Beneath the Apple Leaves(79)
“The prejudice of others is no concern to us. We’re a strong family, Mr. Morton.”
Her tone and sudden formality stiffened him and he nodded, tugged at his earlobe. When he spoke again, his voice was higher, a tinge of spite tainting it. “Well, I can see that. Just could be hard times is all I’m saying. Seeing that Wilhelm came to me for a loan and all, just figured the war can’t make it easy paying it back.”
Eveline froze, blinked spastically. “A loan?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.” Eveline turned away. Her ears picked up a noise from the lane, but she gave it no mind. This news from Frank blocked everything else. “When?”
“Before the blizzard hit. Figured he told you about it. Figured a husband shares that sort of decision with his wife.” His features took on a sharp look. “Figured that’s what a man and woman talk about when they share a bed.”
She didn’t feel well, nearly faint. She had always scoffed at sensitive women who took their hands to their foreheads and feigned dizziness at anything disagreeable and yet she was that woman now. She swallowed, didn’t have any words to speak or feel.
Frank stepped off the granite stone, tucked in the back of his shirt that already was tucked deep into his jeans. He picked up the straw hat from the box and affixed it to Eveline’s head. She watched his movements as if in a dream. He let the silk ribbon fall near her face and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. And she let him make these small advancements and gestures and she watched them as if they were happening to another.
He straightened the bonnet. “You look right pretty, Eveline.”
“Get your hands off my wife.”
Wilhelm appeared from the walkway, his face white and his arms shaking. Eveline pulled off the hat and stuffed it in the box, her whole body trembling.
Frank put his hands up mockingly. “Steady, boy!” he placated. “Claire got your wife a present and I was just dropping it off.”
Wilhelm snorted like a beast. He stepped into Frank’s space until their noses nearly touched. “You don’t touch my wife.”
Eveline touched his arm and it was like rock. She pulled her hand away. “He didn’t mean anything by it, Wil.”
Wilhelm grabbed the box and thrust it into Frank’s chest. “Take your present and get off my property.”
“Watch it, Kiser.” Frank’s eyes shone black and he pushed the box back into Wilhelm’s chest, his strong arms knocking the man back a step. “The present wasn’t for you. It was for her.” Frank stepped upon the path and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And as for getting off your property, I suggest you start making your loan payments. Otherwise, you might not be saying those words for much longer.”
He tipped his cowboy hat and winked at Wilhelm’s wife. “Always a pleasure, Eveline.”
CHAPTER 38
In the farthest fields, the crabgrass stuck out in needles, the blades wide and pale, the tips browned and dead, all softness now a memory, fossilized into rigidness. Now there was grass. Now, when the Kisers had to plow and the summer heat grew, there was grass and it seemed that with every turn this land taunted them. The land teased by giving them mud that eroded fertile soil and pushed it piled against the forest line and gravel line of the lane. And the land shackled their efforts by placing deep-rooted weeds and clay-packed dirt wherever a shovel could be hoped to spade.
Andrew’s boots crunched the grass, bent the straight lines into disfigured angles. The sound of cicadas vibrated and rose like a drumroll with no finale. Sun centered the sky, the white orb strong and warm, beating down on everything that lay below. The hot rays pushed atop his crown and Andrew pulled the cloth cap from his back pocket and fastened it with rebellion upon his head. He looped his thumb through one suspender, felt the cross rub across his back with the pull, the sweat pressing against the white shirt.
The field was a level one, flat with just a hump leading off into the horizon. He dug into the ground with the heel of his boot, kicked up the chestnut-colored clay. He knelt, pressed his fingertips into the material, soft enough to sculpt. No topsoil. None. Washed away from years of sheep overgrazing.
Plowing the stagnant fields was a task neither Wilhelm nor Andrew could have foreseen as being so arduous. From the distance, the fields were open expanses of promising land, an empty canvas that would soon be filled with the vibrant greens of corn and the deep yellow of hay. But upon closer inspection, the ground appeared littered with rocks, wedged between deep roots of bittersweet and poison ivy and young, whiney oaks.
The Fordson tractor handled well, the lid to its steam pipe yawning with black smoke before closing again with its next gulp. The noise of the engine drowned out any other noise, scattering the crows and the grouse in panicked waves of flight. Wilhelm and Andrew had to scream above the sound of the engine to be heard.
Wilhelm ran the tractor and the plow, the hard metal grinding against the stones. Andrew followed behind with the hoe, cutting out the wide roots that were left nicked but intact. Within the hour, Andrew’s ears numbed to the engine, the hammering clutching his neck. His hand was rubbed sore and blistered. But he worked through the pain and the noise, let the sun heat his back and drip sweat down his cheeks. He ignored the bleeding in his hand and did not mourn the loss of the one but was thankful for the work of the remainder—bloody or not.