Harriet?”
It took Owen a moment to bring his mind back to their conversation. “Both, I guess. Life has made Esther what she is.”
“Life has made me what I am too, Mr. Jamison; but I’d never be rude to a guest in my home or neglect a girl because I didn’t approve of her. I’ve been so hungry that when I did eat, it made me sick. I’ve slept in an open shed when it was below freezing, put paper in my shoes to keep my feet off the hot, paving bricks. When I was eight years old, I was washing rivermen’s clothes to earn enough money so my grandmother and I could eat. Don’t tell me about a hard life. I’ve lived it.”
“Is that why you married Harriet’s father?”
“That is none of your business. I’ve done what I’ve had to do, but it hasn’t made me bitter. Harriet has been in my care since she took her first steps. She was the dearest—” Ana choked and couldn’t go on.
“I’m sorry I asked. Eat your dinner.”
Owen picked up his cup and went to stand at the edge of the porch. Ana placed her fork on her plate and massaged her temples with her fingers. A few days. She would have to stay a few more days. Then she would take little Harry and go back to Dubuque. Somehow she would manage. Her throbbing head reminded her that she had to eat. She would need her strength to get through today and tomorrow. She took a bite of food, chewed slowly, and forced herself to swallow.
When she finished, Owen came back to the table. “Would you like more coffee?”
“I can get it.”
“Sit still.”
She watched him until he reached the door and went in. He was not wearing work clothes today. His dark britches were held up with wide, white suspenders and his white, gray-striped shirt appeared to be freshly ironed. His limp was even more noticeable than it was the day before, causing Ana to wonder if he’d had any rest at all.
She found it harder and harder to believe that Owen was Harriet’s
laughing, dancing
man. But yet it was true. He had readily accepted his responsibility and married her. Counting back nine months, Ana figured Harriet had conceived in September. The baby was full term, there was no doubt about that.
Ana watched the smoke drift from the fire beneath a huge washpot in the yard. Esther was washing her mother’s
precious
sheets. Steam rose from the boiling water; the strong smell of lye soap was in the air. Lily came from the house and poked at the cloth with a large paddle.
Owen returned with the coffee and sat down on the keg.
“Don’t you have chores to do?”
“A couple of the neighbors sent their boys over to help.”
“It’s too bad this is keeping you from your planting,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.
“It’ll get done.”
Ana looked up at the clear blue sky that Harriet would never see again, then toward a pasture at the side of the house where two milch cows were grazing contentedly. The cowbell fastened around the neck of one of them tinkled softly. The windmill creaked, the hogs rooted in the pen beside the barn, a chicken wandered up to the edge of the porch, flapped its wings and pecked at something on the ground. Lily carried a bucket of water from the tank beside the windmill and filled a wooden tub.
Life went on.
“The . . . burial box is ready. I’ll set it up in the parlor.”
Ana raised stricken eyes to his.
Burial box.
The words brought reality crushing down on her. She stood as if to run away from the words. The floor porch began to roll and pitch crazily beneath her feet. She sat down quickly and gripped the edge of the table.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course I am,” she said sharply.
“The box is made of good, seasoned walnut. It needs to be lined with something.”
“I have nothing here of my own to . . . line it.”
“You’ll have whatever you want. I’ll ask one of the women to help you.”
“Mrs. Larson has to go home. She’s the only one I know.”
“There are others.” After a few minutes, he asked, “Do you
It took Owen a moment to bring his mind back to their conversation. “Both, I guess. Life has made Esther what she is.”
“Life has made me what I am too, Mr. Jamison; but I’d never be rude to a guest in my home or neglect a girl because I didn’t approve of her. I’ve been so hungry that when I did eat, it made me sick. I’ve slept in an open shed when it was below freezing, put paper in my shoes to keep my feet off the hot, paving bricks. When I was eight years old, I was washing rivermen’s clothes to earn enough money so my grandmother and I could eat. Don’t tell me about a hard life. I’ve lived it.”
“Is that why you married Harriet’s father?”
“That is none of your business. I’ve done what I’ve had to do, but it hasn’t made me bitter. Harriet has been in my care since she took her first steps. She was the dearest—” Ana choked and couldn’t go on.
“I’m sorry I asked. Eat your dinner.”
Owen picked up his cup and went to stand at the edge of the porch. Ana placed her fork on her plate and massaged her temples with her fingers. A few days. She would have to stay a few more days. Then she would take little Harry and go back to Dubuque. Somehow she would manage. Her throbbing head reminded her that she had to eat. She would need her strength to get through today and tomorrow. She took a bite of food, chewed slowly, and forced herself to swallow.
When she finished, Owen came back to the table. “Would you like more coffee?”
“I can get it.”
“Sit still.”
She watched him until he reached the door and went in. He was not wearing work clothes today. His dark britches were held up with wide, white suspenders and his white, gray-striped shirt appeared to be freshly ironed. His limp was even more noticeable than it was the day before, causing Ana to wonder if he’d had any rest at all.
She found it harder and harder to believe that Owen was Harriet’s
laughing, dancing
man. But yet it was true. He had readily accepted his responsibility and married her. Counting back nine months, Ana figured Harriet had conceived in September. The baby was full term, there was no doubt about that.
Ana watched the smoke drift from the fire beneath a huge washpot in the yard. Esther was washing her mother’s
precious
sheets. Steam rose from the boiling water; the strong smell of lye soap was in the air. Lily came from the house and poked at the cloth with a large paddle.
Owen returned with the coffee and sat down on the keg.
“Don’t you have chores to do?”
“A couple of the neighbors sent their boys over to help.”
“It’s too bad this is keeping you from your planting,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.
“It’ll get done.”
Ana looked up at the clear blue sky that Harriet would never see again, then toward a pasture at the side of the house where two milch cows were grazing contentedly. The cowbell fastened around the neck of one of them tinkled softly. The windmill creaked, the hogs rooted in the pen beside the barn, a chicken wandered up to the edge of the porch, flapped its wings and pecked at something on the ground. Lily carried a bucket of water from the tank beside the windmill and filled a wooden tub.
Life went on.
“The . . . burial box is ready. I’ll set it up in the parlor.”
Ana raised stricken eyes to his.
Burial box.
The words brought reality crushing down on her. She stood as if to run away from the words. The floor porch began to roll and pitch crazily beneath her feet. She sat down quickly and gripped the edge of the table.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course I am,” she said sharply.
“The box is made of good, seasoned walnut. It needs to be lined with something.”
“I have nothing here of my own to . . . line it.”
“You’ll have whatever you want. I’ll ask one of the women to help you.”
“Mrs. Larson has to go home. She’s the only one I know.”
“There are others.” After a few minutes, he asked, “Do you
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