The waving pastures of wild hay had begun trading their verdure for the yellowing hue of dry ripeness. Jonathan knew it wouldn't be long now until it could be cut. Standing in the hay near the edge of the pasture, he listened for the sound of it. When it was green, it whispered a sibilant s, but when it touched his ear with a shh, it would be ready to cut. It was saying something in between right now. He broke a piece between his fingers and found it not quite ripe enough. He tasted it. If the weather stayed dry, he'd be able to drive the team over the rich peat soil to cut the hay within a week. If it rained, the peat would hold the moisture like a sponge. The horses would sink and flounder.
He said a little prayer of supplication for good weather. Glancing at the new fence in the adjacent wooded pasture, he added another of thanks. The fenced land was a source of great pride to Jonathan. It was a reminder of Vinnie and the goal Jonathan aimed for, begun with the purchase of the black bull. In the weeks he'd been here, Vinnie had grown considerably, feeding on the plentiful, rich grass. After the cutting of the wild hay, that pasture, too, would be his to forage.
Jonathan was happy in Vinnie's company, happier than he was at nearly any other time.
Jonathan called to Vinnie and trilled a high whistle as he approached the fenced pasture where the bull was grazing. Bending to separate the strands of barbed wire, the man stepped through, then, still whistling, approached the shining black beast. When the bull blinked and Jonathan drew near, his whistling stilled and his soothing voice lay mellow on the animal's ear. "Won't be long now, and you'll have the wild hay all to yourself. Won't be long now, and I'll know the truth about Mary…and Aaron. You see, I brought it about between them, so I got no cause to complain, do I, boy?" The man's cal- loused hand caressed the animal's black ear. "I heard tell that your kind sometimes don't lunge at the ladies like they ought. That's how it is with me right now, too. Guess you might say I got to wait till I know for sure. Don't reckon I could spend the rest of my life wondering who sired the child-if there is one. This way, I'll be sure. Some men might rather live with the doubt instead of wanting to admit their own shortcomings. But I'm not made that way. I'd have to know the truth, eh, Vinnie? "Well, if it turns out there's a babe and it's not mine, we still got you and your strong seed. You just keep on like you are, a-growing strong, and between us we'll work things out."
With a last affectionate scratch behind an ear, the man left the pasture. Coming toward the yard, he glanced toward the sumacs behind the outhouse. They were now in full leaf, and he had no way of knowing whether she'd dried her cloths there, concealed from sight, or not. But it had been nearly two months now, and if she carried a child, she'd have to tell him soon. He wondered how long he ought to wait before he could be sure she didn't carry one. Awhile longer, he thought.
And meanwhile, Jonathan's life remained full because of Vinnie and his fields and the ripening grain. The absence of sexual fulfillment caused him no discomfort, physically or otherwise.
Mary's discomforts grew daily. The feeling that food was stuck in her throat was one of Aunt Mabel's predictions that had come true. A sudden implacable burning was there each time she ate, and to make matters worse, she ate all the time, with the hunger of a starved person. She was constantly tired. She never got a full night's sleep because she had to go to the outhouse so often during the night. Waking up in the mornings, she would drag her body from the bed, feeling she'd left her consciousness still in it. When any jot crossed her up, tears would spring to her eyes. It made her feel foolish, yet she couldn't control the tears.
One day in July she had spent at a most unpalatable but essential task, killing potato bugs. The orange-and-black in- sects were an inescapable plague of the farmers. As sure as potatoes were their biggest cash crop, the potato bugs were their greatest enemy. If not dealt with, the bugs would eat the fresh green leaves of the plants and sustain a healthy life, laying eggs on the under- sides of the leaves so that the yellow baby bugs would con- tinue the cycle.
Carrying a pail and stick, Mary had spent the day walking up and down the rows knocking against the potato vines with the stick and catching the falling insects in her pail. The insects were then covered with boiling water before the dis- gusting mess was buried in the woods behind the house.
