Fern heard Harry curse under his breath, but she wouldn’t let anything spoil this, their first real day of marriage. It was too new, too special; there would never be another first day like this, not ever again. She consciously put a lilt in her walk. This was a project they could work on together, be proud of together, a lifetime work of making the farm beautiful, a happy place to be, a healthy place.
They walked up the sagging porch steps, through the torn screen door and into the house.
It was stark. The furniture was heavy, wooden, and unadorned. The big room housed both kitchen and living area, with a wood-burning stove and scarred enamel sink. Filthy curtains that had been red-checked hung in faded tatters above the sink; the cupboards were open and the dishes filled with dirt. Dingy sheets were spread over the sofa and the overstuffed chair. The place had a look of hot summertime in the dust bowl.
They carried their bags into the bedroom, where Harry immediately changed into overalls and a white T-shirt while Fern modestly turned her back. Fern unpacked the bags, hanging their clothes next to the ones in the closet, and put on a cool housedress. Without a word to each other, they went to work, Harry outside, Fern inside.
She discovered a rather pretty, though faded, green and pink floral print on the sofa and chair. Under another filthy, dusty sheet, the bedspread was a hand-sewn quilt in a starburst pattern of gold and brown calico. She changed the linen, dusted, swept, and washed dishes. She hummed to herself as she worked. Her new husband would be pleased with their life here. She would make it so.
At sundown, neighbors came over with fried chicken, cold beer, and news of the neighborhood. Sam and Addie Smith lived on the next farm over. They’d taken all the livestock to their place when Harry’s folks took sick, and were mighty glad to see him and his pretty little bride come home.
Harry and Sam went out on the porch after dinner for a beer and a smoke, while Addie and Fern cleaned up the dishes. Fern admired Addie’s strong, plain hands, her generous size, and the way she wasted no motions in cleaning up after dinner. Fern felt young and small and inadequate next to this obviously capable woman.
When they had finished, they sat at the scrubbed wooden table with fresh coffee.
“So. Here you are. Now what?”
Fern was surprised by this directness. She was soon to learn that farm people are rarely anything but direct.
“Well, I don’t know. It’s all a bit overwhelming.”
“This place has been going to seed since Harry left. It’s going to take more than three years to put it back together again.”
“We’re young and strong. We can do it.”
Addie eyed her skeptically, then looked down into her coffee.
“A farmer’s wife doesn’t have an easy life,” she said. “There’s never any money, and there’s always too many kids. The tractor breaks and the best milking cow gets sick and corn prices go down. You have to really want to do this.”
“I really want Harry.”
“Well, good. I hope you can do it. Remember, we’re just yonder. Sam and me have been doing this a lot of years; our kids are all grown now and gone away to better themselves. I know a few shortcuts, so just ask. In the meantime, I’ll pick you up early tomorrow and we’ll go into town to buy you some supplies. After that, you’ll be walkin’, I reckon, so make your trips short and frequent.”
“I will. Thank you. I appreciate the help tomorrow. We are out of, of”—Fern gestured around the room—“everything!”
They laughed together, the big lady with the wide-open face and light blue eyes, and the young, slim, darker girl with fresh hope in her heart and panic in her soul.
That night, Fern and Harry made love for the first time, not very successfully. Their inept fumbling shamed Harry and he was reluctant to repeat his performance. As it turned out, this was a blessing in disguise, for Martha wasn’t conceived for two years.
Harry drew out half of his parents’ savings and bought a sewing machine for Fern and paint for the house and barn, had the tractor fixed and bought seed for the garden. Fern went to Addie’s house to learn to sew, and made curtains and work clothes. Addie taught her how to make bread, how to cook breakfast for a farmer, and how to kill and cook chickens. Addie was a godsend.
Her days were filled with hard work—chopping wood, weeding with a scythe, cooking, cleaning, gardening, sewing, and working with the chickens and cows. She walked to town every second day, and walked to Addie’s every day in between. She lost weight, began to look gaunt and bony, while Harry grew healthy and hardy and muscular and brown.
Addie fed her often and well, asked after her health, worried over her like a mother, but Fern adamantly said she felt fine, she was just getting used to things.
What she was getting used to, in fact, was her growing sexuality, her passion, her needs and desires. Her Christian upbringing was confused along with the rest of her uprooted ideals, but the sight of Harry’s hard sweat-slicked body made her weak in the knees, and she would work twice as hard to purge the vision from her mind.
At night, they would lie in bed and talk of the coming winter, and as his voice droned on in the darkness, she would stare at the nothingness above the bed and dream of making love on the wooden floor in front of the stove. She would touch him, lightly rubbing her fingers across his back, and she would ache between her legs, the way saliva glands hurt with the first taste of sweetness. Usually she stroked him like this until she heard his soft snoring; then she would curl into herself and wait for morning, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not.
At the commencement of winter, Fern’s gift blossomed. And so did she.
They had worked hard all summer getting the farm ready for the cold weather. They had a late crop of vegetables, which were put up and safely stored in the underground pantry. The house and barn were freshly caulked and painted, hay was stockpiled, wood cut and stacked, stores of food set in.
The sky turned the color of the dusty roads on a Sunday afternoon, and after lunch Harry took her outside, wiped the sweat from his forehead, tipped his hat to the back of his head, and looked up. “Snow’s gonna fly hard, Fern. Tonight. Tomorrow for sure.”
Fern remembered waking up with an air of expectancy, looking out from her second-story bedroom and seeing the first snow quietly covering everything in sight. She smiled to herself, anticipating a welcome contrast from the dry summer, but a quick look at Harry’s worried face slammed her back to the here and now. This would be no winter for carefree ice skating on the pond at the park. This was living with the weather as you live with the soil and the water. This was life-or-death weather. Though the day was still hot, she shivered, as if a premonition slithered up her spine but didn’t quite make it to her mind.
“Gotta get the tractor bedded down,” Harry was saying. “You going to town today?”
Fern noticed the wind picking up, swirling bits of this and that, stinging her ankles. She thought of her winter checklist, and the things that had yet to be done. “Yes. Oh, yes, I have lots of things to be done.”
“Good. Go to Mac’s store and see if he can send a boy out to help me this afternoon. I’ve got to get that tractor jacked up.”
Fern took a sweater, grabbed her list, and went directly to town, walking quickly, head down against the rising wind, wasting no time. Mac’s son, Dave, offered to drive her back and help Harry with the tractor. Gratefully, she completed all the shopping on her list, more than she could carry in three trips. She loaded it all into Dave’s buckboard, and with a snap of the reins, they drove home, shielding their eyes from the blinding dust.
Dave helped unload her purchases before putting the horse in the barn. He worked quickly, taking worried glances at the charged sky. Fern’s heart raced with excitement.