It seemed like the answer to all their problems when Getchner approached Aaron in early November, saying, "The threshing'll be done the end of this week, but I could use an extra hand around here till Christmas or so, if you'd care to stay on."
The other hands were all married. Aaron, being single, would be more likely to agree. "The missus'd like to visit our girl in Fargo and do some shoppin' for the holidays. Need somebody to see to the small stock if we go. Machinery needs a good goin' over after harvestin', too." Getchner hurried on, "'Course, you'd sleep in the house. Gettin' too cold to expect you to stay in the barn." Getchner couldn't know that right now Aaron would have slept in the fields for such an offer as he'd just made. "Pay'd be as good as if you was threshin'," Getchner added.
Aaron smiled, offered his hand, and said, "You've got a man till Christmas, sir." "Getchner offered to keep me on for a few more weeks-as kind of an odd-jobs man, you might say." It was the night before their return.
There was a holiday feeling among the men, a camaraderie created by their eagerness for tomorrow. "I told him I'd stay on," Aaron finished, watching as Jonathan folded and rolled his extra clothes, preparing them for morning.
Aaron's statement slowed Jonathan's hands. He knew this was a blessing in disguise, yet an emptiness crept through him as he replied, "The pay's good here. Getchner's a right fair man." "That he is." Aaron kept his tone light. "I'll have full pockets, come Christmastime."
Jonathan continued fiddling with the clothes unnecessarily, keeping his hands busy to cover his confused feelings. He and Aaron had changed since their talk. What they shared might not be exactly peace, but it was an understanding of feelings that was new. The mellowing had sweetened their relationship, strengthened their brotherhood. Jonathan felt that new closeness now. He'd miss Aaron at home, and he knew it. Under this newfound amity, Jonathan was still at a loss to say what he felt, the turmoil within him still beyond expression. The closest he could come to voicing it was, "Have I put you out of your own home, then, Aaron?" "No, Jonathan," Aaron assured him offhandedly. "No, why-hell! It's only a few weeks." "You'll be home for Christmas, then?" "That depends on when Getchner's through with me here, huh?" A fleeting picture of the Yuletide living room at home limned Aaron's memory, but he pushed it away. "Mary'd be lookin' for you," Jonathan said, meaning that he would, too. But he simply couldn't say so yet.
Aaron chuckled and answered noncommittally, "We'll see, we'll see. Meantime, I'll need a few more winter things. Could you ask her to pack them up and send them out to me?" "Anything, Aaron," his brother offered.
They spent the time before the lantern dimmed making verbal notes on what should be sent to Enderland, guessing it wouldn't take but a couple of days for a carton to get out there.
As if the morning knew the men's jobs were finished, it signaled their release with the first, fine-flown flecks of snow. Getchner, at the seat of the buckboard, hitched his collar tighter to his red neck, anxious to roll. The men were arran- ging their packs on the crowded wagon, jostling one another in good spirits. Jonathan tossed his roll up, saying, "Stash that for me, Joe, will ya?" Then he, too, hitched his collar up, turning to Aaron. His breath was white in the crisp air as he admonished gruffly, "Now, you take care of yourself, boy, you hear? And we'll be lookin' for you, come Christ- mas."
Aaron stood jamming his gloves on tighter, taking longer than necessary, jabbing the left hand against the right long after the gloves were snug. At last he reached one toward Jonathan, who clasped it tightly as Aaron said, "You've got a sight more to take care of than I do. You see to it, brother." "Don't worry, I will." And as he said it, they pitched to- gether, roughly slapping each other's shoulders, their gloved hands making dull thuds before Jonathan broke away to jump onto the buckboard. It jerked to life with a lurch as Getch ner slapped the team into action. Aaron stood with shoulders hunched, hands in pockets in spite of the gloves. The wind blew from the northwest at the wagon's tail, hustling it as it went, ignorant of the loneliness in the man who watched it go.
The men had been gone twenty-six days, but it seemed like a year. Then, at last, Jonathan's letter arrived, saying they'd be in on the late-afternoon train. Amos and Tony had come to do chores for the last time this morning. Clem Volence took the rig to town and left it at Anson's. All that was left to do now was wait.
