Esther's Pillow

by Marlin Fitzwater

  Usually, the shivaree occurred within weeks of the wedding, when the marital experience was still fresh enough that most couples were assumed to be spending every night in sexual exploration. The arrangements were always the same: the community would gather around the newlyweds’ home about nine o’clock, after it was dark and most couples were in bed. Then everyone would charge onto the porch, yelling and beating on pots and pans. The newlyweds would be caught in bed, traipse downstairs in their nightgowns, open the door to check on the commotion, and be surprised by all their neighbors.

  Of course, they weren’t really surprised, because the shivaree was as much a part of any farm wedding ceremony as the cake itself. And it had to be endured. Indeed, one young couple refused to come downstairs for their shivaree, preferring to stay hidden under their covers until their neighbors grew tired of beating on their pans, and their kids started crying because nobody came out of the house. After about an hour of grumbling about bad sports, the neighbors left, but the newlyweds were never treated the same again. Years later when the farmer in question became ill and couldn’t put up his hay crop, a couple of neighbors suggested that the community come to their aid. A date was set for the haying, and no one showed up, not one soul, even the two farmers who first proposed the help. No shivaree, no help. People did not forget or forgive easily in Nickerly County.

  At the Haneys’ shivaree, the young couple fulfilled all their obligations. First the young husband brought a wheelbarrow out from behind the porch, where he had stashed it for this very purpose, helped his wife into it, still in her nightgown, and led a procession of all the visiting neighbors around the farmyard. It was a wonderful celebration, with everyone laughing and shouting, the men being the most excited because the young bride’s nightgown exposed more of her throat than they had ever seen, and at least the faintest outlines of her breasts, unsupported by the rigid corsets of the day. No one ever spoke of this sexual aspect of the ritual, but it was evident to all that a certain titillation was the key to a great shivaree, especially the second traditional event: the washing of feet.

  After the bride was helped from the wheelbarrow, she was carried by the groom to the front porch, where a small tub of water had been set up by the neighbors. She sat on the top step with her feet in the water, while the blushing groom knelt in front of the tub and washed her feet, massaging his new wife’s ankles and toes, in what for many farmers might have been the most provocative public act they would ever see. Certainly, it was unlikely that Mrs. Haney would ever again show her ankles to such an assemblage. It apparently was at this point that Mary Chambers was overcome by the advances of Johnny Harwood. Johnny had put his arms around Mary’s waist and was about to kiss her throat, when John Chambers came upon them. It’s not clear that anyone actually saw this encounter take place, but the word spread quickly when the Chambers left the shivaree in such a hurry. The story was embellished over the years until everyone in Nickerly thought Mary Chambers and Johnny Harwood were having an affair in those bushes.

  For the rest of their lives, John and Mary Chambers seldom appeared at social gatherings. They seemed to lock their shame in the most remote corner of their existence. It was often pointed out, for example, that the Chambers were nice people, but they didn’t go to church. In fact, building the local school was the only positive point on the credit side of their community ledger.

  “How come I never heard this story before?” Ray asked.

  “Because no one talks about this sort of thing,” Jay said, rolling his eyes at Ray’s naïveté. “We only talk in public about sin. Not the sinners. Dad preaches about adultery every week. It’s one of the Ten Commandments. But we never talk about who does it. Every time I’ve seen Johnny Harwood since, I wonder what he’s up to.”

  “But he’s got three kids in high school,” Ray said, “and Mrs. Chambers comes to town just like nothing happened.”

  “Well,” Jay said, “something happened in those bushes that night, and it had to do with coveting thy neighbor’s wife.”

  At that moment, the organ began the first chords of “When the roll is called up yonder.” It was Aaron’s favorite hymn, the prelude to his closing pitch. As the congregation finished the last chorus, Aaron’s voice rose over the Cantor sisters in the front row, over old George Brown who thought his voice was a match for the Lord’s, and he began his final words: “When the roll is called up yonder, will you be there?” Aaron pleaded in a singsong rhythm that rose and fell with the tune. “Will you be safe among the flock of God? Will you walk among the lilies in the presence of our Lord and Savior? If you have not accepted the Lord as your personal Savior, come forward today and accept Him. Come down the aisle now and accept Him. All this I pray in Jesus’ name, Amen.” And the “Amen” struck exactly as the last note of the song was hit by George Brown. It was a perfect performance.

