Widow Woman

Warming Up

Next morning he woke, used the outhouse and washed before the breakfast bell. She seemed different in the morning sunshine, less strained. Softer. A hint of a smile every now and then crossed her lips. He was encouraged by this and asked a few questions about the farm, how big was it, was it making money, considering the Depression that was wracking the nation just then. She seemed pleased that he cared and answered with a few details. There were three men working the woodlot, cutting fire wood for the railroad. They took care of themselves, she said. The pond, in the meadow he had walked across, was stocked with bass and bluegill, probably had some big enough to be worth catching if he wanted to spend the time to catch and clean them. The farm overall was "making ends meet. Not a lot left over though." He was satisfied with that.

He wanted to ask her what happened to her husband, but thought it might be painful, so instead he made some conversation "I rented a farm in the old country. Raw deal, of course. Could barely keep things together. This place—how did you come own this one?" Her smile disappeared, and she was suddenly busy with the stove and then the food.

He apologized for any offense. "You better get to work on the hay. They'll be here with another wagon load and the last one wasn't put up right," was all she answered.

He didn't ask any questions at dinner or supper: he valued the job more than the conversation. He ate in silence except for saying the Blessing over the meal again, and the requisite please's and thank-you's. The silence was bearable if not comfortable and he said good night and left for the barn. He thought maybe she hesitated as he left, as if she was about to say something but then didn't. He shrugged it off, undressed and crawled under the blanket and fell asleep.

Morning came, he washed, went into breakfast at the bell. Sausage and pancakes! He said "Good Mornin' to ya" and she answered with, "Good Mornin' to yourself as well." It was the same phrase his wife had greeted him with. Considering her reaction the evening before, however, he kept silent. But he watched her keenly. She noticed, but only smiled as she served his food He went about his daily chores, tightening the hinges on one of the barn doors, and one of the outbuildings as well.

He worked hard, ate hearty and it seemed to please her. It seemed to him that she softened day by day. As days went by, she opened up and began to tell her story at the evening meal—how she and her husband bought the farm, how the train coming through did them so much good. In hushed tones, she finally told how her husband was killed in a wood-cutting accident. He'd gotten a foot tangled in some vines and the tree he'd been cutting crushed him as it fell. Michael expressed his sympathy. She shrugged. "It was years ago and its done,"she had said. She went on to mention how she had been forced to hire one man after another, but they never lasted very long.

In his enthusiasm, he vowed then and there that he would stay!

She smiled and laughed. "That's what they all say."

To him, at that moment, her smile was so lively, so lovely, why would he want to leave? Why would any man? She was everything his wife had been and perhaps more. Certainly, none of the nagging! But after he had gone to the barn for bed, that sadness–of losing his wife and child– came suddenly back to him. It was a Wednesday evening, as he lay down in the straw to sleep He had said his prayer, and was ready to drop off when a nursery rhyme came to him, in part. He could only remember "Wednesday's child is full of woe Thursday's child has far to go" He happened to know his wife and son were born on Thursday and he himself, on Wednesday. And with that, he fell asleep.