The Fulfillment (8 page)

Sunday turned
cloudy and cool, and the heat from the kitchen range felt good. Jonathan, Aaron, and Mary sat around the kitchen table with paring knives and bowls, quartering potatoes from the gunnysack on the tabletop into bowls on their laps, then dumping the filled bowls into sacks on the floor.

Jonathan was wishing it would rain if it meant to, and clear by morning. They'd need to start planting the spuds tomorrow if they were to get most of it done by the next Sunday. He hated to leave too much of the planting unfinished. Not knowing how many days he'd be gone, he couldn't risk leaving too many unplanted acres.

Aaron was considering his brother's leaving and wondering how he could escape the house next Sunday afternoon and evening. If they took Jonathan to the noon train, he and Mary would have the rest of the long, idle day together. He couldn't go down to Volences' like he used to. Pris had snuffed that idea clear out of his head. There wasn't anyplace else where it'd seem natural for him to show up on a Sunday. Sunday was pretty much a family day. But considering
what had passed between himself and Mary the night before, he knew it'd be best if they weren't in the house together with too much time on their hands. Come Monday, they'd have plenty of work to keep them busy, but what would they do during long, idle Sunday?

Aw, hell, he was getting sick and tired of worrying about it. He'd been troubling himself with it all day long, and his head felt ready to burst. There was only so much a man could do before something fouled up his good intentions, anyway. Just like yesterday—“friends” he'd said to Mary, like some asinine schoolboy. Christ! How dumb could a man get? Dumb enough to be sucked in by Jonathan's innocent plans to go off and leave them alone like it didn't mean a damn thing. And how about the other things that happened, which he couldn't control? Priscilla's standoffishness, and that fool who'd pushed Mary into his “equally good hands.” All Aaron could think of now was that he didn't want to think anymore. He wanted to sink himself down in a feather tick upstairs and not wake up till Jonathan came home with his damn bull.

 

In the gray light of Sunday, Mary was calling herself a thousand kinds of fool. Her hair was parted in the center and drawn back to the nape again. Her face was washed clean. But in spite of the return to her everyday looks, she felt like a harlot. Dressing up like a painted doll had been her undoing. Oh, why had she had such an idea in the first place? She should have known that Jonathan wouldn't be warmed by it. Now that it was done, she was ashamed, for she thought Jon
athan had misjudged the reason for her finery. He might've thought she'd got all gussied up to turn Aaron's head. Why hadn't she thought of that to begin with? But no matter how hard she wished she hadn't done it, she had, and now she had to live with what followed. The best way to do that was just to go on as if she were the same person as always, but tread lightly around Aaron—her “friend.” All she needed was to keep her hair parted down the middle and act as if nothing had happened. In two weeks this would all be forgotten and she'd wonder why she'd ever worried so.

 

Monday morning, the sun shone clear. The rains of Sunday night had left the earth soft and receptive. Jonathan and Aaron walked down the rows with sacks of seeder spuds on their shoulders. All of Aaron's old resentment for his brother was back again in full force. Even Jonathan's unbreaking rhythm as he planted potatoes riled Aaron. Dropping a piece of potato into the long cylinder on the planter, he'd move a pace up the row and pierce the soil, pushing on the planter with his foot. When he jerked the lever up, the potato was released, and he moved forward again, stepping on the newly interred seed behind him. He never broke the rhythm, but kept it up in four repeating, steady beats.

What does he think about while he works like a machine? Aaron thought. You'd think he had some kind of music playing in his head the way he whistles and keeps beat with those damn potatoes! He's probably thinking of his precious bull…among other things.

Aaron's syncopated movements were not lost on Jonathan, who couldn't pretend to fathom the way Aaron ran hot and cold these days. Saturday, on the way home from town, he'd been like always. Today, the way he stomped on the planter, Jonathan could tell he was riled about something.

 

Potatoes were their biggest cash crop, so the plantings covered many acres. They worked on into the week, refilling their sacks at the ends of the rows, while Mary quartered whenever she found time between her own chores and household duties.

Aaron's hands were healing, for the hardest work now was done by foot. Jonathan worked insatiably. No amount of labor seemed to affect him. His hands were like leather and his shoulders like stone.

 

As the warm May days lengthened and the first blossoms appeared on the wild plums, there was a blossoming of some intangible thing between Mary and Aaron. They found themselves caught by new awarenesses and a realization of the ties that bound them.

