Plains Song

by Wright Morris

  For Cora to live on the farm alone was unthinkable, until they thought it. It was what she knew. Who else would know where to look for the eggs? As soon as he could, with the war ended, Ned would put in her inside toilet. She would burn cobs in the range to cook, but oil in the coal burner for heat. In January she could visit with Madge if the feuding of the girls didn’t drive her crazy, which it did. Madge called her twice a week to chat, and ask how she was. When Cora said that at her age one day was like another, but the nights were different, she felt shooting pains where the horse had bit her, that’s what she had felt. Only later, when she thought about it, did it occur to her that it had not been a horse.

  The old tree that had once shaded the house now let in so much light she had to keep the shades drawn. Everywhere she went, in the barn or the pump shed, in the cobhouse or the storm cave, or where the rakes and harrows were overgrown with grass, or along the cow trail that led to the pasture, she would find something Emerson had put down and forgotten to pick up. A tool or a hoe, pieces of grindstone, the blade of a scythe without the handle, the right hand of a pair of gloves, taken off so he could search his pockets for matches. In the muck of the stable, a pair of rubber boots. In the pocket of a sweater on a nail in the barn, a lump of half-sucked hoarhound in a piece of bread wrapper. She left it in the pocket, but brought the sweater back to a hook on the porch.

  Boards in the sheds broke under her weight, little as it was. In the upstairs bedrooms bats whooshed through the holes in the screens, stirring the curtains. In the seat of the platform rocker she found an egg. Were the hens moving in with her? It confounded her to ponder how it had got there. In a dresser drawer full of Fayrene’s doll clothes she found what had once been kittens. By lamplight she darned the stockings Madge brought her, the screen at her back crawling with insects. In the winter she did afghans and quilts.

  Madge and Ned came upon her seated on the bed holding the bean bag dolls she had made from flour sacks. Madge had called and called but Cora had not answered the phone. Cora was given her choice: she could share a room with Blanche, in Madge’s house, or she could go live with Fayrene, in her new house. The week she spent with Blanche, Ned, and Madge, Cora did not eat. They had had the same problem when they visited the fair, and nothing had worked until they took her home. Fayrene found it easier, far as it was, to drive from O’Neill to the farm, two or three times a week, and look in on her. The door to the upstairs was bolted so she wouldn’t fall when she walked about at night. She told Madge that Belle had come over to visit her. From the room off the kitchen she had spoken to Cora, never showing her face. “Is that you, Belle?” she had asked, but there was no mistaking it had been Belle’s voice. Often the drone of thronging bees filled her ears like water. Fayrene didn’t have the time to go and look for her if she wasn’t in the house. She would clean up a bit, then put food out on the table, which she hoped Cora would get before the mice did. Fayrene told Madge when she first had the feeling that the person eating the food wasn’t Cora. She couldn’t prove it, of course. But that was how she felt. She took Ardene, her grandchild, along with her when she paid a visit to the farm. The child had turned in the yard to look back and see Cora standing in the door of the barn, holding a syrup pail. Ardene had simply not been able to speak. Cora had turned away, and later Fayrene and Avery had found the syrup pail in the cobhouse, full of eggs. Before winter they would have to do something. They agreed to that.

  Against the morning chill Cora might be seen in Orion’s stocking cap, pulled down over her ears, one of Emerson’s old sweaters with holes in the pockets. If strangers happened to see her, she would greet them like friends, saying, “Come in where it’s cool,” and open the screen. Madge and Fayrene took turns stopping by the farm. One day they found the fire in the range had died, the water boiled out of the kettle. Madge went to look for her at Orion’s place, but it was Rosalene who found her crouched on a milk stool in the cobhouse, unable to get up. Tightly gripped in one hand she held the cob she had been using to hand-shell popcorn, the white kernels loose in the pouch of her apron. Her eyes were wide, but Madge could not get her to speak. What had she wanted with popcorn, without her teeth?

