The Fulfillment (25 page)

 

One noon when he came in for dinner, Mary seemed nervous about something, and it wasn't long before she said, “A letter came this morning from a lawyer in Long Prairie.”

“Can I read it?” he asked. He laid down his
fork and read the letter, taking a drink of tea while he continued reading over the rim of the cup. “It looks like you'll have to go to Long Prairie, huh?” he said, putting the letter back into the envelope.

“Do I have to go?” she asked.

“It's nothing to be afraid of, Mary. Hunt was the one who made out my pa's will before there were any lawyers in Browerville. He says it's just a formality that you sign the papers. You don't even have to go to probate court, but he needs your signature on record. That's the law. Then the land is yours for good.” He began eating again, apparently unconcerned.

“But how can I go—what about Sarah?”

“Maybe one of the neighbors can take her for the day.”

“For the day! How long does it take to get there and back?”

“Well…why does it matter? You can stand to get away for a bit. It will do you good.”

She glanced self-consciously out the window and said, “I'm nursing her, Aaron.”

“Oh…oh, sure.” He was suddenly totally absorbed in cutting the meat on his plate. “Well, that's a pretty long way to take Sarah in the buggy. Maybe you could take the train.”

“Aren't…won't you come along?” she braved, uncomfortable asking him to do any more.

“If you want me to, of course I will. You pick the day. Hunt says you can come anytime.”

“When would be best for you?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Should we go tomorrow and get it over with?”

“Okay. But you'll have to get Sarah ready early in the morning. I'm not sure just what time the train comes in, so we'd better get there early, just in case.”

“We'll be ready,” she said.

The next morning was damp and chilly, and Mary bundled Sarah into layers of blankets to keep her warm on the way into Browerville. Even so, Sarah was crabby all the way, and tiny though she was, Mary's arms ached from holding her.

Once on the train for Long Prairie, Sarah settled down, and Mary was grateful to rest her elbows on the padded armrests of the coach seats.

They found Alfred Hunt's office easily, only two blocks from the train depot. When they opened the outer door, they found an empty desk in front of them with its roll top pushed up and ledgers, documents, and scraps of paper ever so precisely arranged.

When Aaron called hello, a portly, balding man with a jolly face came around the doorway. “Good morning! Good morning!” he said merrily.

“Mr. Hunt?” Aaron asked.

“One and the same,” replied Hunt, extending his hand and creasing into a smile.

Aaron smiled, too. “I'm Aaron Gray. This is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Jonathan Gray.”

The man's face sobered. “Ah, Mary Gray it is, then. Please accept my sympathies—both of you.” Then, glancing at the baby in Mary's arms,
he added, “My deepest sympathies. I'm sure it has been difficult for you to come. I'm sorry you had to make the trip. I wasn't aware that you had a baby, Mary.” His using her first name made him seem a friend. He did it to put her at ease. “So sorry my clerk was out and you were left standing. Come inside and we'll get the business done in no time.”

He ushered them into an inner office that was the antithesis of the one they'd just passed through. There were plants and books and ashtrays with pipes sitting on windowsills and atop anything that would hold them. The desk was a clutter of business-looking things, but the overall feeling of the room was one of comfort and familiarity. Mr. Hunt pulled up two old, cracked leather chairs near the heaped desk. “Sit…sit,” he invited. “This is just a formality, you understand. The property does of course belong to the widow in a case like this. However, I'm happy to see you make it official with your signature. It'll insure it for the future of the young one there.” He indicated Sarah by glancing over the smudged spectacles he'd fastened behind his ears. He unfolded some papers and dug through the disorder on his desk until he found a pen. “The land will be officially yours now, Mary, in the event you'd want to sell it.” Mary nodded, intensely uncomfortable at the mention of selling the farm, which seemed so much more Aaron's than hers. Alfred Hunt handed her the pen and pointed to the spot where she should sign.

“I'd like to read it first before Mrs. Gray signs it,” Aaron said, and she stopped, realizing she should have done so herself.

“Well, of course, you ought to.” And while Aaron looked over the relatively simple form, Hunt went on. “I only met your husband once, Mary, shortly after the death of his parents, but he impressed me as a man with a level head on his shoulders and one who'd keep a place up to snuff. If he kept up the property like I suspect he did, it would be worth a good deal now. If you should ever want to sell it, I'd be most happy to represent you.”

 

The train was late getting in, but Mary began to relax again when they were on their way. Then, suddenly, she felt it. She sat very still, willing it to stop, but knowing it wouldn't, knowing she had to act fast.

“Aaron?”

He turned his face toward her, wondering why she had whispered. “What?” he whispered back.

Her eyes were enormous, as if she were afraid.

“Aaron, I have to feed Sarah.”

