by Terry Stone
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Ella knew something was different this time. But she was too weak to think about it. Too tired, too drained. She lay here in her bright white room, the room she loved best: her bedroom, white on white, linen on lace. It was the brightest room in the two storey farm house . She loved the way the sharp Winter sun was shining on her mirror, ricocheting around the room and sparkling off of her framed high school diploma on the far wall. She was proud that she had graduated from high school, a rare occurrence for a girl in rural Washington State. She was as proud of that diploma as she was of her marriage certificate, which hung next to it.
Focusing on the objects on the wall helped to keep her present and fighting the pain.
"Ella Laura Rettkowski, graduated from __________, ________". Her family had been so proud of her; they had such plans for her. There was even talk of college for this daughter of Polish immigrants. But she, their pride and joy, had thrown it all away for that other piece of paper: marriage license uniting her with that roustabout American, the tall, brash farmer who had stolen their jewel.
The two had eloped to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho to get married, even though it meant no church wedding, no minister, no family celebration, just a piece of paper. She had hoped that time would bring her family around to see him as she did. She had taken her mother's curses as just another flare of the Polish temper. But those curses had lasted past the birth of even her second baby. Ella's mother had never even seen her grandchildren.
Ella had given birth to two girls and now she had produced a boy child. It was a hard birth and he didn't have a name yet. She hadn't been able to focus on a name. She couldn't really focus on anything yet. The light danced around her room as the sun changed angles and the mirror played tricks with her mind. What were her babies' names? Oh yes, Phylis and Bevely. Their names had modern spellings for modern girls.
And she knew that she would have many more. Herman was a strong and lusty husband and she was a strong and willing wife. She didn't linger on the possibility that some of her babies could die young, as so many had in past generations.Science held the promise for a better future in this still new century. And she was a part of it. Penicillin, blood transfusions, anesthesia, so many advances. Death was no longer an ever present part of life. Now, in 1924, a long life was possible for everyone. Little tombstones labeled just: "Baby" would soon be a thing of the past. She knew her babies would live.
They were bright and quick to learn, at six and four years old, but they still needed her constant attention. Who was taking care of them now? Herman must be. He was a good man. Big, strong. He would take care of them, and the new baby. She thought he could do anything. She had seen his strength in action all around the farm: how he handled the plowing in the Fall and fixed the roof last month when it threatened to cave in during that rain storm and how he looked after every aspect of their life. Each time she was confined, he was the one who took care of house, doing all those chores that her father had turned away from in disgust calling it woman's work and not fit for a real man to do. She learned that American men were different.
And soon she would be strong enough to do her share again. As soon as she could wake herself up, lift her head. Why couldn't she lift her head. She felt so strange. This birth had been different. This wasn't like the first two. It should have gotten easier. This wasn't right. She needed her mother's strength and wisdom. But her mother wouldn't come. Her mother said she didn't have a daughter any more.
But, Momma, something ís wrong.
She couldn't see the mirror on the wall any more. The pain was coming back. Then she felt a small, cool hand on hers and another larger hand on her forehead. She heard his deep voice, 'Stay here, don't go outside," and then the bed dropped out from under her, "Watch your sister and stay inside, you understand me, girl?"
Icy January air hit her face and feet. Then the strong smell of their horse startled her. Why was the horse in her bedroom?
And now she hurt again. She hurt bad and wanted to cry, but couldn't. She was overwhelmed by the sound of the wagon and the sting of the wind and pain of the jolts. What was happening? She could hear his voice, screaming at the horse, cursing the snow. But she would be okay so long as Herman was with her. He would take care of everything. He would make the hurt go away. She was so tired.
Where was her baby?
She wanted the motion to stop.
She wanted peace.
And then, thank heaven, everything was quiet and it was all white on white, just like her bedroom. She could see the horse patiently staring at the frozen ground by the up-turned wagon in front of him. She could feel that Herman was holding her in his strong arms as delicate snowflakes fell on her face.She could hear him sobbing as he watched her life ebb away. What could he do? He was trying as hard as he could to do the right thing by her. What else could he do now, in this ditch by the side of the road? God, tell me.