  Aaron always knew in advance, of course, if anybody would be coming down the aisle, simply because he knew everyone in the congregation. Aaron had worked on some of his neighbors for thirty years before he got them to convert, and even then it was usually because a family member was very sick, or dying, or had left home. Family tragedy always made people vulnerable to a reassessment of their station with the Lord, and Aaron never missed a chance to make his case. Jay suspected that was why preachers were so willing to visit the sick at home, knowing it was their best chance to add a notch to the ministry’s scoreboard.

  As the organ sounded the postlude, Reverend Aaron hurried to his position out on the front steps, eager to assess the congregation’s reaction to his sermon. Ivy and the girls joined him. The congregation liked to see Ivy at Reverend Aaron’s side, partly because it reinforced their view of a ministerial family, and also because Ivy’s granite countenance reminded them of Aaron’s unquestioned adherence to the tenets of the Bible; they simply could detect no frivolity in her face. Nor was she a threat to anyone. Devoid of any outstanding attribute—neither beauty nor talent in handicrafts or sewing—Ivy could not inspire envy. Indeed, she was the architect of the only chicken casserole to avoid at church picnics. Ivy saw cooking as primarily a bodily necessity, certainly nothing to tantalize or embellish with garnishes, herbs, relishes, or sauces. With six children to feed every day, the need for quantity far outweighed quality.

  As the last of the congregation cranked up their Model A Fords, Ivy left Aaron’s side and marched over to the boys. “I hope you’ll come to the Funks for the picnic. Bertie says several families are coming, including the Garveys.”

  Jay nodded approval. He and Ray usually got together with their best friend Ed Garvey on Sunday afternoons, often down at the mill, just to talk or play baseball with whoever showed up. Today they would have to postpone their plans until after the picnic. On the other hand, Jay knew he didn’t have to show up. It wouldn’t be the first time he had skipped out on a family gathering.

  Chapter Three

  When the Langstons arrived at the Funks’ farm, Elmo Funk was still wearing his suit and dragging a weather-stained picnic table from behind the house. He positioned it under the sycamore tree, whose broad leaves with long limbs grew straight out from the trunk, forming a perfect umbrella. Later Bertie Funk would bring some blankets out for people to sit on, although most families brought their own designated picnic blanket, large enough to hold their entire contingent and colorful enough to be admired by their friends.

  Ivy was making tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Funk when the Garveys arrived. Ed and Eunice had been the Langstons’ best friends for thirty years, ever since Ed decided to build the mill. Aaron Langston had organized the neighbors to help put up the main structure, a two-story post-and-beam frame with brick exterior, and the lumbering water wheel that lapped up power from the Saline to turn the grindstones. There was never any talk of loans, or paybacks, or favors to be done. The community knew it needed a mill, and with their help Ed Garvey was going to build one.

  Aaron opened the screen door, handed Ed a glass of tea, and motioned hi
m over to the picnic table. The two men were comfortable together, having survived storms, weak crops, and worst of all, family deaths from diseases like chicken pox and tuberculosis. It was in the swimming hole near Ed’s mill, a shallow basin of water formed by runoff from the water wheel, that Aaron and Ivy Langston’s third son had drowned. There was never any blame for these occurrences, only a deep grief that the all-knowing hand of God had decided to strike in this time and place. But a Sunday picnic in the summer of 1911 was a pleasant occasion, marked by the warmth of the Kansas heat, dry and enclosing, safe and reassuring about the shoulders.

  “Everyone says you gave a stem winder at the church this morning,” Ed said.

