One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel

by Olivia Hawker

“We’ll be closer to Ernest until his sentence is finished. I must apologize to him—make him forgive me, if I can. If I can’t, then I shall live apart from him. But it’s time we left. There’s no life for me here on the prairie, out in the open wilds. And Beulah—I’ve her future to consider. I can’t say what Ernest will choose to do, but if God has any mercy upon my unworthy soul, then Ernest will remain with me in town. If he doesn’t decide to come back to this farm—without me, for I certainly will not return—then you and Clyde must have it.”

  “That’s . . . quite generous,” Nettie Mae said. And yet she couldn’t feel any pleasure at the offer. She would miss Cora terribly if she pulled up stakes and moved away. Bitter as the winter had been, still Nettie Mae had found some affection for her neighbor. And the bond that united them now—of shared hardships overcome—held them more tightly together than mere friends. “But you can’t simply leave, Cora. You can’t just give away this farm. The decision must come from your husband, in the end.”

  “It will. I assure you.” Cora’s fingers tightened until Nettie Mae almost winced. “It will; I’ll convince Ernest. I’ll prove to him it’s right. After all you’ve done for me and my children, nothing else seems just.”

  Nothing seems just but that you should go on living here. We have had our time as enemies. That season has passed. Now let us live in a new day. Let us come together as sisters. Nettie Mae couldn’t force herself to speak those words. The pressure in her throat was too much to bear.

  Cora’s shoulders heaved as she drew a long, deep breath. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then burst out, “I know I ought to move to town, and yet I’m afraid. Isn’t that just like me? Frightened to go, frightened to stay. I’m dreadfully worried that Ernest will choose the farm over me, if I do go. Oh, Nettie Mae, I wish I had your strength and resolve!”

  Bewildered, Nettie Mae shook her head. “You are strong, Cora. The way you took it all in hand, today with the fire . . . I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. The way I see you now. But I won’t push you to up and leave, if you’re hoping I’ll make the decision for you. The truth is, I should be sorry to lose you as my neighbor. And as my friend.”

  “You . . . you consider me a friend?”

  “How not?” Nettie Mae laughed, and the burst of humor cooled her a little, like water on a fevered brow. “You saved my home, after all.”

  “It would ease some of my fears,” Cora said, “if I could believe I had a friend—some society.”

  Nettie Mae offered a wry smile. “We hardly make a society, you and I.”

  “But we might come to be true friends someday, close as sisters, with time.”

  “I would like that,” Nettie Mae said quietly. “I believe I would like it very much indeed.”

  The lantern moved out in the darkness—Clyde making his round of the pens. Nettie Mae watched the distant orb of light for a moment, a pensive air dampening her mood. At length, she said, “But if you remain, Cora, we must be clear about our children.”

  “Clyde and Beulah?”

  “Yes. It is for the best if they don’t associate more than is strictly necessary. Clyde can’t afford to be distracted now. He’s trying to become a man—growing into the man he ought to be. But he isn’t, just yet. God alone can say whether Clyde and Beulah will marry someday. Until the Lord makes His will known, you and I must do what our husbands cannot. I must guide a young man onto a righteous path, and you must guide your daughter.”

  “I see.”

  Nettie Mae took Cora’s arm, fearful that her insistence on Clyde’s safety might smother this fragile, precious thing—the tentative new friendship blossoming between them. “Please understand. I mean you no ill, and I don’t wish to see Beulah hurt by the same mistakes you made.”

  “I don’t want to see my daughter hurt, either. Oh, Nettie Mae, I can’t ask you to forgive me for what I did—taking Substance away from you. But the truth is, I never cared for him. He never meant a thing to me, nor I to him; I know it’s true. I’m quite sure that makes it all the more terrible . . . what I did. I dallied with your husband for no good reason, but there was never any love between us. I wanted you to know that. I wanted to tell you before I leave for Paintrock. If I leave for Paintrock.”