Bending over the laundry tubs, sloshing Aaron's clothes on Monday morning, she felt that she ought to withdraw her hands from the wash-board, as if washing the clothes were suddenly as personal as washing the man.

Aaron took note, as he never had before, of all the wifely things she did for him as well as for her husband. He had the urge to thank her. At dinner time, when the washer was still filled
with water and the heavy tubs still on the benches, he said, “Leave the water until afternoon, and we'll help you bale and dump it.”

When he opened his bureau drawers, he found freshly laundered clothing. When he stretched out between the sheets at night, he knew she'd washed them, too. When he came to the table at mealtime, she had food hot and ready. Looking around his house, he found it clean and fresh, and he couldn't strike the thought of her being there, keeping it that way for him.

At the same time, their unusual triangular tie, Jonathan's and theirs, was brought to them again and again, underlining how they were bound together and to this place in such a peculiar fashion.

 

He came upon her one day at the well in the yard, leaning over a pail of water, studying three goose eggs floating in it.

“See them bob, Aaron? They're fertile,” she said.

“Yes, I know,” he answered, then watched her take them carefully back to set under the cluck hens to brood, recalling again how she'd talked about babies that night on the step.

 

“The potatoes are loaded with eyes this year,” he said.

“We should have a good crop, then,” she answered as he went out to plant them on his brother's land, her husband's land.

 

“I'll need extra wood,” she said. “I'm baking bread in the morning.”

“I'll fill the woodbox for you,” he said, and did, using wood from Jonathan's land to stoke his own fire.

 

“I finished seeding the vegetable garden,” she said. She planted the vegetables on Jonathan's land to serve at Aaron's table.

 

“Good night,” he said at the top of the stairs.

“Good night,” Mary and Jonathan said together, and they went into the front bedroom of Aaron's house—the bedroom that had once been his parents'—while he walked down the landing and entered his own room, the one he'd shared with Jonathan when they were boys.

 

As the day of Jonathan's departure drew near, Aaron remembered the stifling closeness of the factory where huge, belching machines stretched and steamed cotton materials, feeling again that forced suffocation. He found that he hadn't valued the farm until he was gone from it, and thinking he might have to leave it again, he realized how terrible that would be. No, Aaron didn't want to leave. Yet the possibility became a real one, drawing him closer to the home ties than ever, warning that again they might be broken for him, and soon.

 

They had finished eating supper on Saturday night and were lingering over coffee before anyone spoke about the trip.

“You're going tomorrow, then, Jonathan?” Aaron asked.

“Yes,” answered his brother. “I'll be going to
the depot after church to wait for the train. That way, we'll save an extra trip to town and you can drive the rig back home with Mary.”

“You're sure this is what you want to do?” It was a curious thing for Aaron to ask, but Jonathan had given up trying to figure out Aaron's moods.

“As sure as grass is green.”

“Where do you figure on staying?” Mary asked.

“Well, I thought of the boardinghouse where Aaron stayed, but it's probably nowheres near the fairground. Guess I won't know till I get there.”

The room stilled again, became uncomfortable, and Aaron said, “Maybe you'll get a chance to eat some of that rare Angus meat you've been reading about, huh?”

“I don't think so,” Jonathan said. “I'd probably take mine well-done, just like Mary cooks our pork.”

She imagined him in a fine restaurant, eating pink meat from a fine platter with a fine cloth napkin at his throat. Somehow the picture didn't fit Jonathan.

“You'll get hungry on the train. I'll fix you some sandwiches to take along.” It seemed a paltry offering, but it was all she could think of at the moment.

“The train stops at Sauk Center for lunch, and I can eat there.”

“All you get is cold beans and bread there,” Aaron said.

“I'll fix you some of your favorite sandwiches,” she insisted.

“If you want to, that'd be fine.”

Again it grew quiet. Sunset was complete now, and the dusky kitchen would soon need the lamp. The clock ticked, and a chunk of wood gave way as coals collapsed in the wood stove.

“You'll need my suitcase,” Aaron said. “I'll get it down from the granary for you.”

Jonathan nodded, saying, “I'd appreciate that, Aaron.” Then, as if he'd suddenly had the thought, he added, “Will you be going down to the hall tonight?”

Somehow Aaron really wasn't in the mood for all the commotion down there, but he answered, “Guess so, but I'll get that suitcase first.”

