It was another golden day like the one on which Jonathan and Aaron had left. The sun was warm on Mary’s arms and face as she rapped the shells. She dropped another hazelnut into the fruit jar as an inquisitive squirrel rustled through the leaves, stopping a safe distance away.
“Hey, you,” she beckoned, but he scurried a bit away at the sound of her voice. “Bet you’d like some, huh?” She tossed one near the squirrel, and its tail flinched, gray and shiny in the bright sun, before the animal grabbed it and hid it away inside its cheek. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have had to dry those nuts up there on the roof. Now you pretend you’re too shy to come and eat them.” Then she talked to the baby, as she’d begun to do often. “You know, little one, Jonathan would have a fit, and so would Aaron, if they knew I’d been up that ladder after those nuts. You won’t tell, will you?” Then she popped a hazelnut into her mouth. “How do you like hazelnuts, huh?” she asked her unborn child. The squirrel was back, looking for more nuts, his head cocked cutely to one side. “Well, who do you think I’m talking to?” she asked it. “All your babies are grown up now, but you’re not the only one who can have babies. I’m gonna be a mama, too, so there.” And she gave the squirrel one more hazelnut. “And don’t look at me as if I’m crazy. I got to talk to someone.”
Oh, she was lonesome, no doubt about it. But since the men were gone she’d found an unusual response to the child that helped fill her days, while at the same time setting her mind straight about Jonathan and Aaron. The longer they were away, the easier it was to detach herself from the emotions that pulled her in opposite directions when they were both around her. She was able to analyze what she’d done and what was the right thing for her to do in the future, and there was less and less doubt that she had wronged Jonathan. Even if he’d asked for it, she’d been wrong to turn to Aaron, and she realized that she’d never asked for Jonathan’s forgiveness.
She wasn’t trying to delude herself into believing she didn’t love Aaron. She did, but she was also convinced that she could find the old love she and her husband had shared. She wondered if Aaron could ever forgive her for the choice she had to make or if he’d come to think she’d used him to get the baby. But if that were so, it was the price she’d have to pay. This had cost them all so much. Not only was Mary determined to set things straight between herself and Jonathan, she was determined to make him see that he must do the same between himself and Aaron. She told Jonathan so, that day, by letter.
Dear Jonathan,
I received your welcome letter today and am happy all is well there. Here, too. Amos and Tony are handling the stock just fine. They refuse to let me make them a lunch before they leave, though it’s midmorning by the time they finish. I’m already missing the cooking, but of course they have chores of their own and can’t humor me just because I’d like company at the table. In the evenings they come after supper, and it’s dusk by the time they leave.
Soon you’ll be gone a whole week. I’ve had time to get clear of mind since you left. It’s not good that we haven’t made some kind of peace among ourselves, you know? You’ve got to accept what I have to say now, knowing it’s long since time it was said. Our being apart could heal some wounds—I know you think you don’t have any, but you do. And Jonathan, I’m sorry I gave them to you. I’m deeply sorry. What happened between me and Aaron will not be again. He and I have made a sort of peace, but you and I have to, too. And I believe you and he have to do the same. You know that if left to fester, this thing will become enmity between you, and I can’t let that happen. Jonathan, you were brothers long before I came between you. You have to be again. Maybe this time in Dakota was meant for you and Aaron to sort of sift the chaff from the grain in your lives while you sift in the fields. I’m like a bit of bothersome wind when I’m around. I blow the two together. But now with me here and you two there, why not let the distance serve a purpose? Let it sift away your differences and get you back to being brothers again.
I’ve told Aaron that I’ll stay true to you from now on. He knows, too, that the baby will be yours—that there is no other way. We all have to find peace for the unborn one. For you and Aaron that can’t happen till you two talk. Then he can start in building his own life and so can we.
But now, for all of us, please do as I ask, Jonathan. But mostly for your sake and Aaron’s. Let me not add this to my guilt—that I tore you forever apart.
Please return my best to Aaron.
With deepest affection,
Mary.
Jonathan slipped the letter into his cambric pocket when Mrs. Getchner handed it to him, to wait until he was away from the kitchen flurry before he read it.
It was dark when they finished eating and headed for the barn. Jonathan claimed the lantern, sitting apart from the others, who jawed awhile before turning in. The floor of the loft was swept clean in a wide circle around the lantern to prevent fires. Jonathan knelt on the floor, holding the letter toward the lamplight, haunches low, hands high, as he strained to read the words in the flickering glow. A smile creased his eyes as he pictured Mary inviting Amos and Tony in for coffee. Nobody could make a cup of coffee like Mary, he thought.
