In the nearest farmhouse, the widow Mattie Snyder was talking on the party line, discussing the right time to begin planting her garden.
In Big Stone, Jack Cloos, a volunteer fireman, was hunched over the oak bar in Redice’s Tavern, feeling a little guilty as he sipped a Hamm’s beer. He’d left his wife, Joan with their young children, ironing clothes, including a white shirt for him to wear to Mass the next morning.
Also in town, Ed Mounce was sitting at a small desk in his dining room, adding up receipts his wife had left in the cracked glass chicken-shaped dish on the kitchen counter. He planned to get a head start. Three days remained before the first of the month. If his wife had spent more than her month’s household allowance, he’d know how much to deduct from next month’s.
Back on our farm, a man, half-crazed with anger and alcohol, lurched back and stopped to admire his work. Jim Wellburn was a man who drank too much and, as a result, couldn’t keep a job. Needing an extra hand after his sons left home, and with a desire to help the man’s family, my father hired him on a part-time basis. But as Jim had proved less and less reliable, my father had become more and more frustrated and had recently fired him.
As he ran across the hog yard and into the trees, Jim may have felt a strange exuberance knowing, at last, that he’d done something irreversible, splendid, something the people on this farm and in the town would never forget. He struggled through brush, stomping on emergent poison ivy, and slipped and slid down the riverbank only a few hundred yards from his former boss.
My father, Roy, sat in the kitchen of the simple farmhouse at the counter he and his neighbor Heinie had made. They’d rebuilt the entire kitchen together, designing the small space so that Myrtle, my mother, would scarcely have to move, would need only to turn around to dip out the flour from a dropdown bin, or take just a short step to retrieve the milk from the refrigerator as she made her bread and her famous sweet rolls. They’d worked together when Heinie was still at his peak, still smoking two packs of Lucky Strikes a day, before emphysema started withholding oxygen, robbing Heinie of his spirit and Roy of Heinie’s companionship.
Roy’s hair was wet and covered by a net Myrtle had devised shortly after they’d gotten married, almost forty years before. The first week after they’d returned from their short wedding trip, she had seen how, after a shampoo, his hair, black and thick with glints of silver, ballooned out over his ears and above his forehead, making him look foolish. She went into their bedroom, returned with one leg of hose, and, after assuring him that she couldn’t wear it because of a wide run, snipped it in two. Then, tying one end in a tight knot, she gently worked the other over his poufed-out hair. That night—the night the barn would burn—Roy sat with wet hair, contained by Myrtle’s ingenuity and gentle hands, drinking his ninth, and, he thought, last, cup of coffee of the day.
Marian, Myrtle’s sister—almost a twin, only ten months separated them—who had driven six hours from Pierre that day so she could say goodbye to Barbara, her youngest niece, stood by the gas range, carefully layering pieces of homemade bread with hot wild plum sauce. She never could understand her nieces’ and nephews’ passion for wild plum cobbler, but the next night was to be Barbara’s farewell dinner, and, even though the cobbler was best served in winter, having been chilled to teeth-tingling coldness on the porch, it had been Barbara’s dessert request.
Marian thought back to the time when Myrtle telephoned her to tell her she was pregnant once again, with Barbara, as it so happened. Marian had congratulated her sister, but after she’d hung up she’d rested her head on the phone box and wept. Roy and Myrtle already had six children and one of those, Dorothy, the oldest, had been damaged at birth, so she never could walk or talk. She died a painful death at age nineteen.
How old had Barbara been when Dorothy died? Six? Seven? On that long-ago night, after Marian had hung up the phone, she could think of nothing good about the birth of one more child. She’d questioned God’s wisdom, but Barbara’s birth had turned out to be a wonderful thing. Now, years later, here was Barbara, having earned a college degree, ready to set off around the world, not worried at all about what her decision to join the Peace Corps would bring.