The day had flown by. Mary had cleaned the already clean house, baked bread, and butchered a fat hen for noodle soup. It was a joy for her to be doing again for the men. It seemed as if the house itself took on an expectant air. The warmth of the range, the aromas of the foods, the scrubbed and polished rooms extended a welcome.
As the day flew, the last hour crawled. Mary's footsteps returned again and again to the east window, where she watched for the rig. The weather had turned suddenly cold during the night, and she worried about their warmth, as if Jonathan and Aaron were children.
She smoothed her apron for the hundredth time; then, glancing outside, she caught first sight of the horse topping the hill. As if surprised at finding herself in an apron, she flew to the pantry, tearing at the ties to remove it as she went. Returning to the window, she saw the rig pull over the nearer hill, but the bonnet was up and she couldn't distinguish any figures inside. Where was her shawl? In the living-room closet…She charged there to retrieve it and quickly threw it around her shoulders, gaining the porch steps just as the buggy drew up under the elms.
Jonathan was stepping down, his back to her and the wind, and she flew down the yard, down the wind, calling his name. His big, welcome arms circled her small shoulders, and his face was cold against her warm cheek. His mouth, though, was warm on hers as he tasted her welcome.
Releasing her, he scolded, "You'll catch your death, girl. Get back inside." And he turned to grab his roll from the buggy.
But glancing into the empty conveyance, she said, "Where's Aaron?"
Jonathan swung back to face her, the roll between them as he answered, "Getchner asked him to stay on awhile." He watched her face, but no glimmer of change marked it. The wind threw a stray strand of hair across her cheek, reminding him that she had only a light shawl on. "Get back up to the house," he ordered easily. "I'll be up as soon as I stable the mare."
When he entered the kitchen she was kneeling beside his opened bedroll, picking stray wisps of hay from it. His spare clothes were in a pile beside her. She looked up and smiled at him, and he saw what he had not seen outside, how much she had grown. Her belly had rounded, and her thighs, as she knelt, formed a cradle for its bulge. "You brought home half the harvest," she smiled, sweeping the transient pieces of hay into her hand.
He turned to hang his jacket on the hook behind the door, chuckling as he crossed the kitchen to where she knelt. "Maybe," he said, reaching a hand toward her, "but it doesn't need raking right now." He made a tug at her hand. She rose and he noticed a new awkwardness that her added weight caused now.
She lifted the stove lid and brushed the hay into the fire, a jumble of thoughts and feelings threading her mind. In the five minutes he'd been home, Jonathan had shown a solicit- ousness to her that was unlike him. The hardness seemed gone from him. Was it because he'd missed her, or because Aaron hadn't come back, or what?
He sat down in the rocker by the stove, sighing, "Ahh, home."
She put the bedroll at the foot of the stairs and, coming back into the kitchen, caught Jonathan's eyes on her stomach. As if acknowledging his glance, her hands went to it. She was suddenly self-conscious and could no more hide it than she could hide her newly acquired girth beneath her splayed fingers.
Jonathan cleared his throat. "Mary," he began, and she knew he was having his usual difficulty voicing his thoughts. "Yes, Jonathan?" she urged.
He rocked forward, resting elbows on knees, rubbing his palms together as if he might find the words between them. "Everything's all right between Aaron and me." He paused, then went on haltingly, "We talked…we talked like you said, and it's good we did."
"Then why isn't he here?" she asked as gently as she could, but her question still cut into him. Some quiver of muscle at his temple told her he mistook her question, and she hurried on, "Oh, Jonathan, don't look away from me. Didn't I promise in my letter that there was no more between me and Aaron? Will you look at me like this every time I mention his name? He's your brother, Jonathan. This is his house we're living in. I must know." "Getchner asked him to stay on till Christmas or so. He didn't know exactly how long. We settled our differences, though, and Aaron'll be back before long." "To stay?" she asked. "I don't know," Jonathan admitted. "It's a two-man farm, Mary."
