The Farmer's Wife

by Lori Handeland

  Eleanor was just pulling on her boots when Dean’s truck careered into the lane and stopped with a lurch in front of the house. She stepped onto the porch. The setting sun blinded her a moment, and she raised her hand to block it out.

  “You don’t have to drive like a maniac,” she reproached her son. “The cows aren’t going anywhere.”

  Her husband jumped out of the truck. Eleanor peered into the shadowy cab. “Where’s Dean?”

  “Damn!” John kicked the tire. “I forgot him at Brian’s.”

  “Forgot him? How?”

  “I was searching all over town for you.”

  “Why?”

  He stuck his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground. Uncomfortable silence settled between them. What else was new?

  “Get Dean.” She descended the steps. “I’ll start the milking.”

  “No!”

  He reached for her, then yanked his hand back before they touched. Her hurt deepened. He didn’t even want to touch her casually anymore.

  “I mean . . .” He struggled, patted his shirt, and she saw the cigarettes peeping out of his pocket.

  Eleanor snatched them free as both fury and fear bubbled in her belly. He might not want her any longer, he might not love her, but she loved him, and she was not about to watch him die in front of her this time.

  “You went to town looking for me?” She held up the pack. “Right. You went to town to get these.”

  She upended them, scattering white sticks over the ground. Then she stomped on the cigarettes with her muck-encrusted boot, following that with a little dance, grinding each and every one into a splayed piece of paper and scattered tobacco with her heel. Because that felt so good, she jumped—up and down, up and down—atop his, so help her God, last pack of cigarettes.

  She stopped when she became breathless, then kicked the pile for good measure.

  “Are you through?”

  He leaned against the truck, staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Well, he’d probably never seen this her. Psycho Eleanor was someone she usually reserved for private parties.

  When it’s just me, myself and I, she thought, then giggled.

  John frowned. He was so handsome standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, long lean body still fit and hard in all the right places. Eleanor tugged on her shirt collar. How long would it take for those new meds to start working?

  “Through for now,” she replied, and headed for the barn once more.

  This time he grabbed her arm, and he didn’t let go. “The cows can wait. We need to talk.”

  “Wait? The cows? Since when?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Eleanor. It isn’t attractive.”

  “Then sarcasm fits right in with me, doesn’t it?”

  Confusion spread over his face before he shook his head. “Never mind. I know you went to the doctor. And I’m afraid I know why.”

  Eleanor’s skin went from hot to cold in a heartbeat. He was afraid? Well, of course he was. What was he going to do with a wife past her prime?

  She tugged her arm from his grasp and hugged herself. The remnant of happiness she’d enjoyed that afternoon with Kim dissolved. Though she was thrilled to have started a new relationship with her daughter, facing the end of the relationship with her husband took some of the shine off.

  “This is all my fault, and I’m sorry,” he said.

  Eleanor’s eyes stung. She wouldn’t cry in front of him. She would not. He might dump her like a dead fish, but she wasn’t going to cry about it. At least not until she was alone—forever.

  “I never should have touched you. I knew better.”

  What was he talking about? Did he mean he’d never loved her? Her chest hurt. She stumbled toward the porch.

  He caught her around the waist. “What’s the matter?”

  “Dizzy,” she muttered.

  He helped her sit on the top step. Then he began to pace. “This isn’t going to be easy. But you can handle it.”

  Eleanor dropped her head between her knees. At the moment she didn’t feel capable of handling anything. “Just get it over with, John. Say what you came to say and go.”

  His boots appeared in her line of vision. “Go? Where? To get Dean?”

  She forced herself to sit up and meet his eyes. “No. Go wherever it is you plan to go when you leave me.”

  “Leave you? We’re having a baby. Why would I lease you?”

  Her mouth fell open. After a moment, John reached over and pushed her jaw shut with one finger.

  “You had me worried the way you were acting. Then you go to the doctor? You never go to the doctor.” He scratched his head. “I was half-afraid you were dying. But the señora told me what she’d overheard between you and Kim. Then there was the prescription and Ezra said you ordered white soda. Now you’re dizzy.” He patted her shoulder—hands big and awkward, yet somehow gentle and sure. “I should have figured it out. But you never acted crazy any of the other times. I guess when you’re older, things are different.”

  Eleanor’s mouth moved a few more times before she found the words. “You want another baby?”

  His gaze flicked to the setting sun. He took a deep breath, and when he looked at her again he was smiling. “Sure!”

  Her worst fear realized, Eleanor gave up trying and burst into tears.

  John danced about—reminding her of a little boy in need of a bathroom. He patted her back, his hands clumsy but endearing. She was going to miss him so much.

  “It’s okay . . . it’s okay,” he muttered. “I know women get like this when they’re pregnant. We’re in it together. I’ll even come into the delivery room this time. I promise.”

  She had to stop him before he started knitting booties and naming the mythical child.

  “I’m not pregnant,” she choked out.

  He stopped midpat. “No? Then what—?” He yanked his arm away. “What in hell’s goin’ on, Eleanor?”

  Though her hands shook, she rubbed them over her face, dispersing the tears. Her palms were icy cold; she let them rest against her swollen, aching eyes for a moment. Then she forced herself to look him in the face.