  Nettie Mae gazed out toward the steady spot of light. It no longer moved; Clyde had set his lantern on the wall of the sheepfold, perhaps, and was now keeping the long watch of hours. Minding the land—his land. She imagined her son leaning on the stone wall, quiet and self-assured. She could almost hear the rustle of animals in the night, the soft puff of breath as the herd ram drew near and smelled Clyde—not Substance—strong and vigilant in the dark. Satisfied, the ram would slip back among his ewes, and none of the animals would bleat or shiver.

  “To tell you the truth,” Nettie Mae said, “I didn’t much care for Substance, either.”

  CLYDE

  We’ve finished here. I’ve finished. Time to move on, to leave the past behind. My future is waiting.

  Those were Clyde’s first, cryptic thoughts on waking late next morning. For long moments, he lay disoriented in an unfamiliar bed, breathing in a faint scent of mildew from the unturned mattress, groggy and still half-asleep. He listened to his mother’s voice. Nettie Mae was speaking to someone. Another voice answered now and then, soft and melodious, clearly belonging to a woman. But to whom?

  His thoughts strayed to Beulah and he slipped into a dream of her, but in the dream all he could see was her hand running along the fringed tops of grasses. A crow called—in the dream, or in the waking world? He clawed his way up to real wakefulness, listening for the crow to call again, but the field outside the small window lay silent, lit by a gentle sun that had already climbed well toward its apex.

  Nettie Mae spoke again. Clyde couldn’t make out her words, but the tone caught his attention, sharpening his focus. She sounded happy. She laughed, a sound Clyde had rarely heard unless the laugh was bitter. A moment later, he realized the other voice must belong to Cora.

  And this is Cora’s house. That’s why the bed is unfamiliar.

  He rolled carefully to the edge of the bed, for his body was stiff from hours of toiling on the roof, and his chest still burned from the hot smoke he had inhaled. The future might indeed be waiting just ahead, but Clyde felt like an old man, aching and hesitant. The little fellows’ bed wasn’t long enough to accommodate his body; he’d been obliged to lie corner to corner, and his back and shoulders had worked themselves into further knots while he slept. Clyde stretched carefully in a slant of sunlight, then dressed and went out to the kitchen, hoping his pained hobble wasn’t too readily apparent.

  In the kitchen, Clyde witnessed a wonder: Nettie Mae and Cora were working together over new bread, sleeves rolled above their elbows, each pressing and rolling a ball of dough side by side at Cora’s long table. A dusting of flour hung around them, silver and shimmering in the morning light. They chattered like town girls as they worked, like two old friends. They smiled—Nettie Mae smiled at Cora. Clyde halted on the kitchen threshold and stared, disoriented, half-convinced he was still dreaming, or that exhaustion had rotted his mind.

  Nettie Mae noticed her son and turned that startling smile on him. A streak of flour lay along her jaw, which only made her seem younger, more improbably girlish.

  “You’re awake,” she said. “We thought it best to let you sleep as long as you would. What a day we all had yesterday! Have you rested well?”

  Clyde rubbed the back of his aching neck, hoping it seemed a casual gesture. “Fairly well, thanks. What time is it? How long did I sleep? The work—”

  “Is all in hand,” Nettie Mae said. “Don’t fret about that. You were out so late tending the sheep; you needed a good long rest, Clyde.”

  “Beulah has gone over to milk the cows,” Cora said, “and the children are out playing in the garden, though I told them to gather the eggs and feed the hens. We’ve fed the little ones already, but let me fix you a good breakfast. No
bread and butter for you; after all that happened yesterday, you need a proper meal.”

  Clyde sat gratefully at the far end of the table, where the flour hadn’t yet found its way. Cora left her dough to rise in a cloth-covered bowl, then busied herself with eggs and an iron skillet, which she positioned over a bed of carefully raked coals.

  Nettie Mae resumed her kneading. “Did any lambs come last night?”

  Clyde didn’t answer right away; her air of contentment was so foreign to him, it startled the words and sense right out of his mind. “Not yet,” he said at length, “but soon.”

  “Any trouble with varmints so far this spring?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “That’s comforting news. After such a long winter, I half expected we’d find ourselves surrounded by starving wolves.”

  The eggs began to crackle on the skillet. The pork fat in which Cora was frying them filled the kitchen with a salty, compelling scent, and his stomach grumbled loud enough for the women to hear.

