Tessie Gillis

The Innocent

Willie MacSween swung his bony legs over the edge of the bed and reached down to pull the pants from under his feet. Shivering in the chill of the morning, he buttoned the three fly buttons, then ran a hand around the tail of the shirt he’d slept in. He opened the top button and tucked the tail into his trousers.

“Ye gonna stay in bed all day?” he said, bending over to shake his wife. “Git up woman! Git my tea. I’m goin’ to town after chores.”

“It’s still the middle o’ the night,” Martha moaned. “The stores is not open yit.”

“Night or day, no difference ’round here. Can’t sleep no how with that old bastard sister o’ yours hollerin’ and screamin’. Don’t know how it wuz I let meself be talked into takin’ in her and her brat in the first place. Ye said she wouldn’t be givin’ me no trouble. Ye said she had the money to pay her way. Well, I ain’t seen no money, nor I ain’t seen a decent night’s sleep since she took sick. Git up! And stop her from screechin’. I’m gittin’ out soon’s I can.”

Martha heard the outside door slam as she buttoned her dress. She crossed to the window, as she did every morning, to take a look at the sheep in the top field. She did not have to count them, so accustomed were her eyes to seeing their exact number. When Willie came in from the barn, she had the fire going and his porridge on the table. There hadn’t been time to quiet the screaming from the bed in the covered porch that served as a bedroom off the kitchen.

“Oh, Sweet Jesus!” a voice rang out. “Please, please, dear God, spare me this agony —. ‘Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy . . . .’”

Martha looked toward the little man she had married so long ago. He had his hands over his ears. His eyes squeezed tight and his nose wrinkled up until his heavy gray moustache bristled. His face was ashen with leashed rage.

“A man can’t even have his breakfast,” he shouted, jumping up from the table. “Where’s them brats we’ve been feedin’? Git ’em up! Ye’d think I was runnin’ an orphanage. Good ol’ MacSween! Simple-headed ol’ MacSween! Takin’ in everybody’s brats and bastards.”

“Willie, your own flesh and blood,” Martha’s voice was barely audible. “Show a little mercy to your own at least!”

“Git them up! I’m goin’!” Willie MacSween pulled his old gray cap down over his ears and stormed out of the room. The screams from the porch drowned the banging of the door. Martha hurried in to her sister.

“Is there anything ye’d like me to do fer ye, Helen?” she asked, kneeling down beside the bed. “Ye had a bad night last night, didn’t ye, dear? I wisht Willie would git the doctor fer ye, and the priest. Might as well be talkin’ to the wall fer all he cares to listen.”

Helen screamed again. Her eyes were open, but there was no recognition, no expression in them.

Martha ran to the foot of the stairs.

“Larry! Sadie! Gretta! Git ye up and git down here! Helen’s took a turn, and Himself is gone to town.”

Then grabbing her old shawl, Martha ran down to the riverbank and shouted to Jennie. Her friend’s house was only yards away, and the women always called back and forth to each other. Large stones made the crossing easy, except during the spring floods. In spite of her age, Ol’ Jennie could ford the river with ease.

“We’ll say the beads fer her. There ain’t time to git the priest,” said Martha, starting back up to the house.

“Is it dyin’ she is, then?” gasped Jennie.

Martha nodded.

The house was quiet now, and the children stood silently around the stove, afraid to move.

“I’d best take a look,” said Jennie, throwing down her shawl and going out into the little porch.

“Come on. Sit down and eat yer porridge,” said Martha, pushing the kettle over the fire. “Sadie, ye’d best clean up the table when ye’re through, and sweep up a little. Gretta’ll give ye a hand.”

“Is Helen bad, Grandma?” asked Larry. “Is she gonna die?”

Martha nodded. “Git on with yer breakfast, child. There’s chores to be done.”

“Fetch me the lookin’ glass, Marthie!” Jennie cried out. “I’m thinkin’ she’s gone.”

Martha reached for the cracked mirror over the sink and ran to the porch. “Git yer beads quick,” she called to the children.

Jennie took the glass and held it to the dying woman’s mouth.

“She’s goin’ fast, but she’s makin’ a smudge. We’d best git the beads started,” she said, taking her rosary from her dress pocket.

Silently, the children crowded in and knelt beside the bed.

“Will we be started in time?” asked Martha, bending down and trying to see if any breath clouded the mirror.

Jennie nodded and started rattling off the beads as though she were running a marathon. Martha and the children could barely keep up with her.

“Git me water in the bowl, Marthie, so’s I can wash her,” said Jennie, rising to her feet. “No need to worry ’bout her soul. If she don’t git to Heaven, none of yez stands a chance. God rest her soul!” she said, crossing herself. “Poor Helen’s done her penance here.”

“She’s all right now,” Martha said gently, crossing herself as she rose from her knees. “Now ye kids best go find somethin’ to be doin’. Jennie’ll be after washin’ her now, and she won’t be needin’ ye to watch. Twas a blessing God took her, poor soul. She’s suffered plenty.” Martha brushed the tears from her eyes. “May she rest in peace,” she whispered.