Is that all? he thought. “She's not complaining. Why don't you wait until she does?”

“I can't wait.” She was still whispering. Suddenly enlightened, his eyes dropped to her breasts where a telltale spot had already seeped through the gray cotton and dampened a tiny round circle at the crest of her left breast.

“Jesus,” he said, gaping, learning fast. “Hold on.” Then he was up and gone, swinging down the aisle between the seats, disappearing out the door at the head of the car. She sat like a ramrod for what seemed an eternity, holding still to keep from flowing.

Then a Negro porter appeared, bending across
Aaron's empty seat solicitously. “Your husband has asked if there's a private place where you can be with the baby. If you'll follow me, I'll show you the way.” She followed him gratefully, catching sight of Aaron reentering the car from the opposite direction. She was shown into a plush private compartment with two seats facing each other and red-tasseled shades on the windows. Thanking the porter profusely, she sank down and began loosening her blouse as the door closed behind him.

She heard the call for Browerville before Sarah was done, and hurriedly composed her clothing before going back to their seats. They were pulling into the depot as she came up behind Aaron, and in the hubbub of gathering Sarah's trappings, wrapping her for outside, and leaving the train, they were spared embarrassment. But the friendly porter was at the door tending his portable step when Mary put her foot down onto it, and he reached up to take her arm, smiling broadly. “I trust you found the compartment satisfactory, ma'am?”

“Yes it was—most satisfactory. Thank you,” she answered.

Aaron was right behind her, and he reached a hand into his pocket, asking, “What do I owe you?”

But the congenial porter smiled again. “There's no charge for the service, sir. Just happy to have you all aboard, sir.”

“Ah…thank you…thank you kindly,” Aaron replied, tucking some coins into the black palm as inconspicuously as possible. The porter
nodded appreciatively. “Thank
you
, sir, thank you.”

Turning to take Mary's arm, Aaron asked, “Do you need anything in town before we start back?”

“No, just get me home fast,” she said, then blurted, “Thank you, Aaron.”

The days
returned to unvarying sameness. For Aaron they were long, hard days, days in which he missed Jonathan beside him. The neighbors' help had made the first plantings easy, but they'd planted more than they should have of some crops, and now Aaron worked long and hard at the cultivating. The milking wasn't bad in the morning, but at the end of the day when he was worn down, his arms ached before he finished.

When Aaron came up at suppertime one evening and slumped into his chair with a heavy sigh, Mary put the food on the table, then sat down, studying his weary look. “I've been thinking, Aaron,” she said as she spooned food, being careful not to look at him. “I'd like you to teach me to milk.” She tried to make it sound offhand.

A wry, amused look flickered over his face. “You're not the best at milking,” he said.

“Well, I could learn,” she offered.

“I can handle it alone.”

She grew piqued. “Well, if you'd give me a chance, I'd like to learn! I'm the only woman for miles around here who can't milk a cow!” She
reddened slightly and sat looking down at her plate.

“Okay…okay,” he gave in, slightly surprised.

She instantly softened. “I could try tomorrow night. I've got washing first thing in the morning, but I'd have time in the evening.”

It was settled, and he left that night thinking the milking would take twice as long tomorrow. He'd have to do it all, anyway, after waiting for her to try her hand at it.

But she was a determined woman. She kept trying in just the way he explained, watching him first, then trying again until it was less difficult. Within a few days she could do it passably well, although she tired far faster than Aaron.

Sarah was a problem, though. Mary left her in the house alone a couple of times, but she hated doing that. So she asked Aaron if he could make a light box of some kind for her. “I hate leaving her inside when I do the gardening,” was Mary's excuse. She was afraid that Aaron might think it too great an inconvenience for her to help with the milking.

Aaron made a light, small box with lattice sides to let the air through and a handle like a grape basket. When Mary brought Sarah to the barn in it the first time, the baby was asleep, and Aaron peeked at her, in pale green blanket and yellow bonnet, declaring she looked like a cob of corn all ready for market. Mary put the basket on two upturned milk pails, saying “Aaron! What a thing to say about your own daughter!”

She could have bitten off her own tongue. It had slipped out. She hadn't meant to say it. She
turned away, stammering. But Aaron covered the uncomfortable moment. “I see she likes the basket all right.” He turned to his work, but a pleasant tingle of warmth shivered through him.

The mayflies paid their short-lived visit, and the deerflies came in June. One evening during milking, Mary and Aaron and Sarah were in the barn as usual when a sudden, frantic cry came from the baby, who had been asleep in her basket. Aaron had been on his feet between cows, and before Mary could break free of the pail, her skirts, and the stool that hindered her, Aaron had whisked Sarah out of her basket in alarm.

