Irene

by Linda Ford

  He straightened then, fixing her with a hard look. “Our agreement was someone to run the house and care for the boys. I’m not expecting you to do beyond that.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She clamped it shut, knowing she should clamp back the words rushing to her mind, but they burst forth in a torrent. “Are you saying you expect me to cook and clean and tend your boys without enjoying their company? Without answering their questions? Without caring about how they feel? You once said I was crazy, but I’m not the one who is crazy if you think I can live in this house without caring for the people in it, if you think I can function without having feelings.” She pushed to her feet. “I’m sorry. No matter what you think our agreement is, I have no intention of pretending I don’t have feelings.”

  She turned her back, busying herself with the dirty dishes, wishing he would go. She didn’t often lose her temper and didn’t like it when she did.

  His chair pushed back, and she heard him stand. But he didn’t leave.

  She determinedly kept her back to him.

  He sighed loudly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  She waited.

  “I just don’t want them hurt again.”

  Drying her hands on a towel, she turned to face him. “Having someone care for them, allowing them to care for me—well, it carries a risk. Caring always does. But to refuse to take that risk—why, to shut love out is the worst hurt of all. ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’ ”

  His dark expression told her he wasn’t convinced. Without another word, he lifted his coat from the hook and went outside.

  She stared after him. She should have bitten her tongue. What right did she have to say anything about loving and losing? She’d never lost a spouse. She knew nothing about how he felt. Yet, as she watched him cross the yard toward the barn, she knew healing would not come until Zach allowed himself to love again. She turned away and plunged her hands into the dishwater. Don’t be a foolish old maid, she scolded herself. Love was not part of the bargain.

  But her inner longings would not be quieted despite her mental reminder that Zach was now her husband in a union that was a matter of convenience. She wanted more.

  The boys played quietly in the other room while Irene finished the dishes. She reminded herself of her advice to Harry that one sometimes had to work at being happy. And content, she added now. She began to hum as she worked.

  The door opened, and Zach stood in the doorway. “Where are the boys?”

  “Playing in the other room.” She wondered if there was something wrong.

  “I need Harry to help me fix the plow.” He raised his voice. “Harry.”

  The boys trotted into the room.

  “I need you to help me, Harry.” He knelt before Donald. “You’re needed here to help.”

  Irene watched the play of emotions across the younger boy’s eyes and knew he didn’t believe he was being left behind because he was needed. She waited until Zach left. Harry gave Donald a sad look over his shoulder before he followed his father. She faced Donald. “You want to work or play?”

  His eager nod answered her.

  “Me, too. Why don’t you come and see what I brought with me?”

  She led the way into the bedroom and knelt before the trunk, waiting for Donald to come to her side. Slowly, she lifted back the lid. On top lay an assortment of books and photo albums. She took a worn book. “This has always been one of my favorite books. It’s full of lovely pictures and rhymes.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Let’s take it into the other room, and I’ll read it to you.”

  Solemnly, he marched to the sofa and climbed up.

  Irene sat beside him, careful not to push close enough to threaten him. She opened the book. “See the big fat king?”

  Donald’s dark head bent over the pages. One finger touched the picture.

  “It’s Old King Cole.” She recited the rhyme, Donald drawing closer, leaning his elbow on her knee as he studied the picture. She read both pages. “Shall we see what’s next?”

  He shifted enough to allow her to turn the page then again bent over her knee.

  She read on and on, amazed at how this little boy settled against her leg. She dropped her hand to his shoulder. He did not pull away. Next time he shifted for her to turn the page, she drew him into the hollow of her arm. Although he did not snuggle close, neither did he stiffen or pull away.

  His little body warmed her, his boy-smell of playing in the hay satisfied her senses. She smiled down at the dark head, her heart drinking in the pleasure of his acceptance.

  She turned a page. “Puss in Boots,” she murmured.

  A sound shuddered through Donald, a sound that stayed inside him. She felt it ripple along his thin ribs and felt certain he had chuckled silently.

  “He’s a funny kitty, isn’t he, with his boots and feathered hat? Can you imagine your kitty acting so silly?”

  He touched the picture.

  She waited, not reading the story, wondering if he would find a way to indicate whether or not he wanted her to.

  He tipped his head toward her, his dark eyes dancing as he tapped the page with his forefinger.

  “You want to hear the story about Puss in Boots?”

  He nodded once, quite decisively, turned his gaze back to the page, and waited expectantly for her to read.

  Irene took a deep breath to ease the tightness in her throat.

  They came to the end of the book. She closed it.

  Donald lifted the cover, demanding more.

  “You like my book, do you? Well, I don’t blame you. It’s always been my favorite, too.” Somehow, she felt compelled to talk to this boy, to deepen their connection. He relaxed against her. “I remember my own mommy reading these to me. I never wanted her to stop. Sometimes we sat on the sofa just like this. Sometimes I crawled into bed with her and put my head on her pillow. But you know the very best time of all was when my mama spread a blanket under the trees in our garden and we sat outside with the birds and bees singing as she read.”

  Donald sprang from her arms and scurried across the room, disappearing into the hall.