  Cora spooned the last of a hearty porridge from the kettle and set the bowl in front of Clyde. “The eggs will be ready soon, but it sounds as if you can’t wait.” She placed a crock of preserves on the table, too. “Strawberry. I found a few jars of good preserves in the pantry. We neglected to bring them over to your place, so they’ve survived the winter. Don’t let the children know, or the preserves will be gone in a wink.”

  Clyde spooned a generous helping of strawberries over his porridge and tucked in. The preserves were so sweet that for a moment he could scarcely draw a breath. The sweetness cheered him enough to drive back some of his aches. Refreshed, he sat up straighter in his chair and watched his mother’s hands working over the dough. There could be no doubt that something had lightened within her. Nettie Mae had never been derelict in duty, but neither had she worked with such pluck. Cora, too, had changed overnight. Much of her timid nature had fallen away. She moved about the kitchen with an air of authority, a straight-backed confidence that looked as foreign on Cora Bemis as cheer did on Nettie Mae. Perhaps Cora’s altered demeanor was merely a matter of living under her own roof again.

  She scraped the eggs from her skillet and handed the steaming plate to Clyde. Weakened as he was from the previous day’s exertions, Clyde’s body craved the hearty food so desperately that he had to remind himself to use his fork and to take the eggs one bite at a time. The richness of the yolks almost made him giddy.

  When he had finished eating, he eased back in his chair. “When do you expect Beulah will be back with the milk?”

  Clyde had done his best to sound casual, but he didn’t miss the quick flick of his mother’s eye, a searching consideration so brief, only Clyde could have noticed—he who had known Nettie Mae for sixteen years. Ah, he thought, so Mother hasn’t entirely abandoned her accustomed ways.

  “She likely won’t come back any time soon,” Cora said. “You know how she is—dreamy, always allowing herself to be distracted by something.”

  Clyde cleared his throat, stacked his dishes, and rose without any great show of haste. “Well, anyhow, I’ll head over to our place and see to the sheep. Check the house, too, for any new signs of burning.”

  Nettie Mae spoke up at once. Her old note of sternness had returned. “You mind your work and leave Beulah to hers.”

  Clyde took his mother’s meaning. He couldn’t say what this strange new truce between the women might signify, but Nettie Mae hadn’t relented. She still expected Clyde to obey her command and keep well away from Beulah.

  He struck out across the pasture. The season flourished all around him, sending up that which was fresh and green in vertical bursts, a clamor of renewal striving toward an open sky. Clyde’s pain relented as he walked, as his young body loosened. He was as eager as the growing field—rising, reaching for what was his, leaving the darkness of winter behind. As he drew near his own land, he noticed some boards blown askew down the side of a horse shelter, and old shingles rattling on the roof of the long shed. He must make repairs—and he would begin right away, that very afternoon, if no lambs were born. Perhaps he would build another shed this year, and a second coop for his mother’s hens. His right hand tightened in a fist, longing for a hammer or a saw, ready for industrious energy after months of subdued survival.

  Clyde found no sign of Beulah near the cow pen, but the cows seemed content, relaxing in the sun, cropping new growth that spilled from the edges of their paddock into the muddy enclosure. The milking was finished; otherwise, the cattle never would have been so quiet. Clyde opened the gate and the cows crowded through, jogging toward the pasture, swinging their ropy tails. When they had gone, Clyde gazed around hopefully, searching for Beulah. But she was nowhere to be seen.

  At the horse corral, the herd pushed to greet him, each animal seeking his touch, his approval. When he had patted and praised them all, Clyde held Joe Buck around the neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his hide.

  “We ought to go for a ride soon, old Joe. No reason; just for the fun of it.” He fairly itched to get up into the foothills, to look down from their height at a fresh world waking. Joe Buck whickered in agreement.

  No farm lacked for work, so Clyde didn’t fritter away his time at the corral. He headed for the sod house, intent on inspecting the rafters for signs of fire, but before he reached the kitchen steps, the door of the root cellar swung open. He stifled a shout, but surprise quickly turned to a warm rush of pleasure. There Beulah stood in the doorway, blinking at him, half smiling, her brightness framed by the dark inside the cellar, so she seemed to exist in sharp clarity, the most compelling figure in a world made imperatively new.