But then his expression sobered as he progressed through the letter. When he finished reading, he lay it lightly on his lowered knee, holding it there loosely between two fingers. His other knee was raised, and he braced it with an elbow as he sat motionless, pondering. A picture of her as she must have looked while writing came to him. Then he looked toward the cluster of men, reclining in haphazard poses on the hay. Aaron was smiling, listening to Joe telling some story about how his kid had harnessed a chicken. A burst of laughter filled the loft, and as Aaron leaned his head back to join in, he glanced over to find Jonathan studying him. Jonathan’s face was serious, unsmiling. Aaron’s immediately became the same. He rose and came to Jonathan, asking, “Everything all right at home?” He knew the letter was from Mary.
“Yup,” Jonathan answered, snapping out of whatever had sobered him. “Mary sends her regards.”
The men settled down, climbed into their rolls, grunting and yawning and shifting around to get comfortable. Someone turned out the lantern, and Jonathan considered again what Mary had said. She was right, but he needed time to sort his mind. Tomorrow was Sunday. They’d work the day as if it were any other, for crops came before worship this time of year in Dakota. But they’d probably cut the day short. He and Aaron’d have time to talk then.
As Jonathan expected, they came in from the fields a couple of hours before sunset the following day. The men were invited to stay in the kitchen to pass the evening, and Mrs. Getchner got out the tin popper and popped corn at the range, where the men settled to enjoy both the corn and the warmth.
Jonathan was thinking of asking Aaron to walk out toward the barn with him when Aaron stretched and said he guessed he’d turn in early. It saved Jonathan from making unnecessary excuses for their leaving. They went to the loft together, going through the familiar ritual of lantern and bedrolls.
It was darkly quiet, the dusty, sweet smell of the hay pleasant and familiar. There were few night sounds to be heard, but Jonathan could hear his brother’s breathing, could hear his own heart beating at a stepped-up pace. He wanted to say things right, knew that if he failed, it could drive the wedge deeper between himself and Aaron. He began, with the words still unsure in his mind, “Aaron, you awake?”
“Yeah,” Aaron grunted.
“It appears we got some things to settle between us,” Jonathan began.
“I figured this was coming.”
“Yeah?” The way Jonathan said it, Aaron knew how hard this was for him.
“What took you so long getting around to it?” Aaron asked.
“Thought it might settle itself.” In his halting way he added, “Didn’t, though.”
Aaron wondered what Jonathan wanted of him, wondered what had finally prompted him to speak. He asked, “Did Mary say something in her letter?”
> “She, ah…” Jonathan cleared his throat, giving himself time to make his thoughts clearer. “Ah…she thinks it’s best we talk about it between us, sort of, settle the air a bit. ’He paused, then added, “Reckon she’s right.”
Still, Jonathan didn’t mention the baby. Did he want Aaron to admit he was the father or what? Aaron knew how hard this must be for his brother, and at last Aaron prompted, “About the baby?”
“Yes.” But still Jonathan didn’t say more. He wanted to but couldn’t. They lay side by side in the dark, listening to each other breathe, make small movements, thoughts of Mary glimmering through their minds. Thoughts of their brotherhood came, too, of the rift they’d suffered, how the rift had become a chasm. The silence grew lengthy, and Aaron waited in vain for Jonathan to say more. Drawing a deep breath, feeling a mixture of trepidation and release all at once, he said, “Mary said the baby is mine.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” Jonathan said, his heart hammering fit to burst.
“We didn’t intend it, Jonathan. It just happened, that’s all.”
Another silence weighted them down while both men sought for an understanding.
“I’m sorry, Jonathan,” Aaron said, reaching his own understanding.
“I am, too,” came Jonathan’s voice. “I thought I wouldn’t be, but I am.”
The trepidation easing, Aaron asked, “What made you ask it of us?”
“At the time it seemed the clear way. I guess I talked myself into it being the clear way.”
“Have you got any idea the pain it caused Mary…and me? We didn’t see it in the same light as you did, Jonathan.”
“I reckon I know that now. Even after I asked it I never thought you’d do it, you were so mad. But it’s a funny thing how it worked out like I asked, anyway, about the baby and all. I can’t say I ain’t happy about the baby. Guess I gotta thank you for that.”
“If it was the other way around,” Aaron said, “I don’t think I’d be thanking you. If she were my wife, I’d kill the man who laid a hand on her.”
Jonathan, in the darkness beside his brother, realized then the depth of feelings he’d been author to. He’d been so sure there was nothing between Aaron and Mary before the start of this. Chances are there hadn’t been. But what a fool he’d been to think a thing like that could happen and leave people the same afterward.
“You love her, then?” he asked, dreading the answer.
Should he lie and add to the damage already done? Or would the truth do more damage? Aaron plunged the rest of the way. “I love her, Jonathan. I can’t deny it. I reckon she’s what I was looking to find—only I never knew it till this happened. She was always too close for me to see.”
