Charles Williams - Hill Girl

“Honey, this is Mr. Crane,” he said. “We jest about to make a dicker.”

She put out her hand, man-fashion. “I’m proud to know you, Mr. Crane,” she said, smiling a little self-consciously and staying close to Hubbard.

“I’m sorry we left you out there in the cold,” I said.

“It wasn’t nothin’,” she laughed deprecatingly. “I don’t mind the cold much. An’ I hadn’t orta come in. Men don’t want no womenfolks around when they’re a-dickerin’.”

I brought her a chair and she sat down and I poured the coffee.

“Do you live here all by yourself, Mr. Crane?” she asked wonderingly.

“Yeah,” I said. “Incidentally, my name’s Bob. Couldn’t we drop some of the formality?”

She said hers was Helen. He never called her that, though. “He jest calls me Old Lady,” she went on, smiling proudly at Jake.

“Who on earth cooks for you?” she asked then.

“I do my own,” I said. “It’s pretty bad.”

“Why, man,” Jake put in, “you cain’t do that an’ handle a crop too. Man’s got to have vittles ready for him when he comes in at night. He’s too tar’d to be putterin’ around cookin’.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “But I don’t know of any answer to it. I don’t know what— Wait! Maybe I do.

“How does this strike you?” I went on. “I turn over half the land to you to work on the halves, with the usual arrangement, with me to furnish the tools and the seed and stock and so on. But instead of you living over there in the tenant house, why don’t all three of us live in this one? It’s big enough. There’s another bedroom up front. Helen could do the cooking for the three of us and I could pay half your grocery bill. That sound O.K. to you?”

They smiled enthusiastically. “Say, that sounds good. An’ the Old Lady can shorely cook, too, you jest wait an’ see.” And then the same idea must have hit them both, for they looked at each other and frowned.

“Well, now, I don’t rightly know,” Jake said. “Sounds like a right smart idea except fer one thing. You see—” He stopped uncertainly.

“What is it?” I couldn’t imagine what had come over them.

“Well, it’s jest that we don’t much cotton to the idea of livin’ with anybody in the same house. Oh, it ain’t nothin’ agin you, Bob. But we had to live with kinfolks the first few months we was married an’ it kinda disheartened us. You understand, it ain’t you, personal?” He looked at me earnestly.

“How long have you been married?” I asked.

“About six months,” Helen said, blushing.

I began to see what was troubling them and went on, “Well, if you want it that way, we can still fix up the house across the road and you can live over there. That is, you can sleep there, and we can use the kitchen and dining room here. How’s that?”

They liked that and we let it stand that way. I found a deck of cards after a while and we played rummy until ten o’clock and Helen made us some more coffee. It was the first good coffee I’d had since I had been out here.

They both came over early the next morning and we went to work on the house across the road. In two days we had it in good condition, and a week later they moved in.

The day after they moved in I bought a secondhand crosscut saw and Jake and I went to work on the new ground in earnest. We worked early and late and when we would come back to the house in the cold dusk with the bite of frost and the smell of wood smoke in the air Helen would have supper ready for us.

I saw Angelina in February. I had walked across the bottom with some plow points to see if Sam would shape them up for me in his home blacksmith shop, and found the family butchering a hog. It was a clear day with a cold northwest wind blowing and Sam was cutting up the hog on a table on the south side of the house. Mrs. Harley was helping him, dicing up the flat strips of fat for the lard-rendering kettle. The two little girls, bundled up in heavy coats and with their noses running, were standing around underfoot, and when I came up they backed away and regarded me silently with fright in their brown eyes.

“Howdy, Bob,” Sam said. Mrs. Harley nodded, a little shyly. She was a big woman, but somehow colorless and beaten-looking, and she always seemed to be trying to stand behind somebody or something when she was talking to you.

“You’re just in time for some spareribs. You all could use some over there, couldn’t you?” He had met the Hubbards already; Jake was a fellow fox-hunter.

We talked about the plow points and he said he would do them for me, and when I was ready to go he chopped up the spareribs and said, “Look jest inside the kitchen, Bob. They’s some brown paper to wrap ‘em in.”

I went around the corner and in the back door. Angelina was sitting at the kitchen table cutting a big sheet of newspaper with a pair of scissors. She had on a heavy blue woolen dress with long sleeves, and it was bigger than that thing she’d had on before, and looser, so she didn’t seem about to burst out of it in so many places. But even as loose as it was and as poorly as it fitted, it couldn’t disguise that figure. Her hair was down over her shoulders in two blonde braids, tied at the bottom with little wisps of pink ribbon. She didn’t look quite so much like a sex crime looking for somebody to happen to, but her eyes were still the same. They regarded me sullenly and she didn’t say anything.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello.”

“Sam said there was some brown paper here.”

“Right there.” She nodded curtly to the end of the table. I walked over and picked it up.

It was warm in there, and the kitchen was clean, the pine boards of the floor gleaming white from long scrubbing, and there was the smell of boiling turnip greens coming from the pot on the cookstove. I could hear the big clock ticking out in the front room and the occasional crackle and pop from the fireplace, and I lingered a moment, glad to be in out of the cold, and feeling again that same unaccountable urge to get her to talk that I had felt before. She always puzzled me. And, too, she was a girl, and when you’re twenty-two and have lived for four months alone there’s something about even one you don’t like. She ignored me and went on working with the scissors.

“What’s that you’re cutting out?” I asked. It couldn’t be some clipping she wanted to save, for she was cutting it diagonally across columns and in every direction. “Aren’t you a little old for paper dolls?”

Her eyes looked up and hated me. “It’s a pattern.”

“Pattern for what?”

“A blouse I’m going to make.”

“What color is it going to be?” Clothes interested me very little, clothes of any kind, and hers not at all, but I wanted strangely to keep the conversation going.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you learn it in school?”

“Learn what in school?” she asked without looking up.

“How to make clothes and things.”

“No.”

I went out and closed the door. There wasn’t any use in trying to talk to her.

Nine

The days are long in April, longer in May, and longer still in June, but they are never long enough. They begin with dew on the grass and the long-legged shadows of sunrise and end with whippoorwills calling in the darkening bottoms and swallows circling and diving at dusk. And all day long, through the hot, sweaty hours, the work goes on.

I lost weight and grew harder as the weeks went by. I was in better condition than I had ever been in college, even with the football and fighting. I took to leaving my shirt off, a few minutes the first day and increasing the time gradually until I was burned black. I liked the work, as I had liked it when I was a boy, and I liked the dog-tiredness, the peaceful feeling of exhaustion at the end of the day that left the mind pleasantly at rest and made the simple act of stretching out on the dark back porch and listening to Jake and Helen talk a sensation of absolute luxury. And after they had gone across the road to the little house I would go down to the well and draw up a tub of cold water, strip down on the short-cropped grass of the mule lot, and splash myself free of the sweat and caked dust out there in the open with just the privacy of the black June night about me. Then I would go back to the house naked except for shoes, which I would kick off when I sat down, and would stretch out on the clean sheet and wonder if I wanted a cigarette badly enough to stay awake to smoke it. Sometimes I would think of Lee and Mary and wonder what Lee was going to do with himself, but it would be a short thought and I would be asleep in the middle of it without ever getting to Angelina. It was a beautiful feeling of exhaustion.