The Hayfield
by Arthur Gordon
Copyright 1993, 1994, 2007, 2011 Max A. Gordon
Published by
Apport Press 10/03/2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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ebook ISBN: 978-1-4657-6884-1
Cover: Douglas Gordon and author
Enabled by wife, Elizabeth and son, Douglas.
Thanks to Lawrence Reeve and Susanne MacDougall, whose help has been invaluable.
For too many friends and acquaintances to name individually, I can’t begin to offer enough thanks.
The Hayfield
Prologue
Quiet grows inside the cab, but it is an ominous silence, the kind in which our tempers can grow explosive. I reach for the radio knob, forgetting that this is Barbara’s truck. The radio works well only sporadically, and then only if you park in the lot at the radio station. As I move the pointer along the dial, there are clicks and hisses and squeals from the speaker, occasional voices that crackle and fade. Nothing as entertaining as the sounds of the gravel hitting the floorboards.
In the far distance, cattle graze the sparse grass of the fields on either side of the road. I turn off the radio and slow down as we draw nearer. The cows nearest the road, out Barbara’s window, are a mixed herd; probably owned by someone not even in the cattle business.
I point to the nearest cow, red with a white face. “Billy. What’s that one?”
“Hereford,” Billy says. He likes this game.
“And that one?” I point to an all black animal, farther from the road.
“Angus.” Billy sits up, looking intently past his mother at the cows scattered unevenly across the landscape.
Nearer the road is one that looks like a cross between the first two. She is all black, except for a white face like the Hereford. Without waiting for the question, Billy points to her and says, “Black Baldy.”
I point at a tall one, cream-colored, with a hump on her shoulders.
Billy thinks a moment before answering, “Brahma, right?”
Looking straight ahead, her voice betraying her boredom with our game and her slowly dying anger at me, Barbara says, “Loose.”
I follow her gaze. About a quarter mile ahead, a cow is lying alone, in the gravel of the shoulder. Hearing our approach, the cow swivels her head to watch us come.
“How did she get loose, Dad?”
I slow the truck even more, looking for broken fencewires. “I don’t know, Cowboy. But as long as she stays out of the road, we aren’t going to worry about it. We’ve got things to do at home.”
She is a breed I’ve never seen, probably a dairy cross, maybe Shorthorn and Guernsey, but definitely strange, her brown color uneven and all wrong. And there is something in the gravel behind her. Then, as we pull alongside of her, I see the mess.
As I kill the engine and open the door, Billy is already inching toward me on the seat. Barbara says, “Stay here, Billy.”
The animal lies in a patch of dirt and gravel soaked with fresh blood still pooling, with her legs folded almost under her, as if preparing to get up. Her head rocks back and forth slowly and her eyes appear heavy-lidded and swollen. As I come around the front of the truck, she grunts, struggling to get her legs beneath her and almost succeeding before rolling back, sides heaving from the effort. In the mess behind her lies a huge, pink membrane, blood oozing from a jagged gash. Connected, and beyond it, a dull, whitish-blue sac rests among the short weeds under the lowest strand of barbed wire.
Standing next to me, Billy points at the sac. “What is that, Dad?” The sac moves feebly, as if in response.
“Oh, shit.” The words come under my breath, as if someone else has spoken them.
“Billy,” Barbara has rolled down her window, “get back in the truck.” The tentative tone of voice doesn’t match her words. Billy doesn’t seem to hear her anyway.
“Are there any rags in the cab?” I ask. “Anything absorbent?”
“No. What’s wrong with it?”
“Isn’t there a blanket behind the seat?” I could swear I remember seeing something in clear plastic, next to the toolkit.
“You can’t have that. It’s an auto robe quilt that Ginny made for me. It was a birthday gift.”
Ginny, Ward’s wife, my sister-in-law, is always making something to give to someone. I move back to the truck, opening her door. “If that’s the only thing we have, I need it. I’ll explain to Ginny.
“What I need you to do is go back to that ranch and ask if he knows who these cows belong to. She calved, but she’s in trouble. She’s going to need a vet to survive. Come on, get out.” When she doesn’t move, I add, “Please.”
She steps out, slowly, not looking past me at the animal, and starts around behind the truck. I fold the seat forward and find the white and green quilt in its plastic zipper bag. “Billy,” she says, “you come with me.”
“Mom,” Billy has turned his body to come back to the truck, but his eyes are still on the cow.
“I may need his help.” I unzip the bag and pull the quilt free, tossing the bag on the seat. Barbara has gotten behind the wheel and adjusted the rearview mirror. She is calm, but worried. Underneath her expression is something else, something I can’t quite place. Probably she is angry about her gift. I’ll have to deal with it later, whatever it is. “Hurry!” I tell her. She wrestles the wheel around in a tight turn, and starts off.
The warm smell of blood hangs in the air like perfume, until it is swept away on the light breeze. Behind us, the cow is struggling to gain her feet. I move back toward her, talking in a low voice, “Easy now, mama. Everything’s going to be okay. Easy now.” Handing the quilt to Billy, I kneel down at her side and put my hand on her shoulder. My touch agitates her and she struggles harder to get her legs beneath her. Her eyes roll wildly beneath their long brown lashes. “Whoa now, mama.” I run my hand along her back, up toward her head, touching her ear, gently scratching at the hollow behind it. She gives a last heave to shift her weight onto her knees, and fails, sagging back with her breath escaping in a long, low moan.
“Billy, come here, nice and slow.” He kneels next to me. “I want you to scratch her ear for me, and talk to her just like I was doing. Okay?”
Billy puts a small hand onto her ear, and says, “Nice cow. Dad and me will help you. Nice cow.” At his voice and touch, the animal rolls farther onto her side and stretches her head out onto the dirt. “Good girl,” he says. “That’s okay.”
