Was by Geoff Ryman Page B

‘long comes the drought or the hail or the wind or the bust. This year, last year it was locusts.”
    “Such a good excuse for you, weren’t they?” said Aunty Em, talking over him.
    “Or the herd laws means somebody’s cows trample it. Worst thing of all is when you have a good year and the price just dries up till you get nothing for nothing.”
    “Well, I don’t see the Aikens or the McCormacks or the Allens in poverty.”
    “They got sons, they got brothers.”
    “Well, hire yourself a hand.”
    “We don’t have any money,” said Henry, his voice muffled by the hand that rubbed his eyes.
    “Well, we got to do something!” shouted Aunty Em, and the stove hissed and steamed with spilled water. “We got that child to feed now and send to school soon as she’s old enough. Poor little creature.”
    Uncle Henry hung his head. Aunty Em’s back was toward him. He said, very slowly, “We could sell some of the land.”
    “That’s the only thing you can think of to do with it! My father settled this land.”
    “Don’t I know it.”
    “And you aren’t going to be the one to sell any of it!”
    “Won’t have to,” said Henry Gulch. “Mr. Purcell at the bank is going to get it all anyway.”
    Mr. Purcell was the enemy. He ran the bank and he wanted to take away their land and give it to people Back East. How would that be possible, if Aunty Em didn’t want him to have it?
    “Him too,” said Aunty Em, throwing food onto a plate.
    Reading, ciphering, and hogs and banks. Dorothy admired Uncle Henry and Aunty Em. They knew so much, all kinds of things, but everything rode on them; if anything went wrong they would be alone. And they never rested, never let up on themselves. Dorothy was grateful, but she didn’t ever want to be an adult.
    Aunty Em sat down to eat and began to rail against the people of Manhattan. Aunty Em never went to Zeandale village. It was always to Manhattan that they went for church, for stores, for company. It was Manhattan Aunty Em talked about, but not with love.
    She talked about Mr. Purcell, and also Mrs. Purcell, who was always organizing things and neglecting to invite Emma Gulch. There was L. R. Elliott. He had bought the Manhattan Independent from Reverend Pillsbury and then fired Grandfather Matthew.
    “Killed him, killed him just as surely as if he shot him!” Aunty Em said. “Him and his talk of real news. He bought the paper and then killed both it and my father and waltzed off to be a land agent, if you please. And railroad agent. And anything else he could lay his hands on.” Stew roiled forgotten in her mouth.
    “The Higinbothams, and Stingley and Huntress. They’re all in it together, all those people. They come here and take the town over from the people who built it up. And the good Dr. Lyman with his friendly little reminders—‘You owe the good Doctor money.’” Aunty Em let her fork drop, and covered her eyes.
    Later, she piled the tin plates one on top of the other. Aunty Em could produce a fine clatter of rage, and she plunged her raw hands into the water, which was near to boiling. She passed down the steaming plates for Dorothy to dry.
    Then she said, “Dorothy, it’s your bedtime. Say your prayers.” Aunty Em would stand by the blanket that hung across the room. She would listen to what Dorothy had to say to God. Dorothy prayed for God to bless everyone and then crawled into bed to be kissed on the forehead. Then Dorothy would listen. She listened to the whispering.
    “You ask me it wasn’t the Dip my sister died of, but shame. That man used her and then left. An actor, if you please, with I am told another wife and children Back East. And he was about as Irish as I am. Anthony Gael indeed. More like Angelo or Chico if you want to know the truth!”
    “You’re fretting, Em.”
    “Well, don’t I have enough to fret about?” A pan rang like a gong as it was hung on a hook. “Every time I look at Dorothy I can see that man’s face. It’s