Years (27 page)

Ray broke the silence at last. “Is that what you meant when you asked if I think about women? You think about the teacher... like that?”

“Sometimes.”

“You could get in trouble, Kristian,” Ray declared dourly.

“I said, all I do is mink.”

Minutes passed. The sun dipped behind a cloud, then came back out to bake their hides and turn their thoughts hot.

“Hey, Kristian?” came a furtive inquiry.

“Hmm?”

“Anything ever... well,
happen
when you think about... well, about women?”

Kristian squirmed a little, as if trying to settle his shoulder-blades more comfortably. When he answered, he tried his best to sound offhand. “Well... yeah. Sometimes.”

“What?”

Kristian considered for a long time, formulating answers, disqualifying them before they were spoken. Looking askance, he saw Ray’s head roll his way and felt his eyes boring for the truth. He met Ray’s eyes squarely.

“What happens to you?”

The millet whispered around their heads. The silent clouds rolled on. A slow grin appeared at one corner of Ray’s mouth, and an answering grin came to Kristian. The grins became smiles.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Kristian put in.

Ray made a fist, socked the air, flailed one foot, and gave a banshee yell. “Eeeeeee-yowww-eeee!”

Together they fell back and laughed and laughed, reveling in being almost sixteen and full of sap.

After a while Kristian asked, “You ever kissed a girl?”

“Once.”

“Who?”

“Patricia Lommen.”

“Patricia Lommen! That brain?”

“Aw, she ain’t so bad.”

“Yeah? So how was it?”

“Nothin’ great, but that was a while ago. I wouldn’t mind tryin’ it again, except Patricia’s the only one around here who’s not my cousin, and I think she’d rather kiss you than me.”

“Me?” Kristian popped up in surprise.

“Open your eyes, Westgaard. Every time you walk into the schoolroom she gawks at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.”

“She does?”

“Well, doesn’t she?” Ray sounded a little envious.

Kristian shrugged, puffed out his chest like a strutting cock, and flapped his wings. Ray landed him a mock punch that doubled Kristian over. They shared a round of affectionate fisticuffs before the talk got serious again.

Kristian inquired curiously, “You ever think about your ma and pa together — you know?”

“Doin’ it, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Naw, I think they’re too old.”

“Mmm... I don’t know. They might not be, cause I think my pa... ”

When Kristian drew up short, Ray became all ears. “What? Come on, tell me.”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but I’ve been thinking about every fall, when Isabelle comes.”

“Isabelle!” Ray was flabbergasted. “You mean that fat woman who drives the kitchen wagon?”

“She’s not exactly fat.”

“You mean, you think your pa does it with her? Why, they’re not even married!”

“Oh, don’t be such an infant, Westgaard. Not everybody’s married when they do it. Remember that girl who used to live over on the other side of Sigurd’s place, the one that got pregnant and nobody knew who got her that way?”

“Well, yeah, but... but... that was a girl and... well... ” His reasoning became muddy as he tried to puzzle it out. “You really think your pa does it with Isabelle?”

“I don’t know, but every year during threshin’, while she’s got her cook wagon around here, my pa isn’t in the house much at night. I can remember him not comin’ in till it was nearly milkin’ time, and when he did, if he wasn’t sneakin’, you could’ve fooled me. Now where would he be spendin’ the night besides in Isabelle’s wagon?”

They pondered the possibility for a long time, till the sun went under and their lair grew chilly. They thought of women... those mysterious creatures who suddenly didn’t seem like nuisances any more. They thought of flying in airplanes as high up as the wild geese had flown.

And they wondered how soon they’d be men enough to do it all.

12

I
SABELLE LAWLER
’
S COOK WAGON,
driven by the lady herself, rolled in the following morning. An ungainly looking thing, longer than a prairie schooner and fully as clumsy, it appeared on the road like a ramshackle railroad car that had somehow lost its tracks. From its roof projected a black stovepipe, and along its sides dangled pails and basins that sang out like glockenspiels whenever the cook wagon hit a pothole. The sight of its unvarnished boards rocking down the gravel road turned heads in every field it passed. The field hands waved a greeting and received a return flourish from Isabelle, who rode high atop the wagon, hunkered forward with her knees widespread, a battered felt “John B” perched on frizzy hair that blazed in the sun with the same hue and uncontrollability as a prairie fire.

There were those still alive who remembered the notorious Calamity Jane from down Deadwood way, who’d made her circuit through these parts many times with the Wild West shows in the 90s. Some said Isabelle and Jane would have been kindred spirits, had they met.

The only thing feminine about Isabelle was her name. She stood five foot eight in her bare feet. With four inches of wiry
frizz on top of her head she appeared to tower over most men. She had the strength of a draft horse, the invincibility of a mule, and less grace than either, which led men to treat her like “one of the boys.”

She rode alone, claiming her only home was the prairie, and when harvest season was over, nobody knew where she holed up for the winter. Asked about her origins, Isabelle was fond of bawling uproariously, “I was sired by the devil when he tangled with a she-buffalo.” She never failed to raise gusty laughs when she pulled her hat off to display her blinding hair and crowed, “Devil give me m’ fire and the buffalo give me m’ shape!” Then she’d slap some fellow’s shoulder with her misshapen felt hat, clap it back on her gaudy hair, and stand foursquare with both hands planted on her beefy hips while laughter roared around her.

