I puzzled for a moment. “I didn’t get it.”
“Things happen for a reason. Even bad things.” He seemed to be searching for words. “Or things that seem bad at first.”
“Ray, what are you saying? Do you believe in fate?”
“Yeah,” he said, taking another sip, this one silent. “I think I do. Otherwise, how could we take all the bad stuff?”
I looked back out. “I don’t know. But discounting human choice and chance—I can’t buy that, either.”
“So you think everything comes about just by chance or by what we do?”
Maybe my heart had hardened more than I’d realized. “I didn’t always.”
His coffee mug now empty, he set it on the porch railing. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you’re the one tormenting yourself.”
Back in the snow, Franklin had now churned his way around to the back of the barn, out of sight. Ray’s voice was low, despite the silence of that morning. “You trusted someone who let you down. If only you could trust me.”
It was the second time in one conversation that he’d asked me to do this.
“Is it so bad here? With me?”
“No.”
“Is there anything I could do to make it better?”
I said, “You have made it better.”
Nineteen
The next day was the first Tuesday in November, Election Day. While the war overseas continued to be fought with bullets, we in the U.S. prepared to make our choice for President at the ballot box. Roosevelt was running for his fourth term after already serving three. We’d had the same President for an unprecedented twelve years, so Roosevelt’s opponent, the popular liberal governor from New York, Thomas Dewey, had campaigned on the platform of needed change. Dewey had also criticized our entry into the war and had even accused Roosevelt of lying to Americans in order to get us to join in.
Ray drove us to the post office in Wilson, where we placed our votes.
“We don’t need to be switching our commanders in the middle of a war,” Ray said as he drove us away after voting.
Ray and I finally had something upon which we could agree. I said, “Not only that, but don’t forget that he brought this country out of the Depression.”
“He’s told us the truth from day one.”
Dewey was still youthful at forty-two, in stark contrast to the incumbent, who seemed increasingly weak and fragile. And taken with the American penchant for change, my worry was that, although it was unlikely, a fluke might occur and Roosevelt might be defeated. I said, “Of course he has.”
But the night before, I’d read an article in the paper and learned that in Washington, D.C., a movement to stop the exclusion of Japanese Americans was gaining momentum. Some evacuees had been slowly trickling back to their home cities over the past year. Even around me, many people had stopped referring to the interns as Japs. But Roosevelt was reluctant to do anything drastic before the election. He needed to carry California, where anti-Asian sentiment had always been strong. And I was experiencing negative feelings about Roosevelt for the first time because of it.
I opened my mouth to take a chance, to discuss it with Ray, when a group of three soldiers walking on the sidewalk made me stop still. One of those backs hit me like a fist in the neck. The way he set his shoulders, the width of the neck; it was so like Edward. I thought for just the briefest second it might be him. He would have had no business out here on the plains that I knew of, but then again, how much had I really known of Edward in the first place?
As Ray drove past the soldiers, I got a sideways glimpse of the man’s profile. It was a younger man, actually just a big boy who couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. But that brief moment of memory left me edgy. That time, that time of him, tried to come back to me.
In the evening, we had plans to go over to Martha’s house, where we’d share supper and listen to the election reports on the radio. I wore maternity slacks and a barrel-shaped blouse sent to me from Abby. The outfit was comfortable, but the mountain in its middle made by heavy tucking along the bodice was so large the person filling it could still get lost. Maternity clothes. In the doctor’s office waiting room, I’d noticed how frilly they tended to be—bows at the collar, smocking on the bodice, tiny prints on the fabric, almost as if intended for children and not for grown women. My body was so altered that it motivated me to fix my face and hair. I put on a bit of makeup for the first time in weeks, and I dampened my hair and put it up in pincurls until it was time to go. As I eventually emerged from the bathroom, Ray looked up at me for a moment, and in that brief second, I saw it again, that look of love he wanted so badly to hide.
At Martha‘s, we ate together and listened to the radio election news. The result was never in question, however. Roosevelt already had a big lead in both the popular vote and electoral votes, and after those one-sided results started to pour in, we could relax and simply bask in the victory. The surprising element of the election was that Roosevelt had replaced Vice President Henry Wallace with an unfamiliar senator from Missouri named Harry Truman, who would become the new Vice President. And to my satisfaction, an amendment to the state constitution that would’ve prevented Japanese aliens from owning land had been turned down.
Hank and Ray sat on the divan and talked farm business again. I was amazed as they went on and on. Farmers talked about their fields the same way women talked about their families. The seasons, the soil, and even the business side were discussed like the acts of moody and adored children. Hank and Ray started in on the price controls placed on farm crops during the war and their hopes that after the rationing period ended, they would be able to charge whatever they wanted. Martha could see that I was weary of that talk, so she brought out the old box of Singleton memorabilia for us to forage.
First, we found another faded photograph of their grandparents, who stood before a section of land planted in small trees. “Those are the first trees, the ones that didn’t make it,” she explained. “They tried apple orchards and other fruit and nut trees, but there were just too many late freezes, storms that came through in late spring and froze the buds. After these died off, they planted the elms that now grow back there beyond your house.”
