The Fulfillment (21 page)

“We got 'em out,” Jonathan said, pointing to the tub at his feet.

Mary had suffered little nausea during her first six months of pregnancy, but at the sight of the unsavory tangle of innards in the tub, her stomach gave a sickening lurch. She took what she'd come for and hurried back to the house. But the chosen sections of gut also needed cleaning and scraping for sausage, and she finished her day with the gorge threatening to erupt from her throat. Even the fresh liver she fried for supper lost its usual appeal, but Jonathan ate heartily.

“You're not eating much,” he noted, looking at her plate.

Involuntarily her hands went to her stomach
and she said, “When the butchering is done, I'll feel more like eating again.”

He was surprised. She never got sick at all. This was something new, and he realized the peculiarities of pregnancy were something they hadn't shared at all. He wondered if there were other things that bothered her.

“I can finish scraping those sausage casings after supper,” he offered. And in spite of her queasy stomach, Mary smiled. It was so unlike Jonathan, and she understood his full intentions. His concern was all she needed right now.

“They're all done, Jonathan, but thank you, anyway.” And he returned to cutting the meat on his plate, a bit flustered by a new, expansive warmth inside him.

The following day, he brought the quartered carcass into the kitchen table and sawed it into meal-sized pieces. These he placed on planks covered with dish towels, and left on the back porch to freeze overnight. Hopefully no wild animals would brave coming that near, even for a free dinner.

The hams, bacon, and side pork Mary put into brine crocks to soak and turn red as the saltpeter did its work. Slabs of lard, too, were cut and frozen in preparation for rendering. The grinding and frying down of the fat permeated the house for days with a heavy odor. Jonathan had packed the frozen meats into a barrel on the north side of the house long before Mary's job was finished. The sausage-making took on a more pleasant aspect for her, although Jonathan mercifully boiled the hog's head in the caldron in the yard. But when she cooked the meat from it with pearl bar
ley and spices, it filled the house with a pungent garlic aroma, reminding Jonathan of the coming holiday. “It smells just like when Ma used to cook it at Christmas,” he said.

“I'm saving it for then. We won't have our first taste till Christmas, just like when you were boys.”

“How'd you know we always saved it till Christmas? I never told you, did I?”

“No, Aaron did one time.”

“Oh…sure,” he said, glancing at the kettle that bubbled away on the stove, then back at Mary again.

“Do you suppose he'll make it home for Christmas?” she asked.

“I hope so,” Jonathan answered, and he truly did.

“Me, too.” And for once her husband didn't feel threatened by her words.

But the hams were smoked in the smokehouse, tied into sacks Mary had sewn for them and plunged deep within the loose oats in the grainary, for storage, and still no word had come.

 

At Getchner's farm, a changed, quiet atmosphere filled the days. Aaron was kept busy, but the work was lighter, the days shorter. After the frenzied harvest activities Aaron felt the abrupt loneliness.

The Getchners took their trip to Fargo, and Aaron was left alone in the strange house. It might have warmed or charmed him, for it was a comfortable place, but it wasn't his home and it left him wanting and lonely, remembering his own place.

It was a week before Thanksgiving, and Aaron pictured the kitchen at home, the table covered with geese being readied for market. His nostrils seemed to catch the smell of wet feathers and melting paraffin. How he hated picking pinfeathers! But he'd do it gladly to be home right now.

The slow-moving days brought Thanksgiving. He spent it alone, his thoughts miles away. The late-found understanding between Jonathan and himself had left him missing his brother and Mary equally. He found he was again thinking of them as a pair, and the longer he was away, the less he singled out one or the other in his thoughts.

The Getchners returned, and December blustered across the bleak Dakota landscape, the raw winds sweeping its flatness. Christmas was nearing, and Aaron waited for the word from Getchner, word that he was no longer needed. It couldn't come fast enough. He'd had enough of the flatlands, the emptiness.

 

Some years, Jonathan and Mary had traveled as far as Osakis to find the best market for Mary's dressed geese. This year, though, Jonathan sold them all in Browerville. Mary had kept back two for themselves, one for Christmas dinner and another to be hoarded until midwinter, when it would be a welcome treat after a steady diet of pork and wild game.

