“Why don’t you have Mary rub a little of that ointment on them that she gets from the Raleigh man? That’ll fix ’em up in no time.”
“Aw, no, they’ll be fine. Just gotta toughen ’em up a little, that’s all.”
But Jonathan was coming back inside as he said, “Mary, get that ointment you keep for—” And there his words died. She had come out of the dimness of the front room into the kitchen light. Her coat was folded over one arm, and she stood very still as Jonathan stared hard at her. Behind him, Aaron stared, too.
Jonathan broke the silence.
“Why, Mary, I didn’t know you’d want me to dress up. You should’ve told me.” He always wore his blue cambrics to the hall, but tonight he wished he’d dressed better because she sure looked fine.
He hadn’t said she looked good, or in any way noted the effort she’d made for him tonight. Her obvious failure to elicit his admiration made her feel suddenly quite foolish and Aaron saw the reaction parade across her face. He bit his lip to keep from paying the compliment her husband should have voiced.
“That’s okay, Jonathan. You look just fine.”
“Could you rub some of that ointment on Aaron’s hand, Mary? I got the wagon hitched up again, but I’ll go get the mare on the buggy while you two get his hands fixed up.” He went around Aaron, slamming the screen door behind him.
Mary jerked into action as it banged, and crossed over to lay her coat on the back of a kitchen chair. She found the ointment in a tin under the sink and took the cover off and set it on the table. Aaron still stood just inside the door. She scooped some of the ointment into her cupped fingers and stood waiting. He came over in front of her and extended one hand toward her. He could have taken the ointment and rubbed it on by himself, but instead he gave the hand to her and they both looked down at it self-consciously before she reached out and took it, laying it palm-up on hers. He relaxed his fingers, and she saw tender flesh where blisters had newly broken. She had a sudden, compulsive urge to lower her lips to the spot and, in doing so, heal it. But instead, she touched it with the ointment, then rubbed her flat palm across his, working it in. He kept his hand lax, fingers gently curled upward. He watched small fingers play over his aching flesh as she massaged the hand, curling her own fingers around his thumb, then around the butt of his hand.
When she’d finished his left hand, she reached to the jar to bring up more ointment from it, and the process was repeated with his right. They both kept their eyes on the hand being worked between them, and maybe it took a little longer than it needed to, for the ointment had disappeared before Mary’s fingers slid back toward his wrist, then to his fingertips one last time. He realized they would be gone in an instant, and he gently and firmly closed his hand around hers, stopping it in its final pass. It stung, but he welcomed the pain of it. They just stood there with the surging realization of what this handclasp revealed, and there was no way their eyes could meet. He opened his hand, but hers lingered where it was, resting lightly atop his. He could feel the warmth of her flesh burning the tender skin of his own where the sore was.
And suddenly she didn’t feel foolish anymore.
This is Mary, Aaron thought, and she’s more than my friend. Just then, she moved away from him, turning to retrieve the cover of the tin and screw it back on. When she had put it away again under the sink and washed the salve from her hands, she turned to find Aaron holding her coat for her. She slipped her arms in, then reached to lift the curls off her neck to free them of the coat collar. Her action stirred the scent of lavender and bared the back of her neck once again to the man who stood behind her. The ointment on his hands kept him from caressing her shoulders where he had lowered her coat, and he held it gingerly to keep the ointment from soiling it.
She was, in that instant, a thing that he must never soil.
Abruptly he turned, leaving the kitchen. She leaned over to lower the wick and blow out the kerosene lamp on the table. When she straightened, he had gone out the door, and she followed him after quickly pressing her hands to her cheeks, scolding herself for their heat. When she came into the yard, Aaron had already left in the buggy, and Jonathan was waiting on the buckboard.
6
Aaron tried to concentrate on Pris as he drove the short distance west. But the trot to her place was too short to give him time to dispel the image of a yellow-clad girl that filled his mind. Had it really been Mary? Mary, who had been there in his house for seven years? Mary, with her child-woman’s body, her expression of openness glowing up at him from a face that seemed brand new, hair swept up from that face, fastened in a knot of flowing curls like a schoolgirl’s, cheeks flushed pink, lips shining, and tiny hands massaging not only his skin but the blood that flowed within him, sending it coursing to his head and heart like a spring cataract?