A pang of sudden regret and fear hit Jonathan, his fear of losing Mary becoming a real possibility. “What about you and Priscilla?” he asked hopefully.
“We tried, Jonathan, but it just wouldn’t work for us.” After a pause he admitted, “We never really loved each other. We were just convenient, I guess.”
“Seemed for a while there, you two got on just fine,” Jonathan offered, but he knew it was wishful thinking.
“It’s not hard to get on fine with half of Moran Township marching you up the aisle before you know what’s happening. With everybody pushing and shoving at us, I guess I thought she was probably the right one for me. Aw, hell, I don’t know, Jonathan. Sometimes I thought maybe I loved her. But I guess we don’t always pick who we love. If we could, Pris and I would be married by now.”
“You don’t intend to patch it up with her, then?”
“No. Priscilla just doesn’t measure up anymore. Mary’s your wife. You should know she’s not a woman you…” But Aaron found that any way he tried to say what he meant would reveal too much. “Aw, hell, Jonathan. I just need some time to get over this, that’s all. I could no more rebound back to Pris right now than you could tell the good citizens of Moran that the baby is mine.”
Oh, that hurt, but Jonathan guessed he deserved it. He knew it meant an even deeper involvement than he’d first suspected. At least on Aaron’s part. And in spite of himself, he wanted to know the truth about Mary’s feelings, too. “And what about Mary?” he couldn’t help asking. “Does she love you, too?”
Aaron found he couldn’t strip every shed of pride away from Jonathan by saying yes. “Like I said, she’s your wife. That’s for you to ask her, for her to say. What did she say in her letter?”
“That there’ll be nothing more between you and we’ll say the baby’s mine. She says you’ll find things will work out best this way.”
Of course that’s what she said, Aaron thought. Hadn’t she already told him the same thing that night in the barn? She was right, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier. Still, it was up to him to confirm it to Jonathan. “That’s how it’ll be, then, Jonathan, and I swear that’s the truth.”
They could hear voices near the barn and knew the others would be mounting the ladder soon. But there was one more thing Aaron had to make sure of. Would Jonathan understand that even though he gave up any claim on the baby he was still concerned for the child’s welfare and happiness?
“About the baby…” Aaron started, then hesitated.
And for once in his life Jonathan grasped Aaron’s feelings intuitively. “I’ll love it, never fear. And it’ll never know the truth from me.”
“Jesus, it’ll be hard,” Aaron admitted in a husky voice. Thinking of the life he’d helped create, of giving it up before it was even whole, he added, “It’ll be hell, Jonathan.”
The men arrived then, cutting short the sifting of the chaff. Both Aaron and Jonathan lay awake for hours, thinking.
Work made the days go faster, and Mary kept busy in an effort to hurry them. She’d put off making winter sauerkraut until this time when the men were gone. She’d stored the largest, firmest heads of cabbage in the root cellar and now sliced them, added salt and caraway seeds, and beat the mixture with a stomper, smashing it into its own juices and leaving it to ferment.
Navy beans from the garden had been drying since picking time. She spent a day winnowing these in the windy yard, pouring the beans noisily from dishpan to roaster many times until the dried pods were gone, blown free by the October winds. She stored away the cleanly blown kernels.
She dug up gladioli and dahlia bulbs from the garden, tearing their dried tops off, washing and storing them until next spring. The frosts had finished all but the last few resisting chrysanthemums, and she picked them and took them into the house for a bit of cheer. She burned the pile of dead stalks and leaves from the garden on a late, cool afternoon, feeling the days cooling toward winter, the westering sun lowering earlier each day.
She cleaned the coops, the last time before the snow flew, and went down to the barn to visit with Tony and Amos when they came to do the chores. But they’d never take time to come up to the house for a cup of coffee. They had work of their own to do and couldn’t take time for pleasantries. So the house remained too silent, the tabletop too free of crumbs, the early-morning fires too lavish for just one.
She talked to the baby, referring to herself often now as “Mama,” but never calling anybody “Daddy,” feeling that she couldn’t yet give that name to either Jonathan or Aaron.
The evenings were the worst, the time right before supper when families should be a-gathering home, but when she had the urge to feel sorry for herself she quickly talked herself out of it, saying again, “I’m a fine one to be feeling sorry for myself!”
She waited until she thought they’d be coming home very soon before she washed blankets and bedspreads, giving them their last prewinter airing. Hauling the heavy things up the stairs late one day, she made up her and Jonathan’s bed first, then took the other fresh things into Aaron’s room, where the slanted rays of sun sliced low through the west window. Tugging at the sheets and laying the fresh quilts and coverlet on his bed, she thought again of the night she’d spent there with him, of all it had yielded and a
ll it had cost. She caught herself doing more than just dropping the pillows into place, then shook herself and freed her mind of Aaron once again.
17
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?”