Cindy Bachofer
Ami Regier
Fiction Writing
March 27

The Farm Wife


      She found him in the chair this morning.   Nothing really different from past mornings except the weather was finished and he hadn't gotten up to turn the TV off.  For fifteen years it had been that way. Early rising, feed the cattle, breakfast, weather on the TV in the living room.  No matter the day--the same number of footsteps on the wooden floor, the same arm out of the jacket first, the clearing of his throat before settling into the worn chair cushions.  The head of cattle and the chores had lessened but his schedule stayed the same.  Except this morning, he hadn't gotten out of the square, broad-armed chair.
     She went over to see if he had started a morning nap; that sometimes happened.   She stood by the chair and tapping her foot and he didn't respond.  The years had taught them childish ways of ignoring each other.  She moved in front of him to at least bring words of irritation and this caused no stirring.  She touched his arm and he was heavier than sleep.  Her hands shook his shoulders, shook him hard and called his name.  She pressed the skin of his cheek between her first finger and thumb; the cheek was not warm. She stood to the side of his chair and leaned into him.  Her cheek against his mouth and nose felt no breath, no warm puff of air onto her skin.  He could have been dead an hour by now.  She mechanically moved to the phone and dialed Helen.  She was sure that making a phone call was expected.  She waited through nine rings and felt relieved that no one answered.  She'd try again in a half hour.  She wanted that space of time before letting this change known.
     She stepped back and held onto the door frame.  Before her was the man she had seen every morning for thirty-eight years, and this morning was the last one.  The morning was the same except for that fact.  Her breathing was still fast and she moved to the sink at the kitchen window.  His body in the next room didn't scare her. Two fingers' worth of bourbon right now seemed better than the usual coffee for calming her hands.  She pulled the clear bottle from the narrow cupboard and listened to the amber liquid roll into a clean coffee mug.  The sound was different than coffee pouring; blindfolded, she knew her ears could identify the difference.  After a slow breathing in that emptied the mug she set it down and stared into the yard through the big window.
     Her finger found the raised spot on the counter where the knife had dug in and quivered.  He had driven it so hard and so fast that she never heard it enter the layers of plywood and counter top.  Taking the knife out caused the wound.  Kitchen work had made the crack black over the years and worn its rough edges.  Her fingers still knew the spot and found it easily.
      The smells of countless meals hung in those walls and in the cracked glass of the windowpanes. Summer humidity never thoroughly drenched the walls and winter's penetrating cold never removed it. The kitchen held food smells and wounds that couldn't be removed.  The morning of that violent fight she heard his truck enter the driveway too early.  Something had gone wrong with his errands in town.  He came in with a voice that spit anger and movements hard and sharp.  There was not a thumbnail of gentleness.  The radio was on  a talk show and she was irritated at the interruption.  He rarely came back to the house before  cattle were fed.  This time his yelling was about the seven dollars he had expected to be in the bank.  The money wasn't there and so he couldn't get the tractor part.   
     Actual sentences from the battles never stayed in her memory, just sounds and jumbled pictures. The flat of a hand slamming against the table, her white lamp falling off the heavy walnut buffet, glass breaking in the enamel sink.  They both screamed and the insults were venomous.  Caring was long gone.  
     "Like living with the sow, but no surprises laying out in the pigpen."
      "A year of your patching that tractor bringing no meat to the table."
The complaints were the same; their words sounding it out changed. She was glad the children weren't out of school to hear their fighting.   She was a heavy, strong woman and his temper no longer frightened her.
This rage was at least proof of the marriage;  little enough evidence of that was around.  She pushed back at his anger with every jagged edges she knew.  It came to slaps and pushes and kitchen weapons.  Her hand went to the heavy skillet but his brought the butcher knife off the sideboard.   She felt its blade against her throat before she could push away.  Silence held for the instant of balanced tension.  He was behind her with the strength of one arm pinning both of hers and his right hand holding the blade's flat edge up into tender skin.  The same position for cutting a pig's throat, she thought.  An inch of movement and it felt like the knife would settle into flesh or her arm would shatter into brittle bone pieces.  Anger welled up inside.  She flinched her arm and he strapped it tighter to her side.  The blade pushed against her breathing.  He was so strong.