But she knew that. Instead of replying, she walked toward the pantry and got the coffee grinder. "I'll get supper," she said quietly, "and then you can tell me all about Dakota."
She was on her way back to the stove when Jonathan rose slowly from the rocker, a look of near-agony on his face. "Dakota was lonely," was all he said, but it stopped her in midstep and she whirled to reach her arms toward him. "Oh, Jonathan," she crooned as her arms went around his neck. He felt the coffee grinder dig into his shoulder blade, but he didn't care. He crushed her against him, murmuring her name against her hair. The coffee grinder fell to the floor with a splintering crash, but they remained as they were, holding each other, sharing a new bond. "I love you, Jonathan," Mary whispered, and she found it was true. It was easier to love this warm Jonathan, easy to think he loved her, too.
Her words brought a quickening to his loins and a quick wish to his mind. I wish I could take her up to bed right now, he thought as he ran his hands over her back, bringing her body tightly against his. But he forced a calm to himself, burying the thought that seemed suddenly prurient again when he opened his eyes to the kitchen light. Releasing her, he almost felt that she'd have responded, regardless of the time of day. He chastised himself, reluctantly turning Mary free, wondering what folly had captured him to even think such a thing, especially with Mary in her condition.
Mary turned to her supper preparations to hide her chag- rin. Her body felt suddenly chilled, abashed at being turned away so abruptly. She had offered herself to Jonathan, and he'd denied her. Would this be the way of it forever? Her needs had been so simple before Aaron. She longed to return to that state, to quell these urgings that now overtook her without warning. But what had lain asleep in Mary had lain too long, rested too well. It seemed it would stay aroused for a long time to come.
Aaron's decision to stay on in Dakota necessitated some changes in the early-winter planning. The serious snows had held off, but November's temperatures dropped down below freezing, cold enough to keep meat, bringing butchering time. Jonathan and Clem Volence made plans to exchange help with the chore because it required two men. They butchered at Jonathan's place one cold day in late November, out on the south side of the granary where the steam rose from a huge cast-iron pot. In spite of the chilling cold, the fire under the pot warmed Jonathan's hands as he added ashes to the sim- mering water. A pulley and rope hung in the sturdy oak tree that had been pressed into such use many times before. To- gether he and Clem slew the hog, bled it, and hoisted it into the oak with the aid of the pulley. A large wooden barrel leaned on a cross-prop beneath the carcass, forming a kind of chute that held the boiling ash water. It regurgitated belching bubbles as the two men lowered the pig's forequarters into it. The drenching and scalding continued as they slid the carcass up and down, removing bristles as it scraped against the barrel staves. The process was repeated on the rear end, with more scalding water and more scraping. On a table of saw-horses and planks the carcass was laid to be knife-scraped until the hide was clean and hairless. "This time of year I wish I had a boy to help out," Clem confided. "Yup. A boy Priscilla's age would be mighty helpful," Jonathan agreed. "'Course, I wouldn't trade Priscilla. She's been a big help to her ma since the baby came and all. We thought for a while there we might lose her to Aaron, but he sure ain't been around much lately." Clem squinted a look at Jonathan as he replied, but Jonathan remained his stolid self, scraping away at the carcass. "Reckon Aaron doesn't know what he wants right now."
"That young Michalek has been hangin' around a lot. Ag- nes don't think near as much of him as she does of Aaron. That don't faze Priscilla none, though-she just tells her ma to quit worryin'. Just the same, we miss seein' Aaron around." "Mary misses seein' Priscilla, too. Used to get together a lot on Sundays." Jonathan stopped his scraping then and looked at Clem from under lowered brows. "Guess it's not for you nor me to say what they do, though." Then he reached for a board and drew it through the hog's ankle tendons and said, "Let's hoist 'er up now. She's ready to be split and drawn," and the subject of Aaron and Priscilla was put aside.
Mary came downyard, swaddled in mittens, scarf, and coat, a dishpan of salt water propped on her hip. "I came to get the heart and liver for soaking," she called. They needed immediate attention if they were to be edible. "We got 'em out," Jonathan said, pointing to the tub at his feet.
