When Darkness Loves Us Read online

  There it was, but not an idea—an overpowering feeling, a flooding of emotion, of understanding. The companionship in the bar, the nice Mr. McRae offering to buy her bread. Her breath came in short gulps. She wanted more of it; she wanted more people, more talk, more laughter. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t keep up. She knew she couldn’t. A hot, solitary tear of loneliness squeezed out the corner of her eye.

  The moment passed. Martha swiped at the tear with the back of her hand as she trudged home. “Dust,” she said to herself.

  CHAPTER 2

  Fern Cook and Harry Mannes were married on Fern’s seventeenth birthday. Immediately after the intimate ceremony in Fern’s white house on the tree-lined street, the newlyweds took the train to the farm Harry had inherited from his parents. They had died of flu while he was in school, and without the minor support money they sent every month, he was forced to drop out and return to Morgan, Illinois, and the farm of his childhood.

  Morgan was a small place, a nowhere place, and Harry spent many hours walking the campus thinking about Morgan, the farm, and his parents. God, he didn’t want to go back. More than once he lifted his fist to the sky and cursed, then begged God to give him something better. His parents had modest savings, and he could always sell the farm, but it was his home, his heritage. When the bitterness had passed, Harry thought realistically about his situation. He knew he had to go back. The farm was his parents’ life; they wanted it to be his life. He knew, deep down, that it would be his life. His whole life. Once that was decided, he began to think of the realities of the farm, and of Morgan. And he decided he needed to take a wife back with him.

  He began attending the local Congregational Church and saw Fern, a small, dark beauty with a songbird’s voice. Listening to her solo in the church choir was as close to heaven as he would ever get, he thought. So he went to church twice, and asked her if he could come courting.

  One month later they were married.

  Fern and her parents were very taken with this good-looking young man who had just inherited a farm. Fern was a constant worry to her father—she was too good-looking and too available—so he promoted this courtship with all his heart. Fern could do worse. He was flattered that an educated, rich man like Harry would take such an interest in Fern, but when the train pulled out of the station and his daughter waved to him one last time, he saw her not as she was—a young bride, in love and happy—but as an old embittered woman who had lived too long and known too much tragedy and grief. This premonition shook him, and the tears ran down his face. Even as he stood there, his petite wife by his side, he waved back and grieved for his lost daughter and her lost life.

  Fern loved the tickety-rock motion of the train, sneaking glances at her new husband, thrilled with the adventure of her life. The suddenness of this turn of events was overwhelming, but she’d half expected it. She’d always known something special was in store for her.

  Daddy always called her his special little girl. She was, she knew it. She didn’t know how yet, but there was a seed of something buried deep in the soil of her heart, something special, that no one else had. As she looked at Harry, his hair slicked back, wearing his one and only suit, she felt the stirrings in her breast, felt the gift of her specialness sprouting and taking root within the nourishment of newness, surprise, Harry, love.

  The trip took longer than she had expected. By the time they pulled into a tiny station with a tinier sign that identified it as Morgan, Illinois, she was filthy and exhausted. Dust clung to the inside of her nostrils and behind her teeth. She felt not at all ready to meet Harry’s­­­­ hometown.

  Harry helped her down from the train, then handed her the heavy cloth bags she was to carry to their home. They walked down the main street, each with two suitcases, stopping frequently to shake hands somberly with old friends. Harry seemed to know everyone; he ducked in and out of shops, systematically introducing her to every person they met in the two sweltering blocks of town. People offered their condolences on the death of his parents, their greetings, their pleasure at seeing Harry come back to run the farm. He gracefully declined offers to take them out there, much to Fern’s disappointment, but Hiram McRae, who owned the general store, said he’d drop some things off for them later. Then they walked out of town and kept walking.

  The bags were heavy banging against her legs, and it was hot and her clothes were stifling, but Fern would not complain. She would not start their marriage grumbling. They walked down the main street until it branched off in three directions, and Harry guided her down the rutted dirt road for another half mile, to their new home. Harry became a silent stranger as soon as they left the town of Morgan, but she respected his grief, both for his fallen dreams and for his dead parents. She could feel the memories of his childhood closing in on him with every step. She kept her mind busy dreaming of setting up housekeeping, of eating fresh fruit in the shade, of their children playing on the lawn. She tried hard not to think of her best clothes being ruined by perspiration stains, or their wedding night.

