from the barn with two milk pails. Aaron looked thunderstruck but struggled to regain a casual countenance as Jonathan approached. But it didn't work. Aaron had been gone from the barn long enough that Jonathan had guessed something was amiss. Mary picked up her chicken water and hurried away toward the coop, thinking she was fleeing like a coward, but unable to stop herself. Aaron was left to fill the void hanging between himself and his brother. 'I meant to come back down, but Mary needed a little help with the chickens and geese. Sorry, Jonathan.' 'Yup. It's all done now, anyway,' answered Jonathan, heading for the house, leaving Aaron there alone to damn the poor timing, which had cut Mary away from him again, and at the most inopportune moment.
For several days, no chance came up for Aaron to question Mary. It wasn't a conversation to be picked up with the risk of interruption, or with the risk of being observed.
The work that Jonathan did, Aaron did beside him, so they were together most of the days. The wild hay was cut and left to dry. Tying the hay into bundles in the hot, dry field, Aaron went over and over again the simple statement Mary had made.
Aaron, I'm going to have a baby. Not 'Jonathan's baby'…not 'your baby.' Just 'a baby.' Would she know whose it was? Was it his own or Jonathan's? If she didn't know whose it was, it would be torture for them all.
Mary had the advantage of knowing who the father was, but it was little consolation, for she was feeling Aaron's confusion as keenly as he, and was impatient to answer his unasked question. Her im- patience was compounded by her wish to be able to tell Aaron that Jonathan hadn't sought her out in bed since his return. She truly didn't understand why he hadn't, but knew it wouldn't be long before he did again.
She felt compelled to tell Aaron the entire truth before she broached the subject with Jonathan. If this should be im- possible, Mary would feel a kind of disloyalty toward Aaron. This was what confused her, for in her heart she knew Aaron could never claim the baby outright. Yet Jonathan would, even knowing it wasn't his. Why, then, the disloyalty toward Aaron? Shouldn't she feel it toward her husband, instead?
Jonathan was the only contented one of the group. Har- vesting any crop always filled him with a sense of fulfillment, and this year the taking of the wild hay meant a new pasture for Vinnie to forage in.
Vinnie.
Yes, Vinnie was the bright spot in Jonathan's life. Not a day went by without his stopping by the wild hay to admire the bull and play the imaginary game of watching a hayfield filled with Vinnie's pure-black offspring fattening for market. When the bull caught the flicker of any motion, his head came up and his red eyes followed the movements as he stood dead still. The alert pose was accented by the breadth of his powerful body, which was growing fast in the rich, nurturing Minnesota summer. Vinnie's stance would be held until Jonathan neared the fence. Then his natural curiosity would take over, and he'd approach the fence with an unblinking eye, studying the familiar man. The man and the bull would stand eye to eye, at ease with each other while they carried on a conversation. 'Hey, big boy, you're lookin' fine. Come on over.' And Jonathan held a clump of fresh, long grass invitingly toward Vinnie.
But the bull took his time, studying the man, listening to his soft, low voice. 'Come on, now, it's the least you can do to step over to the fence after I come clear down here to see you.'
The bull relented, made a low grunt, flared his nostrils, and stepped nonchalantly toward the proffered grass.
Jonathan scratched Vinnie's face, enjoying the grinding sound as the bull scratched the grass. 'You like that good stuff, huh? Good. You just eat to your heart's content because we gotta grow you up and get you breedin'. Any breedin' to be done around here's gotta be done by you, you know. There won't be any done by me. But it don't matter, Vinnie…' And after a long, quiet pause, the bull's head jerked a little as if he wondered why the man had grown quiet. Jonathan seemed to hear the bull's ques- tion. 'I don't mind. She hasn't told me yet, but I'm pretty sure of it now.'
The bull stretched his head forward, then shook it, rolling it left and right. 'Hey, I said it's all right, didn't I? Of course I'm hoping it's a boy. If it is, then between you and me, I guess we'll have pret' near everything we could ask for, huh?'