When the dishes were done and Jonathan was having his bath in the kitchen, Mary carefully folded Jonathan's shirts, putting spare clean collars with the white one. She was sure he'd wear his Sunday suit the next day, since he'd be attending church before leaving on the train. Not knowing how many days he'd be gone, she was unsure of what to pack. She gave him a pair of overalls, wondering if he'd wear them in the city. He probably would if he'd be around cattle barns. As a compromise she folded one familiar pair of dungarees and a blue cambric shirt.

The clothing was lying in neat piles on the bed when the stairs creaked and she heard a tap on the door. Aaron was standing in the hall with his black suitcase in his hand. When she opened the door he just stood there with it, and she looked at it, then up at his face. There was not room for both of their hands on the one handle without touching. He jumped slightly then and set the suitcase on the floor between them, saying, “I
dusted it off on the outside, but maybe you should check the inside before you put the stuff in.”

“Okay, Aaron, I will,” she said, dipping her shaky knees to pick it up before turning back inside her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Left in the hall facing the door, Aaron thought, What the hell's wrong with me, anyway? I've been living with this woman for seven years, and she's my brother's wife. Can't I hand her a suitcase without making a fuss about it?

The railroad
station was depressing under the Sunday sun. The horses were standing in the brightness, but under the roof of the waiting platform it was chilly. Mary sat on a bench and shivered while she watched the mare flick her tail at some unseen pest. Aaron had saddled the mare and followed Mary and Jonathan to church. The horse now stood tied behind the team and buggy.

The sandwiches she had packed for Jonathan were on Mary's lap. He was inside, buying his ticket. Aaron paced back and forth across the north end of the platform, his shoes making dull echoes on the hollow wood floor. Every now and then he'd stop and glance northward up the tracks for the train, his thumbs caught up in his waistcoat pockets.

There was nobody else waiting to board the train, so the place was dully still. The screen door squeaked into the stillness as Jonathan came out of the building. Mary remained seated against the wall, but Aaron crossed the platform to where Jonathan stood.

“I'll leave the mare at Anson's for you, Jona
than,” Aaron said. “That way you can ride her home anytime you get back in.” It was essential that Jonathan know he could come home at any hour and find nothing amiss.

“That'll be fine, Aaron. You tell Anson to give her an extra bag of oats in the evenings and I'll pay him good.”

“Right,” Aaron agreed.

Mary heard the train far off, away up the tracks, and she got up and handed the packet of sandwiches to her husband. “You eat these while they're fresh, Jonathan,” she said.

“I will,” he answered. “They'll be gone before we reach Sauk Center.” They hovered in a tentative, last-minute void as the train sounds grew louder.

“Have a half-cooked beefsteak for us, Jonathan. We'll be expecting to hear all about it when you get home.”

Jonathan smiled at that as the train drew nearer. They felt the need to talk, to say the many unsaid things that should have been said during the past week. Instead, the three of them exchanged inanities, ill at ease together, yet dreading the parting.

The engine belched its way past them, and Mary stepped back as near as she could to the wall to protect her dress from the cinders it spit. Aaron shook Jonathan's hand, squeezing hard to assure him, “Don't worry about anything back here.” And between the brothers there was a sudden ambiguity to what Aaron had just said.

“No, I won't,” Jonathan said. Then he turned to Mary where she stood near the benches, and took a halting step toward her. She moved to
him and raised her cheek for the kiss he placed lightly on it. They seldom showed affection in daylight, rarely touched this way when others were near. Aaron picked up the black suitcase, turning away from them as they made their farewells.

“Good-bye, Jonathan, take care,” she said.

“You, too.”

As the suitcase exchanged hands, the two brothers exchanged an unspoken good-bye, a glance.

Jonathan boarded the hissing train, and the two on the platform saw him through the windows as he walked toward the rear of the car. They stood there until he disappeared but made no move to follow him along the platform. They waited where they were until the cars began to move forward, then saw him pass before them, waving. They raised waves in return as the train took Jonathan away, out of their sight.

“I'll be right back,” Aaron said when the last car had clattered away down the track. He went through the squeaky screen door into the depot. In the stillness she could hear him asking the ticket agent what time the trains got in from Minneapolis each day. She couldn't hear the reply distinctly but made out Aaron's thank you before he headed back outside.

