by Jeffrey Lent
“I suppose,” she said but wandered out to the edge of the pond and looked upon the meadow and the sky.
He had the food out, all of it, the mystery packages unopened. He said, “When I came to buy the farm I walked it all and so saw this place and liked it, but then I liked the whole farm. No, it was a couple years before I discovered this place for what it truly is.” He paused and said, “I had coffee early but not much of breakfast. I’m going to eat a slice of ham and a biscuit. You sure you don’t want some?”
She turned back and settled herself across the spread cloth from him, heels tucked under her. She said, “I want to hear your story.”
He left the ham but ate the biscuit, poured water from the cream can into both tin cups and handed one to her, took a swallow from the other and said, “It was my second autumn here. My cows had been calving, one every few days for several weeks, and I was busy with that. It’s a fine time of year, buttoning down toward winter without being cold yet, everything but the last of the shell corn harvested, the days grown shorter and the barn filling up with new life. One evening I brought the cows in and realized there was a heifer about to freshen that hadn’t come with the rest. But it was nigh dark and I had a barn full of cows to milk and young calves to get fed, all my other chores too. I figured she’d lagged behind and so left the gate down and the barn door open, thinking she’d lift her head from whatever she was up to and come in. It crossed my mind she might be calving but the pasture they were in was close to the barn and small; it’s the pasture I always use that time of year, for the very reason. I wasn’t too worried about her wasn’t the first time a cow had failed to follow the rest in. When I finished my chores I took a lantern and tramped around the pasture, expecting to either scare the bejesus out of her or have her rise up out of the dark and do the same to me. But I never found her. What I did find was a rail down, a hole in the fence. The soil was churned up by hooves in the oat stubble the other side and I followed that trail until it turned back onto the headland and was lost, headed into the woods. There was no following that at night. And ticking along in the back of my mind was that rail out of the fence, thinking maybe the heifer was stole.
“I went back to the house and told my grandfather the whole business. Like always he listened without a word; we were eating supper but that was his way, to hear me out. He mopped his plate and told me where I’d gone wrong. Cows are herd creatures and so I was thinking about the heifer that way. But, he said, like all the rest of creation cows are individuals and just because most act one way doesn’t mean all do. He told me most likely my heifer didn’t understand what was happening to her, that she was giving birth, so she did what most creatures do in that sort of moment, which is to hightail it into the deepest, most hidden spot they can find. He said probably come morning she’d show up with her calf by her side, maybe at the barn or the pasture she’d left, maybe along one of the lanes. I knew he was probably right so I slept that night, got up expecting a clear easy day.
“But it didn’t happen. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen, no sign of her at all. I walked the pasture again, then the lanes and finally went into the woods trying to find a young cow seeking the most hidden spot she could find. The thing is, in the woods she could be behind a clump of cedar or up or downhill fifteen feet and if she was hunkered tight I’d walk right by her. I was also thinking if the birth was a hard one she could be dead and the calf, too. The day was getting on and I knew less the more I went looking.”
He paused then and drank more water. She hadn’t so much as touched her cup to her lips. He said, “I bet you know how this story’s going to end.”
“Tell me.”
“A thought came into my mind: Where’d she been before I’d moved them all to the autumn calving pasture? What lush grass had I drove em out of just weeks before? So I walked those same lanes you and I came along down to here. It was such a pretty day and there she was, grazing away and a whippersnapper of a bull calf wobbling along after her. The pond was covered with the yellow willow leaves come down and as I walked in a pair of ducks beat off the pond, leaving an open trail through the leaves. The cow looked at me and went back to her feeding. The little calf would go after her and get down on his front knees to butt her udder and nurse. Then he’d rise up and scamper a few yards away, trying out his legs. I knew I had to get her to the barn and milk her out, most likely he was going after the same quarter each time, but there weren’t a great hurry to it. Both of em were healthy and just fine.