The horse looked up and just watched as Herman rocked his wife's lifeless body back and forth.
He had done everything wrong. He should have had the doctor there, he should have seen the signs. He shouldn't have married her in the first place. She would still be alive if he had left her to live with her parents in their large house in the city.
And now she was gone. He wanted to lay down in the snow with her and let the snow cover them both. He wanted to stay with his blue-eyed beauty in her cold, white world. He brushed the snow from her eyes and gently closed them. He pulled the blanket around her shoulders in a vain attempt to keep her warmth with him as he lowered his face to her neck and drank in the smell of her hair. He lay there, unable to raise his head again and softly breathed her scent in and out. He was jealous of death.
How quickly it had happened. The baby was only two days old.
Her women friends had come and dressed her in her finest white frock, the one she had worn when they had their photographs taken in Wilbur. Then he had carried her back down stairs and laid her body out on the davenport in the salon of the farm house. The girls hadn't seen her yet, so now was the time, before the coffin arrived and they took her to the graveyard.
Phylis was six and stoic. Her tears had dried, but Bevely didn't really understand yet. She held Phylis's hand as they entered the living room. Herman, cradling the infant in his arms, proceeded them in.
"Kiss your mother goodbye," he said, as he stepped to one side. Phylis lead Bevely to the davenport and dutifully bend down to kiss her mother's cold lips. But Bevely stood in terror, seeing her mother, but not her mother. Whatever was going on was not right. Make it stop. She couldn't be here. She couldn't.
Bevely wiggled free of Phylis's grip and ran out of the room and kept going through the dining room with itís table brimming with plates of food, through the kitchen where the women tried to grab her as she raced by, through the porch, down the wooden stairs, through the yard, under the hanging laundry, past the pig sty, through the fence, down the road, through the fallow field, past the bramble, down to the creek when she fell on her face and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
Later Phylis found her there and held her, and they cried together.
She hated Mr. Blanchard, but she hated her father more and she knew that was wrong. But he had said that he would come back for her. It was supposed to be for just a little while. He had promised. Just while he was working at the logging camp. When the season was over he would come back for her and then they would all live together again. They would be a family again. But every time he came to visit her, he would leave without her, promising that next time he would take her with him. Next time.
She rolled over and faced the wall, not wanting to watch Mr. Blanchard as he left her tiny room, buttoning his trousers.
She never talked about what Mr. Blanchard was doing to her when her father came to visit. She figured he knew. It was a grown-up matter. He had always told her to be a good girl, work hard and do what Mr. Blanchard and his wife told her to do.
Anyway, he always had such pain in his eyes when he looked at her, she didn't want to add to his worries by complaining. Lots of time he would avoid making eye contact with her when he spoke to her, looking at a space just behind her. There seemed to be something about her that he didn't want to see. Was she passing ugly? When she could get to a mirror she studied her face, but didn't see anything so awful. She thought she looked ordinary enough. Her blue eyes would stare back at her from the mirror. Blue eyes, plain face, plump body. She thought it was something about her eyes that was wrong. Sometimes her eyes would look even bluer when they were reddened with tears. But she didn't cry often, because her father called that a sign of weakness and she wanted to please him. So why didn't he want to look at her? Mr. Blanchard looked at her all the time. He didn't care that she was ordinary looking or that her eyes got bluer when she cried.
But as she faced the wall this night, there were no tears. Just hate. Hate was the only weapon left for a 9 year-old living as a virtual slave on a dairy farm in central Washington State. Hate and more hate. She pulled her nightgown down with one hand and sucked the thumb on her other hand. She just wanted to go to sleep. Sleep where maybe she would see her mother's face again. Not the face of the dead person laying on the davenport in the farmhouse living room, but the rosy face of a living mother singing the ABC song to her children in a bright little kitchen. She would try very hard to control which face came to her dreams. She sucked her thumb and closed her eyes real tight, trying not to feel the cold sticky sheets.