Near the fence, I stoop to look at the birth. Covered in dirt and weeds, the sac lies motionless, glistening dully. I push at it with the toe of my boot, and nearly jump as it convulses spasmodically. Not knowing what else to do, I squat and grab hold of the thin membrane, trying to tear it open. Moist and sticky, it refuses to tear, slipping from my hands. A flap of membrane protrudes from under the rounded edge, and I slip both hands under, and lift, straining to roll it over. Underneath, nearly half the sac is torn away. Grabbing the edges, I open the tear wider, exposing a tangle of flattened cord connecting the calf to the inside. Motionless, the calf lies with one brown eye open, staring dully at the sky. Coated with gravel and mud, her wet hide is the color of burnt umber. Quickly tearing the sac away from her nose, I put my ear to her tiny chest. At first, I hear nothing more than my own breathing. Then, it is there, like a small drum, irregular and low. I push gently against the small ribs, rocking forward and back to apply pressure. My only memory about this is something I saw as a kid, on television: an image of the cow licking at the wet skin of her newborn calf, nosing at it to get it on its feet.
“Billy, bring me the blanket! But move slow!”
“Nice cow,” he says, standing up, “that’s right, nice cow.” He walks carefully around the mess. Handing me the quilt, he looks at the motionless calf, lying in perfect miniature of its mother, delicate legs folded together. “Wow,” he says.
Taking the quilt from him, I let it unfold before draping it over her. Using it as a towel, I begin rubbing at her side. “Go on back and talk to her,” I tell Billy. “She needs to hear your voice.”
“Will it live, Dad?” He takes a step back toward the cow.
“I don’t know, son. I hope so, but I don’t know. Go on and scratch her ear.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a slight motion, and think that I have moved her. But when I look back I watch, amazed, as her eyelid slides closed and then open again. Maybe, just maybe. I rub faster, moving the quilt over her entire body, drying her hide, causing the rough hair to stick up in whorls and spikes. Her eye begins to move in its socket. Outsized in the tiny head, it wanders as if trying to find some point of focus. The lashes flutter closed and then open again. I rub. “Come on, honey, come on.”
Billy is back with the cow, scratching her ear and talking to her again, though I can’t make out the words. He is watching me, us, and his hand works faster at the cow’s ear, as if to keep pace with my rubbing.
The calf’s head jerks up off the ground, startling me, but goes immediately back down. I lean down and put my head to her chest once again. The heartbeat is stronger, regular now, and I can hear the intake of breath beneath her ribs. “I think she’s going to make it, Billy,” I say, hearing the excitement in my voice. “If I can get her on her feet, I think she’ll make it.” Her head has come off the ground again, and she holds it up, trying to look around. Her eye focuses on me, and I feel her ribs rise as she takes a deep breath. She stretches her neck forward, and tries to bawl, but ends up making a coughing noise instead. Like someone trying to talk under water. Her lungs must have trapped some fluid from inside the sac, and I lift her up bodily and tilt her head down at the ground. Clear, pinkish liquid appears on her brown nose, and drops noiselessly onto the quilt. She begins to struggle in my arms, and I set her carefully onto her spindly legs. They promptly collapse, and she falls sideways.
As she struggles back up, Billy says, “Dad?”
When I look back at him, he is still scratching at the ear. But his free hand is pointing out in the direction his mother went, at small, dark shapes moving steadily up the road toward us. Growing as they come, the shapes gradually transform themselves into dogs. Fanned out across the road, they move at a stiff trot. In the lead are five large animals, jaws open, tongues lolling. Behind are five or six more, shifting in and out of view as they move. All of them run silently behind their shadows, nosing the blood scent.
Early Reviews of The Hayfield
The Hayfield is a compactly written novel with believable characters and an unusual setting. The novel takes place in California, the state in which I reside, however I was puzzled by the exact location of the action. I was so baffled that I went to a map and felt compelled to locate the routes driven by the main character.
This is a personal history with overtones of survival, addiction and divorce. The characters evoke emotional ties to the reader when the issues get "too close to home". In his first novel, the author has penned a mixture of serious family stresses, a bit of humor, and economic reality. The Hayfield reads like a polished novel and leaves the reader asking questions about "the rest of the story". Hopefully, there will be more to read by Arthur Gordon.
~Barbara Blum
Set in rural Northern California, this sweeping emotional novel resonates with the struggles of a young couple’s hopes, expectations, and eventual shattered dreams. Good read!
~G. Gilbert, President Midwestern Distribution Company
I finished The Hayfield last night - read longer than I meant to, but got caught up in the drama of it all and "couldn't put it down"!
I really did like it, especially the second half, which is often the case since it takes time to develop the characters and make the reader care about them. And I found nothing unacceptable in it. In fact, I liked the fact that it was free from a plethora of objectionable language.
I still don't see the point of the Prologue, and it didn't grab my attention at all. This isn't a suspense novel, and that scene may end with a certain amount of suspense, but the point of that scene (at least to me) really comes out later when Frank learns that Barbara thinks that he endangered their son for selfish reasons. By the way, I loved the Epilogue, as it was life-affirming and ended on an upbeat of hope for Frank's future. I am rooting for him all the way!
This book would make for a great discussion for a book club! Not only is it well-written with vivid descriptive passages, but the characters are well-developed and there are some surprises along the way.
Hope that I haven't rambled on too long, or said more than you really wanted to hear. But there you have it!
~Marilyn Crosby
Yes, I really did enjoy reading The Hayfield...and...what I especially liked was that I learned a lot about life and (some) people outside of the city. I was very impressed by the research that must have been done to familiarize oneself with "life on the road" and farm.
