In Reach Read online

  She waved her arms around, flailed them. Wild. He’d never seen her like this. Her face was red and, well, swollen.

  “I spent my childhood taking care of my brothers and sisters. I don’t think I had a childhood. At all. I never . . . I just don’t want to think about that right now. I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Okay. Okay.” He held his hands out, palms down, gentling her as if she were a cornered animal. What had gotten into her? He backed away, bumped his leg into the chair. “Guess I’ll go on out, check the irrigation.”

  Next morning, after they’d shared a nearly silent breakfast, she handed him a brown paper bag, folded at the top. In her other hand, a thermos. “There’s hot coffee. And I packed you a snack.”

  “You’re not coming out to the field?”

  “Lily’s coming by this morning. We’re working on a sewing project for the Women’s Mission Society.”

  She must have read the look on his face, because she quickly added. “Don’t worry. I’ll have your lunch on the table when you come in.”

  Never before had the phrase—struck dumb—made so much sense to him. What could he possibly say? That he didn’t care about zucchini bread or fruit tarts or whatever the hell she packed in there. He’d made a point to praise her mid-morning offerings. He wasn’t an idiot. He wanted her to come out to the field. He wanted her, the sight of her, the knowledge of her. To go a whole morning not seeing her felt like punishment, and what had he done to deserve this?

  He felt his jaw go taut. He knew the stern look that inhabited his face; he’d seen it enough times on his father’s. He wanted to smack down her God, lay waste to whole cities. He turned on his heel and left the room, knowing full well he’d fume throughout the morning and God in heaven (or whoever, wherever), he didn’t know how they’d get through lunch.

  He needn’t have worried. By the time he got back to the house, Lily’s car was gone. He walked in the back door, smelled frying pork chops, washed up at the lavatory off the kitchen. He could hear Ella humming but didn’t recognize the tune. Ella met him fresh eyed and all smiles. She kissed him on the mouth. He was relieved. Of course he was, but what the hell? How could she send him off like that and pretend everything was peachy-dandy?

  He sat down in his usual place. He tried to be patient while she bowed her head and said her little prayer, her lips moving silently. When she looked up, she beamed at him. He was puzzled by it, felt the furrow in his brow.

  “How was your morning, Buck?”

  She handed him bowls of food. He dished up pork chops, peppery and brown, creamy mashed potatoes, gravy without a lump. After that, peas from their garden, a cucumber salad.

  “Fine. Got the tubes set in the east cornfield. Beans look dry, too.”

  She nodded. He fell silent, busy forking food into his mouth. He noticed she wasn’t eating much. Before second helpings, he asked, “How was Lily?”

  “Oh, she was fine. We didn’t work too long, only about an hour. She brought strawberries. I had time to make that pie you like so much.”

  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir. He got this feeling sometimes before a big storm, when the sky was still blue and not yet darkened.

  “Is that so?”

  “Buck, I want to be baptized.”

  Not good. Not good. They’re getting their hooks in deeper. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “I want to be baptized, and I want it to be here, on our land. In our pond. I already talked to Reverend Kane, and he said it was all right with him.”

  “You offered our pond, without asking me?” He was biding for time. His thoughts racing. Should he be outraged? Should he refuse? If he went along with this, would it seem like he was condoning this whole religious debacle? Or, would it be a good thing, earn her trust, let her know he’s capable of supporting her? She’d likely do it anyway. Wouldn’t it be better if he made himself part of it?

  “I’m asking you now.”

  Buck jerked his attention back to Ella. He’d nearly forgotten the strain of the conversation; he’d been so busy with his own thoughts. He studied her face, on watch for signs of wile, manipulation. Was she using him? Mocking him? She looked like she always did, radiant and beautiful. Her lips were slightly parted, and he thought about kissing her when more words flowed out.

  “It would make it special to me. To have it here. On our own place. Lily said she’d help with the food.”

  “Food?” He knew he sounded like an idiot. He was an idiot. Why couldn’t he muster a coherent thought?

  “Some of the congregation will come. We figured about twenty-five or thirty people. We thought it could be on a Saturday. Maybe in the morning. We’d do it potluck, and Lily said she’d help. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.”