  “Donald?” She hurried after him and met him coming from his bedroom, a less than clean blanket trailing behind.

  Irene chuckled. “Let’s do it.” She scooped up the blanket. “Lead the way.”

  Donald marched out the door and headed directly for a grove of trees overlooking the deep valley. The view was intense—giant, snowcapped peaks and the sloping green valley. She spread the blanket. Donald plopped down, looking up at her with a look that plainly asked, Why so slow?

  She laughed. “Let me look around first. This is such pretty country.” She breathed in the murky scent of the farm, the green smell of new leaves on the poplars. She tasted the metallic breeze from off the mountains. She saw the plow, but no sign of Zach or Harry. The barn door stood ajar. They must have gone there.

  “I’m ready.” She settled beside him. He scooted close, practically curling into her lap. Again she read the book from cover to cover, taking her time, savoring each sensation; memories of her own mother, sweet times of reading to Grace, and now the budding tenderness of this little boy.

  The ringing sound of metal against metal jerked her attention toward the plow. Zach and Harry were bent over it, their heads almost touching. Zach’s big hands guided the boy’s as he concentrated on his task, frowning in concentration.

  Zach’s deep tones reached Irene. As she listened and watched, her chest tightened. Zach’s patience and gentleness with the boys sparked an answering tenderness in her heart. What would it be like to receive the same sort of gentle love? She blinked hard. This was not an arrangement that left room for the usual sort of feelings between a man and his wife. She breathed deeply, promising herself she would be content with small mercies, like this little boy leaning on her knee.

  Zach straightened. He lifted his head and saw her sitting under the trees. His eyes widened whe
n he saw Donald at her knee. He stared as if seeing her for the first time.

  Distance disappeared as they studied each other. The boys, the mountains—everything disappeared, and there was nothing but Zach and Irene assessing each other, measuring, finding surprises and assessing again.

  Her heart pounded in her ears with the insistence of a stubborn knocking at the door. She couldn’t remember how to breathe. Inside, she drew toward him, assuring, pleading—for what she didn’t know. She only knew she longed for something she didn’t understand.

  4

  That night, Irene again remained in the kitchen while Zach put the boys to bed. She thought of offering to do it, or at least help, but the set of Zach’s face as he shepherded the boys to their bedroom made it plain he would not easily share this job. She had no desire to supplant him. She knew the boys would not have allowed it—their love for their father shone like the sun setting over the hoary mountaintops, and she told herself she didn’t mind being left out of the nighttime ritual.

  She set a copper boiler on the stove and filled it with water for laundry in the morning. She picked up a rag and began wiping the surfaces of the room. Several minutes later, the wet rag hanging in her idle hand, she looked out the window at the glorious display of pinks and reds bursting over the peaks. Harry, serious and sober, seemed to accept her with quiet reservation. Donald allowed her to touch him, almost cuddle him. He warmed to her attempts to get to know him. She felt she had made strides with both boys. It was a satisfying feeling—and an exhilarating one. She’d stepped into a world from which there could be no retreat. She wiped the window ledge and scrubbed fingerprints from the glass.

  What would the night bring forth? The time after the boys went to bed remained uncharted territory. She wished there was a way of getting Zach to draw a map of what to expect.

  “They’re settled in.”

  She calmed herself before she turned. “They go to bed well.”

  He shrugged. “They do everything well.” He paused. “Perhaps too well.”

  “Too well? I don’t understand.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that they’re a tad too ready to do whatever I say?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.” She thought about it now, remembering Grace at that age. Her sister hadn’t been troublesome, but there were times she exerted her will or made her displeasure known. “I guess I thought they were on their best behavior because they didn’t know me.”

  “No, they never do anything naughty. Sometimes I wish they would. It’s like they’re only half alive.”

  “It’s been hard on them.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure they’ll soon be back to normal.”

  He nodded and gave a half grin. “All buttons and bows?”

  “Something like that.” His teasing did funny things to the way her heart beat.

  He sobered. “I ’spect you’re right.”

  He seemed larger than she remembered, his presence making the room small and warm.

  From a shelf to the side of the cupboard he pulled out a ledger and opened it on the table. “I’ve got some paperwork to do.” He shuffled through a fistful of papers and labored over a row of figures.

  She returned to wiping surfaces, removing dark smudges from the wall around the stove and next to the door. Several minutes later she had circled the room and rinsed out the rag, wiping clean the dishpan as she poured the water down the drain that went outside.

  Her neck began to hurt. It wasn’t that she’d worked so hard, but everything had been a new experience. A desperate weariness engulfed her.

  “Don’t bother waiting for me. I’ll be a little while sorting this all out.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll head for bed, then.” She turned toward the hall, anger searing through her senses.

  He grunted a reply without looking up.

  Not until she entered the bedroom did she stop to examine her anger. She thought she’d made it plain this morning that she wouldn’t be driving him from his bed. She meant it. If he didn’t understand, then she would be proving it.

  She took her time preparing for bed. After she’d crawled under the covers, she opened her Bible and read a few verses. Her heart condemned her. She had no right to be upset about the arrangements. She’d understood them fully when she entered into this marriage. If she were foolish enough to harbor secret longings for something more than a lonely bed and two little boys to smile over, then she had no one but herself to blame for her disappointment.