“I laid down and propped on a elbow and just watched em. I told you it was my second autumn on the place, which means my grandfather and I’d been here eighteen months, maybe a bit less. And I’d been working flat out the whole time, which was nothing less than I expected or wanted. But right there it came to me as much as I’d fallen in love with the place from the start, and each day had grown that love with the work I put in, and what came out of that labor, I hadn’t had such a moment of reflection of where I was, and what it meant to me. To my grandfather and me.
“And there it was right in front of me, a pretty autumn day, a fine heifer become a cow and her healthy calf, the yellow leaves on the water, this old tree, the last of the year’s good grass dulled by frost but still hardy and lush. There was a vee of geese southbound high above, surely not the same ones I’d roused hours before from my oat stubble as I walked through, but cousins to them. There was orange and black butterflies working the late flowers, milkweeds burst open with their seed pods floating in the air. I’d worked up a thirst and so rose up slow and both cow and calf looked at me and then went on with their business as I walked down to the edge of the pond and skimmed back the leaves to cup up handfuls of water and drink. I hope to remember it on my dying day: the cow and calf, the cold water clear and dripping down my chin. I knew my life in that moment as all of a piece.”
Bethany was looking off over the pond, the meadow. When she did not look back or speak, as the silence seemed to dribble out between them, he felt he’d failed her, that she’d expected more of him than this offering. And he felt a trickle of irritation toward this girl who’d imposed herself upon him, diverted his day with her demands and expectations, a stranger, and one perhaps that was dangerous to him in ways he hadn’t grasped before. Best to conclude this morning as gently as possible but return her to town and be done with it; he’d lived well alone and would continue to do so. There remained the urgency of his wet hay.
She did not look at him but in a small clutched voice said, “I understand your cow.”
Her tone thrust barbs through his chest and he winced with her pain, knowing this was no calculation, no act of entanglement but what she could not help, also that she was entrusting him, confused as much or more than he was.
He said, “How so?”
Now she looked at him. “I like to walk about the woods at night. I got away with it for years until I was old enough so my father figured it out. But he couldn’t stop me. He makes no secret of what he thinks I’m up to, but he’s wrong.” She paused but Malcolm did not ask what her father might think and she went on. “I’d walked the same places in daylight, which is how I learned most of them, but I wasn’t more than ten when I first slipped out on a summer night. The fields didn’t draw me. It’s scanty land up on the Italy Hills. It was warm and there was most of a moon and that night I only went to places close by that I knew well. It was those places but also the walking from one to another. As if I’d left the old everyday world and entered a new one made just for me. There was a prickle of fear to it, no telling what I might run into out there, though there never was a thing but the one time I got too close to a fox den and the vixen sat atop the knoll barking at me; that scared me pretty good. Then I seen the shadows come up out of the den and slip back in and realized all she wanted was me to get away, to leave her babies be. One other time, this was last summer and I was much farther off, walking through a scrappy rough area, juniper circles and locusts, thickets of blackberry canes, but nothin
g high about me, though there was a good stand of woods both before and behind, I was just crossing this bit of ground when something jumped out ahead of me and darted off. Took my breath away and I stopped and at the very moment a great bird passed silent and fast right over my head and slammed into the brush ahead of me. There was a scream and the bird lifted up and flew toward the trees. I could see it clear then, a big-bodied owl with a rabbit dangling from its claws. So there were those frights and the usual ones where you stop and study an odd shadow in the night. But mostly it was purely a delight for me.
“Something about the night,” she said. “The thoughts in my head were all my own.”
“Different than daytimes.”
“Yes.” She placed a level gaze upon Malcolm and said, “Something about day, most days at least, the light is harsh upon me, upon who I am.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Even on my worst day I never don’t know who I am. But most always, I have to strike through layers of what others think of me. But at night there’s nothing there except walking as my own self. Maybe that’s freedom, only just within myself.” She paused and then said, “I’m not making any sense, am I? Perhaps I do need a bite to eat, after all.”