  He squirmed, uncomfortable. Twenty-five or thirty people. Why, where would they sit? And that pond was nothing but a glorified mudhole. He’d have to line the bottom with rocks or it wouldn’t hold a person’s weight.

  “When?”

  He heard Ella take a big breath. She looked excited, the way he always thought a son or daughter might look on Christmas morning. “August 28.”

  He frowned. “That’s your birthday.”

  “I know. Isn’t that perfect?”

  Too much. This whole thing really was too damn much. He didn’t want to share his wife’s birthday with a bunch of pious Bible-thumping strangers. He didn’t want them swarming all over his land, tromping on his pasture on the way down to that pond. That date was six weeks away, and by then the pond could be dried up. He latched on to that last thought. Likely, the pond would be dried up. He could agree to this and not have to go through with it. Besides, in four, five weeks, Ella might be over this infatuation. He had come to think of it as an infection, something she got exposed to that had to run its course. Not her fault so much as a sickness to be endured with compassion and forbearance.

  “All right.” He heard the words before he had consciously shaped them. Ella heard them, too. She clapped her hands together, stood to bring him that strawberry pie, the top swirled with whipped cream. She looked happy, and that hurt most of all. The idea that he was making his wife happy by helping her cuckold him!

  That wasn’t the only inconsistency in Buck’s life that summer. Whoever heard of a farmer praying that it wouldn’t rain? He wouldn’t call it prayer, but his hopes were set on that pond drying up. Instead, the skies opened weekly, on schedule. His crops never looked better. The prairie grass grew so lush, he’d have to mow a path down to that pond. Ella showed no signs of loosening up on her zeal. If anything, she was more intent, spending any spare time she had sewing herself a baptismal gown, the fabric floaty and white. When she showed him, he said, “What are you wearing under it?”

  She blushed. “Why, Buck? I’ll be wearing a slip, of course. All my usual underthings.”

  He grabbed the edge of the table and forced himself to say nothing, picturing her emerging from the pond, soaked, that white dress plastered to her curved body. He thought he might have to put his head down between his knees, the temptation to slip out of this world coming over him strong.

  Then, two weeks before the baptism, the sky rained blackbirds. He didn’t see it happen, only the aftermath. He’d gone to check on the pond, over the rise in the pasture floor, past the lone cottonwood, and literally stumbled over a dead red-winged blackbird. He’d had his mind and his eyes on the sky while he walked, judging the proximity of rain. When he looked down at the toe of his boot, he saw black-feathered bird bodies everywhere, in a swath that stretched all the way to the pond. Clustered tight, twisted and knotted, some with wings outstretched, the sight sickening and terrifying. What could he make of it? He half-ran back to the barn, grabbed some old gunnysacks and a pitchfork, loaded them in the back of the pickup. He had to make that trip twice more, each time underestimating the number of sacks required to hold the carcasses. He counted 462 dead blackbirds by the time he had recovered all of them. He wept through most of
the gathering, unable to fathom what could have caused such a calamity. Was there nothing he could count on? If the bottom could fall out of the sky, what next? Water running uphill? A year without spring?

  He fished 32 dead birds out of the pond, worried about contamination. From the look of the corpses, they hadn’t been there long. Not days. The birds must have fallen the night before, but he’d heard nothing.

  He loaded the carcasses in the back of the pickup and dumped them all in a far corner of his land where his uncle had previously chucked an old sofa and bedsprings, a kitchen range, a pile of magazines. On second thought, he picked up three of the birds by their tiny feet and dropped them back into a gunnysack, slung them in the bed of the truck.

  He drove up to the house, but he couldn’t face Ella. Instead, he took the coward’s way out. While Ella was weeding in the garden, he sneaked into the house, left a note on the kitchen table saying he had to go to town; he’d be back soon. In a flurry, he added, Love, Buck.

  He hopped into the pickup and sped down the lane, dust kicking up behind him and into the open windows, caking on his sweaty skin. He drove like a hypnotic, eyes on the road, mind numb, disconnected from his body. In town, he pulled up to the County Extension Office. He was in the lobby before he realized he’d left the truck. Luckily, Joe Bolden, the County Agent, was in.

