Moran Township folk always turned out for weddings, births, and deaths with a great show of strength, their under- standing making them a people unequaled in generosity.
The tragic death of Jonathan Gray brought out these good people with full hands and full hearts. In the days before and after the funeral, they filled the house, bringing comfort, companionship, and food. They saw to it that Mary had company and Aaron had help. They helped him put in his crops. Some came to call at chore time, even helping for the first few days. Someone else pastured Vinnie, knowing his presence on the Gray farm was unthinkable. Someone came with crosscut saws and took care of the fallen trees, repairing fences where needed. Someone else offered to repair the roof of the chicken coop, but Aaron finally refused, saying they'd all done enough already. They all had work of their own to do, and many of them had suffered damage from the tornado, too, and had let their own repairs go. But the neighbors had done what they set out to do. They made those first days possible.
Aunt Mabel stayed several days after Jonathan's funeral, but she had her own family at home, and soon had to return to them. "Y'know you can come live with us, girl, and we'd be happy to have you," she told Mary.
But Mary knew that two more additions would be a hardship to the family now. The Garner children were bigger now, bigger eaters and bigger helpers. Mary wouldn't be needed, as she once had been. "I need time to decide what to do," she answered. "'Course you do, dear," Aunt Mabel said, accepting the girl's refusal with understanding.
When everyone was gone at last and things were quiet, Aaron came into the yard and found Mary kneeling listlessly near some green things sprouting in the garden. She held a trowel forgotten in her hand. "It's too damp on the ground. How long have you been kneeling there?"
She sighed and began absentmindedly chucking the trowel in the dirt. It made a rhythmic scratching sound as she did it. He knelt down on one knee and stopped her arm. "We have to talk about…some things," he said.
He pitched the tool in the dirt and said, "Come on."
She shivered and got up to follow him into the house. He went to the stove and did something to the fire, then said, "Sit down. We've got to talk about the farm, Mary, and what we should do." His eyes looked sunken and completely out of place in his already tanned, healthy-looking face. When she saw how haggard he looked, she felt worse but didn't know what to do for him.
"Well, I don't know," she began lamely. "I can't stay here anymore," he said, his sunken eyes avoiding her swollen ones. "It wouldn't do. I've had several offers to stay with neighbors. I can take my pick, so I guess I'll take Dvorak up on it. They're about the closest ones I'd want to stay with."
She hadn't thought she had much left in her for tears, but she was wrong. There were enough left to wet her eyes again, and they stung her swollen lids, already raw. "Oh, Aaron, isn't it bad enough without you going, too?" "I've got to go. You know that."
She nodded dumbly but said, "Sure, you've got to go again. I've got to push you out of your own house again. Why should you be the one who has to go?"
He leaned an elbow on the table, shutting his eyes and squeezing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Mary, let's make sense. You aren't making this too easy for me, okay?"
She squared her shoulders and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Aunt Mabel told me I could go to her place. Why don't I go there?" she suggested as he released his squeezing fingers and faced her again. "Now listen, that doesn't make any sense at all. They pack a baker's dozen into that house and this one should stand empty while you go to their place? It makes more sense for me to go." "But I…" "Hey…I want you and Sarah here. You need the house worse than me. I mean, I won't see you crowded in where you're not needed." "If I say I'll stay here, then what?"
"Well, I'll write and say I'm not coming to that job I planned to take." She was relieved that at least he wouldn't be pushed that far. "I can come and work the place here days and sleep at Dvorak's nights." "You'd do that, Aaron? You'd keep the place going when it's not…" But she couldn't say it wasn't his. "…not mine?" he finished for her. "The crops are more than half in. Who's going to take care of them if I don't?"
She just shrugged dismally. "I didn't mean that like it sounded," he consoled, seeing the shrug. "I don't know anything but this farm, and anyway, I really didn't want to go to Douglas County to work. You knew that, didn't you?"