  “I went to the doctor because I felt like I was losing my mind. I was hot—I was cold—I was forgetful. I wanted to slap everyone silly just for coming near me.”

  “PMS?”

  Eleanor narrowed her eyes. He was such a man. PMS was their excuse for everything.

  “No.” She took a deep breath and got it over with. “Menopause.”

  Now his mouth fell open. “But, but, you’re only—”

  “Fifty.” She shrugged. “Just lucky I guess.”

  “The prescription?”

  “Hormone replacements should help the hot flashes and night sweats. Calcium for osteoporosis.” Her face heated just talking about old-lady ailments.

  “The white soda.”

  “This whole thing makes me sick.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “I doubt there’ll be any more babies, John.”

  Although the doctor had pointed out they needed to be careful. She could still get pregnant. Eleanor glanced at John’s gray, shocked face. If he was leaving her, careful wasn’t going to be necessary.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  He started to laugh—a bit hysterically, she thought. Alarmed, she reached for him, but he sat on the step below her, put his arms around her waist and laid his cheek against her stomach.

  “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”

  Eleanor stared at the top of his head, uncertain what to do, what to say. But John, who had never said much about anything, suddenly seemed inclined to talk.

  “I was so afraid to touch you.”

  “Afraid?”

  He nodded; his five o’clock shadow made a scruffing sound against her jeans. Tenderness consumed her and she ran her hand over his hair.

  “After what happened to Mose and his wife, I was afraid for you. After my heart attack,
I was afraid for me. I didn’t want another child and the only way I knew to make sure that didn’t happen was to make sure I didn’t touch you at all.”

  “Then why did you think I was pregnant?”

  He lifted his head, sat back against the stair, but kept his hand on her thigh. “Remember the last time we . . . ?”

  A bright flash of memory came to her. The middle of a hot summer day, alone in the house, living room floor . . . The last time had been one of the best times.

  “Oh, yeah,” she murmured.

  He chuckled. “That was three months ago. About a month after that you started acting—”

  “Insane?”

  “Uh-huh. I put one and one together—”

  “And got three.”

  He shrugged. “A mathematician I’m not.”

  “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

  He started, stared. “Not love you? Not love you?” His voice got higher and louder with each repetition. “You and Brian are two of a kind.”

  “Brian doesn’t think you love him, either?”

  “Har-har. He doesn’t think Kim ever loved him.”

  Eleanor rolled his eyes. “Well, he did fall on his head.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Do you think they’ll work things out?”

  “Hell with them.” John slid onto the top step, his hip bumping hers, then settling in close. “Will we?”

  “This entire mess happened because we don’t talk enough, John. I know people our age just don’t, but that doesn’t make it right.”

  “I’m not very good at Jerry Springer type confessions.”

  “You got one?”

  “Yeah.” He ran his hand over her head, tangled his fingers in her hair. “Thirty years later and I’m still in love with my wife.”

  “Do you realize you’ve never once told me that?”

  “I showed you.”

  “You haven’t lately,” she grumbled.

  His palm settled on the back of her neck, and he drew her toward him. “I can fix that.”

  Eleanor’s heart fluttered the same way it had for over thirty years. He touched her cheek with his worn and weathered thumb, then gave her everything she’d ever wanted all over again. “I love you, Eleanor.”

  She smiled, fisted her fingers in his shirt and pulled him close, closer still. When his lips were only a breath away, she whispered, “Call me, Ellie.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Oh man, why don’t they get a room’?”

  Startled out of her reverie by Dean’s annoyed voice, Kim peered into the dusk. Her parents sat on the porch steps smooching. From the way they were plastered to each other, they’d been at it a while.

  Kim smiled. Mom must have told Dad the truth, and as Kim had predicted, it didn’t matter. From the looks of things they’d worked out the little problem about who still loved whom, as well. Too bad life and love weren’t that easy for everyone.

  But there were some things that could not be forgotten or forgiven—regardless of what Brian had tried to make her believe that morning. Love could not heal all wounds, no matter what the poets and the songwriters said.

  Dean muttered and grumbled as she parked the car in front of the house.

  “You know, you ought to be glad they love each other,” Kim pointed out. “There are a whole lot of parents who don’t. Makes for dysfunctional families.”

  Dean raised an eyebrow in her direction.

  “Oh, yeah. We are dysfunctional. How did that happen?”

  “All families are dysfunctional, Princess. If they weren’t, no one would ever leave home, and they’d always be coming back.”

  Kim raised an eyebrow this time.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s us, too.”

  Since their parents had stopped making out and now stood together on the porch, arms around each other as they waited for Kim and Dean to get out of the car, the two of them did just that.

  “Sorry, son,” their father called. “I meant to come back and pick you up.”

  “Save it.” Dean strode toward the barn, where his cows milled a bit frantically at the door.

  “After you’re done with the milking what say you and I take a gander at that robotics information?”

  Dean stopped, shook his head as if he hadn’t heard right, and turned. “What?”

  “The more I think about it, the more interesting it gets. Let’s talk.”

