Cindy Bachofer

The Farm Wife

 
    She found him in the chair after breakfast.   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 TV in the living room.  No matter the day-- same number of footsteps on the wooden floor, left arm out of his jacket first, clearing  his throat before settling into  worn chair cushions.  The number of cattle and 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 what had happened.   Tapping her foot by the chair didn't provoke him.  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;  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 a half hour by now. Mechanically, she moved to the phone and lifted her finger for dialing.  You were supposed to make a phone call.  She was sure of that.  She replaced the receiver on its hook and stepped back to the doorway.  She needed to think this through.  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 he was dead and she had plans for this particular Saturday.  She moved to the sink at the kitchen window.  His body in the next room didn't scare her.  His stillness gave her time to get used to this change.  Her finger found the raised spot on the counter where the knife had dug in and quivered.  He had driven the blade so hard and so fast that she never heard the metal cut into 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  found the spot easily.
      His truck entered the driveway too early that morning and she knew something was wrong..   He came in with a voice that spit anger, movements hard and sharp.   He rarely came back to the house before noon and this interruption irritated her.  Actual sentences from their 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  venomous insults.  Caring was long gone.  
     "Like living with a stinking sow.  Food no better than slop."
     "No man here to fix the busted tractor or this house falling down."
At least the children were in school and not hearing their bitterness.   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 edge she knew.  Words became slaps and pushes and kitchen weapons.  Her hand went to the heavy skillet but he pulled 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.  His right hand pressed the blade's edge  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 slice 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 curse 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."
     "Just an inch.  It'd be over."  His voice barely shook.  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 through the porch door, splintering its frame.   The room's silence brought her back to this morning and 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 missing  kitchen tiles spoiled the floor's diamond pattern.   Cupboards, windows, and white panel board made up the kitchen walls.  Worn surfaces crowded out her  glossy, ceramic figurines on the buffet.  She moved to the metal rimmed table and lowered herself onto the chair's plastic cushion.  From this angle she could see his head slumped and arm limp against the brown prickly upholstery..  The motionless form didn't bring tears.   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.  Marriage was a struggle and that's what they knew from example.   The work of the farm at least presented a common enemy 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 gone for two days and she knew she would go back.
     She moved to the  doorway again and studied the corpse.  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 its window glass.  Every crack on the brown work boots showed.  He hadn't finished lacing them up after breakfast.  Dark blue was completely washed out of the once heavy denim overalls.  Only 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, neck, 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.  Was there something she was supposed to get ready for when he was taken away?   She went to his closet to look for the only suit he owned.  She pushed the few cotton shirts aside to see into the closet's unlit back section. The trousers and jacket hung there like she remembered.  Every item in the closet was familiar to her.  The sparseness of his room was in sharp contrast to her cluttered space.  A snapshot of the children at Christmas stood on his dresser.  She lifted the cold metal frame and carried it back to the living room shelf.
     Searching for his suit had brought her own closet to mind.  She again crossed the kitchen and entered her room.  She had to move shoes and magazines before getting the closet door fully open.  The dress she had picked for the concert hung from its padded hanger on the door's hook. The print was lilac flowers on a black background with shiny black buttons from neck to waist. Months ago she, Helen, and Catherine had bought tickets for Percy Faith's final tour.  He was their favorite on the radio and they'd never been to a famous group's show before.  The afternoon was carefully planned-lunch at the big hotel's restaurant.  Only once had she seen its dimly lit interior.  After the concert they'd stop for ice cream at the fancy candy store.  Could she convince Helen and Catherine to go without her?  Another three hours later and she would have been in the car heading for town.  If he had died in the rented field two miles away, she wouldn't even know until evening.  Who would it hurt to delay the news?  
     At 9 a.m. she was the only one who knew.  Maybe she could keep this secret, but she had to get the body out of sight in case Helen or a neighbor stopped for coffee.   Her lungs rose and fell with quick, full breaths.  Already a plan was forming as she left her bedroom and crossed the kitchen.  The door to his bedroom was about two yards from the chair and the bed was probably another four yards.  She pushed her fingers under the lifeless weight of his arm.  Moving in closer to his chest, she slid her left arm around his back.  She braced her left knee on the chair cushion and lifted.  Her effort was awkward but she was able to move the body.  If he fell from her arms, she knew that a cut or bruise would raise suspicion.  If she couldn't support the body's weight once  he was out of the chair,  she didn't have arm strength to get him onto the bed.  She could explain her actions as a frightened attempt to revive Walter.  Enough police shows had taught her that the murdering suspect's story often gave contradictory evidence in examination of the body.  What kind of crime was it to delay the news of death?   She brought out heavy quilts to pad the floor along her path and pulled the bed covers back to the footboard.  She looked around the bedroom for other adjustments to make.  These precautions and hesitation were using up time.  No, that wasn't right.  He wouldn't get under the blankets during the day.  She remade the bed and pulled an afghan from the dresser.  She had to move quickly.