~Vivien Moyer
This is a man's story. I felt like I had an excellent sense of the protagonist, I had no sense of his wife. I had no sense of the son. It was depressing because of the couple's inability to communicate. It seemed that the protagonist was blaming his wife for this. However he was really caught up in himself and was the other 1/2 of the problem.
I didn't feel there was any resolution by the end. I felt unsatisfied and that there was no lesson learned, no real trial gone through and understood or appreciated. I wish the author had brought the calving incident back to the end somehow - since from the wife's point of view the selfishness was his whole problem, but by the time we got to the end of the story, the calving incident was forgotten and it was simply the protagonist hating his wife who didn't understand him.
I was impressed by the writing style; he does do quite a nice job of narrative about wildlife and the western landscape. I appreciate that b/c I love reading Stegner. He should keep doing this.
~ Marta Murawski, MD
Chapter 1
Beginning—April
Through dappled shadows we rise out of the cottonwoods into the cool morning spring sunshine. Barbara looks over at me, a grin of anticipation creasing her mouth. Sitting half on her lap, Billy leans his head back against her chest. His lids float sleepily over his blue eyes. Long drives do this to him.
It’s an old road, graying, lumpy asphalt crumbling away at the shoulders. Topping the hill, it levels off into an almost straight stretch for two miles—barely wide enough for two cars to pass, with no center line. On each side, untrimmed weeds and grasses nearly hide the old barbed wire fences.
Before us, the long plateau stretches out, pale green, undulating like the road itself. Barbara’s eyes survey it eagerly, stopping briefly at each of the five, widely spaced houses in the distance. “Which one?” she says.
“Halfway down. The one way off the road, to the left,” I say, feeling the smile grow on my face and pointing to the one set farthest back from the road, so small from here that no detail is visible. “You can’t see anything yet, though.”
She tightens her hold on Billy, nuzzling her chin into the reddish blond hair above his round, sleepy face. She giggles softly as a cowlick tickles her nose, and lets go with one hand to scratch it. Freckled faces by the pair, smooth of skin, full of trust, astonishing. In his drowse, Billy hears her voice and feels her hug. The corners of his mouth rise, and then sleep takes him completely and they fall again into calm neutrality. I ease the pedal down and the Jeep responds: a surge of power, and the quiet zip of tires hugging the uneven blacktop.
A battered yellow pickup sits in the weeds of the lefthand shoulder, marking the turn-in that may soon be our private driveway. Off to the west, a line of small cars and semis parallels our course, on Highway 70. Between our road and the highway, ankle-high grasses paint the dryland pastures lemon-lime green, providing forage for dozens of boarded horses. Mr. Silverman leans against the fender of the ancient Ford, watching our approach through the flat light, squinting as if in disbelief that we have kept the appointment. He turns, looking at the small house he has worked on for so long, and shakes his head before turning back to watch us pull in next to his truck.
As the motor dies, Billy revives enough to open his eyes. His curiosity lifts his head into Barbara’s chin, and he peers through the yellow and red bug smears on the windshield. “Are we here?” He asks the obvious with such innocence that I can’t suppress a smile.
“Where else could we be, Cowboy?”
His face becomes thoughtful for a moment before he tells me in all seriousness, “We could be there.”
Unable to argue with arching eyebrows so pale they barely exist, I reach for his hair and run my hand through it. Glancing up, I catch Barbara watching me, her eyes unclouded and pure, a look to make the bright sky pale. This is love, I think; this is what some people search their whole lives for in vain—a handful of baby fine hair, and eyes to inspire flight. A movement outside catches my attention and reminds me that Mr. Silverman is waiting. “How about it?” I say. “Shall we go and see the best house in the world?”
Barbara opens her door and lets Billy slide to the ground, while I climb out and come around the front. The ticking of the cooling engine sounds the progress of the day. “Mr. Silverman,” I say, sticking my hand out toward him. “Thanks for taking the time to show us around.” He takes my hand in his own. Despite my extra two inches of height, his hand dwarfs mine, the leatheriness of his palm a testament to his years of labor. “This is my son, Billy, and my wife, Barbara.”
He nods to Barbara, and takes Billy’s small hand gently in his. “Pleased to meet you, William,” he says, quietly pronouncing three distinct syllables. “You going to like this place.” He turns and nods toward the distant house. “We could walk from here, maybe, yes?”
The roadside fence has been cut, strands of rusting barbed wire tied back out of the way, leaving an opening wide enough for two cars to pass abreast. We cross the small gravel patch, where the culvert he installed is the only sign of what will eventually become a private road. Parallel tire tracks run along the perpendicular fenceline, leading away from the pavement. As we walk, Mr. Silverman’s eyes remain fixed on the small house. His face, filled with regret, reminds me that the loss of his wife is the only reason he is considering selling. His loss has become our gain, and excited as I am at the thought of handing him a check and making this our home, I understand his reluctance to let go.
“Mr. Silverman has been working on the house for a long time,” I tell Barbara. I glance over at him, wondering if by acknowledging his dedication I will ease his decision. “There are still some things to be finished, but he’s done a beautiful job.”
Fully awake now, Billy slips his hand loose from Barbara’s and runs ahead, kicking at rocks. He finds a large, round stone half-buried and draws one foot back, balancing unsteadily on the other leg.
“Honey,” Barbara calls out, stopping him in mid-kick, “be careful.” She looks sideways at Mr. Silverman, “He is so full of energy. He really needs a place to run loose without hurting anything. Frank didn’t tell us all the details. How big is the property?”