President Kennedy had asked young people to help by going to countries around the world, and Barbara couldn’t wait to be on her way. She’d already gone through training and studied the language. When Marian had driven into the farmyard earlier that day, Barbara had run to the car and said hello in Thai as she dipped down and raised her hands to her face in the traditional Thai greeting. Then she’d laughed and given Marian her usual hug.
Earlier that evening, when Marian had been alone with Myrtle, she’d asked her how she felt about Barbara’s going off so far, for such a long time.
“I’m just happy for her. It’s a wonderful opportunity,” Myrtle responded.
Marian didn’t ask any more questions.
Barbara’s clothes were upstairs, folded, ready to be packed, ready to follow her around the world to a country whose statistics they knew—latitude, longitude, capital—though they knew nothing about the life Barbara would live there.
On that May evening in 1963, I was in the kitchen. I’d just given my mother a shampoo and, in preparation for doing her hair, had piled a stack of metal rollers on the end of the counter, near the door. I’d brought a chair from the dining room and the footstool from the living room. With my mother comfortably ensconced, I tucked a faded pink towel under the neck of her dress and began drying her hair with another. As I started to comb her hair, I felt my mother relax and noticed the slight smile on her lips. She looked much younger than her sixty years.
“Oh, that felt good. Thank you, Barbara.”
“It’ll be a long time before I can do this again,” I said softly. “You will remember to send me Marker’s orange slices, won’t you?”
“Oh, of course I will. You’ll write often, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Remember, I don’t like the pale orange ones. They’re like mush. Get the dark orange ones. They’re more satisfying to chew.”
Aunt Marian laughed. “Barbara you’re the only connoisseur of candy orange slices I’ve ever met.”
I laughed, too, and, waving the comb in swoops above my mother’s head, asked in a fake French accent, “Now, how would Madame like to have zee hair set?”
“Nothing special. Nothing extravagant! Remember, we’re going to ten o’clock Mass in the morning.”
“Oh, let’s have some fun. How about a Jackie Kennedy style?”
“Quiet!” my father’s voice cut through our chatter. “What was that noise? Someone must be here.”
“I’ll get it, Dad.” I put down the comb and walked to the door. I saw a bright light reflecting off our Ford parked near the house, appearing as though another car was driving in. Then, looking to the right, toward the driveway, I saw streaks of orange and red on the gravel. What was happening? Unwillingly, my eyes were pulled up.
“Oh my God! The barn’s on fire!”
Towering flames, fed by the night air, were erupting through the roof. It was as if a giant’s invisible hand were tugging them toward the night sky. I dashed to the phone. When I lifted the receiver, I heard someone talking.
“Hang up! Our barn’s on fire!”
I punched the receiver’s rest viciously and dialed 0, trying to reach Big Stone’s operator. I tried again. The call didn’t go through.
“I’m driving to town for help!”
I rushed to the door and, not feeling the gravel on my bare feet, ran to the car and started it up. As I skidded out, I saw my father running toward the barn. I floored the accelerator, and the car wobbled on two wheels as I took the curve by the old cottonwood tree. I drove faster than I’d ever driven the twisting dirt road. As I came to the approach to the highway at the edge of town, I heard a wailful sound. It turned my stomach and brought a sour taste to my mouth.
“Farm fire,” the siren announced to neighboring farms, to the town, to th
e volunteer firemen, to Jack Cloos, well into his third Hamm’s, to Ed Mounce, who had almost figured out to the exact penny how much his wife had exceeded her allowance.
Hoping I was making the right decision, hoping there wasn’t another farm fire this night, this hour, I yanked the steering wheel around. I knew if I didn’t return down the narrow road before the fire engines I would be trapped out, trapped from my parents and the horrible thing that was happening to our farm.
I took the same curves and twists of the road as fast as I had a few minutes before. I didn’t think of what I was driving toward, only concentrated so that the car would stay on the road. Beginning the drive up the back side of the pigpen hill, I saw an eerie light. Behind me, the wails of the sirens made a strange dirge as they echoed around the curves, up and down the small hills. I let up on the accelerator only a little, just enough to make the curve by the old tree safely. Even though I didn’t look toward the barn as I drove the last yards toward the house, the fact of the fire was there. Its light filled the space around me, reflecting off every shiny surface.