  She prayed for strength and wisdom, then calmed, turned the lantern off, and lay staring at the gray window, ignoring the streak of light from under the door as she listened to the sounds of the house settling for the night. A cow lowed softly. The eerie sound of a coyote’s howl shuddered along her spine. Several voices answered the call, bringing a smile to her lips. Even coyotes liked having someone to talk with and share the news of the day. She had lifted the window a crack. The night air was cool, laden with spicy smells. She promised herself she would plant sweet peas beneath the window so she could fall asleep every night to their stirring scent.

  The room darkened. Zach had turned out the light in the kitchen. She turned toward the door, listening. The chair scuffed against the floor as he pushed it back. The floorboards sighed as he walked across them toward—she jerked the blankets to her chin and caught her breath in a hard gasp. His steps came toward the bedroom.

  She lay stiff, her heart thudding like the beat of the railcar wheels racing along the tracks.

  He entered the dark room, making his way around with the measured steps of someone familiar with his surroundings. A lamp stood on the table on his side of the bed, but he made no move to light it. In the darkness she could see his shadow. His arms lifted and he shrugged out of his shirt, tossing it over the bedpost. A solid bulk, he stepped out of his trousers.

  He didn’t move.

  She could taste his uncertainty, his dread of this situation. She trembled, suddenly cold.

  She sensed his indrawn breath—a gathering of strength as he grabbed the covers on his side and climbed into bed, his weight tipping the mattress toward him. She adjusted her body so she balanced on her side.

  He clung to his.

  “I thought I would have to find that saw,” she muttered.

  “No need to be hasty.”

  She wondered if he meant the saw or their relationship. Either way, his words meant the same. “No. No need to be hasty, but I have certain expectations.”

  He shuffled about so he was on his back. “Are you having second thoughts, then?”

  She stared at the ceiling, a shadow of light from the window making a splash of gray. “I’ve given my word, and I’ll stand by it. My expectations are simply that we make an effort to look like normal married people. I think it’s best for the boys.”

  He grunted agreement. “What about everything else?”

  “The farm? The house? You know I’ve never had any farm experience. But I like what I see. It’s a beautiful spot. And you’re quite right. We have the best view in the country, if not perhaps in the world. Everything is so neat and tidy. I can tell you take a great deal of pride in this place. The house is small, but it’s very cozy. I’m certain it will be warm and tight against the cold. And the boys. . .” She laughed softly. “I don’t have to tell you they are the sweetest lads around. I feel we will learn to regard each other fondly.” She already felt a fondness that was unfamiliar in its depth. “Listen to me. I do rattle on, don’t I?” Embarrassed, she fell silent.

  After a moment, he said. “It’s okay. Talking is okay.”

  She smiled into the darkness. Although a man of few words, he had a way of saying things in a concise way she found reassuring. Truth be told, he was a man that fostered confidence.

  His breathing deepened. He rolled toward her. She stiffened as his arm brushed hers, but she dare not move for fear of wakening him. She forced herself to relax, finding his unconscious touch calmin
g. She smiled into the dark.

  Zach was gone when she woke the next morning. Somehow he’d slipped out without disturbing her. So much for her plans to be up early and start the water heating. She dressed hurriedly and dashed from the room. The stove was already hot.

  She tested the water. Still cool. She started coffee then pulled the cumbersome washing machine from the pantry.

  The boys came to the doorway.

  “As soon as we’ve had breakfast, I’m going to wash all the dirty clothes.” She glanced at the pair. “Anyone know how to do laundry?”

  Two heads wagged back and forth.

  “Then we shall have lots of fun learning together.” A sparkle in Donald’s eyes rewarded her.

  Harry’s gaze rested on the beast of a washing machine. “Aunt Addie said it was a stubborn old machine not fit to live.”

  Irene laughed. “It looks simple enough.” The machine had a large tub for the water, a handle to churn the clothes, and a narrow wringer to wind the clothes through. “Don’t you think we can manage it?”

  The door behind them opened. “Manage what?”

  Irene spun around. “This beast of a washing machine.”

  “She’s going to wash all our clothes,” Harry added.

  “All the dirty ones,” Irene corrected.

  A smile slid across Zach’s face. “Harry’s right. That would be all of them.”

  She nodded, struck by how the smile softened his features.

  “Aunt Addie said the washer was no good.” Harry gave it a little kick. “She said if she had a stick of dynamite, she’d blow it up.”

  Zach raised his eyebrows. “She did, did she?” He circled the machine, his arms crossed over his chest, studying it. “And what exactly did it do to make her say such wicked things?”

  Harry solemnly took the handle and pulled on it. It grunted once and then skimmed back and forth without doing anything. Stepping back, he waited for his father to try it. Zach jerked the handle back and forth. It caught erratically.

  “This is easy to fix.” He dropped to his knees, adjusted something underneath the machine, and tried it again. It worked fine. “See. Just a loose nut. I’m surprised Addie didn’t fix it herself.”