gifts Abby and Bea had sent off with me. Inside the new handkerchiefs were two pairs of heirloom earrings—a pair of pearl drops and a pair of bead clusters on ear screws. These I set on the dresser top, too, although I wondered where now I would ever wear them.
In the bunkroom, I found Ray’s bed made and only a clock, a Bible, and a calendar sitting on the nightstand. In the closet, his clothes sagged off wire hangers—only some clean work shirts, two white shirts, some slacks, and an overcoat. Off to one side I found the brown suit he had worn the day before. Shoved into the corner were the shoes. Only one tie and no jewelry. On top of his dresser, the hat and the cufflinks he’d worn to the station sat above a stack of closed bureau drawers. I touched the top drawer. Inside, among his personal belongings, must be clues as to who this man was.
When we were girls, Abby used to keep a diary. She wrote in it every day, then she wrapped the book with rubber bands and hid it among her clothing in her drawers. I remembered how Bea had complained about it. She couldn’t understand why Abby would want to keep anything from us. But later, Bea started hiding letters from her pen pal in Canada, just as Abby had hidden her diary.
Perhaps in these drawers, Ray kept old letters or yearbooks from high school. Perhaps photographs from his younger days. I wrapped my fingers around the drawer’s round knob and started to pull. It was so silent I thought I could hear something ticking inside, something like a clock, or maybe a bomb.
I pulled my hand back. What was I doing? Now I stared at the dresser and admonished myself. Whatever these drawers held was private. Certainly I couldn’t have fallen this far.
I walked away from the bunkroom and then carried one of the kitchen chairs out to the porch, where I placed it for good viewing. To one side of the barn was a fenced pen holding some hogs, on the other side a pasture for the dairy cows and draft horses. Occasionally a loose chicken squawked and fluttered out the barn doors. A tuxedo-clad magpie who landed on the back of a cow looked as out of place as I did sitting on the porch in one of my school dresses with matching belt and shoes. Soon my eyes began to sting. When I started picking up pebbles on the planks beneath me and flinging them out onto the dirt, without first realizing I was doing it, I stopped myself. Like the Scandinavians, surely I might go insane here, too.
Just before noon, Ray returned carrying a pail of milk and handed over some eggs out of a basket. “Morning.” He glanced over at the clean kitchen and smiled. “How’re you?”
“I should have gotten up with you.”
“No need.” He removed an old felt hat and set it on the table. “You got to have rest.”
I wasn’t sure why he had returned. “Shall I make lunch?”
He shook his head. “I don’t eat midday. Mostly, I’m far off. Unless I got work nearby, I can’t come back during the day.” He went to the coffeepot and filled his thermos.
“Are you working nearby today?”
He turned red, even to the ears. I’d never have believed a man could be so bashful. Finally he looked up and nodded.
I took off the apron I’d been wearing. “If you’re not too busy, then, would you show me around?”
“You mean the farm?”
“I guess so.” I shrugged. “Or anything else of interest.”
He moved to the icebox and poured the fresh milk into a wide-lipped glass bottle. Then he drew water from the tap. After he gulped down a full glass, he said, “Okay.”
He drove the truck down a narrow road that ran between fields. “We have us a good-size farm.” He glanced my way. “A hundred and sixty acres.”
Ray looked to me as if he wanted my approval. It was wartime, and farming had become an important, crucial industry to feed the country, our troops, and much of the world. Clearly, Ray was proud of what he did, and war needs had raised the status of the family farmer far beyond what it had been during peaceful times, equal at least to that of other businessmen. I remembered one of the government’s wartime slogans: “Food will win the war and write the peace.” And a government poster I’d seen at the train station featured a uniformed soldier telling a farmer, “Those overalls are your uniform, bud.”
I watched the fields and irrigation furrows go by and I asked him, “What are your crops?”
Ray gestured out the window at th
e fields. “Those there are sugar beets.” When I nodded, he said, “Our best crop. We have over half of our acres planted in them.”
“I notice that some of the fields are empty.”
“You bet,” said Ray. “We’ve already taken the cash crops—green peas, green beans, sweet corn—in June, to get some money coming in. The cucumbers came out in July, the tomatoes in August. We just finished them up. Pretty soon the big work starts up—onions and dry beans. It’s almost time.”
“To harvest?”
He nodded. “And after that, we’ll take the sugar beets.”
It seemed I had come at the busiest time of the year. “May I help?”
His face drained of expression. “I doubt it.”
I almost laughed. Our situation seemed so absurd. “You’re right. I don’t know anything about farming.”
After a period of silence, he said, “But you have the house to take care of.”
Ray turned up a wider road, where he picked up speed. The wind started blowing in through the truck window and hitting me full in the face, wind that carried the odor of manure. I scooted over to the center of the bench seat, but as soon as I did, Ray sat taller in the seat and gripped the steering wheel with callused knuckles. Too late I realized I had moved too close. For the remainder of the drive, I could feel his unease.
At first it baffled me. The man was thirty years old. But then I thought of some of the young men I’d known in high school. In the sad hierarchy that ranked persons primarily by looks, I remembered several groups of young men who were both unattractive and terribly shy, who never went out on dates and never got invited to parties. Many of them never got accustomed to contact with girls, and judging by his reactions to me, Ray must have been just like them. In comparison, my social life, although nothing to brag about, had at least given me the opportunity to befriend a few men. In high school and even in college, my girlfriends and I weren’t the most popular, but we had our occasional dates and didn’t grow up uncomfortable with the opposite sex, either. When we went to the cinema or the ice-skating rink, often a few of the studious guys or a brother or two of one of the girls came along.
The Magic of Ordinary Days Page 3