“Ready?” he asked, then took her arm and turned her toward the platform steps. The horses were skittish after the train's commotion. Aaron began to hand her up into the rig but said, “I'd better take their heads. I wouldn't want them to bolt.”

She climbed up by herself before he got up
beside her, gentling the horses as he flicked the reins, “Ho, there. Easy.”

They drove to the hostelry on a side street and had to roust Anson from his Sunday dinner in the adjacent house to make arrangements for boarding the mare. After they'd taken the horse inside, the two men returned to the street, where Mary waited in the rig behind the restive team.

Aaron said, “The horses seem a little jumpy since the train pulled through. Mind if I leave them here for an hour or so, Anson?”

“Naw! Don't mind a bit, Aaron. Leave 'em here as long as you want.”

“Thanks, Anson.” But the hostler was already heading back to his interrupted dinner.

Aaron checked the reins, making sure they were tied securely to the hitching post before coming around to help Mary down.

“I think we'd better let these two settle down a bit,” he said, indicating the horses. “It's past noon and I'm hungry.” She jumped to the ground at his feet, his hands at her waist. “What do you say to a Sunday dinner cooked by someone else for a change?” He dropped his hands the instant she was safely on the ground.

“By who?” she asked, squinting up at him against the noon sun.

“Well, how about by Annie Halek?” he suggested.

“At the restauraunt?” She seemed surprised. “Oh, Aaron—we shouldn't.” But her undisguised delight belied her answer.

“Why shouldn't we? We couldn't change that train schedule, could we? Besides, it'll be awfully late by the time we get back home. We'd be
mighty hungry by then. And with the horses in such a state, I don't want to drive them till they settle down.”

“Well, if you say so, Aaron. I'm hungry, too.”

They walked the short distance to Main Street and turned the corner toward the café in the middle of the block. It was dark inside the deep, narrow building after the brightness outside. The light from the front windows was partially obscured by potted plants, which decorated that area. He led the way to a high-backed booth near the front and handed her in, then seated himself across from her. The after-church business was ebbing, so there was no wait before a woman in a long cobbler's apron approached their booth.

“Howdy, Aaron, Mary,” she greeted them.

“Hello, Annie. What have you got back there that smells so good?”

“I got the best ham dinner in town,” bragged Annie Halek with a throaty laugh. “At least that's what I've been telling myself all morning while I cooked it.”

“That sounds fine. Why don't you bring us two of them. Okay, Mary?”

“That sounds good, Annie,” Mary agreed.

“You folks seein' Jonathan off on the train today?” Annie inquired. “I heard he's got some idea of buyin' himself a big, fancy bull to bring back.”

“Well, I don't know how big it'll be—it's just a calf he's after—but that's right. He's gone clear down to Minneapolis to see a thoroughbred Black Angus.”

“Old Man Michalek's kid was in here tellin' us about it the other day.”

“News sure travels fast around here,” Aaron noted, but Annie must have decided she'd wasted enough time on small talk, for she left abruptly then, saying, “Two ham dinners comin' up!”

When she was gone, Mary said, “After the dance Saturday night, everybody knows all about Jonathan's plans.”

But once she said it there was a resurrection of other things Jonathan had planned, other things that had happened at the dance. Their thoughts ran parallel, flashing impressions between them of a yellow dress, a blistered palm, the lingering scent of lavender, the brushing of bodies. They both reached for water glasses across the table, tipped them up in unison, and caught each other in a glance over the glass rims. But that broke the spell, and Aaron knew how ridiculous they must look, acting like adolescents.

“What do you suppose Jonathan would think if he knew we'd seen him off on his way to buy beef, then sat down to a dinner of pork?” he wondered aloud.

“I suppose he'd be jealous, since he's probably choking down his dry sandwich right now.” She pictured Jonathan on the train as they'd last seen him, waving.

“Jonathan, jealous? That'll be the day. He's so filled with his own plans that he wouldn't know if he was eating roofing shingles spread with moss.”

“Oh, that's just his way, Aaron. He's not as hard as he seems.”

“I've lived with him longer than you have, and I know all about his ‘ways,' as you call them,”
Aaron said, “and some of them I don't condone.”

Annie approached, bringing bowls of steaming, rich soup to set before them. When she left, Mary put her spoon absently into the broth, studying it as she said, “Some of them I don't condone, either.”

