by John Pipkin
But still, Odd continued to watch for signs of his uncle's unquenchable appetites. The sound of his own laughter sometimes frightened him with the way it took control of his breathing and his speech. He wondered what glance or word or deed had first awakened the urges that led Søren Hus to his miserable end. And what of the disreputable relatives they had left behind in Oslo? Had they intended their misdeeds, or did they stumble into wrongdoing, following instincts until they could no longer fathom an existence uninvolved with swindling or cheating or inflicting injuries of a kind Odd dared not imagine.
Odd had hoped that living alone would free him from the sinister temptations that seemed the sole remnant of his family inheritance, but he was wrong. He still felt the restless desires stirring beneath his skin, refusing to be ignored. Each morning he awoke to yearnings that seemed to have renewed themselves overnight, urges breeding like gnats as he slept. It shamed him to awaken stiff and protruding, as if his body were trying to push its way out of itself. Sometimes he tended to his need before getting out of bed, lying on his back, watching the thin plumes of steam rise from between his clenched teeth into the cold morning air, hoping the curl of his own hand would alleviate the hunger that otherwise dogged him throughout the day. But the release was always temporary, the satisfaction never complete.
And then, one day, as Odd was returning to his cabin after working the fields, he came upon a carriage stuck axel-deep in the pool of mud that would later be covered by logs. Three men toiled in the slippery muck, trying to free the stranded vehicle. The exhausted horses stood to the side, hides splattered with crusted earth. For a while, Odd watched from a distance as the men struggled. Backs hunched, shoulders touching, they looked as if they had been freshly dipped in batter. Odd hesitated before offering to help, not wanting to risk the consequences of pressing up against another human being, not wanting to be drawn into the conversations and handshakes and future obligations that such exchanges unavoidably incur. But he could not simply walk past without offering assistance.
Odd set his bundle at the side of the road and nodded silently to the others. He saw the recognition in their eyes, but they did not utter his name. They moved aside, creating a space for him. He placed his shoulder against the rear of the carriage and leaned forward, putting his full weight into the effort. He strained against the immovable mass, felt the exertions of the other men, and sucked hard at his dead tooth. The carriage rocked on creaking springs, but the wheels did not move. Odd pushed again, slipped forward, and sank to his knees alongside the carriage. He stared down at the spot where the spokes disappeared into the mud and then, before he could right himself and try again, something large and heavy fell on him from above.
She had decided to exit the carriage to lighten the load. The wheels shifted just as she stepped from the doorway and she lost her balance and tumbled onto Odd's back. He collapsed under her weight and landed facedown in the thick mud. The nimbler men jumped clear and howled with laughter. Odd felt the soft bulk of the large woman on his back, and he was powerless to push her away. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank, until he realized that he was in danger of suffocating. His only choice, if he wished to continue drawing breath in the time it would take for the other men to finish laughing and help them up, was to stop struggling altogether. He lifted his face from the mud, spat a mouthful of the brown soup, craned his neck as far as he could turn, and found himself face-to-face with Emma Manning. She had the most significant proportions of any woman he had ever seen, and Odd could not tell whether his shortness of breath was due to her pressing weight or to his astonishment at being trapped beneath such an exquisite creature.
Her features were delicate, her skin as fair as an eggshell, her hair a dazzling auburn flecked with deeper hints of ginger, the color of an October sugar maple, her eyes brown and gentle. And she was laughing with the other men, an embarrassed laugh, a sound as sweet and fragile as falling rose petals. Odd was conscious of the contours of her soft body; he felt the heavy flesh of her thighs straddling his waist, felt the flat bones of her hips pushing on his back, felt his shoulders pressing up into a vast warm tenderness. His excitement defied the cold mud, and he could do nothing to halt or relieve the building sensation. He was held fast beneath her, utterly incapable of moving. And that was the moment he fell in love with Emma Manning. She was not married then, and he might have made his intentions known on any number of subsequent occasions, but it would have taken the combined weight of three Emma Mannings to keep him from fleeing the expression of his own terrifying desire.