  Some would say that Madge, against Cora’s will, should have taken her into her home in Norfork. A person so old is not able to best judge her own good. They agreed, however, that it was her chores that kept her going as long as she did. Hearing voices she would say, “Come in where it’s cool,” as if the lawn before her was green as winter wheat, the sky blue as ice, the light clear as rain water. Chores would come to her without her need to know what they were.

  Between President Kennedy’s assassination and her first stroke, there was nothing so unusual in the family that Madge had to call Sharon to tell her about it. One thing followed another. Madge sometimes wondered if anyone in the family would notice if it didn’t.

  Ned Kibbee’s always doing as he pleased, which meant building no more houses than he cared to, soon found him employed as a carpenter to a builder of tract houses in Lincoln. This man built nice, up-to-date houses for almost a third less than Ned could build them. He paid Ned a good wage but the work he did gave him little satisfaction. The younger men were gone before he got to know them, or they sat around during the lunch break talking about girls and football. Ned had never played games. That they were now played by grown men who did nothing else left him bewildered. He shared this perplexity with the elderly widow who operated the motel where he spent his week nights. She confessed to him, with embarrassment, that she spent hours of each day watching the TV in the office. It was there for the guests, but during the periods of idleness it helped her pass the time. The people she saw in the serials were the only people she saw often enough to feel that she knew them. When one of them died she felt it as a personal loss. Mrs. Mullen had been living in Lincoln when the Stark-weather boy, and the girl he had, committed all those senseless murders, so it had not come as such a surprise to her when the President was assassinated. She no longer felt she really understood young people, including five of her own. Ned Kibbee had never felt that other people’s business was in any way whatsoever his own business, but evenings he spent with Mrs. Mullen led him to reflect more on what he saw around him, little of which he liked.

  Madge had been slowed up for several years before she had her stroke. The stroke simply brought it to people’s attention, and in some ways that made it easier for her. Fayrene Dickel, or one of her girls, would stop and do what Blanche couldn’t do for her. She sat more. There was not a lot for her left to do but eat. Fayrene would have given her a TV but Madge really liked what she heard better than what she saw. It was hard for her to ignore what she didn’t like if she was watching it. All the years that they had had Blanche around the house, and all the things Blanche had learned without Madge’s troubling to tell her, proved to be so helpful Madge often wondered if that was not the way it had been intended. Blanche had always been happy in the things she did for others, and with more to do she was happier than ever.

  If Madge got worse, which was more likely than her ever getting better, Blanche would be able to take care of Ned even better than Madge had. She loved her daddy, but Madge admitted there was truth in Caroline’s saying that Ned often treated her like a pet.

  Blanche was not to be likened to anything but herself, her contentment in doing what she happened to be doing, her willingness to do whatever Madge suggested, her delight in anything that was done for her, and her unchanging, unspoken, unreasonable aversion to Caroline. When they were little girls Madge had thought they might be like herself and Sharon Rose, drawn together by their differences, but Caroline, a little magpie as a child, could never accept Blanche’s silence. Together they were like pickles and ice cream. Caroline was like Sharon in her early resentment that she should like boys more than she did girls, but she was not at all like Sharon in the impression she made on people. She was like her father, but in a man it didn’t rile people up so much.

  No
one could look at Fayrene Dickel and imagine what she had been like as a girl. After five girls of her own she was still thin as a rail, with more to do socially than she could find the time for. Her complexion was rough, under the powder, but there was hardly a sign of the acne that once made it hard for Madge to look at her. Her eldest daughter, Eileen, had persuaded her to wear a two-tone wig. To recall what she had looked like as a girl Madge had to look at Maureen, who had her father’s gray eyes but Fayrene’s buck teeth before she lost them. Fayrene had found it hard to speak when she came to live with Madge, but now, as Ned said, just try to shut her up. Madge liked her. She was as full of life as a box of kittens. With Avery’s success she had a big new home she could hire people to keep clean for her. On a camping trip to Yellowstone Park she took Blanche along as if she was one of her family. Privately, Madge felt that Fayrene looked better with her own gray hair and glasses without gems on them, but there were things Madge did, like doze off during meals, to which Fayrene took exception but didn’t complain about.

