The Fulfillment (22 page)

In the morning Jonathan found a fat cottontail when he checked his snares in the woods, so the hunting wasn't necessary 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 pungent 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. Normally, 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 miniature 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 momentarily 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 moment 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 anywhere, 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 before. 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 exhilaration. 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 “grrraapho-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 Vienna 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.

There were
many small preparations to fill Mary's last weeks before the baby was due. She hemmed flannel for diapers, made small blankets and buntings, prepared the necessary rigging for the cradle, and completed the baby's layette with the clothing she thought it would need.

In the evenings during these longest nights of the year, they all sat around the kitchen table with bags of washed goosefeathers beside their chairs. Feather-stripping was a tedious job, but it brought in good money when they sent the feathers off to a buyer in Chicago. Perfect goose-down brought a tidy price with little work, but the larger, coarser feathers had to be stripped, drawn between thumb and forefinger to take off the fine, soft fuzz, leaving the bare quill to be discarded. As the nights wore on, Mary would rise from her chair more and more often, bracing a hand against her back, arching it to remove the cramps of discomfort before returning to the feather-stripping. She seemed to grow extra inches daily, and the men never left her alone for long now. When it was necessary to go to town,
Aaron went alone, leaving Jonathan home with Mary.

The only hint of discord among them came when Aaron returned from town one day in late January. He'd had time to ponder during his ride. Lately there'd been times when they all sat around the table and his eyes would wander to Mary's girth, seeing for himself the commotion of the baby within her. Her belly at times heaved in ballooning fashion under her dress as the child shifted and rolled. She would hitch herself up on the chair then, tightening her stomach muscles to still the action within. He'd catch himself wondering if it must not hurt her, but she never complained.

He had never heard her ask for anything regarding the baby or the birth and wondered what plans she and Jonathan had made. He was sure Aunt Mabel couldn't leave her large brood to come to Mary for the length of time she'd be confined. Most wives had mothers or sisters to help out, but Mary had neither. He'd hesitated to ask questions, not wanting to ruffle the smooth relationship among them. But the questions nevertheless lay heavy on his mind, and when he returned home that day, he cornered Jonathan in the granary to ask him.

“Who's going to help Mary with the delivery?” Aaron kept his eyes on the grain Jonathan was shoveling into a pail.

“We'll get the midwife,” Jonathan answered, and Aaron felt his ire rise.

“No, Jonathan,” he said with quiet insistence, “no midwife. She'll have Doc Haymes.”

Jonathan stopped shoveling, and their eyes met. “Haymes is an old fool,” he said.

“Mary doesn't think so,” Aaron argued. “You know she'd feel easier with Doc Haymes. With two of us here, I can go to town easily when the time comes and get him.”

Jonathan's eyes seemed to level, but not relent, as Aaron, too, stood fast.

Aaron spoke. “I haven't staked any claims. I haven't asked anything—but now I'm not asking, I'm telling you, Jonathan. That's how it'll be. She'll have Haymes, and nobody else.”

The shovel bit into the grain again, and Aaron knew he'd won his way. He softened then as he offered, “If it's the money, I've got it to pay him.”

Jonathan felt the barb and couldn't let it pass. “You know it's not the money, Aaron,” he defended himself.

Aaron knew it was true. He knew Jonathan resisted because he'd never liked Doc Haymes much. “Yes, I know that,” he admitted. “But I'd pay if you'd let me. I'd like to,” he finished.

“That's for me to do,” Jonathan said in finality, and Aaron had to accept that.

They'd each taken a little and given a little. While the conversation had caused the first rift between them since Aaron's return, they knew they would overlook it, for Mary would need them both in days to come.

There was nothing extraordinary about the day it started. The feared snowstorm of Aaron's dreams was nowhere in the offing. The sky was true blue, the roads rough but dry. As he drove
to town, he wished they had a telephone, but nobody out their way had a phone yet because the line hadn't come out that far. The closest phone was nearly in town, so he might as well go clear in to Doc's office to fetch him. Suppose Doc was out in the country on a call? I'll just go track him down, Aaron thought, while his mind raced. But Doc Haymes was in his office and acted almost casual in light of Aaron's anxiety.