Not allowed to kick at the rock, Billy now struggles to lift it out of the ground. He squats, pulling and then pushing with both hands at its unyielding surface. It remains buried, and Billy gives up. He stands, brushes the dirt from both hands on his pants legs, and runs to catch up with us.
We come to an opening in the side fence, allowing us to follow the tire tracks turning toward the house. Painted pale green, the house sits as if newly sprouted on a leveled rise, surrounded by unplanted earth. Two steps lead onto a porch bordered with a wrought iron handrail. Indoor-outdoor carpeting the color of chocolate covers the porch, muffling the noise of our feet. Opposite the steps, two wide windows flank the white front door, and a large, jute mat offers us WELCOME.
Mr. Silverman turns and looks out toward the distant highway, raising his arm in a wide, slow sweep. “Everything inside these four fences, yes? Forty acres altogether.” A frown of annoyance crosses his face. “I want to give it to my own son,” he says, “give it to him. He says he cannot move away from Los Angeles, where he loves it so much. All these years I work, he does not even come on vacation to see it.
“So, after the funeral I try to keep working but I cannot. And yet, it is a place what needs people, yes? It needs a William,” he says, turning to look at Billy. “You will help your papa finish what I start here, yes, William?”
Without waiting for Billy’s answer, he digs a key from his pocket and hands it to Barbara. “I will wait here,” he says. “You take your time, look carefully. Frank knows to answer your questions.”
Barbara unlocks the front door and steps into the living room, Billy at her side. They stop in the middle of the room, holding hands, both heads turning slowly to look around. Billy leans, as if to go in the direction of the doorway leading to the bedrooms, but Barbara holds onto his hand, stopping him. She turns her head to look at me as I enter. Her eyes shine brightly, and I can see she has no questions worth worrying about. In the few moments she has stood there, this has become her place. I wonder how this can be; how by stepping through a door and standing in the center of one room for only a few seconds, a woman can alter the nature of a whole house and make it completely her own. This is the place she sees Billy growing up in; Billy and the one she is carrying, a sister she believes. It is as if she opened the door into the long hallway of the future, and stood looking down the years of our lives. Whatever it is she sees is enough for her. Everything I thought would be a block to her decision—the lack of electricity and water, the work still to be finished inside and out—is meaningless. She is standing in her new home.
Since finding the place, I have been marshalling my arguments, rounding up what I thought were ways to convince her that though it will take most of our savings, we should buy this place. Knowing we have so little, Mr. Silverman has even agreed to a small down payment, and offered to carry the note.
She lets go of Billy, who disappears through a doorway, and puts both hands on my arm. Her lips brush my cheek, before she leans her head onto my shoulder. “When can we come?” she says.
Billy’s footsteps echo as he runs from room to room out of sight. I lace my arm around her waist and stand with her, unwilling to shorten the moment. “I brought a check for him, just in case,” I say. “I thought you would want to look around more, but I want it, too. I think I can have it livable in about a week. It’ll be kind of like camping out, but we’ll get by until everything’s done.”
She draws a deep, slow breath. “Oh, Frank. It smells so new, so fresh.”
I hadn’t noticed, but she is right. This house has no one else’s smell to it. There are no perfumes, no people odors. It smells of new wood, clean carpet and fresh paint. Without drapes or curtains to block the sunlight, there are no shadows. With no furniture to clutter them, the rooms are open and clean. It is a beginning, and the possibilities seem endless.
I kiss the top of her head and go out to where Mr. Silverman leans against the porch railing. He looks up at me, surprised that we have not taken longer. Concern wrinkles his forehead, and he looks as if he wants to tell me to work harder to convince Barbara that it is a good house. I smile, holding the check out to him, making the wrinkles disappear from his face. Inside, Billy’s footsteps echo again and his voice rises, and Barbara answers, though I cannot make out the words. Mr. Silverman takes the check, and for a moment looks as if he is now having second thoughts. Then, he shakes his head slightly, and puts the check into his shirt pocket and holds out his hand to me. As we shake, he points to the old barn on the other side of the road and says, “There, I have water for horses. If you want to run hose from there until you finish digging well, it is not a problem. I need no money for water.”
I hesitate, and he says, “Go. She wants to see more. William wants to look more. I will wait for you. I have contract in truck. Go, now. I will wait.”
Inside, Barbara is moving across the living room, toward the sound of Billy’s running feet. She reaches the doorway just in time to meet his small head coming fast down the hallway. Her breath makes a sound like air escaping a balloon as she stumbles and steps backward and sits on the floor with Billy tangled on top of her legs.
Billy says, “Mommy,” and sits up rubbing the top of his head.
I reach them in time to lift him to his feet, and then offer my hand to Barbara. She sits looking blankly up at me, as if I were a stranger she is seeing for the first time. Then I realize that though she is looking at me, she is not seeing me at all. Head cocked slightly, her expression is curious, almost as if she is listening, hearing something I cannot hear.
Seconds tick silently past, and I realize she is not breathing. Billy’s hand still rests on top of his head, but has stopped moving. The absence of her breath has created a silence so deafening that we all listen, motionless.
“Barbara?”
The sound of my voice brings her breath back, and a frown to her face. “Oh, Billy,” she says. “You need to slow down when you’re in the house.”
Billy rubs his head again, leaving strands of hair pointing straight up. He bends over toward her slowly, his face now serious. He has never before seen his mother sit on the floor. Used to looking up at her, he seems to feel awkward now that he is taller. “Mommy?” he says again. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
Still looking at him, Barbara puts on a smile and reaches up for my hand. Billy accepts the smile as she regains her feet.
“Mommy, come look.”