     "Let me go."  She tried to make her voice strong.  She wanted to cuss at him, to find her own knife, to make him hurt and scared.  If she challenged him to kill her, she didn't know what would happen.
     She repeated the line firmly and slowly, "Let me go."
     "It'd be easier than killing one of the animals."  His voice barely shook.  She felt the hold on her arm let up and she leaned into the sink.  On her left side she saw him drive the knife point into the counter and felt his bulk slam into the porch door and splinter its frame.  The room's silence brought her back to this morning of his stilled body.
     She turned from the window and inspected her kitchen.  The cracked, flecked Formica of the kitchen table was a map of coffee stains and blurred finish.  The chipped corners of kitchen tile broke the floor's diamond pattern.   Cupboard, windows, and off-white panel board made up the kitchen walls.  The worn surfaces crowded out her few decorations of glossy, ceramic figurines.  She moved to the metal rimmed table and lowered herself onto the chair's plastic cushion.  From this angle she could see his right shoulder and arm limp against the brown prickly upholstery..  The motionless form didn't bring tears.  She felt no sense of missing him.  In the first year of marriage, disappointment became part of the farm routine, like weather's harshness she couldn't change or rising before the sun.  She didn't hate him.  There had not been a courtship; only an acceptance of  marrying and a date to say the vows.  Marriage was a struggle and that's what they knew from example.  In the first months they had talked of grander ideas but the weariness of not getting ahead took over and their comfortable talks ended.  On the radio shows or in magazines she saw happy couples, but that was not her world and there was no help in dreaming about more.  The work of the farm at least presented a common enemy for them and that became the center of living.   After that fight was the only time she walked the children into town and stayed at her sisters.  They were away for two days and she knew she would go back.  
     Today she considered her choices.  For a short time yet she was the only one who knew.  From her chair scanned the kitchen.  Small matters entered her thinking--the grocery list started last night and the day's necessary house cleaning.  When the kids were around she had kept things in better order but after it was just the two of them and there wasn't much point.  Piles of envelopes and papers on the buffet, a box of glass jars waiting for cellar storage,  frayed towels and washcloths held between cupboard and counter filled her kitchen space.
     She moved back to the living room doorway and studied the body.  It was strange to think of Walter that way.  Strange that she hadn't studied the detail of his face for years, and she was sure he didn't know the changing lines of hers.  His room was next to the chair and sunlight streamed through the window glass across the chair.  Every crack on the brown work boots showed.  He hadn't finished lacing them up.  The dark blue was completely washed out of the once heavy denim overalls.  Only the seam threads gave the reminder of a new pair's coloring.  The side buttons were still open.  
      A trace of dried egg--the only real color on him--stuck to his chin.  His skin--hands, cheek, forehead--was too weathered to even now seem pale.  He wasn't dark, wrinkled brown like cracked pasture clods.  His coloring was beige with fine wrinkles like chicken flesh cooked past white.  She held her arm out and noted her freckles were not baked away.  Finally, his face was relaxed.  The finger she touched on the chair arm was rigid.  It was after nine o'clock now.
     She remained in the doorway looking at the form.  Would people he knew lift him out of the chair?  That would be the only occasion for a gentle touch.  Was there something she was supposed to get ready when he was taken away?  She went to his closet and looked for the old suit that she knew had to be there.  She pushed the few cotton shirts aside to find the closet's unlit back section.  Their only daughter's wedding reception was at the house and he had worn the suit then.  She didn't expect it to still fit.  Every item in the closet was familiar and did not keep her attention. Sunlight helped to cheer the room.  The sparseness of his room was in sharp contrast to her cluttered space.  A snapshot of the children at Christmas in a metal frame stood on the dresser.  She carried it back to the living room shelf.  This side of the house faced the road and her ears noted the rattle of a pick-up.  Not Helen's car.