The day had left her tired and miserable. Even a sponge bath in the late afternoon had not washed away the crawly feeling from a day spent among the bugs.
She had gone to do her evening chores, feeding and water- ing the goslings and chicks who were all over the barnyard these days. She filled the shallow pan with water and left it in the coop while she went to the granary for feed. But when she returned to the coop she found that the larger birds had clumsily fought for a place at the watering pan and in doing so had managed to spill the whole thing. She stood there in her long cotton skirt, hitched up into the waistband to keep the hem clean, and she felt the bird droppings that she trampled under her bare feet. She gaped at the empty pan and watched it grow watery as tears filled her eyes. Didn't those stupid chickens know how it caught her stomach muscles when she worked the pump handle these days? And those miserable geese were no better. "Look what you've done," she wailed at the dumb birds. "You spill everything I feed you, and you crap all over the yard, so I have to shovel behind you! Stupid, squawking, weak-witted…"
She was crying and sniffling while she poured mental im- precations on the animals, all out of proportion to the in- justice they'd done her. She grabbed the pan and crossed the dung-splattered yard to the pump. Her tears came faster than the water from the pump. She was choking on her in- halations, and her limp efforts at the pump handle were made sorrier by her hanging head and slumped shoulders.
Then someone was there, taking her hand off the pump handle and turning her before she felt what she needed most-warm, comforting arms around her and a hand pulling her head into a shoulder. She buried her face and bawled, arms hanging limply at her sides under those which encircled her. "What's the matter, Mary?" It was Aaron's voice.
She jerked up and reached for her apron pocket, but there was no handkerchief there, so she raised the apron and wiped her nose and face with it. "You shouldn't b-be h-holding me li-like this out here," she choked in huffs. He turned her loose but kept his hand lightly on her shoulders as she struggled to clean up her face. "You shouldn't be crying, either, so we're both doing what we shouldn't." "I couldn't he-help it. The dumb chickens spilled their water again."
He took the pan from where she'd put it, far from where the water had been falling, and, cen tering it beneath the pump's mouth, began pumping. "Spilled water shouldn't make you cry like this. What's wrong, Mary?"
She watched his feet. "Everything's wrong," she said, hoping he'd stay his dis- tance instead of touching her again. It had felt too good the first time. "I know-and it's my fault," he admitted. "I can see you feel caught in the middle between Jonathan and me. I'm sorry, Mary. I mean to talk to Jonathan about it and some- how see our way clear of this situation. I've put it off because it may mean leaving this place, and this isn't a time of year the farm could stand that without suffering a loss." "No, Aaron. You mustn't talk to Jonathan about this at all." She looked up at him then with her swollen eyes, and it was like a soothing balm to see his face, filled with concern for her. "Just let it go, Aaron. There's no other way." But the look on his face told her Aaron didn't want to let it go.
She was sure by now of her pregnancy and also that the baby was Aaron's, but she feared that by revealing it she might force him to leave, just as before. That thought was unbearable, yet she knew that the fact of her pregnancy bound her even tighter to Jonathan, for now there was even more disgrace to be suffered from leaving her husband. If she were to do that, everyone would guess that the child was Aaron's.
All these thoughts were upon her as she looked at Aaron. She thought of a life with his baby, but without him, and the misery of it was reflected in her eyes, which welled once again with tears. "Don't, Mary…don't," he pleaded, seeing her tears. He felt like a puppet who'd made a careless move and entangled itself in its own strings. "You're tearing me apart. If you don't stop, I swear I'll grab you again and kiss you right here before God and my brother both."
She knew if she didn't control her tears he'd make good his threat-his promise-so she got the upper hand over her tears again, but still looked bruised. She realized the injustice of her withholding from Aaron her precious secret. Whatever it cost her, she must tell him and tell him first before Jonathan. It was the only consolation she had to offer him.
She looked quickly toward the barn, but it was quiet, the cats sitting outside the door. Oh, please, God! Don't let Jonathan come out yet, she thought before looking up at his brother, hoping that her face revealed the depth of feeling she had for him. "What I have to tell you is the most important thing in the world to us, Aaron, but the most painful."
