listened for the sound of it. When it was green, it whispered a sibilant s, but when it touched his ear with a shh, it would be ready to cut. It was saying something in between right now. He broke a piece between his fingers and found it not quite ripe enough. He tasted it. If the weather stayed dry, he'd be able to drive the team over the rich peat soil to cut the hay within a week. If it rained, the peat would hold the moisture like a sponge. The horses would sink and flounder.
He said a little prayer of supplication for good weather. Glancing at the new fence in the adjacent wooded pasture, he added another of thanks. The fenced land was a source of great pride to Jonathan. It was a reminder of Vinnie and the goal Jonathan aimed for, begun with the purchase of the black bull. In the weeks he'd been here, Vinnie had grown considerably, feeding on the plentiful, rich grass. After the cutting of the wild hay, that pasture, too, would be his to forage.
Jonathan was happy in Vinnie's company, happier than he was at nearly any other time.
Jonathan called to Vinnie and trilled a high whistle as he approached the fenced pasture where the bull was grazing. Bending to separate the strands of barbed wire, the man stepped through, then, still whistling, approached the shining black beast. When the bull blinked and Jonathan drew near, his whistling stilled and his soothing voice lay mellow on the animal's ear. 'Won't be long now, and you'll have the wild hay all to yourself. Won't be long now, and I'll know the truth about Mary…and Aaron. You see, I brought it about between them, so I got no cause to complain, do I, boy?' The man's cal- loused hand caressed the animal's black ear. 'I heard tell that your kind sometimes don't lunge at the ladies like they ought. That's how it is with me right now, too. Guess you might say I got to wait till I know for sure. Don't reckon I could spend the rest of my life wondering who sired the child-if there is one. This way, I'll be sure. Some men might rather live with the doubt instead of wanting to admit their own shortcomings. But I'm not made that way. I'd have to know the truth, eh, Vinnie? 'Well, if it turns out there's a babe and it's not mine, we still got you and your strong seed. You just keep on like you are, a-growing strong, and between us we'll work things out.'
With a last affectionate scratch behind an ear, the man left the pasture. Coming toward the yard, he glanced toward the sumacs behind the outhouse. They were now in full leaf, and he had no way of knowing whether she'd dried her cloths there, concealed from sight, or not. But it had been nearly two months now, and if she carried a child, she'd have to tell him soon. He wondered how long he ought to wait before he could be sure she didn't carry one. Awhile longer, he thought.
And meanwhile, Jonathan's life remained full because of Vinnie and his fields and the ripening grain. The absence of sexual fulfillment caused him no discomfort, physically or otherwise.
Mary's discomforts grew daily. The feeling that food was stuck in her throat was one of Aunt Mabel's predictions that had come true. A sudden implacable burning was there each time she ate, and to make matters worse, she ate all the time, with the hunger of a starved person. She was constantly tired. She never got a full night's sleep because she had to go to the outhouse so often during the night. Waking up in the mornings, she would drag her body from the bed, feeling she'd left her consciousness still in it. When any jot crossed her up, tears would spring to her eyes. It made her feel foolish, yet she couldn't control the tears.
One day in July she had spent at a most unpalatable but essential task, killing potato bugs. The orange-and- black in- sects were an inescapable plague of the farmers. As sure as potatoes were their biggest cash crop, the potato bugs were their greatest enemy. If not dealt with, the bugs would eat the fresh green leaves of the plants and sustain a healthy life, laying eggs on the under- sides of the leaves so that the yellow baby bugs would con- tinue the cycle.
Carrying a pail and stick, Mary had spent the day walking up and down the rows knocking against the potato vines with the stick and catching the falling insects in her pail. The insects were then covered with boiling water before the dis- gusting mess was buried in the woods behind the house.
The day had left her tired and miserable. Even a sponge bath in the late afternoon had not washed away the crawly feeling from a day spent among the bugs.