She looked at her lap and nodded, then, smoothing her skirt repeatedly over her knees said, "I appreciate it, Aaron. I mean, I don't know what's going to happen here." But then she became upset and waved a flat palm at the kitchen around them. "Oh, it's all so mixed up. The land and the house-just everything." "It usually is when somebody dies," he said, looking at her squarely. "But we'll take it a day at a time, and for now I'll go to Dvorak's and see if I can't get the rest of the crops in and a new roof on the chicken coop. Okay?"
But she was silent. "Mary?" he asked. "Who gets the profits?" she challenged. "The land is yours, Mary," he said. "The house is yours," she said stubbornly, "and so is the chicken coop, for that matter, the one with my hens in it. I'm not taking everything free, and I mean it." "Okay," he agreed, "okay. We can work that out later. There won't be any profits till fall, and by that time some decisions will be made. But for now I go, and that's final." "Okay. So you go for the time being, but if you handle the crops, you handle the money. What do I know about the price of seeds and…well, everything? Jonathan took care of all that. The land is worthless to me since I don't know how to run it." "It's not worthless. You can sell it."
He was serious, and it nearly made her laugh. "Sell it?" she asked, stupefied. "Do you think I'd sell the farm right out from under you?" "Well, it's yours," he said, "or it will be as soon as it's probated. Maybe then I could buy it…" But that sounded too ridiculous even to his own ears, and he finished, "…or something." "Aaron, can't we just keep on like we were for a while till I know what to do? I mean, do what you want, run the farm however you want, and keep what you need of the money or whatever. It'd be kind of like payment for me and Sarah living in the house."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I don't need payment for you and Sarah living in my house," he said. "Well, how're you supposed to live…on what?"
She had him there. "People are so damn nosy around here. We just have to do our best to keep them from talk ing till we settle the…estate." The word was so forbidding. "Aaron, I can't think about this any more tonight. I'm just too…can't we decide tomorrow?"
She looked whipped now, and of all the times he'd had to turn away from her, tonight would be the hardest. "Mary, you don't seem to understand. I can't stay here tonight. With Aunt Mabel gone, I'll have to go to Dvorak's tonight. That's what I came up to tell you." "Tonight?" She swallowed. It was so quiet in the kitchen. He nodded silently. "Will…will you wait till after supper?" she asked. He sighed and leaned back on his chair, running a hand through his hair. "I've got to get some clothes together to take with me. You can get supper while I do that, okay?"
She agreed by nodding again, and the force of old habit made her want to please, so she asked, "What would you like? There's all kinds of stuff people brought. There's ham and hot dishes and…" But she stopped, the question sound- ing so silly now. "Anything," he said gently. "I'm not too hungry, Mary." And she knew he'd probably rather not be faced with food at all, that he was doing it because she'd be lonely when he went.
She fixed some food while he went upstairs, and his foot- steps sounded menacing above her, only because she knew they soon wouldn't be there anymore. The sound of his heels back and forth on his bedroom floor marked off the minutes that were flying too fast, and soon he came back down, gathered a few items from underneath the sink, his comb from the comb holder on the wall.
She struggled with tears all through supper and finally said in a shaky voice, "Aaron, you come home for your meals. There's no sense in putting the Dvoraks out any more than necessary." "I…" He wanted to say he'd eat only noon dinner with her, but she looked so forlorn, was having such a hard time keeping the tears in check. "Please, Aaron," she begged, "what will I do here alone?" "Okay," he agreed, and she seemed to deflate, releasing the breath she'd held while waiting for his answer.
He was all finished eating, and she asked over-anxiously, "Why don't you have a piece of marble cake? Agnes brought it."
He just shook his head no, but she got up anyway to get it from the pantry. He stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Tomorrow will be easier. It's just this first night alone, but don't worry." He got up and went over to the door and said, "I'll put this key up above the outside sill, and you lock up from the inside with this one. But you don't have to be scared of anything here, Mary."