He took a turn glancing down at the barn before turning a puzzled, questioning look at her.
She drew in a ragged breath and tried to erase the strain from her face so that his memory of her telling him would not be grim. "Aaron, I'm going to have a baby."
She caught the full impact of his surprise as his mouth dropped open at the same instant Jonathan emerged from the barn with two milk pails. Aaron looked thunderstruck but struggled to regain a casual countenance as Jonathan approached. But it didn't work. Aaron had been gone from the barn long enough that Jonathan had guessed something was amiss. Mary picked up her chicken water and hurried away toward the coop, thinking she was fleeing like a coward, but unable to stop herself. Aaron was left to fill the void hanging between himself and his brother. "I meant to come back down, but Mary needed a little help with the chickens and geese. Sorry, Jonathan." "Yup. It's all done now, anyway," answered Jonathan, heading for the house, leaving Aaron there alone to damn the poor timing, which had cut Mary away from him again, and at the most inopportune moment.
For several days, no chance came up for Aaron to question Mary. It wasn't a conversation to be picked up with the risk of interruption, or with the risk of being observed.
The work that Jonathan did, Aaron did beside him, so they were together most of the days. The wild hay was cut and left to dry. Tying the hay into bundles in the hot, dry field, Aaron went over and over again the simple statement Mary had made.
Aaron, I'm going to have a baby. Not "Jonathan's baby"…not "your baby." Just "a baby." Would she know whose it was? Was it his own or Jonathan's? If she didn't know whose it was, it would be torture for them all.
Mary had the advantage of knowing who the father was, but it was little consolation, for she was feeling Aaron's confusion as keenly as he, and was impatient to answer his unasked question. Her im- patience was compounded by her wish to be able to tell Aaron that Jonathan hadn't sought her out in bed since his return. She truly didn't understand why he hadn't, but knew it wouldn't be long before he did again.
She felt compelled to tell Aaron the entire truth before she broached the subject with Jonathan. If this should be im- possible, Mary would feel a kind of disloyalty toward Aaron. This was what confused her, for in her heart she knew Aaron could never claim the baby outright. Yet Jonathan would, even knowing it wasn't his. Why, then, the disloyalty toward Aaron? Shouldn't she feel it toward her husband, instead?
Jonathan was the only contented one of the group. Har- vesting any crop always filled him with a sense of fulfillment, and this year the taking of the wild hay meant a new pasture for Vinnie to forage in.
Vinnie.
Yes, Vinnie was the bright spot in Jonathan's life. Not a day went by without his stopping by the wild hay to admire the bull and play the imaginary game of watching a hayfield filled with Vinnie's pure-black offspring fattening for market. When the bull caught the flicker of any motion, his head came up and his red eyes followed the movements as he stood dead still. The alert pose was accented by the breadth of his powerful body, which was growing fast in the rich, nurturing Minnesota summer. Vinnie's stance would be held until Jonathan neared the fence. Then his natural curiosity would take over, and he'd approach the fence with an unblinking eye, studying the familiar man. The man and the bull would stand eye to eye, at ease with each other while they carried on a conversation. "Hey, big boy, you're lookin' fine. Come on over." And Jonathan held a clump of fresh, long grass invitingly toward Vinnie.
But the bull took his time, studying the man, listening to his soft, low voice. "Come on, now, it's the least you can do to step over to the fence after I come clear down here to see you."
The bull relented, made a low grunt, flared his nostrils, and stepped nonchalantly toward the proffered grass.
Jonathan scratched Vinnie's face, enjoying the grinding sound as the bull scratched the grass. "You like that good stuff, huh? Good. You just eat to your heart's content because we gotta grow you up and get you breedin'. Any breedin' to be done around here's gotta be done by you, you know. There won't be any done by me. But it don't matter, Vinnie…" And after a long, quiet pause, the bull's head jerked a little as if he wondered why the man had grown quiet. Jonathan seemed to hear the bull's ques- tion. "I don't mind. She hasn't told me yet, but I'm pretty sure of it now."