  “I noticed you didn’t make it over,” Aaron replied. “How’s your leg?” Aaron always gave Ed a ready excuse, the arthritis in his leg, for not attending church, even though Ed hadn’t been to one of Aaron’s services in years and had probably never witnessed one of his evangelistic performances down by the river. But Aaron knew Ed was a religious man, hard in his interpretation of the Lord’s teachings and unforgiving if he caught anyone cheating on the weight of his wheat. As a business practice, Ed may have given the Lord too large a role in his calculations. One farmer who tried to sell Ed moldy corn was banished from the mill forever and had to haul his feed more than twenty miles to the mill near Ellsworth. On the other hand, when the worst farmer in the county finally ran out of money and hope, left his wife, and disappeared into the badlands of Texas, Ed took in the abandoned woman and her ten-year-old daughter, Francis. Then the mother disappeared, and Ed paid for Francis to go to the orphanage near Russell. He had strong views about the right way to live, views guided by a rigid interpretation of the Ten Commandments, reinforced by the admonitions of his friend the Reverend Aaron.

  “I read that Teddy Roosevelt is coming to Kansas this week,” Aaron said. “The federal government is gonna build a monument to John Brown over at Osawatomie.”

  “That’s typical of the government,” Ed said. “The man blows up a town, kills a whole bunch of people, gets himself hanged, and we declare him a hero.”

  “They’re gonna name a park after him, John Brown Park,” Aaron said.

  “Slavery was wrong,” Ed replied, “but so is killing, and John Brown was crazy.”

  “Our former president is just back from Africa, where he killed more than 10,000 animals,” Aaron said. “He’s having trouble keeping busy.”

  “Old Taft isn’t having any trouble,” Ed said. “At three hundred pounds, we don’t have to worry about him riding any camels around the world.”

  “He’d kill a horse,” Aaron observed. “Break his back.”

  “I bet my white mules could carry him,” Ed allowed. “They have backs of stone. Those mules can pull a plow in a line as straight as string, and do it all day long.”

  Aaron let the conversation sag, not having much to say about Taft or mules, but he did want to ask about school starting next month, and Ed was on the township school board.

  “I see you voted for an eight-month school year,” Aaron said. “That’s a little hard for me. You know Ray is doing all my farming now, but I can’t get Jay to stay home more than a week at a time, and there aren’t many kids available. I need to hire some boys from Nickerly. How about a seven-month school year?”

  “I understand your problem,” Ed said, “but my problem is Mrs. Garvey. Everybody who comes in my place with a load of grain wants his kids for another month. But she thinks school is everything. Got that Chambers girl to go to college, then threatened to throw me out of the house if we didn’t hire her to teach. We never had a teacher before with college, why do we need one now?”

  “Always before we had your wife,” Aaron said with a smile.

  “I mean any of these schools around here,” Ed said. “That Chambers family hasn’t ever amounted to much, and it never will.”

  “Well, as long as she sticks to the basics, it shouldn’t be too bad,” Aaron said. “I never knew the Chambers to be church people, but Chambers built that schoolhouse a few years ago, so I figure his daughter has a right to teach there.”

  Aaron and Ed were sitting on the same side of the picnic table, Ed in his Sears overalls with gold buttons, two buttons on each side undone to allow room for his ample stomach. When Ed twisted his hips sideways to get his legs under the table, the side flaps fell open, as they always did, giving the children a glimpse of his cream-colored cotton underwear just under the tail of his shirt.

  The two men looked out across Elmo Funk’s land, open from the house to the two-story barn, painted a bright red and hiding all of Elmo’s equipment. Elmo kept a clean piece of land, no rusted hay rakes or other machinery was within sight of the house. Like most farms, Elmo didn’t exactly have a yard, but he had planted rye and brome grass around the house and barn. His horses had pulled the hay sickle cutter through it the week before, so that each blade of grass stood erect as if smeared with Wildroot. Using your horses to cut ornamental grass was considered a waste by most farmers, and downright extravagant by some. Elmo had even allowed Mrs. Funk to plant some geraniums in his vegetable garden, which showed a red splotch among the potatoes and cabbage, standing out to visitors like measles on a baby’s back. The flowers only accentuated the starkness of the prairie, which ran uninterrupted from the barn to the horizon, a rolling shimmering brown in late summer. Trees just didn’t seem to grow in these environments, although there was talk of a hedge apple tree that could grow anywhere, almost without water, that had been used to slow the dust storms in Oklahoma, and that might be planted along the roads to slow the southeasterly winds, generally thought to be the most destructive. No, this was flat land, where a jackrabbit could be seen for three hundred yards.