     Instead of pulling him forward out of the chair, she positioned herself between the chair and the door frame.  Get her arm around his chest from the back, heave him out of the chair, drag the body to the bed, and pull him onto the mattress.  Four simple steps.  Less than eight yards of space.  She leaned against the low chair back, pushed her hands under his arms and around the chest.  Then she pulled up.  She had never moved a dead body before and she didn't know what to expect.  The weight of his body fell against her once the limbs and torso were free of the chair.  Her left foot back, then her right.  Her left foot.  Her right.   Moving at a half step pace made her minutes drag while time sped forward.  Trying to push a blanket aside, her right foot tangled in its fold and threw her off balance.  She lost control of direction as the body's weight pushed her backward.  In the second of lost control she braced herself for falling.  She pictured one or both of them hitting the floor.  Time returned as her left shoulder slammed into the door frame's edge.  She clamped her teeth against the splitting pain as bone and flesh met wood.  Heat raced from her neck, down her arm, into fingertips.  Her hand was numb, then throbbed with injury.
       Her grip loosened and the body slipped.  Holding one knee into the body, she brought her shoulder off the door frame to tighten her hold around his chest.  Pain shifted to needle pricks across her collar bone.  She was halfway to the goal.  Suddenly the body's left arm dropped to his side and swung against her leg.  The scream pushed from her throat into the bedroom's corners.  This was still the form that an hour ago had not frightened her but she moved her leg out of the curled fingers' reach.   Finally her hip felt the smooth quilt on the waiting bed .  She exhaled and leaned herself back, letting the body roll from her arms.  She relaxed her body and let the injured shoulder sink into the mattress.  Sweat and chills ran over her skin.  The pain would become a dark bruise, a passing sign of his death on her body.  She turned her eyes toward the corpse laying beside her.  The cold skin of his face was close enough for her fingers to touch.  She raised her arm but let it drop between them.  The bed was uncomfortable for her and she was anxious to leave his room.
     She pushed herself off the quilt and stepped back from the body.  His boots needed to come off and she had to find a way to keep him on his side.  The body was stiff and refused to lay flat.  She settled his legs on the mattress and turned him away from the door.  By positioning his right arm underneath, she could lean him into the mattress' center.  She flattened the pillow and brought the edge of the afghan to his chin.  Her fingers plucked and bunched several yarn ties to show restless sleep.  She studied her work before backing away and adjusting the door to almost closed.  The clock showed 10 a.m.  She had one hour to herself before Helen arrived.
     Her hands were unsteady as she returned to the kitchen.  Two fingers' worth of
bourbon seemed better than the usual second pot of coffee at mid morning.  She pulled the clear bottle from the narrow cupboard and listened to the amber liquid roll into a clean mug. Blindfolded, she knew her ears could tell the difference between pouring this liquid and coffee. She tilted the mug and with one slow breathing in emptied its contents.  In her kitchen, the morning air seemed clearer.          
     The minute hand had barely moved.  She needed a task before getting herself ready.   The stacked breakfast dishes should at least be washed before leaving the house.  Hot water mixed with pink dish soap in the enamel sink.  Mounting white bubbles always pleased her.  They were clean, white, and free of dust.   She dropped dishes into the water, same order as always.--silverware, coffee cups, breakfast plates.   She stretched the simple chore into ten minutes of slow motion.  Steam and soapy water soothed her tense arms and face.  The routine of wash and rinse gave her time to think.  How many women hid the unspoken thoughts she felt at a husband's death?  Were her actions plain selfishness or allowable?  She didn't feel like a monster but to seek reassurance she could never speak of her actions even to Helen.
     With the dishes clean she could change her dress and recurl her hair.  Attempts to fix the curls never held for long but fussing with them made her feel dressed up.   Other accessories she had chosen and set out last night--jewelry, slip, shoes.  The whole process to get ready never took more than twenty minutes.  She was back in the kitchen and listening for Helen's car at 10:45.
     This evening her house would have visitors and she considered what preparations to make before leaving.  Once she was out of the house, she knew she could concentrate on the
entertainment waiting for them.  Straightening the clutter on the kitchen table would be helpful.  The week's mail, spare utensils, and condiments always spread out.  She almost swept his watch into the pile of envelopes and unfolded letters.  Its metal band snapping closed always signaled his leaving the table.  This morning he had left it unclasped.  The watch's cool metal and smooth flatness settled into her palm's fleshy middle.  Turning its face down, her thumb felt the etched initials, W.I.S and 1935-'55.   That year showed a profit in farming and she splurged on a gift to mark this twentieth year of marriage.  He needed a watch; the inscription was her extravagance.  Its scratches and worn metal showed years of wear.  She wondered if  the boys would want any of their father's old possessions.  
     She pushed away from the table and moved to his bedroom door.  It seemed more natural for his watch to be on the dresser, as if he had taken it off before laying down.  She entered the room on tiptoe and shook her head at the idea.  Yes, his position was the same.  She heard that sometimes a body will jerk as the stages of rigor mortis set in.  No difference in him showed from an hour ago.  She was tempted to lean over the form and look for signs of change on his face, but the risk of bumping the mattress kept her at a safe distance.  She tried to imagine Helen's reaction to Walter's cold body when they returned from the concert.   Her friend's nature was matter-of-fact but sometimes she gave way to sentiment.   She'd make sure Helen came in to share her report of the afternoon's enjoyment.  She could explain that he hadn't felt well that morning and she expected him to be inside.  She placed the watch on the corner of the dresser.  Then, coming up the driveway she heard familiar tires on gravel.  She spun around and almost slammed the door with her exit.
     11:06.  Surprisingly, Helen wasn't early.  She gave a glance at the kitchen and grabbed her jacket and purse from the chair.  Be calm.  Some excitement for the long awaited afternoon would be natural but the shaking in her hands was too much.  She was out the door and beside the car within a minute.  She filled her lungs with the outside air.  Her plan was for the best.
     Helen smiled as she settled into the seat.  "I just thought today would never get here.  Did you remember your ticket?  I've already checked for mine twice."  Nodding in agreement, Margaret returned the smile and held hers up.  They pulled onto the road, turning east for town.

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