Page 4 of The Magic of Ordinary Days
Ray’s sister Martha and her husband came to the church to act as witnesses to our union.
Martha resembled Ray in that she had the same shade of red-brown hair, but hers was thick and unruly and refused to stay back in a knot at the back of her head.
Instead, pieces of hair stuck out around her face like the arms of a sunburst. She was ruddy-skinned from years spent outside in the sun and was older than Ray, probably by about ten years.
When we met, she introduced herself and her husband, Hank, a lean cow-bone of a man who moved forward to shake my hand, every inch in slow motion.
“We’ve been blessed with four children, ranging all the way from sixteen down to five,” Martha said.
She adjusted her fabric belt and straightened her hat.
Her hands looked roughened by hard work, but were broad and steady.
“We hesitated to bring them today. Thought maybe we’d let you get a chance to settle in first.”
Hank walked to the church window. Each of his steps started at the hip and rolled down his leg to the foot, one muscle at a time. He pointed outside and spoke on low speed, too. “My family land sets just east of yours.”
“Soon you should come for supper,” said Martha.
The ceremony itself was over in minutes.
Reverend Case skipped the part about kissing the bride, and I wondered if he had done so at Ray’s request or simply as a matter of his own kind consideration.
After he pronounced us, Martha came forward to squeeze my hand, and before leaving, she gave me a warm casserole dish wrapped up in cup towels.
“You must be tired from all your traveling,” she said as she passed it over.
In the truck, I rode beside Ray and held the dish in my lap. He drove us north out Red Church Road, a dirt one-lane that cut wide-weaving arcs out of prairie and field. Ray informed me that our farm, as he now called it, sat at its end.
By then it was well into afternoon. Darts of sunlight came through the windshield, and Ray had to shade his eyes from the glare.
I gazed out the side window and soon found myself lost in the rows of crops that fanned away as long arms, blending into shoulders at the horizon and ever moving as we passed them by.
“I don’t have a ring,” Ray said out of the silence.
I was reminded of the column in the Rocky Mountain News that featured Molly Mayfield doling out advice to lonely servicemen and their sweethearts.
In the midst of this war, one girl had written in to complain that her fiancé had yet to come up with a diamond engagement ring.
I didn’t read the column, but everyone else did, so I always heard about the stories anyway. “I don’t need one.
I felt him glance my way one time, then again. “Maybe later.”
The Singleton farm did indeed sit at the end of the road.
Just over the last bridge that crossed a dry creekbed, I could see the spinning flower-top of a windmill and the peaked roof of a barn.
As we drew in closer, I could see other weather-beaten outbuildings, a few cows grazing at pasture, and a distant grove of trees.
And in all directions now, fields of crops spread away like green stripes on a uniform of brown dirt.
Across an open area of tread-striped dirt sat the house, its stair steps of roof shingles etched into blue sky.
I stepped down from the floorboard before Ray had a chance to come around and assist me.
In front of the house, I saw the remnants of a flower garden, one that looked as if at one time or another a woman had cared for it.
I could see the female touch in the now tilted over and faded whirligigs and in the polished stones arranged on the soil as ornaments.
I could also see neglect in the form of weeds, dried leaves, and randomly growing lilac bushes that had managed on their own to survive.
I asked, “Was the garden your mother’s?”
“Yes,” he said, then removed his hat. “Don’t have time to look after it now.”
The house was a white framed one-story with steps that led up to a covered porch. Inside, a combined kitchen, den, and dining area made up the largest room. In the center stood a round oak table with claw feet, and along one wall sat a sagging divan covered with a slipcover.
“A good-size icebox,” Ray said as he swung open the door to give me a look.
He showed me a bedroom that had belonged to his parents and a bunkroom where he, Martha, and his brother Daniel had grown up.
He saved the best for last—a bathroom he had recently converted with indoor plumbing.
Until that moment, I hadn’t considered living without such conveniences.