They'd had no word from Aaron, and with Christmas only a week away, both Mary and Jonathan were anxious. Mabel Garner had written, inviting the Grays to join her great, raucous, crowded family on Christmas Day. But Mary's
condition forced them to decline. Also, they didn't know if Aaron might make it home. So they waited uncertainly, not wanting to be gone if he arrived without warning.

 

In the wintery dusk the streets of Fargo were shimmering with lights. Motorcars and horses shared the roadways, parked or tethered, chugging or trotting. The backs of the horses gleamed wetly under melting snow. The hoods of the autos were dusted with it.

There were two hours to fill before the night train departed. Aaron had tried rare beefsteak at the Comstock Hotel, finding it surprisingly flavorful and juicy, as Jonathan had read it'd be. Wait till I tell Jonathan about it, he thought. Every thought now was of home. Passing ladies in their hobbled skirts, he tried to imagine Mary hobbling around the kitchen in one, and laughed at the thought. How could she jump the porch steps in a getup like that? Childish voices drifted along the street, and Newt Volence's face came to him, one tooth missing. Through a bakery window he saw decorated delicacies, and he could almost smell the kitchen at home. Mary would be making holiday breads, he thought. The sound of a carol wafted through the evening as a door swung open. He paused and entered the department store where music was spinning off a gramophone. Standing before it, listening, he was approached by a mustached man who moved like a chipmunk.

“May I help you, sir?” the chipmunk chirped.

“How much for this gramophone?” Aaron inquired.

“This, sir,” the mustache twitched, “is the newest Edison grrraph-o-phone.” The little man enunciated each syllable, rolling the
r
's like an outraged pedagogue.

“How much for this Edison grrraph-o-phone?” Aaron repeated, rolling his
r
's, too, superbly, but with a smile twitching his cheek.

“The device sells for a mere nine dollars.” But as the chipmunk said it, the music wound down and he had to crank the handle to speed up the singing voices until they, too, sounded like chipmunks before settling once again to a human cadence.

The little man ruffled at Aaron's open amusement, but relaxed when Aaron said, “I'll take one anyway, and some records to go with it.” The salesman scurried away to find a carton for the purchase, looking even more like a chipmunk in his brown, striped suit.

Aaron also bought a pair of soft kid gloves for Jonathan and a length of white organdy for Mary. For himself he bought a heavy, warm sheepskin jacket, spending a sizable lump of his earnings but enjoying it.

When Aaron at last boarded the train he was weighted down with packages like many of the other homeward-bound holiday travelers. It was hard to contain his excitement amid the babble of voices around him. But darkness passed the train window and he thought of the two who waited for him at home. He pictured the rolling, snow-covered hills, the contrast of black tree trunks against them. The yard, the house, the barn—all the familiar, loved scenes lulled him to
sleep along with the clacking of the rails beneath him.

 

Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, and still no word from Aaron. Every day, when the mail carrier came without a letter, it was hard to keep the disappointment from showing. Mary was preparing dried fruits for her Christmas
hoska
when she heard the chug of the mail car coming over the hill. She finished chopping the last few cherries, then went to fetch a jacket. She was reaching for the door when it opened and there stood Aaron. His face was red and snowburned, but he wore a huge smile as he threw his bedroll inside and followed it to scoop Mary up in an engulfing hug, booming, “Merry Christmas!”

She was so stunned she could only give herself over to the bear hug, stammering, “Aaron, where did you come from?”

“I came from Dakota!” he laughed, swinging her around in his exuberant hug while she struggled to push out of it and look at him.

“But how did you get here?”

He finally released her and answered while he leaned to pull a large carton in from the porch, “I rode the milk train and caught a ride in the mail car—and here I am!” As he finished, he knocked the door shut with the heavy box.

“Milk train? Mail car?” She couldn't believe it yet. “Why didn't you write and have Jonathan pick you up?”

“And spoil a good surprise?” His booming, exuberant mood was infectious. She still had a surprised gape on her face, and he reached out
a finger and pushed her chin up, saying, “Good thing it's not summer or the flies would get in there.”