Before the motor had stopped its rumble, I was out of the car. I turned toward the light and heat. Flames had almost devoured the roof. With that, I saw our entire yard illuminated orange. I could see each tree, each leaf, it seemed, outlined with a deadly glow. The burning hay in the loft had set the beams on fire. Their strong, arched ribs were brilliant streaks of red against the black sky. They formed the shape of a monstrous cathedral.
And there was my father, diminished almost to doll size, silhouetted against the fire. I saw him lead two cows out of the blaze and slap their flanks. This familiar motion, one I had observed since I’d been able to toddle to the barn, was strangely comforting. Then my father turned and walked back into the burning building.
“Dad! Don’t go back! Don’t go back!”
He couldn’t hear me, and I realized from the set of his shoulders, the force of his stride, that I could not stop him. He would never let his cows burn alive. I watched as the fire devoured beams, shingles, and studs. Twisted and bent the iron of the cows’ stanchions. Twisted and blackened the stainless-steel separator that my mother had carefully polished that morning. Twisted and destroyed the basketball hoop nailed to a wall of the haymow.
Big Stone’s two fire engines sirened to a stop. Men hopped off, canvas hoses unfurling behind them. I ran to the driver of the first engine. I recognized Jack Cloos from church.
“Dad’s in there! He’s gone back to get the cows.”
“Man inside! Man inside!” he bellowed, and, following the first man, ran toward the burning building.
I stood frozen. Three cars, one right after the other, slammed to a halt next to me. I watched as firemen on each side of the barn’s doorway pointed their hoses inward and then up, forming an arc of water that crossed in the air. Through that silvery arc emerged three cows, bellowing, heads rolling, eyes bulging, followed by my father. He was shouting and pounding the last cow with his fists, but I couldn’t hear him above the roar of the fire.
There seemed to be a halo around his head. What was that? Then I remembered my mother had given my father a shampoo and knew that my mother’s crafted hairnet was about to begin burning. Jack turned his hose on my father. I saw him stagger back, another fireman catch him before he fell. He held my father under his arms at an angle to the ground. My father’s feet spun as he tried to stand. Gently, as if in slow motion, the firemen righted him. Jack led him toward me.
“Take care of your dad,” Jack told me, before he ran back to the blaze.
My father leaned into me, panting. He was heavier than I expected, and I staggered back until we both rested on the rear bumper of the car.
“Dad! That was stupid.” The sentence began as a rebuke but ended softly.
“Just as stupid as you. What were you doing, driving back and forth?”
“My call didn’t go through. I drove to town for help.”
“And met the trucks on the way?” Though his voice sounded tired, his tone was sarcastic.
I started to answer him but saw that he was dripping water and bits of ash, and he smelled.
“Your hair’s been burned a bit.”
“Yeah, I stink. Like singed chicken feathers. Smells like your mother’s just plucked a bird and is getting it ready for dinner.”
His mention of my mother seemed to energize him. “Go! Go check on her!”
I ran into the house, through the kitchen, into the dining room. The familiar space gleamed. In the strange light, each piece of furniture stood out, distinct. The buffet with its vase of lilac blossoms, now drooping from the heat. The dining table covered with the white linen cloth, freshly laundered and ironed, ready for my party. I ran upstairs.
“Mom! Marian!” There was no answer.
It was hot. Sweat ran down my forehead, between my breasts. I heard a sound I couldn’t place. Was it raining? Could God possibly have intervened to save the barn? But the water wasn’t coming as drops; it was coming in gushes, splashing on the floor through the open window. In one terrible moment, I realized the firemen had given up on the barn and were now aiming their hoses at the house, which was now in danger from airborne bits of burning debris, trying to save it. Then there was silence. The noise of the torrent of water stopped, and I heard shouting.
Jack was calling out orders: “We’ve run out of water. Take that truck and back it down the riverbank. Put the hoses in the river.”