She lets go of my hand and allows him to lead her through the doorway. I follow them into the short hallway and into a bedroom. Billy is already at the window, looking out toward the highway, chattering about what he can see. Barbara stands beside him, her left hand on his shoulder, facing the window. But even with her back to me, I can tell she is not looking outside. Her right hand rests against her still-flat belly. Her normally straight shoulders hunch forward, as if drawn together protectively in front of her, closing her off from everything else.
Chapter 2
First Night—April
Through the window, the lowering sun leaves the sky pale, hollow, an almost colorless blue. The barn across the road stands isolated and dark, its gapped and weathered siding painted in soft tones against the lighter horizon. Inside, the bedroom darkens in the space of moments, leaving the windows to appear as lighter-colored rectangles in the otherwise featureless walls. In our bedroom, I can barely make out the shape of the bed I’ve just finished assembling and making. But in spite of the silence and dusk, the house contains a sense of optimism, an imminent happiness waiting only for them to return from the store with food for our first dinner.
I return to the kitchen, and fumble in my pocket for the wooden matches. Striking one and holding it aloft, I find the kerosene lamp on the counter, lift the chimney free, and touch the match to the cotton wick. The flame spreads along its width, flares up and emits a curling trail of black soot. I lower the wick back into the lamp and replace the chimney. The smoke stops, the light steadies and spreads and casts its yellow rays into the corners, banishing most of the shadows. I leave it burning on the counter and turn my attention to the camp stove. The miniature propane bottles are full and in place. Everything is as ready as I can make it.
Impatient, I open the back door and step out into the surprising light of evening. The paleness of the sky fades quickly toward a deeper blue, and the pale glimmer of a star shows itself in the east. As if waiting for this cue, a cricket sounds its first tentative song. Another answers immediately.
“May I be excused?” Billy scoots back from the table and lifts his plate, smiling. “Thanks, mommy,” he says, “that was good.” He takes his plate and utensils to the sink, placing them down into the shadows inside. Stretching up onto his toes, he reaches for the faucet.
“It won’t work, Cowboy,” I say. “Just leave them there and we’ll wash up in the morning after I get more water.” Turning to Barbara, I say, “He’s right, Hon, a great first dinner. Pretty amazing for that to come off a two-burner camp stove. Thanks.”
I stand as Barbara pushes back her chair and rises. “Just wait until you get the real stove working,” she says. “I’ll make us a real feast to celebrate being here. I’ll even bake a cake.” We each clear our dishes and then return to the table, sitting back down into the steady, yellow glow from the lamp. “What now?” she says.
Billy holds both cards out toward his mother, face down. The lamplight flickers in his pupils, and he giggles. Barbara holds her two cards close, looking down at them for a long time. She raises her eyes to Billy and lifts one eyebrow. “You have her, don’t you?” she says. “You have her and you’re trying to give her to me.”
Billy giggles again. “I don’t have her, Mom. Dad must have her. Come on, take a card.” Barbara shifts her eyes to my face and then glances down at the single card I hold close to my chest. She looks back up, like she’s trying to read the card in my eyes. I give her no help.
“You’ve got her, alright,” she says to Billy. “You can’t fool me.” The lamplight darkens her hair to auburn, almost hides her freckles. Our silhouettes shadow the walls of the dining room, and smaller shadows pool in the space between her neck and the collar of her shirt, tempting me to lean over and kiss that space. Not for the first time, I half wish Billy were somewhere else. She reaches out toward the two cards, touching one and drawing back before taking the other between her thumb and forefinger. She keeps it face down until she slides it into her hand with the others, and then lifts all three. Her eyebrow arches again and a wicked smile appears on her face. “Would you just look at that,” she says, placing a pair of sevens face up on the pile in the center of the table. Her last card, she holds out toward me face down. “This one must be yours, and I’m out.” She folds her hands together on the table in front of her.
The queen of spades joins the four of hearts in my hand, and I stick my tongue out in Barbara’s direction. “You had her all the time, didn’t you?” I say. “What a bluffer.” I turn the faces of the cards toward the table and quickly reverse them again and again until even I don’t know which is which. “Well, Cowboy, it’s just us, now. I think you’re going to end up stuck with the Old Maid.” I hold the cards out toward him, face down, watching his eyes.
“Nuh uh,” he says. “Not me. I bet I don’t.” He looks at my two cards and darts his hand out, snatching one and turning it up to see its face. In my hand the four of hearts remains. A grin forms on my face as he sees her. His eyes narrow, and he puts the card with the other one in his hand, the other four. Barbara leans over, whispers something in Billy’s ear and then leans back in her chair. He drops his hands below the table and his shoulders move. The swish of cards changing places. Barbara smiles her wicked smile again.
Billy peeks at his cards before bringing them from under the table and holding them out to me face down again. He tries, but can’t stop the excited giggle. His eyes are wide, the pale brows lifted in imitation of his mother. “Get ready to be the Old Maid, Dad.”
“Hah! Never going to happen,” I say, choosing the card on top.
Billy looks at his last card and giggles again. “You got her. You got her.”
Sure enough, the queen of spades. “Pretty sneaky! But you have to choose again, and you’ll get her back. And then I’m going to pick that four in your hand and leave you stuck with the queen.” Barbara’s smile widens, and her expression glows. She looks terrific; she looks happy. Under the table her foot finds mine and then rises gently along the inside of my shin. I reverse the cards again, twice, but this time in plain view, to see if he’s paying attention. He reaches out toward my hand, as if he’s going to take the four. “I don’t think you want that one, Cowboy,” I warn him. “That’s her, that’s the queen.” His hand slows, a look of doubt crosses his face.
Then, he snatches the four of hearts from the two I hold face down. “I win, I win!” He turns the pair of fours face up, grinning wide enough to show his small, even teeth. I frown, holding back the queen in my hand, teasing him. “Let me see, Dad. You’ve got her, don’t you. You have to show me, that’s the rules.”