  Avery Dickel was a hulking, easygoing man, liked almost as much by people as he was by animals. He still had his bushy hair, white now at the temples, and there were people who thought he should run for public office. He was the first to hire a woman veterinarian to handle the small pets in his office. Dogs had always liked Avery, and would follow his car if they weren’t chained up. Entirely on her own Caroline went directly to Avery when she needed the money for two years of graduate school. If money proved to be a problem all the girls knew that they could turn to Avery for it, and with that understanding most of the problems worked themselves out.

  None of Fayrene’s girls were particularly attractive but they all seemed to appeal to boys. The prettiest, Eileen, who looked like Avery’s mother, was so thin they mistakenly thought she was frail. Yet who but Eileen would be the first of the girls to have a son. Madge had thought that Eileen would have to be more forward if she wanted to get the attention of boys, but her shy, almost bashful manner actually attracted some boys to her. She never lacked for attention, if that was what she wanted. If she had been Madge’s child they might have seen more of Sharon Rose.

  There was one thing that happened, but it was so unusual Madge preferred not to think about it. Caroline had given both counsel and money to a Lehigh girl who had an abortion. Madge’s great fear had been that something might pop out of Caroline in her sleep.

  Fayrene had got into genealogy through a Mormon boy who had been sweet on Eileen. Her main interest had been people with all-girl families. Both the Atkinses and the Averys went back to England, the Atkinses as far as the seventeenth century. Where they went before that was anybody’s guess. Fayrene’s youngest girl, Maureen, now in her second year at dental college, had flown to England with her friend Billie Gaines where they cycled alone all over Hampshire. Maureen admired Caroline, and Blanche could see in how many ways she would have her problems, especially with boys.

  After the Second World War Sharon Rose settled down to teach in Wellesley, just a short ride from Boston. Her best friend was Monica Searles, who taught piano and voice, and accompanied Yvette Bonnel in her song recitals. Sharon thought Yvette’s voice was both small and strained, but over the years Monica had grown accustomed to it. Being the only one who drove a car, and more practical by nature, Monica helped Sharon with her chores on those days she was not assisting Yvette. It had proved a mistake for the three of them to lunch or shop together. Monica reserved Sundays for Sharon, and they would drive to a country inn for dinner, then return to Boston for the symphony program. Monica was partial to Charles Munch, but Sharon thought he lacked Koussevitzky’s feeling. Neither Monica nor Sharon cared to fly, but they had twice gone by steamer to England, and from there to the musical season in Zurich. Monica was hardly taller than Sharon, nervous in manner, and given to food allergies and fretting, but loyal and affectionate by nature. She looked after Yvette on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and the other four days she devoted to Sharon. It piqued Sharon to reflect that she told them both to rest and avoid drafts. Sharon took long daily walks on the Wellesley campus, which reminded her so much of parts of England, reserving the late morning for her piano students. Perhaps she was more respected by her students than liked. Young women “into music,” especially the piano, were prone to almost feverish attachments to their teachers, which proved detrimental to their studies. Monica deplored this as much as Sharon, but she never seemed to learn from her experience. Each year she had several new close attachments, followed by painful withdrawals. All these young women were ignorant of what it cost Sharon to spare them what she had not been spared herself. It was known to them all that she had once “given freely of herself” and been hurt.

  Sharon did indulge herself in allowing Monica, four years her senior, her health hardly robust, to fuss over her and run errands at the expense of time and energy she might have devoted to the hopelessly dependent Yvette. Sharon allowed her dislike of Yvette to result in this self-indulgent, uncharitable behavior, feeling that if Monica insisted on caring for people, it might as well be her.

  A last letter from Lillian Baumann, shortly after the war, began with affectionate memories of their meeting in Lincoln, their growing closeness in Chicago and London, then ended abruptly to avoid an expression of her increasing bitterness. War had shattered the England she loved. Sharon had failed her expectations. After Lillian’s death, her friend Ivy Moseley had returned to Sharon a packet of her letters to Lillian, which Ivy had left unread. Giving oneself to the past was even more fruitless than giving oneself to others. Sharon found life acceptable without the need to flatter or think well of herself.