  Aaron and Ed looked at the nakedness of the land and felt a sense of pride in the work that had cleared the trees, tilled the soil, and transformed the stones from the fields into fences that would last an eternity. The primary benchmarks for a productive life in Nickerly County were a well-kept farm and a full church. The Nickerly Journal carried some news of the world, which of course led to the discussion of Roosevelt and Taft, but most of the news focused on weddings, funerals, harvests, and decisions of the school boards and township supervisors. Fashions were prescribed by custom and by whatever was available at the local dry goods store. Travel was limited to day trips, mostly to Salina or Ellsworth.

  Families never talked about what they wanted out of life because the answer was life itself. The Bible set forth a series of yardsticks for measuring the quality of a life and therefore gave it meaning. As the arbiter of biblical law, the Reverend Aaron was perhaps the strongest influence in establishing acceptable behavior. Worthy ambitions were most likely to center on a large family, regular church attendance, and daily devotions.

  Ed Garvey set most of the secular standards for living in Nickerly County through the work of the mill, turning produce into baking flour and cash, the only two meaningful currencies. Wealth was measured in acres of land owned and bushels of wheat produced, but extravagance was carefully avoided. Few people displayed a new carriage, a parasol, or some other whimsical purchase that indicated a trip had been made to Salina. These frivolities were normally enjoyed in private because the right hand of the Lord, the Reverend Aaron Langston, was quick to remind everyone of the sins of sloth, avarice, pride, and anything sensual. Thus the only rewards for achievement related to the strictness of personal behavior. The more you repressed your behavior, the greater the achievement.

  There was an element of pride, however, that slipped into one of the most basic elements of farm life, butchering. Every year the Langstons, like most farmers, butchered one cow, one pig, and one sheep, thus providing them with a year of meats, kept in the Nickerly ice house.

  The ice house operator was also the butcher, a small quiet man named Jack Butter, who had killed, opened, and dressed most of the meat in his ice house. Some farmers did their own, but Jack was known to cut his animals leaner than m
ost farmers could, and then save more fat for soap or other by-products. Also, Jack gave a 10 percent discount on storage at the ice house if he was the butcher.

  Butchering was an all-day event of some celebration in the farm community. Ray and Jay would often attend their neighbors’ butchering, and neighborhood kids of every stripe and size would come to the Langstons for theirs. The butchering had its own set of rituals. Jack Butter would station the heifer just below the block and tackle hanging from the crown of the barn. He would tie the rope halter to the barn door, then step back for the prayer. Aaron blessed the harvest and the animals, ending his prayer with “Bless this food for its extended uses.” Then Jack Butter would walk over to the cow, and with one clean and fast stroke, plunge his knife into its thick neck. Its front knees would buckle. Slowly the huge beast would twist and turn toward the ground. Its hind legs would become like stone, simply falling to the side. A large pool of blood would form, but almost before the tail hit the ground, the head was severed, the throat was fully cut, the pulley hook was inserted, and Jack, Aaron, and Ray were putting all their weight on the block and tackle to raise the cow off the ground and expose its belly for Jack Butter to do his work. It was all so fast and methodical that the cow never seemed to be in any pain. It was as if the cow knew its destiny and accepted it. For the Langstons, it was a celebration, with Ivy getting ready to save and store and use every spare part of the animal, giving thanks for their abundant good fortune. The butchering was a harbinger of family meals, good health, and freedom from hunger.

  As Jack Butter made his first thrust into the torso of the cow, it fell open from throat to tail as if unzipped, the entrails tumbling out in different colors. The children gasped. Then Jack reached into the smorgasbord of intestines, pulled out a kidney, cut it off from the stomach, and tossed it out in the dirt. Aaron kicked it around with his foot a little, to soak up the wet blood and other fluids, then put it to his lips and inflated it as easily as a penny balloon.