Slowly, I hold the single card out toward him, face down. He takes it. “See!” he says. “I knew you had her. You ended up with the Old Maid!”
A completely neutral expression on my face, I say, “Billy, who’s holding the Old Maid?” His face goes from excitement to disbelief, but in the end I can’t do it. “Just kidding, Cowboy. You beat me fair and square. Congratulations!” Relief, and then his excitement is back, along with pretended anger. He starts to rise from his chair, but I stop him by putting my elbow onto the table between us, arm vertical, hand open. He lifts himself into a kneeling position on the chair, and leans forward to take hold of my hand with both of his. He watches my face for the signal. “Go,” I say, trying to keep my arm steady as he pulls it with all his might, squeezing his face into a grimace, reddening around his cheeks. My arm tilts backward an inch, and then steadies. Each time we do this he grows stronger, more determined, tries harder. Someday, I‘ll have to work to win. Ten years, maybe less. Will I keep up the contest then? That decision is years in the future, I tell myself, putting away the thought and enjoying the moment.
Barbara watches our struggle briefly, then reaches out to place her hand on top of ours. “Enough,” she says. “You boys can go outside and wrestle if you want. Lots of room, and nothing out there to break. But, in here, I’m the boss and it’s time to behave!” The smile on her face is as genuine as the seriousness behind it.
“A draw,” I say, grinning, and loosening my grip. “But watch out when I get you outside tomorrow, Cowboy.” Turning to Barbara, “Well, what now? It’s still early. Another game of cards?”
“I think that’s enough for tonight,” she says, smiling. “We’ve got lots to do tomorrow and not that many hours of daylight to get it done in.” She slides her chair back from the table and stands. “Billy, let’s get your pajamas on and your teeth brushed.” She picks up the lamp and waits for him to go on ahead. From the bathroom I can see the glow, and hear their muted voices. “Excited about spending the first night in your new room?” she says. “If you listen, you’ll be able to hear the crickets outside. Your grandfather used to say that if you stay really quiet and listen really hard, you might even be able to hear the starlight hitting the ground.”
“That’s silly, Mom.” Billy says. Then, talking around his toothbrush, “Will I ever meet my grandpa?”
Barbara’s face will be wearing that wistful expression she gets when she thinks about him. “Someday, Billy. I hope so. Someday.”
From the comfort of the clean sheets, I watch her undress in the flicker of light from the lamp. Strange, how sexy has changed since we got married. Visions of silk lingerie have been replaced by appreciation of the clean white cotton covering the body of this woman I desire every night. Fantasy, fading in the face of reality and seeming tawdry or comical in retrospect.
“We got a lot done today,” she says, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. Before taking it off, she picks up the flannel nightgown and settles it over her head. “Tomorrow Billy and I can finish unpacking the boxes while you go for water.” Aware that I am watching her, she shrugs the bra from her shoulders with a smile and hangs it from the chair before slipping her arms into the long sleeves of the gown. An extra moment of exposure. An invitation. A welcome. The pleasure she takes from my pleasure in her never fails to excite me. And hovering in the back of my mind is the realization that I find it amazing, this pairing, this accommodation of two into one, and more natural than anything I have ever felt.
I fold back the covers and she sits, looking over her shoulder at me, “I’ve been thinking,” she says. She slides her feet beneath the covers and lies back, turning her eyes full upon mine. “After she’s born, we could build another room onto the back of the house. A bigger one we can use as a master bedroom. That way they can each have their own room, and we’ll have a little more privacy. What do you think?” She shifts closer, lowering her head to my chest, kissing and then nibbling at my collarbone.
“I think,” I say, as she lifts her face to mine, “a woman as wicked as you could talk me into just about anything you want. Should I leave the lamp burning?”
“It would be nice,” she whispers, “but I don’t think we should. If Billy gets scared or something….”
Sitting up as she rolls away, I bring the lamp close enough to blow it out. In the new darkness, its wick glows orange and soot scents the air. Before I can scoot back under the covers, it dies completely. I lower my lips to hers and reach for her, sliding my hand across the smooth flannel over her belly. She meets my lips and rolls toward me again, lifting her hips as I draw the fabric upward.
We begin slowly, touching, stroking, almost illicitly aware of our newfound privacy, knowing we have the right, but feeling as if we still need permission. I find myself listening, with half an ear, alert for any interruption that may come. Then, gradually, the warmth of her breath and the touch of her fingers turn desire to need and we strive with one another toward a mutual obliteration of everything else. The external recedes until there is only the goal, to meet, to join, to fill her and melt away. Our every move in unison, we collide, emitting sighs and murmurs, urging each other on, nearing perfection. When a catch in her breathing reaches my consciousness, I cannot stop. Instantly dissociated from my body’s movements, confused, I wonder what I have done wrong, if I have hurt her somehow. Before I reach the end, she has quit moving, seems to have quit breathing, as if she had transcended space and disappeared from under me.
“Barbara?” I say, rolling to the side, aware now of the smell of perspiration and must that fills the air around us. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” The answer doesn’t even sound like her voice, “Something…. I don’t know.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure. I think so, yes. It’s just…I don’t know. Something….”
I move toward her, slipping my arm beneath her neck, wanting to hold her without knowing why I feel she needs it. She rolls up onto her side and lays her cheek against my chest, allowing me to close my arms around her. But even with this closeness, she seems distant, here but not here, unaware of my lips on her hair. I wait, knowing she will find the right words eventually, unwilling to press her for an explanation she doesn’t seem to have.