But on the drive out, I’d seen many a farmhouse with an outhouse slumped behind it.
The bathroom, a large square-shaped room that probably had once been used for putting clothes through the wringer, scrubbing, and ironing, now held a tall sink, commode, a tub with overhead shower, and a washing machine.
Along a bar on the wall hung several towels, all of them bleached white and smelling of laundry soap, and in the sink I could see the chalky remains of scouring powder.
Obviously Ray had tried to clean up the place, but had forgotten some of the most telling details.
Cobwebs draped the line where wall met ceiling, and all over the house, the wood floors were as scratched and scarred as those in a grammar school classroom.
After Ray brought in my luggage, we sat together at the table and shared Martha’s casserole of beef, carrots, potatoes, and dumplings. After taking a few bites, Ray stopped and wiped his face with a napkin. “How was that train ride out of Denver?”
I seemed to remember answering this question several times already. “Fine.”
A few minutes later, he said, “Bet that ride was tiring. Do you need to lie down?”
“The seats were comfortable. No, I’m fine, thank you.”
We both finished large portions of the casserole, then out of the cupboard Ray brought the remains of a cake. “Mrs. Pratt from church,” he explained. “She makes something for me nearly every week.”
“How nice,” I said. “Let’s hope she continues.” Then I laughed.
He looked surprised, but he shouldn’t have been.
Plenty of college coeds knew little of domestics, me among them.
When Abby, Bea, and I were still small enough to sit on the kitchen countertops, we would climb up and watch Mother bake.
I remembered clouds of flour floating in the air as she worked.
By the time we were old enough to learn anything, however, she had become preoccupied with her charity work.
She hired on a house-keeper and cook, and because it was only fun to watch Mother work in the kitchen, I never gained skills in managing a kitchen or in coming up with concoctions suitable to eat.
“I never learned how to bake a thing,” I told Ray.
He blinked, looking surprised again. “Mrs. Pratt would come over and teach you, I bet. Or my sister.”
“Don’t worry.” This man was doubtless unaware that women were now going into professions alongside men, that we didn’t solely stick to household cleaning and other chores that didn’t require expansion of a bright, young, and impressionable mind.
Not only were women filling the college campuses, but labor needs had resulted in jobs for women in industries that had traditionally been male dominated.
Women were working as welders, engine mechanics, machinists, truck drivers, and crane operators.
In factories they assembled shells, bombs, tanks, and ships.
Cowgirls and lumber jills, female writers and radio announcers, even women at the stock exchange, had transformed female roles forever. “I’ll manage somehow.”
He looked embarrassed. “The truth is, I can cook a fair bit.”
“Don’t bother,” I said, smiling. “I’ll teach myself.”
At sunset, he explained to me that farmers went early to bed, then he disappeared into the bunkroom.
Upon our arrival, he had placed my bag in his parents’ bedroom, so I could only assume I was to sleep in there, alone.
This didn’t surprise me. Women in my condition were considered most delicate.
And although Ray and I had just gotten married, we’d also just met.
I cleaned and dried the dishes, watched the waning sunset, then waited.
It was so silent the whir of grasshopper wings in the front garden sounded like shouting.
I found myself passing through the screen door and out onto the porch.
At the railing, I stopped. A full moon slowly rose over the top fringes of dark distant cottonwood trees rimming the banks of creeks that fed into the Arkansas.
Not yet silver, the moon reflected the honey gold of the setting sun, lighting her face from continents away.
Finally, I let myself exhale.
My father’s plan to give the baby a name had come to fruition.
And in the end, he had saved himself the disgrace of preaching morality to others while at the same time housing his own daughter, a girl in trouble.
Would I now be able to sleep? Certainly my body needed rest, and flailing about during the quiet hours after midnight could not be good for mother or baby.
Would I grow roots here, as Clytie had? Perhaps, in this silent land at the end of the road, I would find rest.
But if I did rest, I prayed not to sleep so deeply as to dream, and most of all, not to dream of him.