“First one takes some time a-comin',” he reminded Aaron, collecting his bag, stuffing some strange-looking things into it while Aaron chafed at his slowness. Finally he donned his coat, clapping Aaron on the shoulder to push him ahead out the door. “It's usually the father gets the jitters. Now calm down, Uncle Aaron,” he chuckled good-naturedly as they headed for the rig.

 

It seemed forever that the tensing pains had been flowing and ebbing through her. Mary had walked the floor until an especially severe spasm caught her, made her grab her belly, and give in to the bed at last. Jonathan hovered near her, then left the room again to check the road for signs of the rig.

Aaron arrived with the doc and dropped him off, saying, “You might need help. I'm going to fetch Agnes Volence.” A woman's presence might be comforting to Mary, whether the doc needed her or not. He hadn't consulted Jonathan, hadn't really thought about what he was doing—just acted on instinct.

There was no dallying when Agnes came to the door and heard what he'd come for. She didn't stop to question or give orders to the fam
ily she left behind. She just said, “You see to everything here, Pris,” and Aaron was following her stubby shape toward the buggy.

When Mary saw the reassuring, familiar face at the foot of the bed, she sighed, “Agnes,” before another pain took her breath away.

The two visitors took over, Doc Haymes issuing orders, Agnes carrying them out. They prepared the bed, spreading layers of newspapers to be covered by soft, absorbent layers of something that felt warm and good beneath Mary. Doc Haymes hitched straps to the foot of the bed, and the sight of them gripped Mary with a sudden, repulsive fear. Agnes stroked her hair back from her forehead, calming her wild-eyed fear with a quiet voice, “No worry, girl, you'll be happy to have them when the time comes. Rest now while you can.” And Mary closed her eyes to do as Agnes said, happy the woman was there.

The pains subsided a short time later, and Mary seemed to be resting fitfully. Agnes left her to see how the two downstairs were doing. Jonathan looked gray, so she made coffee, encouraging him to drink. It seemed there'd be a wait yet and no sense in his hanging around, looking like a whipped pup. “You got something to keep you busy outside awhile, Jonathan?” she asked. “Might do you good to get away from the house a bit.”

“I ain't leaving now,” Jonathan retorted sharply.

But Agnes explained, “She's resting for a spell. Why don't you get a breath of air, and Aaron can come and get you if something happens?”

Aaron was agreeing and Jonathan didn't care to battle both of them, so he grabbed his jacket and swung out the door, going down to talk some sense with Vinnie. Vinnie always listened.

He stayed in the barn, talking to the bull, a long time. If he'd been a drinking man, he'd have had a snort right now, and he told Vinnie so. He hadn't thought about this waiting around before. This was hell! He could tell him anything, old Vinnie. Never before had he appreciated the black ear quite as fully as he did now.

Aaron sat in the kitchen, his chair propped back, studying the snowy yard. He let himself think of the baby trying to come into the world right now, of Jonathan as shaken as any father might be, of Mary and the pain she'd soon bear. But he permitted no thoughts of himself. He remained locked outside himself, a muscle twitching in his tense jaw while he waited.

Jonathan was cleaning Vinnie's stall when he heard Aaron enter the barn with the milk pails. At his questioning glance, Aaron answered, “Everything's the same. She's quiet.” They started the evening chores together.

 

Mary came awake with a gasp. She'd been drifting and dreaming in a pictureless place when her eyes flew open at the pain and she saw Doc Haymes's face near the bed. She didn't know how long she'd lain quietly, but as if her body had enjoyed sufficient peace, it now dictated battle. The contractions built and swelled, leaving less rest between each one. She felt a gush of wetness and realized her legs were bound, her body exposed.

“What is it?” she gasped.

Agnes was there, holding her hands. “It's just your water.” How did Agnes get here? Doc Haymes was supposed to come. Then she felt other hands on her and realized he was there, too, before a jagged pain made her clutch at the hands she held. She felt her hands being placed on the cool iron of the bedstead above her head, and she grasped it and pulled.

She was aware of calling out Jonathan's and Aaron's names as the undulating contractions came and went, but her senses soon became blurred as the pushing pains started. Someone was telling her it was all right to scream, and she heard the rasping growl of her own voice as her legs strained, her arms pulled, and a rush of warmth washed the baby from her. She felt its feet kicking against her thighs before she slipped past the ether into unconsciousness.