Mary had suffered little nausea during her first six months of pregnancy, but at the sight of the unsavory tangle of innards in the tub, her stomach gave a sickening lurch. She took what she'd come for and hurried back to the house. But the chosen sections of gut also needed cleaning and scraping for sausage, and she finished her day with the gorge threat- ening to erupt from her throat. Even the fresh liver she fried for supper lost its usual appeal, but Jonathan ate heartily. "You're not eating much," he noted, looking at her plate.
Involuntarily her hands went to her stomach and she said, "When the butchering is done, I'll feel more like eating again."
He was surprised. She never got sick at all. This was something new, and he realized the peculiarities of pregnancy were something they hadn't shared at all. He wondered if there were other things that bothered her. "I can finish scraping those sausage casings after supper," he offered. And in spite of her queasy stomach, Mary smiled. It was so unlike Jonathan, and she understood his full inten- tions. His concern was all she needed right now. "They're all done, Jonathan, but thank you, anyway." And he returned to cutting the meat on his plate, a bit flustered by a new, expansive warmth inside him.
The following day, he brought the quartered carcass into the kitchen table and sawed it into meal-sized pieces. These he placed on planks covered with dish towels, and left on the back porch to freeze overnight. Hopefully no wild animals would brave coming that near, even for a free dinner.
The hams, bacon, and side pork Mary put into brine crocks to soak and turn red as the saltpeter did its work. Slabs of lard, too, were cut and frozen in preparation for rendering. The grinding and frying down of the fat permeated the house for days with a heavy odor. Jonathan had packed the frozen meats into a barrel on the north side of the house long before Mary's job was finished. The sausage-making took on a more pleasant aspect for her, although Jonathan mercifully boiled the hog's head in the caldron in the yard. But when she cooked the meat from it with pearl bar ley and spices, it filled the house with a pungent garlic aroma, reminding Jonathan of the coming holiday. "It smells just like when Ma used to cook it at Christmas," he said. "I'm saving it for then. We won't have our first taste till Christmas, just like when you were boys." "How'd you know we always saved it till Christmas? I never told you, did I?" "No, Aaron did one time." "Oh…sure," he said, glancing at the kettle that bubbled away on the stove, then back at Mary again. "Do you suppose he'll make it home for Christmas?" she asked. "I hope so," Jonathan answered, and he truly did. "Me, too." And for once her husband didn't feel threatened by her words.
But the hams were smoked in the smokehouse, tied into sacks Mary had sewn for them and plunged deep within the loose oats in the grainary, for storage, and still no word had come.
At Getchner's farm, a changed, quiet atmosphere filled the days. Aaron was kept busy, but the work was lighter, the days shorter. After the frenzied harvest activities Aaron felt the abrupt loneliness.
The Getchners took their trip to Fargo, and Aaron was left alone in the strange house. It might have warmed or charmed him, for it was a comfortable place, but it wasn't his home and it left him wanting and lonely, remembering his own place.
It was a week before Thanksgiving, and Aaron pictured the kitchen at home, the table covered with geese being readied for market. His nostrils seemed to catch the smell of wet feathers and melting paraffin. How he hated picking pinfeathers! But he'd do it gladly to be home right now.
The slow-moving days brought Thanksgiving. He spent it alone, his thoughts miles away. The late-found understanding between Jonathan and himself had left him missing his brother and Mary equally. He found he was again thinking of them as a pair, and the longer he was away, the less he singled out one or the other in his thoughts.
The Getchners returned, and December blustered across the bleak Dakota landscape, the raw winds sweeping its flatness. Christmas was nearing, and Aaron waited for the word from Getchner, word that he was no longer needed. It couldn't come fast enough. He'd had enough of the flat- lands, the emptiness.
Some years, Jonathan and Mary had traveled as far as Osakis to find the best market for Mary's dressed geese. This year, though, Jonathan sold them all in Browerville. Mary had kept back two for themselves, one for Christmas dinner and another to be hoarded until midwinter, when it would be a welcome treat after a steady diet of pork and wild game.