After that day, Odd continued to live in his simple cabin, entertaining fantasies of how he might confess his love for her, up until the day he learned of Emma's unfathomable engagement to Cyrus Woburn, a man who seemed to Odd to be old in a way that suggested he had never been young. Odd understood why Emma did not warm to his own silent proposals, but he thought her wrongheaded and reckless for giving herself over to someone who could not possibly love her as he did. Cyrus Woburn had purchased a large farm at the far end of Corner Road, and Odd knew from the moment he heard of the engagement that he would go to work for Mr. Woburn on a permanent basis. When the time came, Odd left the door to his little cabin propped open, an invitation to whoever needed its shelter next. He did not feel that he owned the cabin any more than he owned the woods. He took the time to build a simple hearth of stones and clay before he left, so that the next inhabitant would find it as hospitable a home as he had.
And now the woods where Odd once found refuge are burning to the ground, and he is afraid that it might be his fault. He knows he was careful beyond reproach. He laid out a barrier of stones, and he fed his fire slowly. He kept the flames of his small brushfire in check. He never looked away, not once. But it would have taken only one ember, one errant cinder. Odd stares at the raft of logs in the hardened earth a moment longer, and then continues on to Concord at a faster pace than before. He thinks he can hear the flames chewing through the trees behind him, but it is only the crunch of his boots grinding out their cadence against the dusty road. He cannot stop thinking about lying beneath Emma in the mud. Even now, years later, when he recalls the moment he feels as though there were a hive of bees buzzing somewhere behind his stomach. He wonders if he might step into the woods and right there, in the splintered shadows of the leafless oaks, relieve himself of the longing that has crept forward from memory. It is the second time today that he has nearly given himself over to such a thought. If there was some connection between love and the base act of copulation, he has not found it. He has searched for a safe means of quelling his longing, a release without consequence, but nothing ever brought him the satisfaction he sought.
The previous autumn, Odd paid a number of midnight calls to the fat pumpkins ripening on the hairy vines that covered Woburn Farm. But the relief never outlived the fleeting pleasure. He tried to picture her face when he was at it, hoping he might conjure up some semblance of intimacy, but it never worked. The pleasure and release echoed all the more loudly in the absence it was meant to fill. He might have continued at it night after night had Mr. Woburn not discovered the ruined pumpkins and vowed that he and Odd would spend every night until harvest in armed watchfulness. It was the only time that Odd ever held a rifle. Under cover of darkness, he sat next to Mr. Woburn on the small rise near the field, cradling the cold steel barrel between his thighs while Mr. Woburn aimed at phantoms and cursed the vandals whom he believed had senselessly corkscrewed bungholes in his pumpkins and left them to rot.
Odd did not return to the pumpkins after that, though he still considers it from time to time. The indulgence was no more disappointing than any other, but the risk proved too great. Still, he thinks he might be less careless in the future. He knows there are ways he might hide his tracks were he to try it once more. He promised himself that he would not resort to such foolishness again, but he is already beginning to look forward to the approach of autumn and the ripening of a new crop. He imagines the bright,
moonlit field, the scattered rows of orange humps, and allows himself to consider how he might do a better job of it next time, urged on by the kind of crippled nostalgia that compels other men to yearn for a second chance at their first mishandled loves.
13
Emma
After Oddmund left, Emma Woburn stood among her chickens and watched his diminishing shape until he finally disappeared around the far bend in the Corner Road. From behind he looked like an old man—white hair, bowed head, stooped shoulders— but there was no mistaking the strength in his step. He is not tall, and she can only guess that he must weigh less than she does by at least three stone. But he is a hardy one, to be sure, solid of limb, and she has seen him lift a calf more than half his size and sling the creature across his broad back without so much as a grunt. If he only chose to, she thinks, he could easily puff out his chest and claim as much space in this world as any other man.