  “Talk?” Dean repeated, as if his dad had said, “Paint ourselves blue all over.”

  “Yeah. Talk. You say something—then I say something. In a normal voice. We don’t shout.”

  “Like that’ll happen,” Dean muttered.

  Their dad frowned, but when Mom stepped on his toe, hard, he shrugged and let it go. “All sorts of things might happen if we try. Maybe the time has come for me to relax a bit.”

  Kim gaped. Her mother gave a pleased exclamation. Dean shook his head again, and this time stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it for good measure.

  “Relax?”

  “Retire. Or at least semiretire. Your mom and I have decided to do a few of the things we’ve never done.”

  “Like what?” Dean appeared skeptical.

  “Like talking and walking and going to Tahiti. The robotics would come in handy then.”

  “I thought you were leaving the place to Aaron,” Dean sneered.

  “I thought so, too. But I’ve had a change of heart.” He patted his chest. “Or I might have to if I don’t make some better choices. You and I may not always see eye to eye, Son, and that’s okay.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I had a few good scares and started to look at life more clearly.” Their father waited for an answer, but when Dean continued to stand in the yard and gape, he smiled. “We’ll talk later. Right now me and your mom need to do some talking of our own.”

  They disappeared into the house.

  “Talking.” Dean snorted. “I believe that as much as I believe the Saturday-afternoon nap story they told us when we were kids.”

  “Or the one about the two of them showering together to save water.” Kim laughed.

  Dean joined her, until he realized who he was laughing with and stopped. Kim sighed. They’d never gotten along, but why couldn’t they start?

  Talking about the past with her mother that afternoon had filled some of the emptiness inside her. Could working things out with Dean fill even more? If not for her, then maybe for him. Sometimes Dean appeared to be the emptiest person she knew.

  When her brother stalked into the barn, Kim followed. He glared at her. “What do you want?”

  “I thought I’d help.”

  “You?”

  “Isn’t there something I can do?”

  “I don’t know, is there?”

  He wasn’t going to make this easy. But then, with Dean nothing ever was.

  He opened the back door and cows lumbered inside. A dozen or so continued into the milking parlor and he hooked them up to the machines. Kim grabbed a machine and, after watching what Dean did, tried to do it, too.

  The cow, who reminded her of Max when he had to pee, danced about so much Kim’s foot nearly became a pancake. After several minutes of chasing the udder, Dean walked over and grabbed the machine out of her hand with a disgusted exclamation. “I can do it quicker myself.”

  “If you’d just show me how to make her quit prancing, I could do it.”

  “Really?” He smirked. “Okay.”

  Dean leaned his shoulder against the cow’s rear, shoved her into position. Every time the animal tried to move, he shoved her right back. With deft movements, he attached the machine to the cow.

  Straightening, he smirked. “Think you can manage that?”

  Kim stuck her chin in the air and tried. The first time she shoved at a cow’s behind with her shoulder, the animal turned and stared at her with placid eyes.

  “Harder, Princess. She weighs about fourteen hundred pounds, and she’s not a wi
mp like you.”

  “Can you be more annoying?” she muttered.

  “Probably.”

  Kim gritted her teeth, put some feeling into the shove. And the cow shoved back so hard Kim flew into the wall. Her teeth clicked together, narrowly missing her tongue. The machine in her hands sprang free, clanging against the floor so loudly most of the cows skittered.

  Dean cursed. “You’re going to make them so crazy they’ll give sour milk.”

  “Can that happen?”

  He crossed the small room. Kim offered her hand, and he picked up the machine, instead, then did the job she had bungled.

  Turning, he stared down at her. “Get lost, Kimmy. I’ve been doing fine without help for a long time now.”

  Kim refused to be deterred, since that was what he was after. She got up, rubbed her bruised backside, then sat on a stool in the corner and watched. She didn’t need Dean to tell her that she was no good at dairy farming and a piss-poor farm-wife. She’d already figured that out for herself.

  He ignored her through the cycle. But as he went about hooking up another set of cows, he stopped and glared. “What?”

  “What did I do to make you hate me?”

  He blinked. “Hate you?”

  “Dislike me, then. For as long as I can remember, nothing I did was ever right enough for you. I’d like to know why, and what I can do to make things better.”

  “Don’t you have enough people fawning over you, Princess? You need me to adore you, too?”

  “I’d just like you to be my friend.”

  He turned away. “I’m no good at being a friend.”

  “That’s not true. From what I hear you’ve been the best friend Brian could have had. I’m glad you were here for him when I couldn’t be.”

  Dean finished attaching another machine to another cow. “Couldn’t be? Or wouldn’t be?”

  Kim stiffened. “I’m talking about you and me, not me and Brian. What did I do to make you so angry? How can I fix it?”

  “You can’t.” He went back to work.

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me. This has gone on long enough.”

  Dean sighed, straightened and rubbed the small of his back. “Fine. You want to know what you did? You were born. Cute and tiny. Daddy’s angel. You were sweet—I was sour. You were petite—I was a great, hulking brute. You laughed and everyone laughed with you. I acted up just to get someone to look at me. You were smart—I was dumb. Should I go on?”