“What is it?” Mary cried while the wails continued in full force. But as she reached Aaron, she saw the growing welt on Sarah's face.

“A deerfly,” he said. “She'll be all right.”

Yet the little mouth squared and quivered and squalled, and Aaron kissed the welted cheek, murmuring to the baby. “Here, Corncob,” he said. “You'd better go to your mother.” He handed the baby to Mary.

“I'd better put some soda paste on it,” she said calmly, then added, “Sorry, Aaron.”

Then she left him in the quiet barn, looking at the empty basket. Why had she said she was sorry? Sorry for the disturbance? Sorry to leave him with the milking? He decided
he
was most sorry she'd had to take Sarah from him. Holding her was not unpleasant. As a matter of fact, he'd liked it very much.

When he returned to the house, he took the basket, too. “How is she?” he asked.

“It was just a bite, like you said. If Sarah's go
ing to live on the farm, she'll have to get used to bites.”

Wondering how long Sarah would be living on the farm, Aaron left again, saying, “I have to get the rest of the milk.”

The next day, Aaron worked until noon and then went to town. For Mary it was an endless day. She gave him a list of supplies and watched him head away, wishing she could go. It had been so long since she'd been to town, but the ride was too hard with Sarah. She was still nursing the baby, and couldn't leave her with a neighbor.

The afternoon dragged on. She weeded the garden to fill the hours. It seemed an eternity ago when she had first grown dizzy, stooping over the garden rows. She took Sarah back into the house when the garden was done, and cleaned herself up to start supper. Aaron should have been back by now, she worried, and found herself returning time after time to the porch rail, to look eastward.

When she saw the rig coming, a feeling of relief swept her, and she raised a hand in welcome. Aaron saw her on the porch waiting and hurried the horses. Her waving, waiting figure seemed to beckon him home in a way he'd never felt welcomed before.

“I thought you'd never get here,” she called. “Hurry in! Supper's ready.”

He unharnessed the team and carried the box of supplies to the house.

“What took you so long? What's in here?” She was pulling at the brown paper before he could set the box down.

“Back off, woman,” he scolded with a smile, “and give me room to set this down.”

But she grabbed the parcel and tore the string, saying, “I didn't order anything like this. What is it?”

She found a length of cheesecloth inside. “It's not for you. It's for Sarah—to keep the deerflies away.”

It was so unexpected—his buying the netting for the baby. She floundered for something to say, but all she could think of was, “Why didn't I think of that?”

No answer was needed, but Aaron knew she was pleased.

She peppered him with questions about town, wanting to hear all the news, asking whom he'd seen. Aaron relayed what he could, and of course there were good wishes for her from everyone he'd seen. He could tell she was aching to go to town herself again.

That night, it was hard to leave. She seemed dejected as he left her on the porch. He stopped under the elms and called back to cheer her, “Next time I go to town, you're coming along. It's no man's job to buy things for a baby.” Then he heeled the horse, wondering if she'd find some excuse not to go with him because of what had happened on the train.

After that, he had no need to knock on his own door, for she was usually standing on the porch when he arrived. Sometimes at noon he'd see her under the clotheslines, stretching her arms up to hang clothes. There were always diapers and little clothes now. He loved seeing them there. She
still did his laundry, refusing to have it any other way. She said it was the least she could do.

One evening when Aaron was leaving for the Dvoraks', she called, “Wait a minute, Aaron, you forgot your laundry,” and came from the front room carrying the brown parcel. “Try not to smash it now,” she said, as she usually did. Then she handed it to him, one hand on the bottom of the parcel, one hand on the top. As Aaron reached for it, her hand brushed his palm. Their touch was like an electric current, and Mary reacted as though she'd gotten burned. She jerked her hand backward and grabbed it with the other. Realizing what she'd done, she shot a look at Aaron, her cheeks flaming.

“It's not necessary for you to do my clothes up, Mary,” he said. “Mrs. Dvorak offered to do them for me.”

“Don't be silly, Aaron,” she argued, “I love doing them.”

But once again her response seemed to tell a secret. Aaron sought to cool the flame that suddenly leaped through him. He stepped fully out onto the porch, closing the screen door between them, and said, “I appreciate your doing them for me. Thank you, Mary.”

When he was gone, she put her palms to her cheeks and called herself every kind of fool. She resolved to control herself from now on.

 

Haying time arrived, and Aaron began staying in the fields at noon to save time. The first day he did this, she came walking with his dinner in one hand and the basket-in-cheesecloth in the other.

When he saw her coming, he pulled up at the end of a row to wait. She set the basket down and handed him the covered plate, collapsing onto the grass.

“It's too far for you to come way out here. Tomorrow, just pack me a sandwich and a jar of water in the morning.”