  “There you are,” Clyde said. “I was looking for you.”

  “I put the milk pails in the cellar to keep them cool. I figured you could hitch up your float and we could drive them back to my ma’s house. That’d be faster and easier than carrying them all that long way.”

  “Mother won’t like it much, to see us driving together.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then blurted, against his better judgment, “I don’t much care what she likes, though.”

  “Of course you care. She’s your ma.”

  Clyde’s face turned hot. He couldn’t quite make himself look at Beulah—not directly. “But she won’t be the only woman in my life forever.”

  Beulah made no reply. She only pushed the cellar door with her toe so it swung outward, then slowly returned to her. Clyde could feel the girl waiting, patient as ever, for him to say something more. He didn’t know what to say, though, couldn’t even tell what he’d meant in the first place. She pushed the door again; its iron hinges creaked as it swung.

  If I knew what words I ought to say, I doubt I’ve got courage enough to speak them. And he didn’t know what he wanted to tell Beulah, anyhow—what pounded so urgently inside his chest, flapping like a trapped bird. He had no name for the feeling. It was springtime itself, a great green flush of wild newness, an awareness of the sky. She was the prairie, and the prairie was his home. If he said those words, she wouldn’t understand—not even Beulah would understand.

  The girl seemed to realize Clyde had no wits to break his own silence. She left the cellar, shut its door, and moved toward him with an air of setting about her business—getting to work. Beulah pulled something small and dry from the pocket of her pinafore and held it up in those slender, sun-freckled fingers.

  “See what happened,” she said. “I checked this morning, when your ma got up and left my old room. Look!”

  She pushed the thing she held into Clyde’s hand. It was the barley head with its single long parchment leaf—the dried scrap to which the insect eggs had been affixed in their row of perfect chevrons. Gently, Clyde turned the barley leaf over and examined its underside. The ivory eggs were gone—shattered, opened to release whatever strange new life had slumbered within. Only their imprints remained, a delicate interlocking pattern of ovals set into the pale hardened stuff that had held them to t
he leaf.

  “It’s pretty,” he said. “I mean, the pattern the eggs left behind. Like a picture woven into cloth.”

  All at once, and for no good reason Clyde could name, something thick and hot surged in his chest. The sensation so overwhelmed him that it almost brought tears to his eyes. He blinked hard, thrusting the leaf back into Beulah’s hand, and turned away. He stood that way, unable to face her, but with hands braced on hips as if nothing had moved him at all. It had felt good to be moved, though, to have noticed a small, subtle beauty. Like the pain he’d had on waking, the ache was not unpleasant—a tightness of muscle that comes after hard labor, and heralds not weakness but a greater strength to come.

  Clyde had always seen his farm as a necessity, the center of an unadorned life that sustained him and his mother but gave little more than what he put into it. The land had always been, in Clyde’s reckoning, a simple machine—functional, but lacking in elegance or beauty. Never before had it struck him as something lovely; but now, with the pattern of life imprinted in his mind, woven into awareness, he saw not the spiritless machine but the intricacy of its workings. Sun and soil and leaf and root, animal and stone, bone, human strength, human weakness, all moved together, worked together, dictating one great pattern of dependence. Each creature and plant, every person, fitted into its place. The perfection of the weave sped his pulse; his ears roared with awe. He was pressed down into the mystery that held them all, pressed like a track in river mud. And like red mud, like the richness of damp soil, the substance into which Clyde was pushed flowed and fitted around him, held him precisely in his place, sited him in the great and intricate order.

  Maybe, Clyde thought, there was no need to tell Beulah how he felt about her, after all. Maybe she already understood. Did she not feel, as Clyde felt now, the way they had fallen into this natural, perfect state—the way their two small lives fit together, just so, interlocked like the insect eggs or like the seeds at the head of the barley stem? Beulah saw. She knew. Clyde was certain of it; Beulah saw everything.