  The road took a turn to the right, and there was the farm. It had been beautiful once. Fern could almost see the way it had been, when Harry was a child. The way it would be again. They would make it even better for their children.

  For now, however, it was a shambling wreck. Harry had been away at school for three years, and it was clear the farm had been neglected the entire time. The house and barn needed painting, the weeds had overcome the yard and were taking over the buildings, the chicken coop had collapsed, and a rusted hulk of a car with no wheels leaned crazily on two blocks.

  Fern heard Harry curse under his breath, but she wouldn’t let anything spoil this, their first real day of marriage. It was too new, too special; there would never be another first day like this, not ever again. She consciously put a lilt in her walk. This was a project they could work on together, be proud of together, a lifetime work of making the farm beautiful, a happy place to be, a healthy place.

  They walked up the sagging porch steps, through the torn screen door and into the house.

  It was stark. The furniture was heavy, wooden, and unadorned. The big room housed both kitchen and living area, with a wood-burning stove and scarred enamel sink. Filthy curtains that had been red-checked hung in faded tatters above the sink; the cupboards were open and the dishes filled with dirt. Dingy sheets were spread over the sofa and the overstuffed chair. The place had a look of hot summertime in the dust bowl.

  They carried their bags into the bedroom, where Harry immediately changed into overalls and a white T-shirt while Fern modestly turned her back. Fern unpacked the bags, hanging their clothes next to the ones in the closet, and put on a cool housedress. Without a word to each other, they went to work, Harry outside, Fern inside.

  She discovered a rather pretty, though faded, green and pink floral print on the sofa and chair. Under another filthy, dusty sheet, the bedspread was a hand-sewn quilt in a starburst pattern of gold and brown calico. She changed the linen, dusted, swept, and washed dishes. She hummed to herself as she worked. Her new husband would be pleased with their life here. She would make it so.

  At sundown, neighbors came over with fried chicken, cold beer, and news of the neighborhood. Sam and Addie Smith lived on the next farm over. They’d taken all the livestock to their place when Harry’s folks took sick, and were mighty glad to see him and his pretty little bride come home.

  Harry and Sam went out on the porch after dinner for a beer and a smoke, while Addie and Fern cleaned up the dishes. Fern admired Addie’s strong, plain hands, her generous size, and the way she wasted no motions in cleaning up after dinner. Fern felt young and small and inadequate next to this obviously capable woman.

  When they had finished, they sat at the scrubbed wooden table with fresh coffee.

  “So. Here you are. Now what?”

  Fern was surprised by this directness. She was soon to learn that farm people are rarely anything but direct.

  “Well, I don�
�t know. It’s all a bit overwhelming.”

  “This place has been going to seed since Harry left. It’s going to take more than three years to put it back together again.”

  “We’re young and strong. We can do it.”

  Addie eyed her skeptically, then looked down into her coffee.

  “A farmer’s wife doesn’t have an easy life,” she said. “There’s never any money, and there’s always too many kids. The tractor breaks and the best milking cow gets sick and corn prices go down. You have to really want to do this.”

  “I really want Harry.”

  “Well, good. I hope you can do it. Remember, we’re just yonder. Sam and me have been doing this a lot of years; our kids are all grown now and gone away to better themselves. I know a few shortcuts, so just ask. In the meantime, I’ll pick you up early tomorrow and we’ll go into town to buy you some supplies. After that, you’ll be walkin’, I reckon, so make your trips short and frequent.”

  “I will. Thank you. I appreciate the help tomorrow. We are out of, of”—Fern gestured around the room—“everything!”

  They laughed together, the big lady with the wide-open face and light blue eyes, and the young, slim, darker girl with fresh hope in her heart and panic in her soul.

  That night, Fern and Harry made love for the first time, not very successfully. Their inept fumbling shamed Harry and he was reluctant to repeat his performance. As it turned out, this was a blessing in disguise, for Martha wasn’t conceived for two years.