A heavy hoof on the ground answered him. 'All you gotta do is grow up a little more, and by next spring we'll start building a herd for my son, okay?'
Sometimes a snort came from the bull while Jonathan stood deep in pensive thought before shaking himself alert once more. 'Yes…all a man could ask for…'
And so the two became friends, and Jonathan poured out his feelings and expectations, both of which seemed to grow in proximity to the bull's pasture. To the bull Jonathan could speak with ease, and he always felt understood, his tongue becoming glib while the bull listened.
Jonathan was content, feeling the fullness of life. He saw this fullness in the maturing bull. He witnessed it in the ripening fields. He sensed it in Mary. But he blocked out Aaron's part in it and trusted that everything would somehow work out for the best.
One evening while the men were both in the barn finishing chores, a strange rig drew into the yard. Mary stepped out onto the porch to greet the driver. As he stepped from his wagon, she thought his face was slightly familiar. 'Hello,' she called from the porch. 'Hello, Mrs. Gray,' the man greeted her as he started through the gate and came toward the house. When he reached the steps he extended his hand and said, 'I'm Aloysius Duzak from over in Turtle Creek Township.' 'Well, of course.' Mary remembered him now. 'How are you? What brings you up this way?'
'I tell you, Mrs. Gray,' Duzak said, 'I hear your husband bought a prize-winning bull, and I drove over to see if I could get a look at it.' 'I don't know why not. Jonathan's so proud of that bull, he'd be happy to show it to anyone.' Mary came down from the porch, and they began walking toward the barn as she continued, 'He's still out here doing the milking. Come on down and talk to him.' 'I sure appreciate this. I've been hearing so much about the animal, I wanted to get a look at it for myself. It's a Black Angus, isn't it?' 'Yes, it is. And he's Jonathan's pride and joy. He went all the way to Minneapolis to buy him and had him shipped up here on the train.' 'That's what I heard,' Duzak responded.
When they got to the barn Mary introduced Duzak, but Jonathan and Aaron both seemed to know him already as they got up to shake hands with him.
They exchanged greetings before Jonathan asked, 'What brings you up this way?' 'A little curiosity about that new bull of yours. Wondered if I might take a look at him.' Duzak rocked back on his heels as he asked the question, and Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder, saying, 'Sure thing. I'm just finishing up here.'
But Aaron interrupted, saying, 'Go ahead, Jonathan. I'll finish up. We're nearly done, anyway.' And he resumed his hunkered position beside the cow he'd been milking when Duzak came in. The cows were never tied and the barn had no stanchions, so as Jonathan turned to leave the barn, his cow sensed the man's leaving and began backing up to head for the open door to the barnyard.
Jonathan flapped his hands at the cow and slapped her on the rump, saying, 'Hold it, boss, you're not done yet.' Then he called to Mary, who was already out the door. 'Can you come here and hold this one until Aaron gets a chance to finish her?'
Mary came back into the barn and held the cow the only way she could-by taking her place on the milk stool and making milking actions that yielded little milk but kept the animal pacified until Aaron could take over.
The voices of Duzak and Jonathan trailed away as they left the barn.
The two cows chewed their cuds, and the comfortable sound soothed Mary. Everything else was quiet. Mary had a tranquil sense of going back to the beginning, sitting there in the barn with the pair of cows and Aaron, just like that first evening after Jonathan had left. Her milking was ineffec- tual, as it had been then. The closeness of the barn created the same earthy intimacy as it had last spring. The same feeling of expectation was in the air.
Aaron had little milking left on his cow, but it seemed to take an eternity while precious minutes alone with Mary were slipping away. He figured they might have half an hour to- gether while Jonathan walked to and from the wild-hay meadow. His hands worked like pistons, and his heart seemed to be doing the same. He had to get these damn cows out of the way before he could talk to Mary. This was too important to risk being distracted, even by the cows, so Aaron hurried, hurried.
There was always something special about looking at Mary when they were alone together, as if Jonathan's absence gave Aaron the right to her. Seeing her squatting there on the milk stool, his heart responded to the scene