They'd had no word from Aaron, and with Christmas only a week away, both Mary and Jonathan were anxious. Mabel Garner had written, inviting the Grays to join her great, raucous, crowded family on Christmas Day. But Mary's condition forced them to decline. Also, they didn't know if Aaron might make it home. So they waited uncertainly, not wanting to be gone if he arrived without warning.
In the wintery dusk the streets of Fargo were shimmering with lights. Motorcars and horses shared the roadways, parked or tethered, chugging or trotting. The backs of the horses gleamed wetly under melting snow. The hoods of the autos were dusted with it.
There were two hours to fill before the night train departed. Aaron had tried rare beefsteak at the Comstock Hotel, finding it surprisingly flavorful and juicy, as Jonathan had read it'd be. Wait till I tell Jonathan about it, he thought. Every thought now was of home. Passing ladies in their hobbled skirts, he tried to imagine Mary hobbling around the kitchen in one, and laughed at the thought. How could she jump the porch steps in a getup like that? Childish voices drifted along the street, and Newt Volence's face came to him, one tooth missing. Through a bakery window he saw decorated delicacies, and he could almost smell the kitchen at home. Mary would be making holiday breads, he thought. The sound of a carol wafted through the evening as a door swung open. He paused and entered the department store where music was spinning off a gramophone. Standing before it, listening, he was approached by a mustached man who moved like a chipmunk. "May I help you, sir?" the chipmunk chirped. "How much for this gramophone?" Aaron inquired.
"This, sir," the mustache twitched, "is the newest Edison grrraph-o-phone." The little man enunciated each syllable, rolling the r's like an outraged pedagogue. "How much for this Edison grrraph-o-phone?" Aaron re- peated, rolling his r's, too, superbly, but with a smile twitching his cheek. "The device sells for a mere nine dollars." But as the chip- munk said it, the music wound down and he had to crank the handle to speed up the singing voices until they, too, sounded like chipmunks before settling once again to a hu- man cadence.
The little man ruffled at Aaron's open amusement, but relaxed when Aaron said, "I'll take one anyway, and some records to go with it." The salesman scurried away to find a carton for the purchase, looking even more like a chipmunk in his brown, striped suit.
Aaron also bought a pair of soft kid gloves for Jonathan and a length of white organdy for Mary. For himself he bought a heavy, warm sheepskin jacket, spending a sizable lump of his earnings but enjoying it.
When Aaron at last boarded the train he was weighted down with packages like many of the other homeward-bound holiday travelers. It was hard to contain his excitement amid the babble of voices around him. But darkness passed the train window and he thought of the two who waited for him at home. He pictured the rolling, snow-covered hills, the contrast of black tree trunks against them. The yard, the house, the barn-all the familiar, loved scenes lulled him to sleep along with the clacking of the rails beneath him.
Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, and still no word from Aaron. Every day, when the mail carrier came without a letter, it was hard to keep the disappointment from show- ing. Mary was preparing dried fruits for her Christmas hoska when she heard the chug of the mail car coming over the hill. She finished chopping the last few cherries, then went to fetch a jacket. She was reaching for the door when it opened and there stood Aaron. His face was red and snow- burned, but he wore a huge smile as he threw his bedroll inside and followed it to scoop Mary up in an engulfing hug, booming, "Merry Christmas!"
She was so stunned she could only give herself over to the bear hug, stammering, "Aaron, where did you come from?" "I came from Dakota!" he laughed, swinging her around in his exuberant hug while she struggled to push out of it and look at him. "But how did you get here?"
He finally released her and answered while he leaned to pull a large carton in from the porch, "I rode the milk train and caught a ride in the mail car-and here I am!" As he finished, he knocked the door shut with the heavy box. "Milk train? Mail car?" She couldn't believe it yet. "Why didn't you write and have Jonathan pick you up?" "And spoil a good surprise?" His booming, exuberant mood was infectious. She still had a surprised gape on her face, and he reached out a finger and pushed her chin up, saying, "Good thing it's not summer or the flies would get in there."