Next, we found another photograph, this one of children standing in front of a house. “That’s the old shack,” Martha said. “After the dugout, this house meant real progress.”
It looked much like others I’d seen pictured in textbooks. Made of boards covered on the inside with tarpaper, sheets, or newspapers, crude shacks along with sod houses had dotted the treeless plains of the West throughout the homesteading days. The shacks often had packed dirt floors and roofs made with wide boards laid out flat and covered with a thick layer of dirt. The roofs leaked almost constantly, the prairie wind blew in dirt and dust through the cracks, and snakes regularly made their way inside. Upon first glimpse of the house in which they were to live, wives who had ventured west to join their husbands were known to break down and sob.
Nearby on the divan, Ray and Hank had finally stopped talking of farming. Out of his chest pocket, Ray pulled out a deck of cards. Chester and Hank Jr. plunked down on the floor at his feet, then to my surprise, Ray started doing a card trick. He fanned out the cards, face down, then asked the boys to each pick a card, secretly look at it, and place it back in the deck. Ray shuffled the deck over and over, smiling. He then sorted through the deck, found each boy’s card, and gave it back. The boys sat looking at their cards and pondering for a moment. Then Chester checked the deck for markings, while Hank Jr. insisted Ray do it one more time. Ray did it more than once; in fact, he did that trick so many times I thought those boys would collapse from the concentration.
Wanda entered the room. She said to me, “I’ve seen his tricks before,” but she ended up sitting at his side and watching, too. At one point, Chester made Ray do the trick with a different deck of cards, but still, he performed it perfectly.
While the card tricks c
ontinued nearby, Martha, Ruth, and I dug out more photographs and paperwork from the old box, including a receipt for a prairie-breaking plow bought in 1896 for $10.90, and some of the original papers that established the homestead.
“The filing fee cost fourteen dollars,” Martha said. “They drove stakes into the corners of the land, then later they plowed furrows around the perimeter.”
Martha went on to tell me about the dry fall seasons of 1874-7’7 when hordes of grasshoppers came through, eating all the crops and even the handles of farm implements along their way. All had been lost, yet her ancestors had stayed on and tried again. “After the grasshopper plague, they took over some of the abandoned claims and began to do some ranching. It was just too dry out here for much farming to be successful—that is, until all the irrigation canals were finished during the 1890s.”
Ruth had been hanging over my shoulder and watching me all the while Martha and I dug through that box. After we made our way to the bottom, she asked me, “May I brush your hair?”
I touched a strand on my shoulder. Pregnancy was making my hair grow faster than usual, so now it hung long on the shoulders, where it spread about in loose curls. I leaned back in my chair and let Ruth brush it out, starting at the scalp and bringing it down to the ends. Long after it was neatly brushed, she kept on working, brushing it ever so gently from around my face and away from it. That brushing felt like caring. I found myself closing my eyes, and all the tension from long months of worry began to slip down, out of my body, like melted wax slides down the sides of a candle.
As she continued to brush, Ruth asked me, “Have you chosen names for the baby?”
Now the words dripped out of me as liquid wax. “I haven’t thought.” After a deep breath, I said, “We’re open to suggestions.”
“My favorite name is Patricia.”
I could feel Ruth take one hand away and could imagine her pointing her finger at her mother as she fussed. “My parents had to go and name me Ruth.” Then I heard Martha sigh.
“Ruth’s an old biblical name,” I said. “A very nice one, in my opinion.”
Martha said, “Thank you. Maybe now she won’t hate her name so much anymore.”
Ruth brushed longer. “For a boy, I like Richard.”
“But not Ricky, I hope,” said Martha.
“No,” said Ruth. “It could be shortened to Rich, but never Ricky.”
I think Ruth would’ve brushed for hours. My hair became as silky as duck wings. Eventually Martha sent Ruth to cut the pie for dessert, leaving us alone. At last, I opened my eyes and found I had to take a moment to let them readjust to the glare of the light bulb. As my eyes focused again in the bright light, that worry I had sent melting into the floorboards started to climb back up and harden around me again.
I remembered the only girl I’d ever known before who got herself in trouble. But instead of an arranged marriage to save her, her family had fabricated a story of tuberculosis and told everyone at the high school she needed treatment far away in a sanitarium. Unfortunately for the family, a small panic ensued among students and parents, and the health officials had become involved, uncovering their false story. Their elaborate lie made the story even more compelling. It was whispered about for all of the next months. And after that, no one ever saw that girl again.
I straightened myself back in the chair. In a whisper, I asked Martha, “What will we do when the baby comes, full term, in March?”
She brushed a crumb off the table and looked at me dead in the center of my eyes. “Hold the biggest baby shower in the county.”
And she was serious.
Twenty
On the ride back, I said to Ray, “I never imagined you as a magician.” He said, “Just a hobby.”