  “What’s up, Buck? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  The laughter froze on Joe’s lips. Buck thought he must look truly frightful for Joe to clam up like that. Joe was known for his good humor, always a helping hand and a joke. People liked him. Farmers liked him. He wasn’t from around here, came from somewhere east, maybe Ohio, but he fit in. He liked his late afternoon beer, and he had two boys who were stars on the basketball team.

  Buck swallowed and tried to remember how to make his lips form words. “I found a whole mess of dead blackbirds on my land this morning.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Buck nodded.

  “How many?”

  “Four hundred sixty-two. Scattered over that pasture close up by the house.”

  “Jesus.”

  Joe swiped his hand over his mouth, whether to erase taking the Lord’s name or show his dismay, Buck didn’t know. Didn’t care, either. He held out the gunnysack to Joe. He wanted him to take it off his hands. He wanted Joe to tell him why.

  “I thought you might want to take a look.”

  Joe grasped the neck of the sack but didn’t peer inside. He just stared into Buck’s face. Finally he shifted his weight, carefully laid the sack on his desk, rolled down the top to reveal the bird bodies. Buck winced with the sight.

  “No obvious damage,” Joe said.

  “They’re dead.”

  “I know that. But no burns. They can’t have hit a power line. No visible signs of disease. Or pests. Were they all like this?”

  Buck nodded.

  “What did you do with them? The rest of them?”

  Buck shrugged. “Dumped them out by the dry gulch.”

  “Tell you what. I’m going to call down to the university. See if they’ve ever heard of such a thing. Maybe they’ll want me to send the bodies to a lab somewhere. But I think you better bury those birds. If they are diseased, we don’t know what could happen once the coyotes get at ’em.”

  Buck nodded. Hell, he’d already lost a half-day of work.

  “Do you know if anybody else found dead birds? Did you call Hank or any other neighbors?”

  “No. I came straight here. After I picked them up. That pond, see.” Buck fidgeted, bounced from foot to foot. No help for it, he had to go on and say what he’d come here to say. “Ella’s being baptized in a couple of weeks. In that pond. I need to know . . . I don’t want her going under that water if there’s anything bad in there.”

  “Yeah, okay. I see what you mean.”

  “Then, if there isn’t, well, I’d just as soon keep it quiet. Ella’s counting on that day.”

  “Yeah. I can see that, too. We don’t want everybody all stirred up over what may be nothing but a fluke of nature. Hell, maybe they all died of old age.” Joe guffawed, his old humor springing out.

  Buck tried to laugh, too, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see what was so all-fired funny.

  The hardest part was lying to Ella. He had to make up some excuse for going to town in such a hurry. He mumbled something about needing a part for the tractor.

  “Whyn’t you take me with you?” She said this while rubbing her bare foot up and down his thigh. He was seated on the couch, and she was lying on the other end, her back against the arm. She wore shorts, and his hand played at the hem against her inner thigh.

  “Just got in a hurry, I guess. You looked awful busy in your garden.”

  “Phoo, Buck. You know I can hoe in that garden anytime. I don’t get to go to town that often. I could have got that lace I want from Murphy’s.”

  “Lace?” He thought to distract her.

  “For my baptism dress. You know, I told you. I want some lace on the bottom and around the sleeves.”

  “You’re going to be the most beautiful woman ever baptized in that pond.”

  “Go on. You know I’m the only woman ever baptized in that pond.”

  She played at kicking him. He caught her foot, lifted it to his lips, and kissed her toes.

  Later, after they’d made love, he said, “Take the truck tomorrow and go on to town. I don’t need it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He smarted at the excitement in her voice. But next day, while she was gone looking for lace for her baptismal gown, he hitched a plow to the tractor, drove it down to the dry gulch, made a trench. By hand, he shoveled in the birds, covered them over with dirt, stomped the mass grave down with his boots.

  He argued with himself constantly. If he told Ella about the blackbirds, maybe she’d take it for a sign that the baptism wasn’t supposed to happen. Even if she didn’t see it as a sign, maybe she’d feel creeped out about having the baptism on the site. But did he want her to be creeped out about their own land? He’d never kept anything from her before. If it wasn’t for the stupid baptism, he would have told her, taken her to the dry gulch to see the burial trench. They would have consoled each other. He would have felt safe. He hated the way her being saved made him second-guess everything he’d been sure of before.