“A sandwich and a jar of water! A man can't work on scraps like that.” But she was puffing from the exertion.

“Sarah's getting too heavy to carry around in that thing.” He pointed at the basket with his fork, then looked inside and said, “You're gonna break your mother's back, Corncob!”

“Aaron! That's the most disgusting nickname I've ever heard!”

But Aaron leaned toward Sarah and said, “Hey, Corncob, you tell your mother that she did the naming and a papa should at least be able to pick a nickname.” He'd been thinking of it ever since that time in the barn when Mary had slipped first and called Sarah his daughter. He knew Mary's face must be scarlet, for she turned her back on him fully, Sarah's little face over her shoulder, wide-eyed as only a baby's can be. The baby was all milk and honey and brown curls, and he'd have given anything to reach out and touch those curls, just once, on purpose. But he ate his dinner and studied her instead, immensely pleased, thinking he could make out a resemblance to himself.

When he finished eating, he said, “Okay, Corncob, tell your mother she can have the plate now—and tell her it's rude to keep her back to
a person all that long. At least she's taught
you
some manners.”

But Mary picked up the basket and took off down the lane without turning around again, saying, “Tell your father he can carry his own dirty plate back!” But Mary was smiling from ear to ear.

 

The next day Mary delivered Aaron's lunch in the wheelbarrow that also held the baby's basket.

When she arrived where he waited, Mary stated, “Sarah wishes you to know that she has no intention of breaking her mother's back.”

He retorted, with a twinkle, “The point is well taken.” Then reaching for his dinner plate he whispered loudly to Sarah, “Tell your mother she's a hussy,” and a smile tugged first his cheek, then Mary's.

During the long, hot days when the horses worked like drudges, Aaron traced the fields behind them, dreaming of owning a tractor.

He was pondering this when a tug strap broke. Silently cursing, Aaron examined the damage. There was nothing to do but drive the team back up to the lean-to and exchange harnesses.

Back at the yard, while the horses drank, Aaron thought of how Mary usually kept cold tea around for a quick, cool drink. The baby must be sleeping, he thought, nearing the quiet house. He opened and closed the screen quietly, the spring on it twanging softly as he went into the kitchen. He found a fruit jar of cold tea in the buttery and carried it with him, raising it and taking long, deep swigs as he strolled absently
around the kitchen. It was very quiet and cool inside the house. He strolled, still drinking, to the doorway of the living room, and there he stopped dead, his mouth filled with tea that he couldn't swallow. The heater stove was gone from the living room for the warm season, and the kitchen rocker had taken its place again. Mary sat in the rocker nursing the baby, who lay on a pillow in the crook of her arm, Sarah's skin as milky white as the breast that fed her. They both seemed asleep, Mary's head leaned back and to one side against the hard back of the rocker. But as if she sensed someone looking at her, she came awake with a start, and as she jerked, Sarah did, too, then began sucking again, one hand pushing against the breast.

Mary saw Aaron's crimson face, then saw his Adam's apple move as he swallowed the tea. “I thought you nursed the baby upstairs…or I would have knocked,” he stammered.

“It's cooler down here,” Mary explained, her heart hammering. But she made no move to pull the baby away. Sarah was still sleeping as she suckled. “I only do it here when you're sure to be out in the fields.”

He stared at the baby for a moment longer while his throat worked again. Then he spun from the room and hurried out of the house with the screen door slamming behind him.

Sarah awoke with a start when the door banged. The baby's eyes flew open, her chin quivered for a hesitant second, then she wailed, choky, milky-mouthed, with gusto.

“Shh, Princess,” Mary soothed. “Did your daddy scare you? Me, too, darlin'. Me, too.”
While she cooed soft words to quiet the baby, she thought, Did Aaron really scare me, or do I fear myself? Do I fear the weakness that I felt just now, and did he see it written all over my face? Being here together all the time, it must seem to Aaron that I expect him to look after us and support us, Sarah and me. Does he think I'm coyly playing my hand, trying to force him into a role he doesn't want?

 

Aaron talked out loud to the horses to cool his heels: “What a flea-brained dimwit I am, charging into the house!” He mulled over what Mary's feelings must be. She'll think I asked her to stay on in the house so I could weasel my way back into her confidence, maybe even her holdings, and eventually her bed. She needn't stay here to exist! She has property, capital—that gives her independence. Suppose she saw the lecherous look that must have been plastered all over my face. Suppose she spooks and runs—runs with Sarah, too. Mary came to me willingly once, but it's different now. If I push too fast, too soon, she'll think I'm an opportunist. It can't be like that. We walk a fragile line, Mary and Sarah and I. I'll do well to bide my time so as not to snap it.