“Is the sunlight too bright upon you?” he asked. “Feeling light-headed?”
“You make fun of what I say?” She set down her cup and started to rise, her face quickly spreading blaze upward from her throat.
“I’m sorry.” He caught her hand and said, “Please wait. I have a odd sense of humor that pops out when I’m not sure what to say. My grandfather had it and I guess I learned it from him or it’s just always been within me. I meant no offense, though I’m afraid that odd humor is something you’ll have to get used to, you spend much time with me. I’ve done my best but can’t shed it.”
She remained standing but made no effort to free her hand, and he went on. “I love the night myself, how we slip a bit from our day-lit selves to some other during those hours. More true, if only for that time. Yes, you’re right. We should eat. There’s a bounty here and I confess I’m filled with curiosity about the packages you made sure Harold Pinnieo set in my wagon. That was a bold stroke of yours, one I admire almost as much as what else you’ve had to say. So, will you sit and let us eat? We can talk on, I can’t imagine not.”
She sank down upon the earth, pulling her skirt again beneath her, her bare feet turned now toward him and said, “There’s a soft cheese with a rind, you don’t want to smell before you eat it, because smell and taste are across wide divides in this case. The other holds pickled sea creatures, horrible to look upon but again, delicious to eat.”
He was on his knees, spreading all the food upon the sacking, lifting out the two bundles and with his pocketknife cutting the twine, but not yet unfolding the paper. He looked at her and grinned and said, “A test then, is that it, Bethany?”
She tilted her head without a smile and said, “I suppose it is.”
“I’ll win it. I love food.”
She did smile then and said, “We’ll see, won’t we?”
It was no contest. They ate slowly, in the manner of strangers, fingers fluttering over the mound of biscuits, waiting for the other. He sliced the ham with his pocketknife, then opened the paper and drew out the round of cheese, cut it into wedges. He was uncertain about the white rind, also the pungent rank aroma and so waited for her as he sliced the cucumbers and peeled shells from the boiled eggs. He’d thought to add salt in a twist of paper and opened that as well. She took up a wedge of cheese and ate it, rind and all. He ate an egg, poured more water for them both and finally lifted a slice of the cheese. Coming close to his nose he thought it smelled of barnyard, paused and took a large bite, thinking best to get it over with. To his surprise the cheese was lush, creamy, tangy but delicious, unlike any cheese he’d ever eaten. Neither of them had opened the other package, the sea creatures she’d warned of. He lifted a slice of ham and chewed. It was most lovely, following the cheese.
Throughout, he’d been thinking of all she’d said. Most made fair sense to him, yet she clearly felt otherwise, as if she were a creature of some strange sea, herself.
He reached and slit the string and opened the second package, unfolding the paper to reveal a heap of oily brown glistening ovals. The smell of an old fire rose from them and he leaned close, then sat back up and split open another biscuit. It had been some years but he’d eaten oysters shucked raw from their shells and these were nothing more than the same creatures smoked and preserved in oil. He ate one with half the biscuit as the smoky salty flavors brined over his tongue, popped another into his mouth and the last of the biscuit.
She was watching this, a smile clinging to the corners of her mouth.
He said, “I had no idea Pinnieo had oysters this way. Thought it was only Christmas when he has barrels of them fresh on ice. I’d almost say these are better.”
Her smile broke wide. “They are good, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are.” His glance went down as he placed another oyster on a biscuit and lifted a wedge of cheese. He said, “Do you have brothers, sisters?” He ate the cheese.
“No. I’m alone with it all. And you?”
“Yes and no,” he said. “They’re lost to me. Not of my doing.”
“Their own folly?”
“You could say so. Or a greater one. It’ a sadness I’ve done my best to leave behind. My grandfather always said if any of them ever showed up we’d take them in but none of them will. A great dupe, is what they suffered. But after that, their folly was their own.”
“Was it?” she asked. “Or was it cast upon them?”