“How do you do it? The card trick?”
He glanced over at me and smiled. “It’s magic.”
I smiled, too. “No, come on. It’s a great trick. How did you learn it?”
“Really,” he said. “It’s magic.”
I sighed. “I can see you’re not going to tell me.”
“You’re a college girl, Liwy. You can figure it out.”
I laughed. “Oh, I see. That was a low blow, there, Ray.”
He laughed, then turned quiet again. “If you can’t explain it, then it must be magic.”
“Well, then.” I put my hands into my lap as a selfish thought occurred to me. “Maybe you could conjure up some magic to get us a telephone line.”
At first Ray didn’t respond. “Do you mean it? You want a telephone?”
“It would be nice to call people from home instead of at the pay telephone.”
“I didn’t know you stopped there.”
“I stop there often.”
Ray seemed to be thinking. “If you want one, I’ll look into it.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
As we traveled over a wooden bridge, the rattle of rough boards underneath the tires shook the truck. On the other side, Ray said, “I always thought telephones were for matters of life and death. That’s how I was raised, at least. But if you want one, if you’ll just tell me these things,” he said, “I’ll be open to changing my mind.”
I had gotten my way, but then I didn’t feel as good as I had expected.
Ray went on. “I hear that vacuum man is in town. What’s the name?”
“Electrolux.”
“Maybe you could have him come out, too.”
“No, Ray. Thank you, but the telephone would be plenty enough.”
At home, Ray pulled out his manila folder and opened it on the table. I opened my latest find from the library—a history of Logan County, Colorado, with reminiscences by pioneers, published back in 1928. Between that and digging through that box at Martha‘s, my mind was churning backward in time. I wondered about the earliest women, those first ones out on the plains living in soddies, shacks, and dugouts. Some of the homesteaders had even been single women who came out without husbands. Others had worked claims on their own after husbands had died or left them.
While I was reading, I felt eyes resting heavily on me and realized that Ray hadn’t even started on his paperwork. Instead he’d read briefly from his Bible, then after watching me read for a while longer, he arose from the table and stepped quietly around to stand behind me.
It had always annoyed me when someone read over my shoulder. Even teachers who had done it in class had brought up my ire. If he wanted to know more, he should read it for himself. I sat back in the chair and silently wished him to go away. But something was different about the way Ray stood behind me. He wasn’t looking at the book. Instead his hands rested on the spindles at the corner backs of my chair, and his hands curved around them, caressing them.
Ray rubbed the spindles because he couldn’t touch me.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. Being touched by Ray.
Now I knew the farming life was plowing me under, just as Ray had plowed under the remains of that shack. Nothing could be further from what I wanted.
When I was eleven, I got a new world globe for my birthday. Of course, I received new dresses and a doll, too, but nothing fascinated me as much as that globe. I’d sit and turn it, letting my fingers travel lightly on its surface as it spun around. Often Mother would join me and we’d find all the countries, the ancient lands full of rich history, places that Mother would never see, but I would. She told me about the caste system in India and the Hindu religion. She drew an invisible line with her finger over the route followed by Marco Polo. And when we came to Egypt, I imagined the pyramids in all their symmetrical perfection. I pictured the mountain shrines raised out of the land of shifting sands, and knew I’d found the place where I most wanted to study. After that, I started delving into the hieroglyphs, the language of the pharaohs, all on my own.
What I missed most, however, were the conversations. Sometimes when I talked to myself, I was really talking to her, carrying on a seamless conversation that occurred only i
nside my head now. And during those mental talks, I would often feel something sweet drift in and alight on my skin, a sigh from the walls or the other world, I never knew which, but when I looked about, I was always surprised not to see her.
I opened my eyes. Ray was still standing behind me, his hands just as gentle on those spindles as they had been on that wounded fish. “Excuse me,” I said to him and pushed back my chair. I walked into the bedroom without once looking his way.
The next morning, over breakfast, Ray wouldn’t look near me, as if I had a layer of danger enclosing me, something that repelled his eyes each time they drew close. As he ate breakfast, Ray was instead studying every grain of food, every minute surface crack in the pottery of his plate.
I should’ve left him alone. But all I could see before me was a day without anything to do, in rooms without personality, in a house that held no memories. I said to him, “Last night, we went through Martha’s box of family things.” I set down my fork. “But I’m puzzled. She’s keeping track of old records and photos, just as you told me. But primarily her things pertain to your grandparents and your parents when they were young, but not your family, Ray. Nothing of the three of you growing up.”
Ray shrugged.
“You don’t know what happened to all that?”
He looked up and passed a napkin across his mouth. Then he shrugged again and kept on eating.
Amazing. An entire chapter of family history was missing, and Ray didn’t know about it or care. I washed and dried all of the breakfast dishes, except for Ray‘s, then wiped off all the countertops. I stood at the sink with my back to him until I built up the nerve to turn around and ask, “What are your plans for the upcoming holidays?”
The Magic of Ordinary Days Page 14