Sweet Jesus, had it been Mary?
Aaron reached the Volence driveway in a state of agitation. With an effort he forced himself to a semblance of calm before he reached the house. The door was closed, but the light was bright inside. There’d still be time for Pris to change clothes if she needed to, and they’d get to the hall in good time.
He could hear from inside that someone was playing the organ again in the living room. That must be why nobody’d heard his rig pull into the yard. When he knocked, the organ music stopped and Cora opened the door to him.
Cora had a smile that was as close to smug as any he’d ever seen.
“Evening, Cora. Is Pris here?” he asked.
“She sure ain’t. She’s gone off to the Bohemian Hall with Willy Michalek. Figgered you woulda seen ’em ride by your place about twenty minutes ago.”
But twenty minutes ago he’d been standing in the kitchen with his hand inside of Mary’s, and he hadn’t noticed anything else. Why hadn’t Jonathan seen the rig and said something? He must have been in the lean-to getting the rigging at that time.
“Who’s here, Cora?” Agnes Volence asked as she came up behind her daughter.
“Well, Aaron, hello! Don’t leave him standin’ out there on the doorstep, child. Come on in, Aaron,” she invited.
“No. I guess I won’t tonight, ma’am, but thanks just the same. I came to call on Pris, but seeing as how she’s not here, I’ll be on my way again.”
He thought he could detect a look of disappointment cross her face as he backed down a step and turned to leave.
“Come on back down again soon, Aaron,” she called after him.
What next? he thought as he headed east again. Couldn’t a man have a plan turn out in his favor just when he’d strengthened his resolve enough to put it into action? If there was one thing he didn’t need tonight, it was to be casting around at that dance hall without a girl to steady him. He’d better pull into his own yard and stay put at home.
When he reached the drive, he stopped the mare under the elms and left her there while he went up to the dark house. It was quiet and bleak inside, and he walked through the kitchen into the front room. Silence and darkness greeted him. He stood in the doorway a moment, then wandered to the pantry door that led off the west kitchen wall. The pantry seemed like her special place; she was in it so often. He hooked his thumbs through his belt and stood with his weight on one foot, the other foot slightly forward, relaxed, as a man might stand who surveys all he has. But Aaron’s survey found him lonely and disconsolate. He knew he should stay home, but he wasn’t fooling himself one bit that he was going to hang around the gloominess alone. Why hadn’t he unhitched the horse and put the buggy away? But he sat down for a minute at the table in the black kitchen. He sighed and propped his elbow on the table. But his hand dropped down, and in the darkness he felt his fingers touch a bit of ointment on the oilcloth. In the darkness around him it seemed that a bright yellow light was reflecting off a dimity dress. He rubbed his fingertips together until the salve was no longer there. Then he went back outside, back to the buggy drawn by that yellow beacon that led him to the Bohemian Hall.
Mar
y and Jonathan made fast time getting to the hall, in spite of the wagon full of potatoes. She had to laugh at the absurdity of herself all dressed up for the dance but heading there atop a wagonload of spuds. She couldn’t laugh, though. There was nothing funny about what had happened back there in the kitchen. She thought how foolish she must have seemed to Aaron, coming downstairs all gussied up for a husband who didn’t care enough to compliment her. If it hadn’t been for Aaron’s own sudden response, she would have died of mortification at Jonathan’s tepid remark. But now she was being untruthful with herself.
Hadn’t she been so overcome by Aaron that it hadn’t mattered about her husband? Oh, please, no! What was she thinking? She had to stop this nonsense right now. In light of Jonathan’s plans to leave them alone, she had to get every slightest inkling of these thoughts from her head. Anyway, Aaron was back with Pris again by now, and that was a measure of safety. He’d be spending his free time with her while Jonathan was away.