I looked out the window and saw Albert West, a city employee who was responsible for tending and polishing the fire engines.
“No! You’re not going to use the new engine!”
The two men were moving toward each other as they shouted. Their voices rose in volume as they drew closer to each other.
“Why not? For God’s sake!”
“Not the new engine! That barbed wire will ruin it.”
“What?” Jack shouted back. “Why in hell do you think we bought it? To put it in a museum?”
Jack shoved Albert aside, climbed into the cab of the shiny truck, wheeled it around, and started backing it up. I heard a long, high screech as metal scraped against metal.
“Mom! Marian! Where are you?” I turned back toward the stairs. The thought that the steps might no longer exist paralyzed me. These stairs were an entryway to solitude, a passage to a place where no one followed. I ran down them in a daze.
Not able to face going out the kitchen door toward the flames, I turned to the south porch and went out onto the lawn. At the far end, under the trees, I saw, in the glow that filled every space of the curve of earth that held our farm, two small figures. I ran toward them.
“Mom, Marian, what are you doing!”
Marian said, “We brought your things for your trip down from your room. Your mother wanted to make sure they weren’t ruined.”
On the grass they’d laid the old spread from my bed. On it in neat piles were my blouses and skirts, still carefully folded, shoes lined up side by side, camera, film in its small black cylinders, dark glasses, Thai dictionary, and journal-to-be. Everything for my trip was there. In the house were my mother’s silver and her delicately etched goblets, my parents’ wedding photograph, graduation portraits of my brothers, sisters, and me, the only photo of Dorothy that existed, the only one that would ever be. Every material thing my mother valued.
It was close to sunrise when I climbed the stairs to bed. The window in my room faced the empty air where the barn had stood. My father had driven to town for a case of beer and given it to the firemen, who were staying to make sure the fire did not revive. I fell asleep to the men’s laughter and sizzling sounds as they relieved themselves on the hot ashes.
The next morning, Jack Cloos, filthy and exhausted, slipped up the side aisle of St. Charles Borromeo Church ten minutes after Mass had begun to sit by the side of his wife, their children clean and crisp on her right. That afternoon, the miser Ed Mounce had to forgo fishing so that he could figure his wife’s account one m
ore time. My party took place as planned, minus the wild plum cobbler and mother’s famous sweet rolls, all of which the firemen had devoured the night before. Marian returned to her job in Pierre one day late. She called her employer and told him what had happened, and thus was able to stay and wave goodbye to me at the Aberdeen airport.
A tall barn was never rebuilt; the cost of lumber made it prohibitive. A one-story concrete barn was constructed in its place.
My mother and father worked on.
On one of the planes I boarded on my long trip to Thailand—the last, from Hong Kong to Bangkok—I leaned back and the happenings of the night the barn burned returned. I saw the towering flames, the awful beauty of the fire, and my pulse raced. Saw my shoes lined up carefully on the grass and again felt grateful for what my mother and aunt had done, but that gratitude was tinged with a nagging sense of inadequacy. Did I measure up to these two women whom I loved so much? Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I turned to the window so my seatmate wouldn’t notice.
As I searched for a tissue, I struggled to find the tab on the zipper of my bag. When I felt the metal, I thought of my father that night. How had he managed to open the stanchions to free the cows? The iron must have been red hot. I heard again the tone of his voice as he asked me why I’d driven to town. Would I ever please him?
The events of the night continued to spin in my mind. I wanted, desperately needed, to do something physical, to get up and move around. I longed to go for a walk. A walk along the river.
AN UNFORESEEN PLEASURE
When he reached the age of seventy, my father began to liquidate his farm animals. He resisted getting rid of the cows for a long time, but being tied to the essential twice-a-day milkings had become too restrictive. When there had been at least one child at home, he’d had freedom to take short trips. More than once when my parents traveled, that necessary chore had fallen to me; I’d always managed to enlist a friend to help with that onerous task.
Lost Without the River Page 14