Her mouth closed then, but it took on a scolding pout while she shook her finger at him as if he were a naughty schoolboy. But she couldn't fool him, and she couldn't hold a straight face. They eyed each other, snickering; then their merriment grew and blossomed into rich, free laughter. Aaron hooted unabashedly at just being home again.
When they stilled a bit, they looked each other over, noting the changes the last two months had made.
With a little raise of the eyebrows and a perfectly calm expression, Aaron surveyed her rounded shape. "Well…look at you."
She spread her hands on her belly as if measuring its growth, shrugged her shoulders, and smiled. "Big, huh?"
He nodded. "But pretty as ever." "Oh, I don't know about pretty," she corrected. "Clumsy and slow, but not too pretty anymore."
He laughed at her description as he shrugged out of his jacket. She noticed it was new as she reached for it automat- ically to put it away.
He waved her hand away. "You don't need to fuss and do over me, Mary." And he hung the jacket on a hook behind the door. "It's a Christmas present for myself," he said.
Aaron looked around the room then, saw where she'd been working at the table when he came in. There was a dish towel covering a mound atop the warming oven, and he asked, "Making the hoska?" Everything was the same as always, and a rush of contentment filled him. "Aha," she answered. "Where's Jonathan?" he asked. "Down in the barn someplace. Probably with Vinnie, Why don't you walk down and find him?" "Soon as I get my fill of this kitchen." She watched him as he walked around, touching things, warming his hands at the stove. He acted as if he couldn't get enough of it. "We didn't think you'd come." She busied herself with the bread while he took care of the things he'd dumped on the floor. "Getchner kept me busy. I wasn't sure myself when I'd leave." "What's in the box?" she asked as he took it to the front room.
But instead of answering he complained from beyond her sight, "What? No Christmas tree?" "It's not time yet, Aaron. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. Jonathan says he's got a perfect beauty picked out, though." "When the tree is up, you'll find out what's in the box," he informed her. He had returned to the kitchen, bringing his teasing grin with him. "Is it a present, Aaron?" she asked, turning to him with floury hands, unable to conceal her curiosity and anticipation. "Tell you what," he said with the air of one about to make a generous offer. "If you let me poke my finger in that dough, I'll consider telling you." The elastic white puff was mush- rooming over the edge of the crock, ready for its last kneading. "What?" she said, amazed. "Well, once when I was a kid, Ma let me do that, and it was so much fun. But after that when I asked her she said it made the bread tough, and she never let me do it again." "Has anybody ever told you never grew up, Aaron Gray?" she teased, then stepped aside. "If it'll delight your immature whimsy…by all means, have at it." And she made a sweeping gesture, giving him leave to indulge.
He rubbed his palms together. "Oh, boy!" Then he took aim and sunk one finger in the airy puff and watched it de- flate and collapse while they giggled at their own absurdity. "Now get away and let me shape it before it's ruined," Mary scolded, still giggling, then began slicing, flouring, studding the dough with jeweled cherries and golden nuts while Aaron left to find Jonathan.
The hoska was baked and cooling before Jonathan and Aaron returned to the house together. Mary heard their voices as they came, and cleared the steam off the east window with her forearm, watching them as they approached. Their bare heads were lowered as they came; then Jonathan's rose as he laughed at something Aaron had said. Aaron threw a loose arm around Jonathan's shoulder for a moment as they reached the back porch steps. Everything must be okay, just like Jonathan said, Mary thought. And she opened the door for them both, loving the sound of their laughter-filled voices.
The gay, careless mood in which Aaron returned affected them all. His first evening home, the house seemed trans- formed by the voices, the holiday preparations, Aaron's spirit of fun. Mary strung popcorn and the men ate from her bowl while she playfully scolded them until another batch had to be popped. They talked of rabbit-hunting in the morning, the invitation from Aunt Mabel Garner, what Aaron had done for Getchner in Dakota, what they'd earned from the harvest, an Angus cow in the spring, and of course about Aaron's first taste of rare beef.