The bull stretched his head forward, then shook it, rolling it left and right. "Hey, I said it's all right, didn't I? Of course I'm hoping it's a boy. If it is, then between you and me, I guess we'll have pret' near everything we could ask for, huh?"
A heavy hoof on the ground answered him. "All you gotta do is grow up a little more, and by next spring we'll start building a herd for my son, okay?"
Sometimes a snort came from the bull while Jonathan stood deep in pensive thought before shaking himself alert once more. "Yes…all a man could ask for…"
And so the two became friends, and Jonathan poured out his feelings and expectations, both of which seemed to grow in proximity to the bull's pasture. To the bull Jonathan could speak with ease, and he always felt understood, his tongue becoming glib while the bull listened.
Jonathan was content, feeling the fullness of life. He saw this fullness in the maturing bull. He witnessed it in the ripening fields. He sensed it in Mary. But he blocked out Aaron's part in it and trusted that everything would somehow work out for the best.
One evening while the men were both in the barn finishing chores, a strange rig drew into the yard. Mary stepped out onto the porch to greet the driver. As he stepped from his wagon, she thought his face was slightly familiar. "Hello," she called from the porch. "Hello, Mrs. Gray," the man greeted her as he started through the gate and came toward the house. When he reached the steps he extended his hand and said, "I'm Aloysius Duzak from over in Turtle Creek Township." "Well, of course." Mary remembered him now. "How are you? What brings you up this way?"
"I tell you, Mrs. Gray," Duzak said, "I hear your husband bought a prize-winning bull, and I drove over to see if I could get a look at it." "I don't know why not. Jonathan's so proud of that bull, he'd be happy to show it to anyone." Mary came down from the porch, and they began walking toward the barn as she continued, "He's still out here doing the milking. Come on down and talk to him." "I sure appreciate this. I've been hearing so much about the animal, I wanted to get a look at it for myself. It's a Black Angus, isn't it?" "Yes, it is. And he's Jonathan's pride and joy. He went all the way to Minneapolis to buy him and had him shipped up here on the train." "That's what I heard," Duzak responded.
When they got to the barn Mary introduced Duzak, but Jonathan and Aaron both seemed to know him already as they got up to shake hands with him.
They exchanged greetings before Jonathan asked, "What brings you up this way?" "A little curiosity about that new bull of yours. Wondered if I might take a look at him." Duzak rocked back on his heels as he asked the question, and Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder, saying, "Sure thing. I'm just finishing up here."
But Aaron interrupted, saying, "Go ahead, Jonathan. I'll finish up. We're nearly done, anyway." And he resumed his hunkered position beside the cow he'd been milking when Duzak came in. The cows were never tied and the barn had no stanchions, so as Jonathan turned to leave the barn, his cow sensed the man's leaving and began backing up to head for the open door to the barnyard.
Jonathan flapped his hands at the cow and slapped her on the rump, saying, "Hold it, boss, you're not done yet." Then he called to Mary, who was already out the door. "Can you come here and hold this one until Aaron gets a chance to finish her?"
Mary came back into the barn and held the cow the only way she could-by taking her place on the milk stool and making milking actions that yielded little milk but kept the animal pacified until Aaron could take over.
The voices of Duzak and Jonathan trailed away as they left the barn.
The two cows chewed their cuds, and the comfortable sound soothed Mary. Everything else was quiet. Mary had a tranquil sense of going back to the beginning, sitting there in the barn with the pair of cows and Aaron, just like that first evening after Jonathan had left. Her milking was ineffec- tual, as it had been then. The closeness of the barn created the same earthy intimacy as it had last spring. The same feeling of expectation was in the air.
