Marcy started a fire in the range and heated a bucket of water. She carried in a tub from the back porch and took a bath in the corner behind the stove. The lamplight glistened on her flat hard body and on her long muscular arms. When she finished bathing she dressed in clean underclothing and her pink gingham dress. She brushed her short, sun-streaked hair and used her lipstick. She thought, when she peered at herself in the cracked mirror above the kitchen worktable, that she looked right nice.
She carried out the tub of bathwater and mopped up the splashed floor. The clock on the shelf over the stove said 8:30. She’d have to wait a time yet, but it shouldn’t be too long. It took about an hour to drive home from the Fair and they ought to be home by ten, maybe a little after. Marcy felt that if she sat down to wait she’d go plumb crazy.
She sorted the clean clothes, dampened the clothes to be ironed, and put the others away. Oakwood was best for a long-burning hot fire. She put a big chunk in the firebox and set her heavy irons on the front stove-lid. When the irons sizzled at the touch of her wet finger she got out her ironing board and began to press the clothes. Homemade shirts for the boys, feed-sack school dresses for Kathy, Joe’s fancy store-bought shirts...
The waiting was so hard. Maybe they’d run off of the road, or got hit by a long truck. She strained to hear every sound. Again and again she went out to the front porch to listen. In the bright moonlight she could see her work-rough hands twisting in the folds of her pink gingham skirt.
The slow hands of the clock reached and passed eleven o’clock. Then Marcy heard the sound of the truck. They were coming at last!
Thankfully she rushed about putting away the pressed clothes and the ironing board, setting the table with her best cloth and plates, bringing in fried chicken and cake from the water cooler on the back porch, slicing fresh bread and tomatoes. She put a pitcher of milk and a pat of butter on the table and checked the coffee pot on the stove.
The truck came into the yard and stopped. Joe came in grinning at her. The children stumbled after him, Gary carrying his sleeping brother, Kathy sleepily clinging to his arm. Marcy hugged the children all at once. Gary looked away from her with a queer, ashamed look.
“I got a bite of supper all fixed for you,” Marcy said. “Come and eat a little and tell me about everything.”
“We’re not hungry,” Gary said and pulled roughly away from her. He carried his small brother into the bedroom. Kathy trailed unsteadily after him, rubbing her tear-stained eyes with a grubby fist.
Joe had seated himself at the table and loaded his plate with food. He ate noisily, stuffing his big mouth and smacking his thick lips. The fat bulk of him filled the chair. He was in a good mood and between bites he grinned at Marcy derisively.
Nothing was the way she had thought it would be. The kids hadn’t said one word about the Fair. Of course they were tired — just plumb beat out.
She asked Joe, “How was the Fair?”
“Best Fair I ever seen,” he said, grinning slyly at her.
“Why did you leave me, Joe?” The words had burst out.
“Learn ya to be so slow. Nag an’ tease a man for weeks, and then keep him waitin’.”
“I was coming,” Marcy said numbly.
Joe ate a slab of cake. He shoved his chair back and stood up. His small eyes surveyed her. “Come on to bed, Marcy. Ya look real cute tonight.”
He swaggered across the kitchen to their bedroom. The curtain that covered the opening closed behind him. She heard him sit on the creaking bed, heard his heavy boots hit the floor, heard his bulky stirrings — and then silence.
“Hurry up, ol’ woman.”
“In a minute,” she called evenly. She slid her feet out of her shoes, turned out one lamp, and carried the other one into the children’s room.
Danny and Kathy were asleep in their bunks, looking like smudged angels, but her older son’s eyes were dark and troubled in the lamplight. She stood beside his bed, leaned down and kissed him softly on the forehead. His hard young hand caught her arm.
“Ma?” It was a tortured whisper.
“Yes, Gary?” Marcy set the lamp on the dresser and knelt beside the bed.
“I’m sorry about this morning, Ma. I should’ve... should’ve made him stop. I tried. Honest I did.”
“I know. Don’t be blaming yourself, Gary. You couldn’t make your Pa do nothing he didn’t have a mind to.”
“Some day I’ll be big enough.”
The boy’s thin body was tense as a newly stretched wire fence, his lips taut, his dark eyes staring past her.
Marcy touched his cheek. “How was the Fair? Don’t matter I wasn’t there. I do truly hope you had a fine time. All the things to see... Did Kathy and Danny get to ride the merry-go-round all they wanted? Did you all have candy apples and spun sugar candy on a stick and ride the Ferris wheel and see the clowns and the whole building full of fruit and vegetables in baskets and the cattle all fixed up pretty and fancy? Did you get to see all that?”
The boy’s young face twisted as he fought against crying. His worried eyes searched her shadowed face. “Pa said we weren’t to tell you, said he’d skin us if we did. But I never did lie to you, Ma.”
“No, son.” Marcy felt a sudden cold fear.
“Pa said to tell you we went to the Fair, all of us. But we didn’t. He gave Kathy a dollar and she and Danny went. They were waiting right at the gate when we got back. Kathy was crying but she was all right.”
“Where did you go, Gary?”
“I don’t know — some place on the west side of town. Pa said it was time I started living like a man. He didn’t want any sissy sons, he said. We went to a place, sort of in back of a store, I guess. Anyway, it was a big room and a lot of men were there and some women, too. There was a jukebox and it was kind of dark and funny-smelling. Everybody seemed to be having a real good time. They danced some and talked loud and laughed a lot. Everybody liked Pa and he took me around and told everybody I was his son. They were real friendly. Pa started playing cards with some fellows. One of the ladies brought me some cookies and a sandwich and something to drink — soda pop, it was. It was sort of smoky in there and I got to feeling sick and after a while I went to sleep. Then Pa woke me up and said it was time to go home.”
Marcy was so quiet and motionless that the boy finally touched her face. “Ma, please don’t be mad at me.”
“I love you,” said Marcy Bayliss fiercely. “I love you and Kathy and Danny so much I can’t find words enough to tell you how much. You know that, Gary?”
“Sure, Ma.”
“Then don’t you worry any more. Everything’s going to be all right.” She rose and picked up the lamp. “Go to sleep,” she whispered, and stroked his tangled dark hair.
The boy’s tense body relaxed. His face lighted with a brief smile. He turned on his side and his eyes closed heavily. Marcy smoothed the quilt over him.
Then, moving as silently as the monstrous black shadow that followed her along the rough board walls, she went into the kitchen. Her strong hand closed on the bone handle of a kitchen knife. The long blade was worn to a thin point, razor-sharp, gleaming in the yellow lamplight. She carried the lamp in her left hand, the knife in her right. She brushed aside the curtain and entered the bedroom.
Joe lay on his back, one arm stretched out across her pillow. His naked chest, thickly matted with black hair, rose and fell with his breathing. He looked at her and his eyes shone, catlike, in the lamp’s dim glow. “Come on, Marcy,” he said. “Hurry up, ol’ woman.”