It wasn't fear she dreaded, just loneliness-so much more final than when they'd gone off to Dakota and left her alone.
He gathered up his things from the seat of the extra kitchen chair, and she said, "Wait, I'll put them in something for you," and went to get brown paper to wrap them in. But then she couldn't think of any more excuses to keep him there. "I gotta go now, Mary girl, okay?" he asked at the door, and his lips were quivering. "Hey, it's okay," he added, as much for himself as for her. "Now lock the door, and I'll see you in the morning."
She breathed only half-breaths, fearing that if she relaxed any more than that, her whole chest would collapse and she'd burst into tears again.
He squeezed her forearm, then turned at a run and was gone down to the lean-to to saddle the mare. When he gal- loped out she was in the doorway, and he raised a hand but never slowed. She watched the road long after she knew she wouldn't see him on it again. Then she went into Aaron's house, where everything reminded her of Jonathan. She went over to the comb holder and stared at his comb, then walked to the living room where his coffin had been, but the furniture was all back in its usual order. Just when she thought she'd surely break, Sarah started crying upstairs and she ran up gratefully to her.
But later, lighting the lantern, she couldn't make herself go up to the bedroom, hers and Jonathan's. She sat holding Sarah long after the baby should have been put in her cradle. Finally, when her head lolled where she sat, she gave up and went upstairs, but at the door of the first bedroom she found she couldn't go in. Taking Sarah, she hurried on down the hall to Aaron's room and climbed into his bed, putting Sarah beside her for the night.
Just for tonight, she thought, just till I get used to the quiet. Aaron's pillow smelled of bay rum, but she lay stiff and lonely on it, thinking of the empty room down the hall.
There were too many things to confront: the cold, quiet stove in the mornings that Jonathan had always had hot and snapping when she came down. The silence, when the house used to ring with stove lids. His clean, folded clothes in the dresser drawers beside hers and, worse, his few dirty ones she found the first time she did the laundry. His old jacket on the hook behind the door. The coffee grinder he'd fixed after she dropped it. She never used it now. His chair stared at her across the table.
After a first awful week, she realized she'd have to over- come his absence, and she began moving back into their bedroom. She dug out an old comforter to change the look of their bed, and rearranged the furniture, moving the bed away from the wall. Each night she got to sleep a bit easier.
She began laying a fire in the stove when the coals had died in the evening, so all she had to do was touch a match to it when she came down in the morning.
When she found herself listening for his whistle, she'd crank up the graphophone and put the Sousa march on again and again, sometimes even waking Sarah with the racket.
She washed his clothes and put the cambric shirts up in Aaron's dresser. It took longer before she could pack away all the other things from their dresser.
She took a leaf out of the table and left only two chairs at it, putting the other two beside the breakfront.
People noted Aaron, working around the place but, finding no signs of his belongings around the house, nodded heads in approval, commending him for the way he kept the farm going when everyone knew it wasn't even his. And giving up his house that way to Mary and her baby-why, what would the girl have done if it hadn't been for him?
He rode the saddle horse over the rim of the east hill at the same time each morning, never surprising her early or inconveniencing her late. She would have breakfast ready for him, the baby already fed and asleep before he arrived. She'd see him gallop into the yard, passing under the elms and taking the horse to the lean-to where he left the saddle before turning her out to graze. It gave Mary time to get the food on the table. He always knocked on the door before he came in, and she knew how foreign that must seem to him.
They talked about the crops, the work he planned to do that day, the neighbors, the weather, the work she'd do during the day. Nothing personal.
At noon he came again, this time stopping at the well to wash his hands, giving her time to know he was on his way up.
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 contin- ued 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 cut- ting 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, uncomfort- able 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 dif- ficult 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 par- ents, 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 en- lightened, 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 pro- fusely, 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 trap- pings, 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 pos- sible. 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."