She had gone to do her evening chores, feeding and water- ing the goslings and chicks who were all over the barnyard these days. She filled the shallow pan with water and left it in the coop while she went to the granary for feed. But when she returned to the coop she found that the larger birds had clumsily fought for a place at the watering pan and in doing so had managed to spill the whole thing. She stood there in her long cotton skirt, hitched up into the waistband to keep the hem clean, and she felt the bird droppings that she trampled under her bare feet. She gaped at the empty pan and watched it grow watery as tears filled her eyes. Didn't those stupid chickens know how it caught her stomach muscles when she worked the pump handle these days? And those miserable geese were no better. 'Look what you've done,' she wailed at the dumb birds. 'You spill everything I feed you, and you crap all over the yard, so I have to shovel behind you! Stupid, squawking, weak-witted…'
She was crying and sniffling while she poured mental im- precations on the animals, all out of proportion to the in- justice they'd done her. She grabbed the pan and crossed the dung-splattered yard to the pump. Her tears came faster than the water from the pump. She was choking on her in- halations, and her limp efforts at the pump handle were made sorrier by her hanging head and slumped shoulders.
Then someone was there, taking her hand off the pump handle and turning her before she felt what she needed most-warm, comforting arms around her and a hand pulling her head into a shoulder. She buried her face and bawled, arms hanging limply at her sides under those which encircled her. 'What's the matter, Mary?' It was Aaron's voice.
She jerked up and reached for her apron pocket, but there was no handkerchief there, so she raised the apron and wiped her nose and face with it. 'You shouldn't b-be h-holding me li-like this out here,' she choked in huffs. He turned her loose but kept his hand lightly on her shoulders as she struggled to clean up her face. 'You shouldn't be crying, either, so we're both doing what we shouldn't.' 'I couldn't he-help it. The dumb chickens spilled their water again.'
He took the pan from where she'd put it, far from where the water had been falling, and, cen tering it beneath the pump's mouth, began pumping. 'Spilled water shouldn't make you cry like this. What's wrong, Mary?'
She watched his feet. 'Everything's wrong,' she said, hoping he'd stay his dis- tance instead of touching her again. It had felt too good the first time. 'I know-and it's my fault,' he admitted. 'I can see you feel caught in the middle between Jonathan and me. I'm sorry, Mary. I mean to talk to Jonathan about it and some- how see our way clear of this situation. I've put it off because it may mean leaving this place, and this isn't a time of year the farm could stand that without suffering a loss.' 'No, Aaron. You mustn't talk to Jonathan about this at all.' She looked up at him then with her swollen eyes, and it was like a soothing balm to see his face, filled with concern for her. 'Just let it go, Aaron. There's no other way.' But the look on his face told her Aaron didn't want to let it go.
She was sure by now of her pregnancy and also that the baby was Aaron's, but she feared that by revealing it she might force him to leave, just as before. That thought was unbearable, yet she knew that the fact of her pregnancy bound her even tighter to Jonathan, for now there was even more disgrace to be suffered from leaving her husband. If she were to do that, everyone would guess that the child was Aaron's.
All these thoughts were upon her as she looked at Aaron. She thought of a life with his baby, but without him, and the misery of it was reflected in her eyes, which welled once again with tears. 'Don't, Mary…don't,' he pleaded, seeing her tears. He felt like a puppet who'd made a careless move and entangled itself in its own strings. 'You're tearing me apart. If you don't stop, I swear I'll grab you again and kiss you right here before God and my brother both.'
She knew if she didn't control her tears he'd make good his threat-his promise-so she got the upper hand over her tears again, but still looked bruised. She realized the injustice of her withholding from Aaron her precious secret. Whatever it cost her, she must tell him and tell him first before Jonathan. It was the only consolation she had to offer him.
She looked quickly toward the barn, but it was quiet, the cats sitting outside the door. Oh, please, God! Don't let Jonathan come out yet, she thought before looking up at his brother, hoping that her face revealed the depth of feeling she had for him. 'What I have to tell you is the most important thing in the world to us, Aaron, but the most painful.'
He took a turn glancing down at the barn before turning a puzzled, questioning look at her.
She drew in a ragged breath and tried to erase the strain from her face so that his memory of her telling him would not be grim. 'Aaron, I'm going to have a baby.'
She caught the full impact of his surprise as his mouth dropped open at the same instant Jonathan emerged