Aaron leaned his forearms on the edge of the table, looking at her. “Mary, we're playing cat-and-mouse with each other, and it isn't necessary. Can't we just pretend we're the same Aaron and Mary we always were and forget Jonathan and all the rest?”

She was still toying with her soup, but flicked a glance up at his face, then quickly away again. “It's not easily forgotten.”

And it wasn't.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, broken only by remarks on the tastiness of Annie's cooking. They truly had lost the old easiness between them.

Finally Aaron asked, “Mary, if we can't make it through a ham dinner together, how will we make it through two or three nights?”

She hadn't expected his candor, and it stopped her cold. Having her mouth full gave Mary time to think of an answer, but there was none. She didn't know how they'd do it. Swallowing the mouthful, eyes wide, she gulped. “I don't know, Aaron.”

They sat there looking at each other and wondering together what the answer was.

“Do you want some dessert, Mary?”

“No, thank you. I think we'd better leave now.”

“Give me a minute to pay for this and I'll be right with you,” he said, going to find Annie and pay the bill.

Annie Halek was like the town tap: turn her on and she ran off at the mouth until she either ran dry or was turned off. Aaron worried now that she might have read something into his and Mary's attitudes, something to pass on to other customers. If so, there was little he could do about it. He buttered her up a little, anyway, saying, “That dinner
was
the best in town, Annie.”

“Well, now, I might get swellheaded at that if mine wasn't the only restaurant in Browerville,” the big woman said, laughing. But she had seen nothing around the highbacked booth, and even if she had, Annie Halek would consider it a compliment to her cooking that folks could be so engrossed in eating they hardly spoke a word through an entire meal.

The luxury of a meal in a café was an unaccustomed treat for Mary, and in spite of the uneasiness between herself and Aaron, there was a relaxed air of freedom about the day. As they came out of the dim café into the dazzling sunlight, the day enhanced the feeling. No field work, no cooking, no responsibilities awaited them until evening. They turned to walk the short distance to the end of the boardwalk, but their steps were slow. At the end, when they reached the street corner, he took her arm as she stepped down. He released her elbow then as they walked the block to Anson's place, but once again at the buggy he took her arm to hand her up. His courtesies filled her with a warm, protected feeling. Once again seated in the buggy,
Aaron asked, “Would you like the bonnet up before we start?”

“Heavens no, Aaron. I love the sun on my face.”

“That's good. So do I.”

And heading out of town she reveled in the magic of the golden Minnesota day. When viewed from the height of the buggy seat, it was like gliding along on a low-flying cloud, passing the smells and sights and sounds of the countryside as an angel might ride on her way through heaven. The first wild roses had been too impatient to wait for June. They threw their fragrance from ditches and meadows in tantalizing appeal, competing with wild plum, apple, and lilac. They winked pinkly at the passing rig while great whorls of white blossoms hung half-concealed where copses bordered the road. Katydids played their high-pitched wings in duet with the frogs that thrummed hoarse voices from patches of marshland where red-winged blackbirds bobbed and swayed atop last year's exploding cattails. Crows teased the horses, hesitating at the edge of the road ahead until the last possible moment before rising in awkward fashion, flapping unwieldy wings that somehow drew them aloft. Meadowlarks fluted their elusive clarion call, unaware that it checked human breath until it was repeated. The rig rocked along, accompanied by bugs, blossoms, and birds, and the magic of the day healed something between the two people.

“Imagine living in the city all your life and missing this,” Mary said.

“One year in the city was enough for me,” Aaron said, “let alone all my life.”

“You don't know how lucky you were to grow up here and have all this around you. Sometimes, like on a day like this, I can hardly believe I wasn't born here, too. I feel like I was, like all this was born right into me.”

“Don't you ever miss Chicago?”

“It's not the place a person misses, it's the people in it, and there are none of my people left there since Daddy died. Aunt Mabel and Uncle Garner are the only ones now—and they're here. But sometimes I can't help feeling guilty that I came to their house that summer. Like if I'd stayed in Chicago, Daddy might still be alive.”

“His death was an accident, and if you'd been there, it wouldn't have prevented it. Accidents happen in the factories like that all the time, but in the city nobody seems to care. That's the worst part about the city—nobody caring.” He was pensive, recalling that lonely time on his own. But the day was too bright for sad recollections.

“I'd just as soon not remember it, and I'm sure you wouldn't, either,” Aaron said, shrugging off the memories.

But Aaron never talked much about city life, and she often wondered why.