It took a woman like Isabelle to do what she did. The team she drove was a pair of cantankerous bay mules, the rig they pulled not only a mobile kitchen and dining room, but her rolling home as well. Maneuvering the clumsy cook wagon with such a pair of block-headed creatures would have daunted many men. Isabelle, however, took it all in stride, just as she did the enormous task of feeding four robust meals a day to threshing crews numbering up to twenty. On most farms this was done by an army of cooks, but Isabelle did it single-handedly, bringing the food to the workers instead of the workers to the food. Breakfast and supper were served somewhere near the bam or bunkhouse, while midday dinner and afternoon sandwiches were served out in the vast wheat fields, near the steam engine, saving precious hours in transportation time. Those who hired her services provided the meat and vegetables, which Isabelle cooked and served right in her wagon at the long bench table that dominated its interior.

She’d been coming to Theodore’s for nine years. The sight of her carrot-colored hair and splayed knees with the skirts drooping between them like a hammock brought smiles not only to the Westgaards but to most of the hired hands, who’d shared many a meal and laugh with her.

As her wagon appeared, bumping along the rough track at the edge of the field where the steam engine was already chugging, Theodore pushed his hat back. He rested his hands on the handle of his pitchfork and watched her progress. The
expression on his mouth softened.

“Belle’s back,” John noted, turning to watch the wagon whose singing hardware was drowned out by the huff and puff of the steam engine behind them.

“Yeah, Belle’s back,” Theodore seconded.

“That Belle’s a good cook,” John praised simply.

“That’s for sure.”

Belle hauled the mules to a halt, got to her feet, and stood with the reins in one hand, waving her hat exuberantly.

The field hands set up a cacophony of calls, hoots, and whistles. “Hey, Belle honey! You still got the best shanks this side o’ the Rockies?”

Belle glanced at her thighs, cupped her mouth, and bawled back in a voice like a guitar pick on a metal washboard, “You wanna talk about my shanks, you come up here where I can slap your mouth, you mangy little varmint!”

“Beef shanks,
Belle!” the man called back.

“Beef shanks, my eye! You’re talkin’ about buffalo, and I know it!” Belle stood square on the high wagon, silhouetted against the pale-blue sky. Her fists were planted on her hips. At that moment, every man there loved her.

“Hey, Belle, you find that man who could throw you over his shoulder like a sack o’ corn yet?”

“Hell no! I’m still single. Threw a few over m’ own shoulder since I last seen y’ though!”

She howled at her own joke as the men broke into gales of laughter, then another one called, “I get the first dance, Belle. You promised me last year!”

“Promises, hell! You git in line with the others!”

“Belle, you learn how to make potato dumplin’s yet?”

“Who’s that? That you, Cope, you little piss ant?” She shaded her eyes and leaned forward.

“It’s me, Belle!”

“You still got that foul smellin’ wad o’ cow shit tucked in your cheek? Think I c’n smell it from clear over here!”

Cope bent over and laconically spit a brown streak, then hollered, “That’s right. And I can still nail a grasshopper from twelve feet!”

Belle leaned back and bellowed with laughter, lifted one knee, and whacked it hard enough to put it out of joint, then yelled, “Hey, Theodore, you pay these lazy no-counts to stand
around jawin’ with the cook?”

Theodore, who’d been standing aside enjoying the ribald interchange, only shook his head at the ground, centered his hat, and smilingly turned back to work, followed by the others, all of them refreshed and ready to roll.

Every year when Belle arrived it was the same: both the work and the fun could begin in earnest. The work was taxing, but lightened by the camaraderie she fostered in them all. Winter was coming, and soon they’d be back in their own homes, sealed in by snow. But for now there was the rhythmic rasp of the steam engine and the promise of hearty food and laughter around Belle’s table. There would be dances, too, and more teasing, and at the end of it all, full pockets. So they labored in the autumn sun sharing a oneness of purpose and the grand sense of conviviality that came so naturally on the wake of Belle’s arrival.

The morning had been rimed with hoarfrost, but long before noon the men were sweating in the sun as they fed bundles of wheat into the machine that separated grain from chaff and spewed the two out in separate directions. Periodically a full wagon of wheat would leave the field, headed for the granaries in the yard. And with each laden wagon the residual haystacks grew.

At noon Belle stepped out of her wagon and clanged a dishpan with a wooden spoon. The men dropped their pitchforks, wiped their foreheads, and headed for the welcome basins of warm water she had waiting beside the wagon. They washed beneath the sun while enticing aromas drifted out through the horizontal hinged doors that were lifted back along both sides of the wagon, giving them a view of its interior. At the front Belle scurried about before the big black cookstove, bellowing in her outrageously grating voice, “You spit that cud out before you put foot in my kitchen, Cope! Cause if you don’t, I’m gonna take my potato masher and make it disappear, and you ain’t gonna be too happy about where!”

Cope obliged, while the men nudged him and grinned.

Again came Belle’s outrageous orders. “And I don’t wanna hear no more mention of potato dumpling’, you hear me, Cope? When you’re done eating what I put on this table, if you can eat a potato dumplin’, I’ll sling you over m’ shoulder and personally carry you onto that dance floor Saturday night!”

When the men clumped inside they were still chuckling.
They filled the benches along the length of the table and dug into the generous meal amid more good-natured teasing and laughter. There was roast pork and beef, snowy mashed potatoes and succulent gravy, green beans and yellow corn, crusty buns and tart cole slaw, apple cobbler and strong coffee. And throughout its disappearance, there was always Belle, moving behind the men’s benches, urging them to eat up, tossing out bawdy retorts, refilling bowls, slapping a shoulder here, pulling a hank of hair there.