 

Jonathan was in the kitchen, pale as the porcelain coffeepot on the table before him. Aaron sat beside him, a cup in his hand. He had raised it to his lips when a muffled sound of pain drifted through the house from the bedroom upstairs. Aaron shot from his chair to stand before the window, his back to the room, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. He heard the cry increase in volume and strength, and his own breath matched it, slowly exhaling, silently pushing the air from his lungs, while the wail above drew out interminably.

During the minutes he stood there, the baby had no part in his thoughts. Only Mary. She labored with a pain too deep for him to compre
hend, and all he could do was futilely wish to share it, ease it some way. She possessed him in that time as surely as if they'd spoken vows. The false front he had shown in these past weeks had worked so well he'd convinced himself he was nearly free of her. But now, hearing her give birth to their child, she gave birth again to his love for her.

He'd been so tense that even his eyes had dried out from his unblinking stare. When suddenly Mary's voice was stilled, his shoulders lurched forward and his head dropped. He gulped for air suddenly realizing he'd matched her breath for breath. The sound of a baby's gusty cry brought such exhaustion to him he sank into a chair again. His knees had buckled.

Jonathan was standing at the foot of the stairs when Agnes stuck her head over the upstairs banister. “It's a girl, Jonathan.”

“A girl,” he breathed. He stood in hesitation, one hand on the railing, one foot on the stairs.

“Should I come up, Agnes?” he whispered.

“No, later. Mary's asleep right now.”

“Is she…are they…all right, I mean?”

“Fit as a fiddle, both of 'em.” Jonathan knew it must be so by the pleased grin on Agnes's face.

“That's fine,” he said, more to himself than to her, “just fine.”

Jonathan came back into the kitchen, and the two men saw each other's haggard faces. “It's a girl,” he said. Aaron's face remained unchanged. He thought that he didn't give a damn what it was as long as Mary was okay.

“How is she?”

“Both fine.”

In this intimate minute while they both drew deep gulps of air with eyes locked, the two brothers found an even deeper understanding. Aaron remembered Pris saying there's no time when two people feel closer than after a birthing—and he knew now, fully knew, how true that was.

Then Aaron quickly covered his feelings, afraid to have Jonathan see any more. “You'd rather it was a boy.”

“It doesn't matter,” Jonathan said, going to the sink to pump a glass of water, uncomfortable now with what had passed between them for that instant.

“I'll take Agnes home whenever she's ready to go,” Aaron offered.

“That'll be fine,” Jonathan agreed, slipping back into familiar ways again.

 

It was nearing midnight when Doc Haymes left and Aaron returned Agnes Volence to her home. By admitting to himself that he still loved Mary, he'd exposed himself to more torment. Now there was the baby, too, to add to it. A girl, he thought. Agnes had said she had lots of curly hair. She's got my curls, he thought, then shut out the thought.

“You look like you did as much fretting as Jonathan did,” Agnes said.

“I guess no man feels at ease with birth.”

Agnes laughed tiredly.

“No, that's for sure. But you still got the worst one coming—when it's that first one of your own. Tonight's fretting will seem like child's play then.”

It cut into him, but he replied, “That time's a way off yet, I guess.” And of course they were both thinking of Pris.

“You know, Aaron, I always favored you for Priscilla. I was sorry when you stopped comin' around. Now mind you, I'm not pryin'. I don't know what happened between you two, but she lost a good man when she lost you, and I just wanted you to know, that's all. I wish…” She stopped then and heaved in a breath of the cold night air. “Mothers sometimes talk too much,” she finished, and Aaron felt a closeness to Agnes Volence then, wishing things were different.

When they got to her house, he took her hand, and mittened though they both were, there was contact of a close sort. “I just can't thank you enough for coming down, Agnes,” he said. “It means a lot to me…to us.”

“Don't mention it,” the woman said, sorry all over again that circumstances had drawn this man away from her daughter.

“You're sure Mary's okay?” he asked one last time.

“You don't have to worry about Mary. She might be tiny, but she's tough. She bent two spokes of that bedstead out of joint. Don't worry.”