Aaron had little milking left on his cow, but it seemed to take an eternity while precious minutes alone with Mary were slipping away. He figured they might have half an hour to- gether while Jonathan walked to and from the wild-hay meadow. His hands worked like pistons, and his heart seemed to be doing the same. He had to get these damn cows out of the way before he could talk to Mary. This was too important to risk being distracted, even by the cows, so Aaron hurried, hurried.
There was always something special about looking at Mary when they were alone together, as if Jonathan's absence gave Aaron the right to her. Seeing her squatting there on the milk stool, his heart responded to the scene being repeated in so much the same way as their first evening together. She looked up at him silently, then they exchanged places.
No matter how firmly Mary had resolved to get through this without breaking down and touching him, it was like it always was. She stood beside him and crossed her arms over her stomach to keep her hands off him. He began the milking, then raised his eyes to her, and they looked at each other while the steady rhythm of the milk fell into the pail, Aaron not needing to watch it to know where it would fall. "Aaron, I'm not very strong-willed," she confessed. "That's because you love me, Mary," he said.
But she drew her fists up and pressed them against her temples, saying, "Don't say that, Aaron." And she stepped back a step, as if by moving away from him she could combat her feelings. "I have to get over it, that's all." "Tell me about the baby, Mary. I've got to know."
He stood up and lifted the pail safely away while the cow moved toward the door, separating him and Mary for a moment. When it was quiet and they stood facing each other again, she said simply, "The baby is yours, Aaron."
He heard it many times, though she said it only once. It seemed to resound off the barn walls, and the more he heard it, the weaker he became, until he thought he'd drop the pail of milk. So he set it down on the floor.
Then, like a fighter who has suddenly had the wind knocked from him, Aaron's breath swooped out. "Jesus Christ."
He covered the space between them in a leap, lifting her off her feet. He held her suspended, crushed against his chest, and swayed back and forth with her until she felt an ache in her groin from hanging that way so long. "Put me down, Aaron. It hurts," she said against his neck.
He reacted swiftly, guiltily, setting her on her feet and turning her loose in one swift movement. "Oh, Mary, I'm sorry. Are you all right?" He looked like the ache had struck him instead of her, and he dropped one big hand to her belly, covering it and her own two hands that were pressing it. "Yes. It's all right," she assured him. "I just have to move a little slower to keep that from happening lately."
She stepped back then and started talking before he could reach for her again. "Aaron, I wanted you to know about it first…before Jonathan. He doesn't know yet, but now I'll be telling him. After that, I'm not ever going to talk about it with you again." "But, Mary, it's my…"
She cut him off. "Let me finish this, Aaron, or I never will. There's only one way it can be. Jonathan hasn't touched me since he came back, so he'll know the baby isn't his. I won't have to tell him so. But I'm going to promise him it won't ever happen again between you and me, and I'm going to try with all my might to keep that promise." "You can't mean this, Mary," Aaron said. But she stopped him again by rushing on. "I have to mean it, Aaron. There's no way you and I could live, trying to get over the disgrace, if we admitted the baby is yours." "There are other places we can live besides Todd County," he said. "There's no place," she said with finality. "The hell there isn't," Aaron argued, half in supplication and half in anger. "We knew it when we started," she said. "When we started, I didn't know this would happen. It changes everything." "It doesn't change the fact that I'm Jonathan's wife." "But it's my child." "At his request," she stated, hating herself for having to say it. "Are you saying you believe all that hypocritical claptrap he threw at us that I owed him this? Or are you saying you made love with me because he asked you to?" His facial muscles were drawn up hard, and it hurt her that he'd be- come angry. "No, Aaron. Oh, don't be angry. I didn't say you owed the child to Jonathan. I…I'm pregnant because I love you and not because Jonathan asked what he did. But I have to get over it and make a new life with Jonathan." "And my baby?" he asked simply.
But she dared not look up or answer. "I'm asking about my baby," he repeated. "Can you look at me and say you want to give my baby to another man?"
Tears came to her eyes, and she pleaded, "Don't, Aaron."
