Nobody's Child by Austin Boyd

out behind Laura Ann’s tractor, a seedbed filled with a feast of night crawlers. The sun dipped into the tops of the poplars, now adorned in a brilliant life-green of new leaves. Pass after pass, working her way across the new field, she pummeled fresh plowing into new planting soil. The first cool of evening gripped her when Ian shifted from plow to harrow. His tractor worked the far half of the field, the two of them growing twelve feet closer each pass they made, closing the gap from opposite sides of the seedbed. The place deep inside that seared her minutes ago now glowed warm for him, their paths slowly winding across fresh dirt toward an eventual intersection.
    The damp of the Middle Island Creek crept up from the valley, a misty fog in the moist April evening. Early night air blanketed the farm. Acres of freshly turned earth filled the air with the perfume of farming, faintly musty, faintly sweet. This was the aroma of life, like the fields after a rain.
    Laura Ann raised her head high, capturing the musky fragrance of tilled earth, her mouth open as though she could drink it in and make it hers to remember every day. Something powerful about the smell of plowed soil made it amorous, even sensual. Acres of fertile dirt spread out before her, prepared by loving hands, ready to accept seed and spring forth with new life.
    Romantic.
    That was the word. God had inclined her nose—surely her entire body — to adore this bouquet.
    Laura Ann finished her pass down the length of the fieldand spun the tractor for her last line of disc work, one that would put her on an intersecting path with Ian. She determined to meet him midfield, then cook him a late dinner and wrap him in her arms to thank him — in a special way—for this sacrifice.
    â€œI came over to the farm yesterday,” Ian said after a long silence. They sat together on a porch swing watching the night fog roll over the valley and its acres of new fields. Laura Ann curled her head into his shoulder, her arms wrapped tight about his chest. The bony protrusions of his ribs were distinct washboards below his khaki shirt. “You didn’t answer the house phone and I was worried.”
    She hesitated, her fingers caressing the stiff cotton of his official shirt.
    â€œYou got back late last night,” he continued. His voice went high on the word
late.
    Laura Ann released her grip about his chest, pushing up in the seat to look him in the eye. “How did you know?”
    He shrugged, avoiding her eye.
    â€œGranny Apple called me,” he offered at last. “She was fretting too. She called you several times, then heard you went to see a doctor.”
    Laura Ann stiffened, then responded. “I was. At a doctor in Morgantown.”
    â€œAre you okay?” he asked, moving his head to catch her gaze again. He took her hand and squeezed it.
    â€œYes. But I have to go back in three weeks.” She paused, hoping he wouldn’t ask more.
    â€œWhat’s the problem?” Ian asked, folding both her hands in his. “I want to be there for you, and to pray for you.”
    She shrugged. “It’s not important.”
    â€œIt is to me,” he insisted. “More than you realize.”
    â€œThis is embarrassing, Ian. Private. I’d rather not talk about it.” She moved away from him and stood up, pushing the porch swing hard as she left it. Wiping at a tear in her eye, she faced away from him and stood at a porch post, staring into the night. Rising fog blanketed much of the low farmland near the Middle Island Creek, muffling sounds from the forest. The distinctive call of a night-feeding whip-poor-will echoed up from the creek bottom. Laura Ann counted each accented syllable of the call.
    Whip-poor-will.
    Ian moved from the swing to the far side of the steps, gazing out into the night. She hoped he’d stay there, and not move closer for a while.
    â€œI’ve been practicing a long time for