  Harry drew out half of his parents’ savings and bought a sewing machine for Fern and paint for the house and barn, had the tractor fixed and bought seed for the garden. Fern went to Addie’s house to learn to sew, and made curtains and work clothes. Addie taught her how to make bread, how to cook breakfast for a farmer, and how to kill and cook chickens. Addie was a godsend.

  Her days were filled with hard work—chopping wood, weeding with a scythe, cooking, cleaning, gardening, sewing, and working with the chickens and cows. She walked to town every second day, and walked to Addie’s every day in between. She lost weight, began to look gaunt and bony, while Harry grew healthy and hardy and muscular and brown.

  Addie fed her often and well, asked after her health, worried over her like a mother, but Fern adamantly said she felt fine, she was just getting used to things.

  What she was getting used to, in fact, was her growing sexuality, her passion, her needs and desires. Her Christian upbringing was confused along with the rest of her uprooted ideals, but the sight of Harry’s hard sweat-slicked body made her weak in the knees, and she would work twice as hard to purge the vision from her mind.

  At night, they would lie in bed and talk of the coming winter, and as his voice droned on in the darkness, she would stare at the nothingness above the bed and dream of making love on the wooden floor in front of the stove. She would touch him, lightly rubbing her fingers across his back, and she would ache between her legs, the way saliva glands hurt with the first taste of sweetness. Usually she stroked him like this until she heard his soft snoring; then she would curl into herself and wait for morning, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not.

  At the commencement of winter, Fern’s gift blossomed. And so did she.

  They had worked hard all summer getting the farm ready for the cold weather. They had a late crop of vegetables, which were put up and safely stored in the underground pantry. The house and barn were freshly caulked and painted, hay was stockpiled, wood cut and stacked, stores of food set in.

  The sky turned the color of the dusty roads on a Sunday afternoon, and after lunch Harry took her outside, wiped the sweat from his forehead, tipped his hat to the back of his head, and looked up. “Snow’s gonna fly hard, Fern. Tonight. Tomorrow for sure.”

  Fern remembered waking up with an air of expectancy, looking out from her second-story bedroom and seeing the first snow quietly covering everything in sight. She smiled to herself, anticipating a welcome contrast from the dry summer, but a quick look at Harry’s worried face slammed her back to the here and now. This would be no winter for carefree ice skating on the pond at the park. This was living with the weather as you live with the soil and the water. This was life-or-death weather. Though the day was still hot, she shivered, as if a premonition slithered up her spine but didn’t quite make it to her mind.

  “Gotta get the tractor bedded down,” Harry was saying. “You going to town today?”

  Fern noticed the wind picking up, swirling bits of this and that, stinging her ankles. She thought of her winter checklist, and the things that had yet to be done. “Yes. Oh, yes, I have lots of things to be done.”

  “Good. Go to Mac’s store and see if he can send a boy out to help me this afternoon. I’ve got to get that tractor jacked up.”

  Fern took a sweater, grabbed her list, and went directly to town, walking quickly, head down against the rising wind, wasting no time. Mac’s son, Dave, offered to drive her back and help Harry with the tractor. Gratefully, she completed all the shopping on her list, more than she could carry in three trips. She loaded it all into Dave’s buckboard, and with a snap of the reins, they drove home, shielding their eyes from the blinding dust.

  Dave helped unload her purchases before putting the horse in the barn. He worked quickly, taking worried glances at the charged sky. Fern’s heart raced with excitement.

  She put the groceries away, stacked fabric, yarn, and other winter projects, stored kerosene and fresh water jugs. The next item on her list was to stretch the lifeline.

  She ran down the stairs to the fruit cellar, found the old rope coiled neatly on a meat hook. She put her shoulder into it and lifted it off the hook. Staggering under its weight, she climbed back up the stone steps. The wind was louder now, and suddenly cold, carrying pieces of trash and small bushes through the yard. She dumped the coils on the porch, hunted for the outside end of the rope, and threaded it through the iron eye that was screwed into the house.

