spoke of the herd, “his ladies.” I should have been helping him. The women and children sat and ate and mopped up the sweat rolling down our faces. I took a warm white roll from a basket lined with a red-and-blue-checked cloth. The house was going to rise on a waft of hot air. Nellie would open the oven door just one more time and the blast of heat would dislodge the house from its foundation, and we would sail over Wisconsin and drift south to Kansas. I sank my teeth into the soft doughy roll and it collapsed like a pricked balloon. It was impossible to chew what felt like thick dry cotton in my mouth.
“Excuse me,” I whispered.
“Where are you going?” Emma called. She followed me into the bathroom, watching me spit into my paper napkin.
“I’m sorry, Nellie,” I said, when I’d returned. “I think I’m sick.”
Claire wrinkled her nose and said, “Why did you turn off the television?”
I should say something of comfort: I will stop feeling so sorry for myself tomorrow, I promise; Lizzy prefers heaven to earth; your father’s obsessive devotion to his herd and his crops is nothing compared to his love for you. But I sat at the table without saying a word.
Howard put them to bed. I heard him in Emma’s room, playing his clarinet. He played, “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” while the girls danced around him in their white slips. “Play, ‘Don’t You Touch My Mojo,’ ” Emma shouted. Instead he played the beginning of “Rhapsody in Blue.” The clarinet sounded like a siren from way down at the firehouse, sending out the call for help.
The second morning after the funeral Howard slapped his coveralls on the entry floor. He took the stairs by twos up to the bedroom, the thundering of his boots inspiring fear and trembling just as if he were shouting Fee Fi Fo Fum over the racket of his ascent.
“Alice,” he said, sitting down beside my head, “it’s time to get up.” He didn’t sound angry. He wasn’t shouting. He was never one to pick a fight; if someone asked him, I’m sure he would say we had never had a cross word in our life together. He was looking at me dispassionately, I thought, the way he might watch a middle-aged bank clerk count his deposit. Although I had most often felt that our marriage was safe I, and surely he as well, had grievances, complaints, Theresa assured me, which were normal in any relationship. I had married Howard knowing that nothing made him happier than the sight of milk surging through the pipes to the bulk tank. I suspected, later, that when he had first looked into my eyes, so long and so intently I blushed and felt faint, he was actually thinking of milk price supports. The milk barn was his war. He was the general and the cows were his soldiers. He ran them through their maneuvers twice a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Although I had known the dairy life was his dream when we were married, I did not fully understand the demands of the day-to-day routine. I usually had enough presence of mind to remember how satisfying it was, juggling my jobs, helping to keep Howard’s dream afloat, his idea of thegood life that was far better than any I could have imagined for myself. But I confess that on occasion, in moments of fatigue or worry about money, I lay in bed, plotting his punishment. The children and I would cut him out of our lives, leave him to the cows, if that’s what he wanted. I would cash in our one IRA and go to Greece, walk naked along the white beaches, and not only drink goat’s milk for lunch, but like it, love it! We would be revolted by the sight of the cow for all of our days to come. We would turn brown and dance like Zorba.
“Is there someone you could call, that you could talk to about this, some old friend who could help?” he was asking me. It was such a sensible question, so like Howard to think of the obvious path.
I slunk down under the sheet. My Aunt Kate would have come, if she were alive, and she would have
“Excuse me,” I whispered.
“Where are you going?” Emma called. She followed me into the bathroom, watching me spit into my paper napkin.
“I’m sorry, Nellie,” I said, when I’d returned. “I think I’m sick.”
Claire wrinkled her nose and said, “Why did you turn off the television?”
I should say something of comfort: I will stop feeling so sorry for myself tomorrow, I promise; Lizzy prefers heaven to earth; your father’s obsessive devotion to his herd and his crops is nothing compared to his love for you. But I sat at the table without saying a word.
Howard put them to bed. I heard him in Emma’s room, playing his clarinet. He played, “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” while the girls danced around him in their white slips. “Play, ‘Don’t You Touch My Mojo,’ ” Emma shouted. Instead he played the beginning of “Rhapsody in Blue.” The clarinet sounded like a siren from way down at the firehouse, sending out the call for help.
The second morning after the funeral Howard slapped his coveralls on the entry floor. He took the stairs by twos up to the bedroom, the thundering of his boots inspiring fear and trembling just as if he were shouting Fee Fi Fo Fum over the racket of his ascent.
“Alice,” he said, sitting down beside my head, “it’s time to get up.” He didn’t sound angry. He wasn’t shouting. He was never one to pick a fight; if someone asked him, I’m sure he would say we had never had a cross word in our life together. He was looking at me dispassionately, I thought, the way he might watch a middle-aged bank clerk count his deposit. Although I had most often felt that our marriage was safe I, and surely he as well, had grievances, complaints, Theresa assured me, which were normal in any relationship. I had married Howard knowing that nothing made him happier than the sight of milk surging through the pipes to the bulk tank. I suspected, later, that when he had first looked into my eyes, so long and so intently I blushed and felt faint, he was actually thinking of milk price supports. The milk barn was his war. He was the general and the cows were his soldiers. He ran them through their maneuvers twice a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Although I had known the dairy life was his dream when we were married, I did not fully understand the demands of the day-to-day routine. I usually had enough presence of mind to remember how satisfying it was, juggling my jobs, helping to keep Howard’s dream afloat, his idea of thegood life that was far better than any I could have imagined for myself. But I confess that on occasion, in moments of fatigue or worry about money, I lay in bed, plotting his punishment. The children and I would cut him out of our lives, leave him to the cows, if that’s what he wanted. I would cash in our one IRA and go to Greece, walk naked along the white beaches, and not only drink goat’s milk for lunch, but like it, love it! We would be revolted by the sight of the cow for all of our days to come. We would turn brown and dance like Zorba.
“Is there someone you could call, that you could talk to about this, some old friend who could help?” he was asking me. It was such a sensible question, so like Howard to think of the obvious path.
I slunk down under the sheet. My Aunt Kate would have come, if she were alive, and she would have
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