     Searching for his suit had brought her own closet to mind.  She again crossed the kitchen and opened the door to her room.  She had to move shoes and magazines before getting the closet door fully open.  She knew exactly which dresses were on each side.   She could have listed them from her kitchen chair.  In recent years, her daughters-in-law had helped to update her closet so the colors were bolder than worn cotton dresses that still hung in the back.  She thought about changing her house dress before Helen arrived but decided not to.  She wasn't sure what she would have to do in the  afternoon and Helen could help decide.  Her bed was unmade and a quick motion of pulling the blankets up to the pillows was all she did for straightening.
     She had not started the second pot of coffee that morning and figured that had to be why she felt tired.  The automatic drip and steamy aroma were comforting.  It took four minutes for the pot to fill and she let its constancy mesmerize her.  Slowly the topaz liquid deepened to brown that light couldn't pass through.  She let it sit in the pot while running hot water into the mottled enamel sink.  Mounting white bubbles always pleased her.  These were clean, white, and free of dust She dropped dishes into the water, same order as always.  Silverware, coffee cups from last night, breakfast plates, plastic containers from leftovers.  The window soon cleared of  steam and she was able to look across the yard to the tree line and field on the north.  If she pressed her right cheek against the glass she could see west down the road, almost to the barn.  The height of the sun's rays and the smell of fresh coffee reminder her of the hour.  She automatically checked the clock and again turned her eyes down the road.  Most mornings he returned to the house just before ten to listen to the Party Line radio call in.  This attention to the road and watching for him surprised her.  Here was an instance of expecting him, of anticipating his slow step and heavy breathing.  Their sitting at the table and listening to the offers of "buy, sell, or trade" had grown into a dependable part of the morning.  Either of them rarely made a comment but they heard the same voices and sometimes smiled at a caller's odd request.  If she wanted to listen his stiffening body was the morning's company.  The finality of this aloneness struck her and for the first time the house felt strange. The rinse water splashed into the sinkand she clattered the dishes into the drainer.
     She needed a project away from the window and concentrated on clearing the table.  The clutter there was just yesterday's mail to shuffle and a few meal utensils to stack.  She first thought his watch glinting off the light was another fork to collect.  She normally heard its metal band snap closed during breakfast but he had left it unclasped this morning.  Its metal coolness and smooth flat shape settled into the fleshy middle of her palm.  Turning the band, her fingers felt the etching on the back--
W.I.S, his initials, and 1935-55, marking the twentieth year of marriage.  That year showed a profit in farming and he needed a watch.  She instructed the store clerk that durability was most important.   He suggested inscribing the gift and she allowed for the expense.  It felt extravagant, a new feeling.   Her fingers closed around the watch face and she pressed the flat fist against her lips.   What to do with this item was her decision.  The newness of this thought again marked her aloneness.  She wondered if one of the boys would want it.  There was little of his farming possessions that could be useful to them.   She closed her fingers more tightly around the metal to stop the shaking that had returned to her hand. Keeping busy would help now, but she didn't move away from the table.
     She let her eyes rest on the rows of souvenir plates lining the paneled wall facing her.  The kids had started this collection in their traveling around the states.  The plates made for easy conversation during their visits home and even with neighbors who often sat at this table.  He had set the hooks in the wall and like her knew the order of tourist sites set in glaze and ringed in gold.  She especially liked the California--its Golden Gate Bridge, mammoth sequoias, Hollywood banner, Pacific coastline.  Its size seemed bigger than the others.  Almost every visit their youngest son told what they'd see there, the grand tour he could give them.  His state was a world away from the farm and he had set that goal early on.   It never surprised her that the children all moved to cities; during their visits they asked about the cattle but talked more of city habits and living close to big department stores that stayed open late.   For thirty years they had never been away from the farm overnight.  This morning she studied the plates with new attention.
