bring in the coffin
that's in the tool shed. All you have to do is empty the tools out
of it. It will need dusted inside and out after all these years,
but it should be alright to use.”
The men and women
surrounded her, looking as though she was out of her
head.
Wilbur Mast said in
astonishment, “Anselm had a coffin already built fer
hisself?”
“ Yes,” she said without farther
explanation.
That seemed rather strange,
but the men found the coffin right where Miranda said. The pine box
was buried under tools with a garden plow leaned against it. They
dusted the coffin and carried it into the bedroom.
After the coffin contained
Anselm, the men perched him on chairs in the parlor. Miranda sat
down in her rocker by his side, doing her wifely duties for the
last time.
As everyone filed by the
open coffin, she greeted people who came to offer their sympathy.
She thanked women who brought food to serve after the
funeral.
In the lull between
visitors, Miranda closed her eyes and thought about her future.
This might not be all bad. She no longer had to keep up the
pretense of being helpless. Anselm was the only one who really ever
believed she wasn't well.
What was now her fruit
orchard would be bearing fruit again soon. There was still some
pruning work to be done on the trees. She'd hire men to prune the
trees and pick the fruit.
They could haul the crop to
market. If she asked for help, neighboring men would surely round
up her calves each year and sell them for her. She could handle
Anselm's business and live off the proceeds.
Of course, she'd miss
Anselm, but she wouldn't miss cooking for him or washing his dirty
clothes. She wouldn’t have near the chores to do for herself. She
could take life easy. Live the life of a woman with means just as
she had always wanted.
She came out of her revelry
when she heard loud, gossipy whispers in the kitchen.
“ Vat do
you suppose really ails dat woman?” Came Florence Swensen's high
pitched witchy voice.
“ I never
did know, but from de vay Anselm always talked I figured her to die
before him. Didn’t you?” Gretchen Krebsbach's sweet voice
asked.
“ I always
dought she vas faking. She looks too healthy not to be.” The witchy
voice speculated.
Suddenly, the sweet voice
followed the witch’s lead. “You're right about dat. I never seen
her do a lick of hard work. Haf you noticed dem soft skinned hands
of hers?”
Sarie Lee Mast butted in.
“You shouldn't talk about Miranda like that. For years, y'all have
given that poor woman as much of a chance as a grasshopper has in a
hen house. She probably will die right off without her husband to
help her. This is a hard place to take care of if you ain’t even
able to take care of yerself right good.”
“ She
needn’t expect de kind of slave she made out of dat poor soul to
come by her twice. I tell you right now, I’ll make sure my Clarence
don’t offer to help her none and get trapped in to doing for her.
You can believe me on dat,” said witchy Florence.
“ I’m sure
ever wife here abouts vill say de same ding. Our men haf enough to
do on their own places,” agreed Prudence
Sorenson.
With her head leaned back
against the rocker and her hands clasped together in pretended
prayer, Miranda kept her eyes shut as if she hadn’t been
listening.
From what she'd just heard,
she realized she'd never be accepted in this country as long as
those women had any say. They saw right through her pretense of
being sick.
All that she'd just hoped
for in the way of an easy life would be lost. If she tried working
in the orchard to save this farm, the women would see that as proof
of how she fooled Anselm and tried to fool them.
It crossed her mind,
nothing she planned had gone right in her whole life. This day was
proof of that. Her husband had died before her. More definite proof
of her bad luck, Anselm was in her coffin. Now if she asked, she
couldn't even get the men to build another one for her. Their
that's in the tool shed. All you have to do is empty the tools out
of it. It will need dusted inside and out after all these years,
but it should be alright to use.”
The men and women
surrounded her, looking as though she was out of her
head.
Wilbur Mast said in
astonishment, “Anselm had a coffin already built fer
hisself?”
“ Yes,” she said without farther
explanation.
That seemed rather strange,
but the men found the coffin right where Miranda said. The pine box
was buried under tools with a garden plow leaned against it. They
dusted the coffin and carried it into the bedroom.
After the coffin contained
Anselm, the men perched him on chairs in the parlor. Miranda sat
down in her rocker by his side, doing her wifely duties for the
last time.
As everyone filed by the
open coffin, she greeted people who came to offer their sympathy.
She thanked women who brought food to serve after the
funeral.
In the lull between
visitors, Miranda closed her eyes and thought about her future.
This might not be all bad. She no longer had to keep up the
pretense of being helpless. Anselm was the only one who really ever
believed she wasn't well.
What was now her fruit
orchard would be bearing fruit again soon. There was still some
pruning work to be done on the trees. She'd hire men to prune the
trees and pick the fruit.
They could haul the crop to
market. If she asked for help, neighboring men would surely round
up her calves each year and sell them for her. She could handle
Anselm's business and live off the proceeds.
Of course, she'd miss
Anselm, but she wouldn't miss cooking for him or washing his dirty
clothes. She wouldn’t have near the chores to do for herself. She
could take life easy. Live the life of a woman with means just as
she had always wanted.
She came out of her revelry
when she heard loud, gossipy whispers in the kitchen.
“ Vat do
you suppose really ails dat woman?” Came Florence Swensen's high
pitched witchy voice.
“ I never
did know, but from de vay Anselm always talked I figured her to die
before him. Didn’t you?” Gretchen Krebsbach's sweet voice
asked.
“ I always
dought she vas faking. She looks too healthy not to be.” The witchy
voice speculated.
Suddenly, the sweet voice
followed the witch’s lead. “You're right about dat. I never seen
her do a lick of hard work. Haf you noticed dem soft skinned hands
of hers?”
Sarie Lee Mast butted in.
“You shouldn't talk about Miranda like that. For years, y'all have
given that poor woman as much of a chance as a grasshopper has in a
hen house. She probably will die right off without her husband to
help her. This is a hard place to take care of if you ain’t even
able to take care of yerself right good.”
“ She
needn’t expect de kind of slave she made out of dat poor soul to
come by her twice. I tell you right now, I’ll make sure my Clarence
don’t offer to help her none and get trapped in to doing for her.
You can believe me on dat,” said witchy Florence.
“ I’m sure
ever wife here abouts vill say de same ding. Our men haf enough to
do on their own places,” agreed Prudence
Sorenson.
With her head leaned back
against the rocker and her hands clasped together in pretended
prayer, Miranda kept her eyes shut as if she hadn’t been
listening.
From what she'd just heard,
she realized she'd never be accepted in this country as long as
those women had any say. They saw right through her pretense of
being sick.
All that she'd just hoped
for in the way of an easy life would be lost. If she tried working
in the orchard to save this farm, the women would see that as proof
of how she fooled Anselm and tried to fool them.
It crossed her mind,
nothing she planned had gone right in her whole life. This day was
proof of that. Her husband had died before her. More definite proof
of her bad luck, Anselm was in her coffin. Now if she asked, she
couldn't even get the men to build another one for her. Their
Similar Books