He took his hat off, though he knew he shouldn't in this fierce heat, and felt the sweat pour down his neck. He shook his head violently and watched the drops of liquid fly around him, sparkling in the sunlight. It was hot work, but good work. Hard, physical, draining. Good and draining. He liked it. Kept him real busy. Folks were always looking for strong backs. And at the rate he was saving money, he would have a nice nest egg with which to start a new life. He could go and reclaim the girls from the farms where they were working. Maybe even get the boy back, too.
But that would be later, after he had put aside enough money. He would need a lot of money to start his own business. He would have to work a long time to get a proper house again. He had lost the farmhouse, really didn't want the farmhouse any more. He wanted a new place. Someplace with a light and airy living room and a dark bedroom. Maybe someplace in town.
But he didn't want to think about it now, he just wanted to work, work hard and make good money. Everything else could wait and hang it anyway.
He jumped down from the tractor and watched the other men settling down with their dinner pails. He reached behind the seat and grabbed his pail. The only shade available in a field this big was under the tractor, so he slid underneath and opened his dinner laying in the dirt. It was slightly uncomfortable, but a bit cooler. And after his meal, he let his eyes close for just a moment.
He woke to the sound of men's voices. Now that the sun had moved a bit, Wilson and Clyde had found the shady side of the tractor a good place to sit and have a smoke. They hadn't noticed Herman taking a nap and were speaking in a normal jovial tone.
"Yeah, he says she's a might small now, but he hopes to have her for at least a few more years," Wilson's voice was clear and deep.
"I don't know, it don't seem right. You know it aint. She's a youngen. What is she now, 7, 8?"
"Closer to 8 I hear, but she's a big one. Hey, a man's gotta right to do what he wants on his own farm."
"Don't you think her Pa would put a stop to it, if'n he knew?" asked Clyde. "He won't think it was so right, and you knows it."
"Hey, it's not my place to go getting all involved with this. I just heard it from Zak. You know he was up there working for a while last month. Said Blanchard couldn't keep his hands off her."
"Ain't right, I says."
"Yeah, well what you gonna do about it? Ain't your kid. Never mind, there's George calling. Looks like the truck's here." Wilson stood up, tapping out his pipe and grinding the embers into the dirt with his shoe. "Ready to do some loading?"
Clyde got up and followed Wilson, brushing the straw off the seat of his pants, "Ain't right," he whispered.
Herman watched them amble off towards the tractor. Just another day for them. Just like it had been for him, till now.
The sun was dancing around the room, the curtains were floating in the wind, her mother was drawing pictures on the white walls and Phylis was giving her different color pencils to use. Her mother floated to the top of the room to add some birds to the picture of the sky and Phylis jumped up and down trying to hand her another color.
"Make a red bird, Mama," she called, as her mother floated future up, "Make the next one bright red." And threw the pencil high into the air where the ceiling had been.
It was a great dream, why was she waking up. She didn't want to wake up, she wanted to go back to sleep. She covered her ears with her arms and tried not to open her eyes, cause then it would be all over.
But the door to her room banged open and she couldn't fight the light from the swaying lantern.
It was Papa. Papa was here, in her room, reaching for her, grabbing for her arm, pulling her out of bed and shoving her towards her little pile of possessions in the corner.
"Get dressed, girl. Now!" and he turned to face Mrs. Blanchard who had followed him to the doorway. "Don't say a word to me. I don't want to hear your lies too."
"No, you got it all wrong. I know he won't do nothing like that. He's a god-fearing man," she said trying to soothe him.
"God-fearing, he better fear me, not god. I'll give him something to fear. You keep him out of my way." Herman ripped a case off of a pillow and tossed it to Phylis, "Put your stuff in there. Hurry up, girl!"
He was here. He was taking her away. Her heart sang. Her father had come for her. This was better than the dream. Lots better.
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