Emma sprinkles a final handful of feed over the chickens pecking at her shoes and slaps her palms on her skirts. She has been daydreaming, staring at the column of smoke above the woods, and it has taken her three times longer than it should have to complete her morning chores. Her husband would have scolded her had he not departed shortly before Oddmund did. Emma does not know for certain where Cyrus has gone. He seldom tells her. He muttered only that he had “business” to tend to, though she suspects that the trip involves a bottle. It is a worriment to her. She has seen the drink ruin good men, and she never thought she would be married to one with the weakness. Her mother had warned her about the ways of men, and Emma would be deeply ashamed if her mother could see her now with the likes of Cyrus Woburn. Emma always suspected that the good in men would not be easy to find, but she had not thought that the bad would be so hard to avoid.
Emma reaches distractedly into her apron pocket and pops the last bit of a hard biscuit into her mouth. She flicks the crumbs from her fingers and trudges off toward the clothesline to check on the undergarment she left drying with the bedclothes. On the way, she scoops up the empty wicker basket from the back porch and swings it at her side and thinks of Oddmund making his way toward Concord with his eyes downcast and his chin tucked into his chest, hiding the handsome line of his jaw.
Oddmund Hus is a riddle to her. Try as she might, she cannot twig the discomfort he wears like an apology. He strikes her as no more surprising or disappointing than the middling sort of man, and yet there is something separate about him, a holding back of sorts. Even a gesture as simple as a nod seems to come only after he has taken the time to work out the hidden consequences. From what Emma has seen, most men tend to carry on as if they owned the tiny patches of earth they trod, but not Oddmund; he moves through the world as if he believed it was a place created solely for other people. She has watched him working quietly in the fields, has seen him stop to put a hand to his brow as he thinks through some complicated trouble he keeps to himself.
Emma is convinced that his head is bursting with notions of one kind or another, but he is no great one for talking. It sometimes amuses her, his awkward speech, the way he sounds as if he simply has not spoken enough in his life to be comfortable with the words that fall from his mouth. He never utters more than a few words in a row, and sometimes he gives the impression that he would rather save his breath to blow the dust off his shoes. Emma knows better, though. It is not arrogance. She can sense a yearning in him that he is simply too timid to satisfy. He never asks anything of anyone, never acts as if he had the right to, and Emma knows he has not a clue that there was a time when she might have considered giving him whatever he asked.
When Emma reaches the clothesline, she places the basket at her feet and takes hold of one of the posts Oddmund hammered into the ground to support the line. The crooked post wobbles under the weight of the laundry, and Emma reminds herself to tell Oddmund that it needs fixing. He is a wonder at remedying little problems like this. She plucks the stiff sheets and pillowcases from the line and folds them into the basket. Then she reaches for the undergarment that took her two weeks to stitch together. It is a hodgepodge of scraps and is still damp in spots where the fabric is heavy. She smoothes it between her thick hands and leaves it to dry a bit longer. This is her third attempt at making such a convenience; the others were ill-begotten creations, tight and loose in all the wrong places. Emma rubs the sore creases beneath her arms, where the skin is chafed from the long strip of muslin she winds tightly over her chemise every morning, and she smiles as she considers the relief her improvised patchwork will bring.
If men only knew the discomforting tug and pull of her heft, she thinks, it would surely dampen their curiosity. She has felt them staring at her heavy breasts, at her broad backside, has felt their sidelong glances stroke the fullness of her thighs, as if these parts were set out before them for their merriment. It is not merely lust that drives these men to gaze at her so intently; something close to wonderment and disapproval is there, too. She has felt them dismiss her with their eyes after they have had their fill. She has grown accustomed to being ignored once they have thought through their wicked little fancies, and it angers her that they can think her so easily disappeared. And yet she cannot help feeling cowed by their reproachful looks when she dares to look back.
Men had not always treated her this way. In Ireland, she had been regarded as a pretty girl, slender like her mother, with delicate features and dark eyes. Her ma told her that she would soon enough attract a herd of young men from which to choose a fit husband. For a time, Emma's family had been better off than most in County Donegal. Her pa held a lease on a small farm in Tawnawilly Parish, where Emma and her two brothers were born. She recalls no unhappiness between her parents before things turned bad. Emma remembers her ma's laugh. She remembers her cleverness with needle and thread, and how she mended clothes long past the point where new stitches outnumbered those that had turned to dust. She remembers the animal satisfaction her father seemed to take in a day spent sweating in the fields.