Starlight illuminates the window, a faint and comfortable glow giving shape to the walls, the dresser, the doorway into the hall. My breathing deepens as I relax. I think about Billy, silently sleeping in his own bedroom down the hall, how eager he was to help carry the last of the boxes into the house, how he wanted to go and look around the place but stayed with the jobs I gave him to finish the move. I can feel the smile on my face.
Coming up through the darkness I hear her move from beside me and feel the cool air as she lifts away the covers. I want to wake up because she needs me. I don’t know why. But there is a thick layer of sleep that prevents my going to her. Sad because I have lost her, I wait, hoping she will return. A long time passes, the sound of our last water rushing away, and then she is back, pulling the covers into place and allowing me to drift once more.
“Frank.” The flatness of the word brings my eyes almost completely open. I find her dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, examining her hands. The gray, predawn light heightens the planes of her face, creates smudges beneath her eyes. Against the window, her silhouette is pony-tailed and stark, different. Her purse hangs from her arm. “I’m going into town for some groceries and bottled water,” she says quietly. “Stay in bed. We’ll have breakfast when I come back. Billy’s not awake yet.” My eyes fall closed as she kisses me. The touch is cool. Then, she is gone. When I raise my hand to my cheek, my fingers come away wet.
The chill air makes me want to pull the covers up around my neck and slip away again. Instead, against the background of vague discomfort, a list of things to be done starts forming in my head. I hear the front door close, and then her soft footsteps across the front porch. The list grows longer, until I close it off by reminding myself that I’ll get it all done if I just do it one thing at a time. The Jeep starts up and drives away, and Billy appears in the bedroom door, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s Mommy going?” he says.
“She went to get something for you to eat,” I say, throwing off the covers and swinging my feet onto the floor. “She knows an appetite like yours won’t stand empty cupboards very long.” I pull on my Levis and slip a tee shirt over my head.
Smiling, he turns and goes back down the hall. His dresser drawer opens in his bedroom as I cross to the bathroom and close the door. I lift the lid and then drop it again. Billy comes down the hall as I stare at the closed bowl. Cautiously, I lift the lid again. It is floating there, in the small reservoir of pinkly clear water left at the bottom of the bowl, insignificant, flesh-colored, surrounded by pinpoint blood spatters on the clean white porcelain. The smudges under Barbara’s eyes now make sense, but why didn’t she say something? Billy taps at the door, “Dad. I need to go, he says.”
“Hold on a minute, son.” I close the lid again and open the door. Dressed, he looks ready to start his day. “Can you wait awhile, or is it urgent?”
“I need to go,” he says, fidgeting a little.
“Standing up or sitting down?”
“Standing up,” he says. He wants to hold himself, but won’t if I’m watching. He looks past me at the toilet.
“Well,” I say, “me too. This is one time we just have to do what we have to do. Let’s go,” I move past him through the hallway. When I look back at him, he has a puzzled expression on his face, but turns to follow. Outside, we go behind the house and around the side of the shed where no one can see us. “Okay,” I say, “right here.”
“Here?” He looks at me strangely.
“The toilet won’t flush because we’re out of water,” I say. “Just this once, we go outside.” Disbelieving, he hesitates until I unzip.
We stand, side by side, as the sky lightens above us, Billy smiling, I wishing I could.
Chapter 3
Power and Water—May
“Billy,” Barbara’s voice comes from the front porch, on the other side of the house, faint between the rhythmic crashes of the drilling rig. “Biiillly….”
I look down into the hole. He is bent over, scooping loose dirt into the saucepan we have stolen from the kitchen. He finishes and stands, looking up at me, his small round face smudged red. I kneel down and reach toward him as he maneuvers the pan past his body, spilling some of the dirt down on top of his boots. He lifts it with both hands, holding it up toward me.
“Sounds like your mama wants you, Cowboy,” I say, taking the pan, dumping the dirt on the pile, and handing the pan back down to him. “Probably lunch time.”
The back door opens and Barbara steps out onto the back porch. She looks out toward the rear of the house where I have been working all morning. Not seeing Billy, she calls again, “Biiillly.”
In the hole, Billy grins and puts a grimy finger to his lips, telling me not to give him away. I wink down at him and look over at Barbara. “Lunch just about ready?” I say, wiping the back of my arm across my eyes to clean away the sweat. “I’m hungry enough to eat the handle off my shovel.”
She frowns, smoothes the hair back from her forehead, looks out toward the highway. “Have you seen Billy?” she says. “I sent him out to play more than an hour ago, but I don’t see him anywhere.”
I move away from the hole and drop the heavy iron digging bar against the new, creosoted power pole lying there and sit down on it. Out of Billy’s sight, I nod my head toward the hole. Barbara raises her eyebrows and comes off the porch, smiling; Billy giggles. “You know,” I say, “I’ve got that hole about six feet deep now, and I’m just beginning to think I’ve been digging it in the wrong place. Guess I’ll just put all this dirt back into it and start a new one a few feet closer to the house. What do you think?”
Her smile widens as she comes toward me, speaking to the mouth of the hole. “Do you need some help filling it in? I could use the exercise. Let me have that shovel.”
“Maybe I’d better check and see if I left any tools down there before you start throwing dirt.” I move and peer down in the hole, keeping a straight face as Billy looks up at me. “Oh, would you look at that. I did leave something in there.” I kneel and reach down, grabbing Billy’s wrist. “Abracadabra!” I say, lifting him straight up and depositing him at her side, like a magician’s rabbit pulled from a silk hat.
