Page 15 of The Magic of Ordinary Days

By the time I reached home, it was after sunset.

On moonless nights, black sky and prairie horizon blended into one dark veil.

But with no blackout curtains required here in the middle of the countryside, I could see stark white light coming from the kitchen window, letting me know that Ray was inside.

I climbed the steps and found him sitting at the table eating heated-up leftover chicken.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

He set down his fork. “I got by on my own for years before.”

I slid down onto the chair next to him and checked the pot. Perhaps I’d try some myself.

Ray said, “We’re thinking on trying winter wheat this year.” He picked up his fork and started to eat again. “We plant it in the fall and let it grow for a couple of weeks until the cold makes it go dormant. If winter’s not too bad, then in spring, the wheat’ll come alive again.”

But I’d long lost my initial curiosity about farming. Now I had to pretend to be interested. “How will you know?”

“If we get a lot of snow, it protects the plants like a blanket. But if winter’s cold and dry,” he said, shaking his head, “they’re lost.”

I grabbed a plate and picked out a chicken breast. “Is it worth the risk?”

He looked surprised. “Of course it is. That wheat could feed a lot of folks.”

I found myself staring at the oily indentation across his forehead caused by wearing that old hat of his all day long.

He finished eating, then leaned back in the chair. “Where were you today?”

It wasn’t a demand. I took one bite. “Sightseeing,” I answered.

He rocked forward. “The truck’s not for sightseeing. We get gasoline to move workers and do our business.”

Of course, he was right. Because of gasoline shortages and war needs, most everyone frowned on pleasure driving, and at one time, the government had banned it altogether.

In January of 1943, the government had tried making pleasure driving a punishable offense, but with enforcement nearly impossible, they lifted the ban later that same year, in September.

I said, “Then that’s what I did.”

Ray started on his dessert, stale cake from Mrs. Pratt.

“It’s not just the gasoline, but the tires, too.

I’m using a tractor with steel wheels ‘cause you can’t get tires nowadays.

And every fall after harvest, I have to take the tires off that old wagon hitched behind the barn and put them on the truck.

Otherwise, the truck tires would be worn out, and all I could buy is reclaimed ones that don’t last a hundred miles. ”

“That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

Ray gulped.

“Switching out tires? Keeping more than one set?”

“I do it ‘cause I need to.”

“Well, I needed to transport farmworkers.”

“Who’d that be?”

“Rose and Lorelei.”

He looked baffled, and then a flash of recognition crossed his face. “The Japanese girls.”

“They’re American.”

He chewed with effort. I think the man hadn’t a clue what I meant. “Okay. The American girls who look Japanese.”

That chicken wasn’t such a good idea after all. I shoved my plate away. “Do you dislike them because of Pearl Harbor? Because of Daniel?”

He gave me a hard look. “I’m not as stupid as you think. I know they’re not the same people who bombed Pearl Harbor. And they’re great people, good workers. They’ve kept our harvest going over the past few years.”

I slumped back. “I never said you were stupid.”

Now Ray looked at his dessert instead of eating it. “And I never said I disliked them. I just said they were Japanese, is all.”

“And you keep your distance.”

“I have a lot to do around here.” Ray wiped his face with a napkin. “I got to keep this farm going pretty much on my own. I don’t go into the fields to socialize.”

Eating with him now was out of the question.

I got up from the table and went outside to the porch without slamming the screen door.

I sat in my chair and listened to the sounds made by crickets in the night while I tried to slow my breathing.

He left me alone for close to an hour, then before he went to bed, he stepped outside.

The breeze that night came in from the direction of the creekbed, and although it ran dry, the ditch always held a pocket of cold air that chilled me each time I walked the bridge that crossed it.

Ray’s looming, boxy shape blocked the moonlight but not the cold air coming up from the creekbed.

A chill ran up my bare forearms, and I wished I had brought out a sweater.

“You should eat something,” he said.

But I couldn’t even look his way.