     The idea of change brought her eyes back to his body in the chair.  The sun now warmed the whole living room with clear light of late winter.  In the quiet house she searched for kindness towards his quiet form.  The farm couples she knew lived much like them and she wondered what thoughts these wives had about their husband's passing.  The routine of the farm and his habits had set the order of her day.   Meals kept her the most aware of time.  She cooked because it was her work of the day, not her enjoyment.  As a young housewife she knew the main dishes to prepare; her menus expanded little over the years.  She had basic ingredients to work with and the food put on the table was basic.  It was consumed rapidly around 7 am, noon, and 6 pm.  She was a decent cook for farm tastes, but the preparation or the meal itself held no ceremony.  In the last ten years, she had shared the cookbook fad and new recipes with friends, but his tastes held to the same dishes.  This change she also considered. It struck her that she was the only one to say what lunch would be.
     Independence was a new feeling.  She tested it by imagining decisions in her day.  When trips to town would be and why, whether potatoes should be served again that week, if the kitchen radio played news or music.  She was the one to decide.  If those jars didn't go to the cellar it was only her business.  The old towels could stay on the counter because she wanted them there.  These were new discoveries to her.  The sense of new space in the house  settled on her slowly, but now held her like a statue at the table. The muscles in her arms ached from their locked position and she wasn't sure how many minutes she had sat in this trance.  Her stomach was unsettled but she now considered it excitement, not worry for the change.  Energy replaced the weariness of an hour ago.  Her fingers tapped against the table as she mentally formed a new grocery list.  Her thoughts were jumbled now for what needed to be done first and she breathed deeply to clear her mind.    If Helen walked in now she felt she really could cry.   Her hands again were shaking, but a new tension worked inside her.
     She pushed herself out of the chair and stood at the porch door.  His jacket was on the first hook. She would not disturb his things yet.  Too many other demands presented themselves right now.  She knew when word spread about his death, there would be offers to help with the cattle until she could manage the daily work on her own.  The bills and the bank statements were in envelopes on the buffet and she would sort through those as well.  The funeral and her part in it concerned her the most.  She found the phone book in the drawer and left it open on the table.  She tried to plan the conversation she'd have after dialing the number.  Her call to Father Mark would be easier.  She looked to the calendar pinned by the phone and repeated the date in her head.  It was almost eleven o'clock.  She looked through the front room windows to the main road and wondered what had kept Helen this morning.  She stood in the middle doorway and rested her fingers on the corner of his chair, five inches from his slumped head.  She didn't want to touch the body.  Its color was grayer and the fingers now curled stiffly into the palm.  She returned to the kitchen and her chair.
     Familiar tires crunching gravel entered the driveway.  11:06.  She was relieved that someone else would soon know.  She started to rise from her chair to go to the door, but stayed seated.  Helen always came in quickly, not waiting for anyone to answer the door.  She pressed her palms together and let go of the morning's quietness.  
     Helen bustled through the door in a hurry to explain her delay and already in conversation.  Her purse, unfolded newspaper, and market bag landed on the table before spilling over.  
     "You know I'm always here by 9:30.  I got stopped for twenty minutes at the market to catch Mary up on   Alice's wedding last weekend.  I can't believe how that woman can talk.  I tried to get away but she kept rattling on about every wedding she'd been to.  I thought Walter was at the sale today in town.  His truck's in the driveway.  Did he decide not to go?  Oh good.  Your coffee is still hot.  I've needed a cup for an hour now.   Don't bother to get up.  I'll get you one too.  The cups are in the same place I'm sure.  You haven't changed anything since I was here yesterday, I'll get the ones with pretty flowers."   She sat down at last with a final question.  
     "You're certainly quiet.  What's the morning done to you?