Barbara takes a step back, wide-eyed, playing along. Then, she sees the pan Billy holds at his side. “My saucepan. What are you doing with that?” She takes it from Billy and looks at the dirt caked along the black bakelite handle, the scratches on the stainless finish. A shadow crosses her face, and I think we’re in trouble. Instead, she looks at Billy and the shadow deepens to a frown. “Billy, I told you to change into your play clothes before you went out. Look what you’ve done to those pants.”
She looks at me. “I think the two of you better eat on the porch. There’s no sense tracking in all that dirt.” On the other side of the house the drill rig goes quiet, making a silence more profound even than the sound of the bit crashing into the ground. “Should I make a sandwich for Rafael?”
He always goes home for lunch, but she always offers. “I’ll check with him.”
The rig sits in front of the house, halfway to the north fence. An old, red one-ton flatbed truck, sitting on wood blocks, with a tripod on the bed looming up twelve feet into the air. As I round the house, Rafael swings his leg over the crossbar of his bicycle.
“Hey, Rafael,” I yell.
He swings his leg off and waits for me to come, his chubby, patient face smiling.
“I’m knocking off for lunch, and Barbara asked if you’d like a sandwich.”
“Oh. Please, thank the señora for me… no,” he says, as if the thought of eating with us makes him uncomfortable. He lifts a scarred hand and rubs the back of his knuckle across his unevenly cropped, short black hair. “The drill breaks just now. I go twelve feet this morning, and I think there is no more hardpan, that it will be easy drilling. But this country,” he waves a hand outward, “this country is never the same twice.
“I drill a well last summer, same kind of ground. I break four bits in one day. I going to quit for lunch soon anyhow, but now I need to get my welder.”
“How far down do you think water will be?” Even before I have finished asking, I regret the words. It is a question he has heard so many times it must weary him. It is a question I myself have asked him, at least ten times in the past week. His answer this time is the same as every other time; even the smile is the same.
“The water, he is as far down as God put him. If he is here, I will find him. We must have faith.”
The first time I asked him this, he told me that there are other wells on this plateau where the water is as close as 75 feet; still others where it is more than 400 feet down. Either way, he said, there won’t be much flow. He asked me, then, who witched it for me. I mumbled something and didn’t tell him that I chose this spot, myself. I had no idea about getting someone to dowse it; and I’m not sure I would have put my faith in anyone wandering around holding a forked stick and waiting for the stick to point down, let alone paying him to do it. This seemed like a good spot to put a pump, on a slight rise and far enough away from the house so we wouldn’t have to listen to a motor turning on and off in the middle of the night. I marked the spot with a flagged stake and started asking around for a well driller.
Again Rafael swings his leg over the crossbar of the bicycle, to stand spraddle-legged, his rounded belly nearly reaching the handlebars. Paint has chipped off the bicycle’s frame, replaced by patches of rust; the seat is gone. Every day, he shows up around sunrise, having ridden more than four miles from the slat-sided, two-bedroom house he shares with his wife and six children in the little village southeast of here. He pushes off and stands on the pedals. The front wheel wobbles until his legs begin moving up and down. I watch him bump over the uneven ground, turning through the fence and heading for the road, arms straight, elbows locked, leaning his weight forward on the handlebars while his hips rise and fall.
Back at the house, Barbara has come out on the porch to see if he wants that sandwich. She watches him go, a disappointed look on her face. Turning to me instead, she says, “The water’s leaking again. I was going to wash Billy’s face and hands, but there’s no pressure.”
“Damn. Okay. I’ll find it. Wrap up that sandwich for me. This might take awhile.” I detour away from the house to the shed near the back fence, where I find a camp shovel, my last two hose clamps, a screwdriver, a coupler, a knife. Then back out front, where I begin my walk along the fenceline toward the road. In most places, I have buried the half-inch black plastic hose that brings our water from Mr. Silverman’s horse trough. My daily fear is that it will develop a leak where I snaked it through the drainpipe under the county road. So far, that section has held.
Halfway to the road, I find a wet spot in the loose dirt covering the hose. I drop my tools and scrape the dirt away with the shovel. A spray of warm water arcs up across my shirt and into my face. I kneel and cover the split with my thumb, stopping the spray. The split is nearly an inch long, caused by pressure and the heat from the sun softening the plastic. With the knife, I sever the hose above and below the split. Warm water runs slowly out into the dirt, puddling around my boot. I slide a clamp onto the hose and work the coupler up inside, the stiff walls of the hose expanding reluctantly. With the screwdriver, I tighten the clamp, securing that end of the coupler in place. The blade slips out of the groove and gouges into the web of my thumb. Blood wells up slowly out of the ragged flap of skin and I drop the running hose back to the dirt and put the hand to my mouth to suck away the blood. The other hose clamp has disappeared and I find it in the puddle, covered with a slurry of mud and grit. I rinse and slide it over the other end of the hose and put the now-muddy coupler against the open end of the hose, trying to push it up inside. Wet and slick, my hands slip toward one another. I rest both ends of the hose on my boot and wipe my hands on my pant legs. Then, taking the ends up again, I push them together. Water squirts wildly as the coupler begins to work up inside, wetting my pants and shirt. The coupler eases all the way in, choking off the stream of water. Before the pressure can build again, and blow the ends apart, I screw the second clamp tight and drop it all to the ground.
Taking up the shovel, I spoon dirt out of the puddle to bury the hose again, forming a smooth red lump of mud. There are now fifteen such lumps along the fence, and I wonder how many more I’ll have to make before Rafael completes the well. At least hose clamps are cheap. And, it’s better than hauling water in new, thirty gallon plastic trash cans all the way from Bitney Springs in the foothills. I did that for the first couple weeks we were here. Six cans, sloshing water every time I took a corner or hit a bump, I’d get home with maybe 100 gallons. A hell of a way to spend an afternoon.