  Squinting against the particles of sand that stung her face and hands, she located the other end of the rope and began dragging the heavy line to the barn. Her dress whipped about her thighs and waist; her dark hair caught in her lips and tangled in her eyelashes. The world had turned reddish brown and gritty.

  She threaded the end of the rope into its iron loop and pulled hard. She braced her foot on the side of the barn and pulled with all her might, sucking in sand that coated her tongue, but the heavy rope lifted only a few inches off the ground. It would have to do for now. She tied it as best she could and slipped into the barn carefully, so the wind wouldn’t catch the door.

  It was almost silent. The barn was warm and cozy, sealed tight against the airborne sandpaper. The animals were restless, but quiet in contrast to the whistling madness outside. She laid a reassuring hand on each flank as she passed. They smelled like old friends. Dave and Harry were kneeling in the other corner, heads under the rear axle of the tractor. Harry looked up as she came in.

  “I can’t get the rope very tight, the one from the house to the barn, Harry; you’ll have to help me.”

  “Okay. Be right back, Dave.” Harry got up and trotted toward her. “How is it outside?”

  “I don’t know. It’s wild.”

  They slipped out the door together; Harry pulled his hat down over his eyes. The wind had risen even more than she had believed possible. “I’ll get it,” he shouted over the incredible noise. “Go on back to the house.”

  She ran to the house, the wind catching her lithe frame and almost knocking her over. She leaned into it to maintain her balance, dust filling her nostrils, blasting her legs and arms right through her sweater. She followed the rope as it slowly rose from the ground and was secured to the barn. This was the rope they would follow to the barn, to minister to the animals, in case of blizzard. In a whiteout, Harry explained, you can’t see your hand in front of your face. Men get lost and freeze to death two steps away from their home porch. When he told her about the blizzards, Fern put the rope
on her list of things to do. She wouldn’t take a chance that it might be forgotten.

  As she went up the steps, she heard a new noise in the wind, a high-pitched scream, and wondered what was tearing away. It was the scream of metal ripping, or a nail being forced from wood. She opened the storm door, holding on carefully so it wouldn’t slam. She stepped into blessed peace and quiet. She put on the tea kettle, then patted the dust out of her clothes. Quietly, she waited for Harry and David, fidgeting, absently wondering where David would sleep tonight. Surely he couldn’t go home in this weather.

  Too soon, she heard the pounding of boots on the front porch, and went quickly to open the door. Harry stood there, torso bare, little drops of blood oozing from a hundred places on his arms and chest where the wind had driven sharp fragments of rock and bits of sand. Dave was leaning heavily on him, his face pale, his arm wrapped in a scarlet, dripping cloth.

  “Jack broke. Dave’s cut himself bad.” He walked Dave over to the table and eased him down in a chair.

  Fern had never seen so much blood. Her stomach went sour, and bile came up to the back of her tongue. This is an emergency, Fern, she told herself. Now prove yourself to be a resourceful wife. She poured warm water from the kettle into a big bowl and set it on the table, along with a stack of freshly laundered kitchen towels.

  Dave’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his neck muscles gave out; he hung limply in the chair. Harry peeled Dave’s blood-soaked shirt from his arm, and Fern gasped as she saw the flesh of his forearm laid wide open. Tendons hung, bone glistened, and an artery, like half a worm, pumped hot red blood into the wound. Instinctively, she reached out with both hands and squeezed the two sides together.

  A calm washed over her like a flood of warm water. All the panic of the moment, the fear of the blood, the anticipation of the storm were gone. Her eyes closed, and she saw clearly a blue liquid start to flow through her, saw it come through the top of her head, sparkling with little golden flecks, and it swept easily, pleasantly, through her head, her neck, down her chest and through her arms to her hands. They felt warm with the sudden rush, yet cool with the freshening balm. In her mind’s eye, she saw the cool blue, like an icy mint, surround the hot throbbing wound, and the fever was drawn out, the pain was soothed, the blue liquid melting into the tissues like butter on a fresh hot roll. The rent flesh merged together again, naturally, melding and flowing under the touch of her hands.