  In October the plain is dry as dust, but through the windows of the airport it glistens as if freshly painted. When the glass vibrates it appears to quiver, as if alive. Football fans, wearing red hats and red jackets, stream in and out the doors, crowd into taxis. The two women who stand at the Travelers Aid counter are old enough to evaluate their conflicting impressions. One has come back to where she started and took the greatest pains to get away from. Unless sprinkled with regrets, she is thinking, happiness is a shallow emotion. Nevertheless, she feels more at home than she had been led to expect. She stands near, and appears to be part of, a large display of pumpkins, ears and stalks of corn, as well as bundles and vases of dried arrangements. These muted fall colors seem to have been chosen to harmonize with the outfit she is wearing. Her hat is forest green, with a pheasant’s feather, the jacket of tan gabardine over a straw-colored blouse with a gold pin at the throat. Suede shoes with low heels match her hat. A coiled braid of silver hair is gathered to a bun at the nape of her neck. It has always been Sharon Rose’s feeling, and her practice, that to be in good taste is to be inconspicuous.

  Her companion, an exact foot taller, wears a black sleeveless cape over a habit (it is the word that comes to mind) of the color made famous by the order of Gray Mothers. She is hatless; her short, crisp hair is worn in a mannish pompadour. Few trouble to notice its color. Her beak-nosed face, the erect posture that seems to tilt her slightly backward, enhance the impression of a figure designed to symbolize something. There is nothing about her that is not conspicuous.

  Just the moment before, the name of Sharon Rose Atkins had been hawked over the public address system. It made no visible impression on the throng that milled about as if lost. A young woman in a uniform designed by a man, which called attention to her squat unfortunate figure, came toward Sharon, leading three elderly people, one a male. Out of long habit the two women trailed behind him, a slow vehicle in fast traffic. The brim of his sweat-stained hat had been wiped back so that he could see better, but it didn’t help. Confronting Sharon Rose, he blinked his eyes. He had expected something more substantial.

  “You’re Miss Atkins?”

  Sharon nodded. To gain time he blew his nose, dabbed the cloth at his eyes. The tall stooped woman directly behind him gazed at Sharon as if she were a child in a manger. She said, “You’ve got a
brother named Walter?”

  “No.”

  “A sister Gloria?”

  “No.”

  The old man stepped back to gain perspective. A topcoat was draped over his shoulders. His long gray face cocked to the left to put his better eye in focus.

  “You’re not Adelaide?” No, Sharon Rose was not Adelaide. She felt the keenness of the woman’s disappointment. In a gesture that startled Sharon, and held her eyes, the woman put her fingers to her lips as if to hush them. The man turned to face the women. “She says it ain’t her.”

  “Well, I suppose she knows.”

  “There must be other Atkins,” said Sharon.

  “Not with Walter for a brother,” the woman replied. She seemed to feel this refuted Sharon’s position.

  “I don’t think it’s her,” the other woman said. “She wouldn’t be so small.”

  Hearing that, the man wheeled and led them off. The rear view of the tall stooped woman with the narrow shoulders, one hand clutching her purse, one held out from her side as if gripping an invisible pail, held Sharon’s attention. Her feet, in unaccustomed shoes, were not at home on the lobby’s smooth surface.

  For the second time on the same day, Sharon had been mistaken for somebody else. I’m Sharon Atkins, she had said. Didn’t she look it? She felt the need to check on her appearance. Someone who knew her—back here where she had come from—should step forward and reassure her. In the airport in Boston she had been approached by a woman both bizarre and distinguished in appearance, who now stood beside her. Tall, with short-cropped gray hair, wearing a cape over a smock. As if Sharon had beckoned to her, she said, “I’m Alexandra Selkirk,” and put down her flight bag.

  Sharon had returned her gaze.