In the morning Jonathan found a fat cottontail when he checked his snares in the woods, so the hunting wasn't ne- cessary after all. Rabbit was their traditional Christmas Eve meat, and it had taken Mary many failing attempts before she'd learned how to cook it the way they remembered their ma and their grandma cooking it. It was simmered in a stock laced with onion, bay leaf, and prunes, then thickened with spicy chunks of gingerbread. The aromas were heavy in the house when, in late afternoon, the men brought in the pun- gent pine.
The box Aaron had brought remained mysteriously sealed, the source of much amusement, for Mary refused to give up about it. "You promised to tell what's in it if I let you have your way with my bread dough," she niggled. "I did no such thing as promise," he teased. "Jonathan, didn't I tell you it's my dirty laundry? Tell the woman it's my dirty laundry."
Jonathan chuckled. "You'd better watch what you say there, brother. She does up the laundry around here, you know."
Then when they returned from milking, a hurried affair that evening, Aaron found one corner of the box turned back, although nothing of its contents showed. "O-ho!" he bellowed. "Some sneaking cur has been chewing on my private possessions!" "Sneaking cur!" came a shriek from the kitchen. "You said yourself it was just dirty laundry, so I merely put it in a tub of lye water to soak." And she heard laughter from the front room.
Mary hadn't peeked into the carton, but she'd pushed it across the floor a bit to see how heavy it was, and she'd found it was excitingly weighty. For all the give-and-take, the box had her giddy with excitement. She fairly squirmed through supper, willing everybody to hurry up. She barely tasted the food, eating a small portion while the men took exasperating second helpings, then agonizing thirds. Nor- mally, she would have been gratified, but tonight it only held them up.
Even Jonathan could see her impatience and played along with Aaron, tipping the tureen sideways and peeking inside, saying, "This stew wants finishing, brother, and you know how Mary's always after us to clean up the bowls."
She jumped up then and snatched the spoon from Aaron's hand, saying, "Just you try it, Aaron Gray, and you'll draw back a stub!"
She flew through the dishes while the men stood the tree erect in a pail of water in the front room. At last, free of her kitchen duties, she joined them.
They trimmed it with tiny candles, each in its own mini- ature holder, the popcorn Mary had strung, tiny wooden figurines from Jonathan and Aaron's childhood, molasses gingerbread men new this year. At the top went the painted cardboard angel with white horsehair halo, the same as every year. The candles remained unlit until Christmas Day, but the glow of the kerosene lantern lent a rosiness to the room. Small packages had mysteriously appeared, but with the time at last here for their opening, Mary held back, saying, "I don't want to open them yet." "Leave it to a woman to change her mind, huh, Jonathan?" Aaron winked. "I hate to have it over so fast," Mary added hastily. "It's been such a wonderful day." She expressed what they'd all been feeling, drawing them close but making the men mo- mentarily uncomfortable with emotion. But the moment passed, and they sat to open the collection of packages. The small ones from Mary yielded necessary items, bought with her money from selling the geese, mostly socks and plaid flannel shirts. Jonathan's luxurious kid gloves brought a gentle rebuff to Aaron-"These are pretty fancy for Moran Township"-but he was pleased, and his eyes showed it. At the length of white organdy, Mary cooed, "Ooo, it's so fine and soft," then draped it around her shoulders like a shawl. From Jonathan, Aaron received a new bottle of bay rum, Mary a woolen scarf.
Aunt Mabel had sent a package that proved to be a selection of homemade kimonos, saques, and bibs for the baby. While Mary was pulling them out, examining each one, even putting them to her nose to smell the newness of the fabric, Jonathan quietly left the room. There was a mo- ment of apprehension as Mary and Aaron looked at each other across the tiny clothes that lay on her lap. Jonathan's absence was brief, however, and as Aaron began to rise to go after him, they heard the porch door close. Then Jonathan came back in, bringing with him a wooden cradle. He stepped inside the doorway, and there seemed to be a faint flush on his cheeks as he stood there, holding the cradle self- consciously. "I…ahh…here…" he began haltingly. "Well…I dug this out of storage and painted it up a bit," he finally managed. He looked at Mary while he said it, and her face registered her delight as she came to her feet, exclaiming, "Jonathan, your own old cradle! And look how you've done it up!"