Their family had survived rebellions and poor harvests. They had lost land and regained it. But the real trouble began in 1830, when the potatoes in Donegal came out of the ground small and soft and black. Long after the harvest was over that year, a fetid-sweet stench of vegetable rot hung over the fields in Tawnawilly and in nearby Killymard Parish, and her family struggled through the winter like everyone else in that part of the island. They butchered the few skinny animals they owned; they ate the feed they had stored for the chickens. They watched wagonloads of grain clatter toward Donegal Quay to be loaded onto ships and taken away. Emma watched her pa's thick arms and chest shrink beneath his baggy clothes.
He was a proud man and refused to resort to outright begging, as many of their neighbors had done, but he walked into Donegal Town every Monday—the day that the local shopkeepers had declared Help Day—and stood in line at the grocer's to collect a few handfuls of corn or oatmeal or whatever was being doled out that week. He was given a paper badge showing his name and parish and told to wear it on a string around his neck so that the starving families in Killymard and elsewhere could not abuse the generosity of the Tawnawilly merchants. On Mondays her pa walked the streets of Donegal Town until late, and brought back stories of what he saw in the shop windows. Behind the glass, the buying and selling continued. When he could not put food in their bellies, he put stories in their heads to help them forget the dull, empty ache. He was a great one for telling stories. He could describe a sack of grain such that Emma could feel the bread crumbling on her tongue. He invented stories about the ladies he saw in town, buying fine hats and boots, and the men lugging away sacks of nails and armloads of lumber and bricks and carefully boxed panes of glass bound for unknown inland estates. He described in great detail the huge sides of blood-fresh beef hanging next to the puckered carcasses of birds of all sizes.
Emma still clearly recalls the evening he told them about the table-size books on display in a shop window; the books held etchings of sailing sh
ips and fish and flowers and animals of all sorts. He described pages that looked as if they were sliced from giant slabs of butter, and bindings of leather so rich it seemed they could be eaten with gravy. He conjured up the printed pictures for them as if he were holding one of the big books in his hands, reading it to them in the dark cottage by the cold hearth and the empty pot. The sound of his voice called forth images of slippery eels cooked into stews, partridges baked into pies, and loaves of coarse bread piled high next to mounds of bright-colored fruit. And Emma promised herself right then that she would one day have beautiful books of her own. She might go without stockings or a bonnet; she might want for better shoes or a heavier coat, but she would always have books.
Her father was confident that things would improve. But the potato crop failed again the next year. Even the untainted potatoes they rescued from the lazy beds and stored in the shed soon wore the slippery pale fur of blight. Emma had heard it said that the trouble in County Donegal was not widespread, but this news offered little solace. She had also heard that it was only a matter of time before the rest of the island felt the bitter sting of famine; they said that this was but a taste of a greater horror to come. But it was hard for her to imagine that anything could be worse.
The hunger came first; it prepared the way, left their withered bodies and wilted spirits easy prey. Then came the sickness. Consumption took one brother, then the other, and then Emma's ma. Their deaths seemed a gradual disappearing, and in the constant dizziness of hunger Emma found it impossible not to dream that they would all reappear in the spring, sprouting from the sick earth. Her father was too worn out to grieve, too hungry to care about his pride. He took to begging in the end. The sickness had seized him, but he was not too weak to stagger from one house to the next. Some days he was well enough to stumble for miles. He pleaded at the doors of well-off farmers throughout Tawnawilly He threw away his name badge and went begging in the neighboring towns of Killymard Parish until at last he could rub together coins enough to buy Emma passage to America. He reminded her that she was of marriageable age, and there was every reason to believe she might find better prospects in the New World. It was easier to imagine a life in a world they had not seen than it was to forecast the portion that awaited Emma in the misery they knew. In America, her father told her, the heavenly Father bestowed riches equally on all his children. He insisted that Emma leave at once, since she, too, was little more than skin and bones kept upright by some mysterious force of will.