The hall was filled with noise and music and vibration. The smell of beer from the taps in the back room was pleasant in a yeasty, heavy way. It seemed as if she’d never seen a crowd so large jammed into the hall. Folks from a long table by the west wall were waving to them and beckoning them over. Jonathan led the way through the boisterous crowd, and she followed behind his tall back. When they’d passed several tables, a brown head caught her eye. She thought it was Priscilla. But it couldn’t be, for Aaron couldn’t have beaten them to the hall. But just then, she saw Willy Michalek come up behind Pris and set a bottle of soda in front of her. Her heart hit her throat, and she felt her face heat up. But she followed Jonathan and sat down at the place cleared for them as the acquaintances at the table greeted them heartily and hands were shaken all around. The ladies were full of chatter about friends and events they all had in common. The men went off to get a supply of drinks for the newcomers, and Mary joined in the talk as best she could in her present state.
It wasn’t long before the subject rolled around to Priscilla, and the ladies plied her with questions about the situation between Pris and Aaron. What could she say? The Bohemian women jumped at the chance to glean any gossip they could. This aspect of them had always irritated her.
She was holding her irritation in check but running out of answers when both of the women clapped their mouths shut, like school books at the ring of the afternoon bell. Without needing to turn around, she knew why.
From behind her she heard his voice greeting the two women and asking where the men were. But the men were coming back to the table with glasses and bottles, and it was natural that Aaron was established as a member of their party.
It was the custom at a Bohemian dance for the music to be played in sets of four or five songs, all of the same rhythm. Thus, when the band began with a polka and the two neighbor couples went onto the floor, Mary knew it would be a while before they rejoined the table. It was also a custom that once a couple began a set they would not change partners until the set ended. Sometimes, however, two couples would interchange partners in midfloor as the gaiety picked up and the dancing became less inhibited.
The floor was aswarm with people, but miraculously all moved in one direction, flowing in a smooth circle as the agile dancers cranked their heads this way and that, checking their course as they spun. Once the polka started, no talk was necessary, sometimes not even possible, with the thumping noise all around them.
Mary was grateful for it. She and Aaron sat at the table alone. They could feel more than hear when the bottles and glasses of other spectators came alive in their hands, clacked onto the tabletops in rhythm with the band and the pounding feet. Mary’s lemon soda bottle bobbed along with the others, and, listening to it, she began feeling the tension ease away from her body. When the set ended, the steaming dancers returned to their tables and glasses were drained and refilled. More soda bottles appeared. When the new set began, she was asked to dance. Each set gave way to another, and stamping feet pounded the evening on toward midnight.
That night, Aaron chose to drink strawberry soda instead of beer. Beer sounded good, but when he got tight, even slightly, the first thing he wanted was a woman. To be on the safe side, he stuck to soda.
Priscilla was on the dance floor every set, and between sets she seemed surrounded by a crowd of people younger than himself. He danced with some of the women from his table, other girls he knew casually, but he avoided dancing with Mary. When he wasn’t dancing, he stood much of the time in the taproom, drinking soda and visiting with whoever was there, for it was always crowded, and everyone knew everyone else. While leaving the taproom he passed Willy Michalek, who was on his way in. On impulse, he tapped Michalek’s shoulder and asked, “You mind if I ask your date for a dance?”
Willy shrugged and replied, “Long as it’s not the last set.”
Aaron approached Pris and asked without preliminary, “Want to dance, Pris?”
She barely looked up at him as she replied, “Not with you, Aaron. Sorry.”
There were others around them, and he could tell by her attitude that she was having fun. He could hardly stand there and try to convince her. Nor could he take her forcibly onto the dance floor. All he could do was bow out gracefully, which he did, and then stand with a group of stags.
When the music stopped, he moved with a surge of people to where one of the men had just asked Mary for the next set. Jonathan wasn’t in sight. At that moment, Joe Shymek wielded his concertina and announced that it was the last set of the evening. Mary’s partner turned apologetically to her and explained, “Oh, Mary, I’m sorry, but my wife will be looking for me, since this is the last set.” Not wanting to leave her standing there on the edge of the floor while he hurried to find his wife, the fellow asked, “Where’s Jonathan?”
Aaron, whose passage was blocked by dancers filing onto the floor, replied, “I don’t know.”
