The German Wife(39)

Mother was baking bread. I smelled it in the air before my eyes opened at dawn, the delicious scent overpowering the ambient scent of dust.

Today was going to be a good day. We had fresh bread and Mother knew about Judge Nagle and she thought I was strong like her.

“I talked to Dad last night,” Mother murmured as I came into the kitchen. My jaw dropped, and she smiled sadly. “We don’t keep secrets from one another and he needed to know.”

“Was he...?”

“He took it about as well as you’d expect. Makes it even more important that we have some time together today. That’s why I’m making us a picnic,” she told me firmly.

“That bread I smell?” Dad called gruffly from the bedroom.

“Yes, Hank. Get yourself up and dressed. We’re going out.”

“I don’t feel—”

“Hank.”

I couldn’t even see Dad’s face, but I could sense the change in mood. There was a stretch of silence and then a heavy sigh before I heard him moving about in the bedroom. Mother and I shared a smile.

“One down,” she said under her breath. “One to go.”

There was no resisting Mother in that mood—Henry wouldn’t even try. I threw my arms around her, feeling a rush of affection.

“I love you, Mother,” I said. The words felt stiff and awkward on my tongue, and for the briefest moment, I wasn’t sure how she’d react. She loved me—of course she loved me—but did she want to hear me say it? Mother’s arms wrapped around me and she squeezed me back, hard.

“I love you too, honey. Now, boil me up some eggs. We’re having egg sandwiches.”

It was the perfect day for a picnic. After weeks of that constant wind that left us so tired, the day was completely still. The dust haze cleared and the heat felt promising instead of menacing, like the spring days of old.

A basket full of egg sandwiches and some bread and butter pickles didn’t fix a single thing, but it did give us an excuse to take the Hoover wagon into Dalhart, where we sat in the park beneath some trees. It had been some months since Daddy even made an attempt to leave the farm, and I couldn’t actually remember the last time we’d all been out together for fun. We sat on a rug as Mother poured sweet tea from a thermos into little metal mugs.

“No sadness today,” she announced. “I don’t want anyone talking about the drought or the wheat or the farm or what’s going to happen. Today, we’re just together.” She made eye contact with each of us, then added pointedly, “Got it?”

We all nodded obediently, and for the next few hours, it was like we didn’t have a care in the world.

Later that afternoon, Dad and Mother left me and Henry to do the Sunday chores while they went into Oakden to drop the eggs off at the grocer. As the cart rolled out the gate, I glanced up at them and saw that Dad had his arm around Mother, and she was resting her head on his shoulder as he drove.

The picnic had gone a long way to soothing the ache in my soul, and something about that brief glimpse of the affection between my parents settled the last of it.

“What are you cooking for dinner?” Henry asked.

“Who says I’m cooking? Mother just said we have to do it.”

“Lizzie, please. You know I can’t cook.” He held up his hands, always stained with dirt and rough from work, his fingernails black and chipped. “These hands were made for man’s work.”

I held up my hands too. They looked exactly like Henry’s, only smaller. He grimaced, then said wryly, “Geez, no wonder you can’t find a boyfriend.”

“Shut up, Henry,” I exclaimed, but I was laughing as I said it, because he seemed so much better that afternoon. The day off the farm seemed to have lightened his mood. “I think I’ll make us hot water corn bread and heat up canned rabbit to go with it.”

Henry had a love-hate relationship with that canned rabbit meat. Jackrabbit had been breeding like crazy through the drought, and the population was now dangerously out of control, so the community had to reduce numbers. We would line up in a giant square, across acres of land, spaced out at first but gradually coming closer together, pushing the rabbits into a fenced area in the middle. There, the animals would be clubbed to death, and the carcasses distributed for food. Jackrabbit drives were unpleasant—brutal, even—but we knew they were necessary. Henry knew those animals would destroy our crops and breed until they took over every square inch of our land, but he could not stand to see them suffer, and as hungry as we were, he struggled to eat them.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

“Not that I know how to cook.” I shrugged. He sighed, nodding in resignation. “We have to wash some clothes too.” I was dreading that task even more than the cooking. We were washing the clothes in handmade soap, formed with tallow and lye. It was hell on my hands.

“Well, since you’re doing the washing and the cooking, the least I can do is to fetch you the water,” Henry announced.

“So gentlemanly of you,” I muttered. “And then what are you going to do?”

“I might take a nap.” My jaw dropped, and he threw his head back and laughed. “I’m kidding! Mother asked me to shovel some of the dirt away from the barn in case we get another storm.” The dirt was halfway up the side of the barn now. We’d only been shoveling it away from the door, doing the bare minimum to get the animals in and out.