  Three days later Joe called and reported that the University of Nebraska Extension Service said there have been, over the years, other reports of mass bird deaths. No one knows why. There are lots of theories—disease, power lines, storms—but no real proof of anything. Blackbirds flock together in roosts, sometimes thousands or millions at a time. Apparently, that makes them more vulnerable. Hell, maybe one bird goes bonkers, and the rest just follow. They don’t call them birdbrains for nothing. And then Joe laughed and hung up. So, that was that.

  Buck decided not to say anything to Ella.

  After that, Buck was on edge. Waiting for the sky to fall. Every morning he looked out on the yard with trepidation.

  “Are you okay?” Ella asked.

  “Sure thing,” he lied, trying to lace his voice with optimism.

  Meanwhile, Buck had work to do. He drove to Scottsbluff, this time asking Ella if she wanted to come along. She said no, she had sewing to finish up. He went to a landscapers’ outfit and bought as much river rock as he thought necessary. More than he could afford. Next day, wearing hip waders, he hauled bucketfuls of rock into the pond, spread it as best he could on the muddy bottom. He had to work hard to pull his feet out of the sucking mire, but by the end of the day, he’d made a neat little platform in the middle of the pond with a path leading to it. The area was smaller than he’d hoped, but as long as Ella and the preacher stayed on the rocks, they’d be fine.

  On the Friday before the baptism, he hauled three dried-out logs down by the pond, leveled the ground under them so some of the onlookers could sit. With a scythe he chopped at cattails and marsh grass on the side o
f the pond where Ella would enter. He tested out the rock lining to make sure it was secure. Finished, he sat on one of the logs and let his eyes sweep over the prairie. Dotted with sunflowers and goldenrod, grass rippling in the breeze, sprinkled with grasshoppers and buzzing insects, it did look like Paradise. A sudden storm could still sweep up and spoil the day, but nothing was forecast. He knew he’d have to sneak out of bed early tomorrow to make sure no more blackbirds fell out of the sky overnight.

  The next day dawned bright and sunny. People began to show up about 10:30 a.m., brought casseroles and salads, pies and cakes. The whole thing had the aura of a festival. At 11:00, the crowd paraded down to the pond on Buck’s mown path, except for Ella, who stayed behind to dress and make her entry. Buck was careful to show Reverend Kane the path of rocks and the platform under the shallow water.

  At 11:15 a.m. Ella came down the path in her white gauzy dress, her blond hair streaming behind. She carried a nosegay of wild roses, looking for all the world like a bride on her way to the altar. Buck stood at the end of the path, close to the pond, and when she drew abreast of him, she reached out, took his hand, and smiled with such luminosity that it took his breath away. She dropped his hand, handed her bouquet to Lily’s daughter, and stepped onto the stones leading out to the pastor. Buck had cautioned her to wear old shoes because he worried that the stones would hurt her feet, but she chose to walk barefoot into the water, leaving her white flats on the shore.

  Reverend Kane waited for her in the middle of the pond, wearing a white robe over old suit pants, also in bare feet, the water level just above his knees. He stretched his hand out to Ella as she walked forward, drew her in front of him, and faced her sideways to himself. He asked if she willingly sought to join the church through baptism. Ella’s voice rang out clearly: “Yes, I do.” Then the Reverend said a short prayer. He braced his right arm behind Ella’s back. In his left, he held a white linen cloth that he placed over her nose and mouth. As he laid Ella backward into the water, he said, “Buried with Christ in baptism,” and just as he started the next phrase, “Risen to walk . . . ,” he lost his balance. Struggling to stay upright, he shifted his right foot off the small platform of rocks. The mud pulled at his right leg, throwing him farther off-balance. Still hanging on to Ella, her weight pitched him forward, and to escape falling on top of her, the good reverend dropped his hold on her and put his hands out to brace his fall. His hands hit the mud, sunk up to his elbows, and for one horrifying but hilarious moment, the minister was stretched over Ella like a croquet hoop while she floated, her white dress spread around her like a water lily. The crowd tried to suppress the giggles, but when Reverend Kane, with the only means available to him, pulled one arm out of the mud and pushed down on Ella’s stomach to get enough traction to pull the other arm out, the crowd erupted into laughter.