“You take up the harness, you draw the cart.”
“But William Miller was a false prophet. Not once but twice. If your voice of God fails once, it’s because he’s only a man. So you’ll trust the second time, even more so. But to fail twice, he’s nothing but a false prophet.”
“Anyone other than a preacher who brought ruination upon so many would suffer greater consequences than scorn and contempt. Allowed to scurry off like a rat to a hole, he was, and nothing more. While dozens who believed him live in poverty or upon charity, the rest of their days.”
“Yet they made the choice.”
“To believe the end of the world was upon them? Yes, they did. But only from the fire and conviction with which he preached. Ah, I can’t change any of it.”
She was quiet a moment, then said, “Have you thought to journey back there, seek out your family that remains and how they fare?”
“No,” he said. “It was a great rift when we refused to join in following that lunatic. Terrible words were spoken, curses of hellfire laid upon both his head and mine. Yet before we departed, Grandfather left an envelope in the care of our family attorney, with enough cash money for any who wished to make the trip to join us. A couple of years after Grandfather died, almost ten years since we’d come together into the country, a letter arrived from that good man. There was a bank draft for the full amount of the funds left behind, as well as an account of how my one sister brought suit to have the money awarded to her, claiming Grandfather cast the entire family adrift. Nothing was farther from the truth, as the attorney was easily able to demonstrate to a court that knew well the foolish practices of Miller’s followers. He—the attorney—added a note explaining he’d deducted nothing from the entrusted sum to defend against the charges, expressing his outrage that Grandfather’s intentions would be so subverted by his own family.”
Malcolm paused, then said, “Nothing remains to me of those people. They made their bed, as Grandfather would say, and did so twice or thrice.” He reached and lifted a peach and neatly sliced it around the stone and split the halves apart. He held one out to her and said, “So I’m the peach man. Alone in the eyes of the world but not so alone as most think.”
She’d moved while he spoke to sitting cross-legged, hands in the lap of her skirts, dirty bare feet poking out, her face bri
ght and flushed, intent upon him, the sunlight breaking down through the high branches and thin leaves of the willow, a many-louvered shutter of light and shadow upon her. She reached for the half of peach but held it in her hand, looking at him.
She said, “Do you consider what happened a blessing upon you or making the best of things?” She bit the peach.
He laughed. “I’ve not looked back, there’s little to be gained doing that. But you could say I count my blessings I arrived where I did.” He paused. Then said, “Mostly I’ve worked. I’m not comfortable believing I was delivered from misfortune because of the actions of those around me, or my refusal to take part. I believe I was lucky, that I fell upon good fortune and worked hard to keep it so.”
“You delight in that.”
“And why not?”
She twisted an escaped long curl about her finger, looked toward the surface of the pond, and said, “Perhaps having your family grow so slender, at such a distance, emboldened you toward that work. The gift of enterprise as well as freedom.”
He almost flared with anger, then understood what she was actually saying. He set down his half-peach and knife, wiped his hands, and took a drink of water. Then as gently as he could he said, “You’ve known your own false prophet, haven’t you? And lack any means of escape or even the hope of doing so. Is that it?”
The look she turned upon him was not what he expected but the blazing eyes of one confronting a clumsy child. She said, “You’re wrong most all ways and where you’re right is only a bit.”
She brushed crumbs he couldn’t see from the lap of her skirts and stood. “I imposed myself upon you and was wrong to do so. I hope you can forgive me. None of it’s your fault.”
Then she walked off, through the grass up the meadow toward where they’d come. Again, from behind, striding hard and sure. But her outer skirt was caught behind in the garter high on her calf from where she’d stripped free her short stockings and she tramped through the grass heedless of the white flash of her leg. He stood looking after her, then down at the mess of food spread upon the sacking-cloths, and back to where she was gaining the ridge, growing into a silhouette against the heat of midday, not yet close to the fence but about to disappear from sight. The back of that one leg white against the darkening depth of grass.