He set it down, and she was beside it, touching it to make it rock, walking all around it to view it from all sides, happily expectant as she circled it. "It's just perfect. I'll have to make a mattress for it. When did you paint it? How could you get it done without me knowing? It's small enough to fit any- where, and we could move it around the house to any room we want. I have enough yard goods to make sheets for it, too. Oh, Jonathan," she finished, wide-eyed with delight.
Aaron hadn't seen her in this jubilant maternal mood be- fore. He sat on the sofa, elbows on knees, studying her in an element he couldn't share. He smiled as he watched and listened to her, but a hollow yearning settled in the pit of his stomach. He'd known it would happen at times like this, but this was the first time, and he hadn't expected the force of it. She was radiant in her excitement, glowing with her plans, pleased and proud of Jonathan. As he heard her exclamations he looked at the cradle, and Aaron thought of how he'd slept in it as a baby, too. That ought to be some consolation, but it was none at all.
Jonathan beamed at Mary while she jigged around the cradle. He'd felt the awkward moment pass with her exhilar- ation. He'd been unsure if it was wise to give it to her in front of Aaron, but seeing Aaron's relaxed pose and smile, he was glad now that he'd done it. It seemed like another barrier safely crossed. "All right, enough now, Mary." He stopped her and pointed to Aaron's carton. "Maybe Aaron will let you look inside that thing now."
Aaron rose from the sofa, hiding his morose reflections behind a smile, and pulled the carton into the middle of the floor. "Who wants to do the honors?"
Mary was kneeling beside him in a minute, all grinning and eager. Aaron gave her the go-ahead with a wave of his open hand, indicating the carton. He winked at Jonathan as they watched her pull it open, voice high with excitement as she asked, "Oh, Aaron, what did you get?"
When she got to the last layer of enveloping cardboard and pulled it back, she sucked in a breath and covered her mouth with her hands in surprise as she exclaimed, "A gramophone! Aaron brought a gramophone!"
"Not quite," Aaron corrected. "I was told it was an Edison grrraphophone!" And he rolled the words off his tongue, imitating the salesman. "I bought it from a chipmunk! And he made it very clear that only an idiot would call it anything else."
He described the fussy, brown-striped gent and his haughty treatment. They all laughed and repeated the word "grrraa- pho-phone" over and over while they examined the records, the knobs, and the crank on the machine. They played all the records. There were two Strauss waltzes, the Christmas carol Aaron had first heard playing, and a Sousa march. They took turns cranking the machine as it needed it, laughing when it slowed to a distorted growl. The music wound down, then back up. Mary wanted to dance. "Aw, you dance with Aaron," Jonathan dissented. "You know I'm not much for it."
So she and Aaron spun a few slow circles around the room, leaning and swooping exaggeratedly as if they were in a Vi- enna ballroom while Jonathan shook his head, enjoying their antics. Aaron bowed at the end of the dance, and Mary curtsied, holding her dress away from her bulging sides. "Thank you Mrs. Gray," Aaron said. "Likewise, Mr. Gray," she laughed. "Ahhh," she sighed as she sunk down tiredly into a chair, "what a gift you brought, Aaron. But it wore me right out." "I guess we all need some rest. Tomorrow we can celebrate some more," Jonathan said. "Why don't you two go up and I'll bank the coals and fill the woodbox?" Aaron said, then watched Jonathan lead Mary toward the stairway.
When they got there, Mary turned toward Aaron again. "Merry Christmas, Aaron," she said. "You, too," he answered.
On their way up the steps, she said to Jonathan, "It was the best Christmas ever, I think." "Are you glad to have Aaron home?" Jonathan asked. "Oh, yes," she answered, and she reached behind her to take Jonathan's hand.
Downstairs, the door closed as Aaron went out to the woodpile.