And so, unwittingly, the man brought about what Aaron and Mary had been avoiding all night. Pushing them none too gently toward each other, he said, “Well, I’ll leave you in equally good hands, Mary.” And he scurried off and disappeared, leaving the two standing there, facing each other.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“No,” was all she replied.
A waltz drifted around them as Aaron encircled her waist and began the steps. She found his free hand with hers, not having to look to know it was there waiting. When her fingers touched his open palm, she felt again the blistered flesh she had salved earlier. His steps were not wide and sweeping as some men waltzed. He led her instead in small, precise patterns, the turns so gentle that her skirt scarcely flared. They danced with their bodies apart, but in their nearness each could feel the breath of the other. He smelled of berry and bay rum; she, of lemon and lavender. Times past they had danced thoughtlessly with their bodies much closer than now; this time they made efforts not to look at each other, keeping their eyes on the other couples around them. When the first song ended they stood silently, waiting for the next to begin, the silence between them again a strange thing. With the new song begun, they turned again toward each other, and now he didn’t need to reach for her. She was unbelievably close. The space closed between them as they danced and he pulled her lightly to the spot where she fit so well. She dared not close her eyes but left them open and saw, very close, the dark curls on his neck. She thought it a distinct pleasure to be the shorter of the two and have that joy. There was nothing soft about her body as he held her. It was firm, with the suppleness of healthy youth. Even her breasts, where they rested against his chest, were solid. He didn’t crush her against him because he didn’t need to. The places where their bodies brushed together were alive.
He said just one thing, his breath warm near her ear.
“You’re beautiful tonight, Mary girl.” And suddenly his using of her pet name took on a new meaning.
“Thank you, Aaron,” came her breathless reply.
The song came to an end. He turned her by the e
lbow toward the edge of the floor where Jonathan stood, and gave her to her husband. For Jonathan there was no escaping the last dance of the evening, no matter how little he liked to dance. But once on the floor it wasn’t so bad. She followed him smoothly, and he thought to himself how pretty she looked and that he should’ve told her so earlier.
“You sure look fine tonight, Mary,” he said.
But he was right. He ought to have told her earlier.
7
Sunday turned cloudy and cool, and the heat from the kitchen range felt good. Jonathan, Aaron, and Mary sat around the kitchen table with paring knives and bowls, quartering potatoes from the gunnysack on the tabletop into bowls on their laps, then dumping the filled bowls into sacks on the floor.
Jonathan was wishing it would rain if it meant to, and clear by morning. They’d need to start planting the spuds tomorrow if they were to get most of it done by the next Sunday. He hated to leave too much of the planting unfinished. Not knowing how many days he’d be gone, he couldn’t risk leaving too many unplanted acres.
Aaron was considering his brother’s leaving and wondering how he could escape the house next Sunday afternoon and evening. If they took Jonathan to the noon train, he and Mary would have the rest of the long, idle day together. He couldn’t go down to Volences’ like he used to. Pris had snuffed that idea clear out of his head. There wasn’t anyplace else where it’d seem natural for him to show up on a Sunday. Sunday was pretty much a family day. But considering what had passed between himself and Mary the night before, he knew it’d be best if they weren’t in the house together with too much time on their hands. Come Monday, they’d have plenty of work to keep them busy, but what would they do during long, idle Sunday?
Aw, hell, he was getting sick and tired of worrying about it. He’d been troubling himself with it all day long, and his head felt ready to burst. There was only so much a man could do before something fouled up his good intentions, anyway. Just like yesterday—“friends” he’d said to Mary, like some asinine schoolboy. Christ! How dumb could a man get? Dumb enough to be sucked in by Jonathan’s innocent plans to go off and leave them alone like it didn’t mean a damn thing. And how about the other things that happened, which he couldn’t control? Priscilla’s standoffishness, and that fool who’d pushed Mary into his “equally good hands.” All Aaron could think of now was that he didn’t want to think anymore. He wanted to sink himself down in a feather tick upstairs and not wake up till Jonathan came home with his damn bull.
The Fulfillment Page 8