Her mouth closed then, but it took on a scolding pout while she shook her finger at him as if he were a naughty schoolboy. But she couldn't fool him, and she couldn't hold a straight face. They eyed each other, snickering; then their merriment grew and blossomed into rich, free laughter. Aaron hooted unabashedly at just being home again.

When they stilled a bit, they looked each other over, noting the changes the last two months had made.

With a little raise of the eyebrows and a perfectly calm expression, Aaron surveyed her rounded shape. “Well…look at you.”

She spread her hands on her belly as if measuring its growth, shrugged her shoulders, and smiled. “Big, huh?”

He nodded. “But pretty as ever.”

“Oh, I don't know about pretty,” she corrected. “Clumsy and slow, but not too pretty anymore.”

He laughed at her description as he shrugged out of his jacket. She noticed it was new as she reached for it automatically to put it away.

He waved her hand away. “You don't need to fuss and do over me, Mary.” And he hung the jacket on a hook behind the door. “It's a Christmas present for myself,” he said.

Aaron looked around the room then, saw where she'd been working at the table when he came in. There was a dish towel covering a
mound atop the warming oven, and he asked, “Making the
hoska
?” Everything was the same as always, and a rush of contentment filled him.

“Aha,” she answered.

“Where's Jonathan?” he asked.

“Down in the barn someplace. Probably with Vinnie, Why don't you walk down and find him?”

“Soon as I get my fill of this kitchen.” She watched him as he walked around, touching things, warming his hands at the stove. He acted as if he couldn't get enough of it.

“We didn't think you'd come.” She busied herself with the bread while he took care of the things he'd dumped on the floor.

“Getchner kept me busy. I wasn't sure myself when I'd leave.”

“What's in the box?” she asked as he took it to the front room.

But instead of answering he complained from beyond her sight, “What? No Christmas tree?”

“It's not time yet, Aaron. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. Jonathan says he's got a perfect beauty picked out, though.”

“When the tree is up, you'll find out what's in the box,” he informed her. He had returned to the kitchen, bringing his teasing grin with him.

“Is it a present, Aaron?” she asked, turning to him with floury hands, unable to conceal her curiosity and anticipation.

“Tell you what,” he said with the air of one about to make a generous offer. “If you let me poke my finger in that dough, I'll consider telling you.” The elastic white puff was mushrooming
over the edge of the crock, ready for its last kneading.

“What?” she said, amazed.

“Well, once when I was a kid, Ma let me do that, and it was so much fun. But after that when I asked her she said it made the bread tough, and she never let me do it again.”

“Has anybody ever told you never grew up, Aaron Gray?” she teased, then stepped aside. “If it'll delight your immature whimsy…by all means, have at it.” And she made a sweeping gesture, giving him leave to indulge.

He rubbed his palms together. “Oh, boy!” Then he took aim and sunk one finger in the airy puff and watched it deflate and collapse while they giggled at their own absurdity.

“Now get away and let me shape it before it's ruined,” Mary scolded, still giggling, then began slicing, flouring, studding the dough with jeweled cherries and golden nuts while Aaron left to find Jonathan.

 

The
hoska
was baked and cooling before Jonathan and Aaron returned to the house together. Mary heard their voices as they came, and cleared the steam off the east window with her forearm, watching them as they approached. Their bare heads were lowered as they came; then Jonathan's rose as he laughed at something Aaron had said. Aaron threw a loose arm around Jonathan's shoulder for a moment as they reached the back porch steps. Everything must be okay, just like Jonathan said, Mary thought. And she opened the door for them both, loving the sound of their laughter-filled voices.

 

The gay, careless mood in which Aaron returned affected them all. His first evening home, the house seemed transformed by the voices, the holiday preparations, Aaron's spirit of fun. Mary strung popcorn and the men ate from her bowl while she playfully scolded them until another batch had to be popped. They talked of rabbit-hunting in the morning, the invitation from Aunt Mabel Garner, what Aaron had done for Getchner in Dakota, what they'd earned from the harvest, an Angus cow in the spring, and of course about Aaron's first taste of rare beef.