But he pulled her chin up with his hand and she was forced to meet the hurt in his eyes. "Don't, Aaron?" he asked quietly. "Don't fight for my life? It's my life you're carrying, and you say you're going to give it away to another man." "It's not just another man. It's your brother. How could we be allowed to live in peace, knowing-"
His words covered hers again, though. "Brother be damned! At least we'd be living. Apart, we're dead." "What would we tell the child when he grows up?" "The truth," he answered. "That he's ours because we loved each other." "While I was married to your brother?"
They stood with their eyes locked, the weight of her question pressing on their consciences. "We can go away to another state. It's a big country. We can live anywhere in it." "How?" she asked. "I have some money," he said, "and the house." "Do you believe Jonathan will pay you for your house so you can run away with me?"
They stood in hurtful silence together, slowly realizing that she was right. "You tried the city once, Aaron, but you told me how you hated it. It's farming that's your way of life. How could you go away from the farm? This is where your life is."
He came near her again and placed his hand gently on her stomach. "This is where my life is. How can I live here without it and you?"
In the end she was the stronger of them. She pushed him gently away, saying, "Even if I learn to love Jonathan again, it won't mean I loved you less. I'm telling him tonight about the baby, and everything will change after I do."
She slipped out the barn door then, and was gone. He stood there with everything aching in him.
It was dark when Jonathan went up to bed. Mary was already there, but no lamp was lit. He felt his familiar way up the stairs and undressed. When he got into bed beside her, something told him that she was still awake. After he had sighed his usual bedtime sigh and settled onto his back, she coughed softly in the dark. It was quiet for a while before her voice came to him. "Jonathan?" "Ahuh," he grunted.
She lay with the blood pounding in her ears, her throat tight, and her palms damp. He could hear her breath, short and shallow, and he knew before she said it what she had to tell him. When she didn't go on, he turned his head to- ward her in the dark. "What?" "I'm going to have a baby."
With the words came a sharp pain of disappointment that caught at her hammering heart, giving her voice a catch. After all the years of waiting to tell her husband this, telling him now was empty, bitter. "I reckon I knew it already," he said, and her relief was great.
She wondered what all he'd guessed about herself and Aaron, but still didn't really want to know. "It's what I wanted," Jonathan said. "Yes." "I'll be…" Here he swallowed. "It'll be ours. I mean, people won't question that I'm the father," he said, telling her that he knew the child was Aaron's.
She was silent, guilty. "It's okay," Jonathan assured her, but, less than assured himself, felt the truth swiftly burn through him as if a new rope had sizzled through the slack grip of his innards. "It's okay," he repeated.
But Mary lay beside him thinking nothing would ever be okay again. She'd been squandered by her husband, had compromised herself, and had denied Aaron the right to claim his baby. How could conceiving a child in the midst of such deception be okay?
Mary slept fitfully at last, but when she did, Aaron was there in front of her. He held his arms out and smiled at her, an invitation to his embrace. She ran a few steps toward him, but Jonathan came riding across her dream on the back of a large black bull. The bull came between her and Aaron, and she knew it would charge her if she took another step.
"Be careful, Mary," Jonathan warned. "Be careful with my baby." "It's my baby," came Aaron's hollow voice from beyond the bull. The bull and its rider blocked Aaron from her sight, but she could hear him calling that hollow cry over and over again, and soon the cry was mixed with her own and with the laughter of Jonathan as he sat on the bull's back. The confusion of sound grew to a great din, and the bull became riled and wild and he charged off in a strange direction to- ward a waiting green field of hay, taking Jonathan with him. It was a long way to run to Aaron and she ran and ran and it hurt her distended stomach but she knew that when she reached him the hurt would be gone…I'm coming, Aaron…She held her belly to keep the pain away…Aaron's arms were so near…but just as she reached him she found herself confronted by an army of potato bugs and she slapped crazily as they neared her ankles.
Her dream actions lapped over into semiconscious brush- ings that roused Jonathan. He awoke Mary, but he was too sleepy to wonder what had caused her to thrash around, and she was left alone once again.