With bowed heads the little procession filed out of the room. The children stopped to whisper in the kitchen, but Martha continued on her way out into the yard, past the barn and the outhouse, till she reached the sheep pen. The pen was empty now. The sheep were out to range. But in the quiet of this place that housed the animals she loved, there was comfort.

“I been lookin’ fer ye all over,” said Jennie, holding open the back door. “There’s somethin’ I gotta tell ye, and there’s no use the children hearin’ it to repeat.”

“What is it, then, Jennie?” Martha’s voice was steady now.

“Look, Marthie, I don’t mean to be buttin’ in on any of yer business, but didn’t Helen have some money?”

“I can’t say. Why do you ask?”

“Put on yer thinkin’ cap. It’s not on straight right now. Helen was away t’ the Boston States a long time, and her workin’ every day she was there. She didn’t spend any money to speak of after she came back here.”

“Jennie! Don’t talk so —”

Tears filled Martha’s eyes.

“If ye think I’m buttin’ in where I’ve got no business, just say so. But listen first. Now when Willie gits home later, he’ll have to go all the way over to Dan Angus’s to git him to make the box fer her, and to git the arrangements made fer the funeral. And what is it Willie’ll be thinkin’ about? It’ll be did Helen have any money. And if ye keep standin’ there thinkin’ how ye’ll be desecratin’ the dead or some other such foolish notion, ye won’t get it. He will. Soon’s he walks in that door after makin’ the arrangements. Mark me words. Ye’ll not be seein’ any of it then.”

Martha wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “Poor Helen!” Her thin words seemed pulled by her ragged breath. “She worked so hard to earn the money, if there is any, and sufferin’ so — I still can hear her screechin’. It just don’t seem right to me. But I guess maybe yer right.”

“Think, Marthie,” Jennie went on. “Would it be you Helen’d rather be havin’ the money, or would it be Willie?”

“Well, puttin’ it that way —”

“Come on, then. The kids’ll be here in a minute, and you don’t want anyone knowin’ what’s what, then tellin’ Willie soon as they take a spite ’gainst ye fer somethin’.”

“I don’t think the girls or Larry’d tell ’im,” said Martha, coming to the defence of her grandchildren.

“No use takin’ chances though,” said Jennie, as she led the way into Helen’s bedroom. “No tellin’ what kids’ll do sometimes, nor growed up people either, fer that matter. Let it slip out, and them not meanin’ to tell at all. We’ll start in here.”

Jennie threw open the door to the room where Helen lay. Catching a glimpse of the body covered by a sheet, Jennie put her hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Marthie,” she moaned, “I forgot! I couldn’t git Helen’s legs straightened out by myself. And you was gone. Could we . . . ?”

“Oh no!” Martha cried. “I couldn’t! Leave her be! Willie can do it when he comes.”

“Don’t ye think she might be after gittin’ too cold by then? And we daresn’t call anybody yit.” Jennie’s voice rose in desperation. “We’ve got to find that money! The kids are comin’ in now. Find a chore fer them.”

Not until late afternoon did Martha remember Helen’s trunk stored in the attic. It was easy to get at, and Jennie was in no mood for wasting time. The trunk wasn’t locked. Jennie threw open the lid, pulled out the contents and strewed them on the floor. Martha stood by, wringing her hands and blessing herself. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

Jennie’s wrinkled old eyes snapped with excitement.

“If I didn’t know it was forgiveness ye was prayin’ for, Marthie MacSween, I’d be thinkin’ you was prayin’ fer me to find somethin’,” said Jennie, as she sat back on her heels. “And I have!” She grinned and held up a worn pocketbook.

Martha’s eyes lost their look of resignation. The pocketbook was crammed with American bills. Slowly she sank down to her knees and watched Jennie as she counted the money, passing each bill lovingly through her fingers.

“Eight hundred dollars!”

Martha was stunned. Never before had she seen so much money. The girl’s voices from the kitchen brought her back to reality. She whipped the bills off the floor and stowed them safely in her bosom.

“I’ll see ye git a share, Jennie, soon’s we’re alone again,” Martha whispered.

Then she said, “What on earth will I do with all that money! Wisht I could buy some baby lambs, but like as not Willie’d catch on and take a spite on them maybe.”

“Sheep!” Jennie snorted. “Ye needs new curtains, and ye could use a new church dress.”

“Yes, but if I bought things at the store, Jennie, even if Willie’d let me come along, he’d ask where I got the money. And I couldn’t lie, Jennie.”

“The catalogue, ye fool!” said Jenny, forcing her voice into a whisper. “Send away fer them. It’s you takes care of the mail. Ye’ll see. Willie don’t notice curtains or such things. And if he do, ye can say yer cousin Frannie sent another parcel from the States. No need to say they was in it. Git the idea!”

The women smiled and hurried down the stairs.

Near sundown, the big gray mare trotted smartly into the yard. Larry rushed out to meet his grandfather, to be the first with the news.

Willie didn’t give the child time to speak. “Well, don’t stand there with yer eyes buggin’ out! Git the harness off this animal and put her in the barn.” He threw the reins at the boy, and for the first time saw the expression on his face.

“She’s gone, then, is she?” he said.

The boy nodded.

“So — she finally died!” Willie squeezed two tears from his eyes and set his face in an expression of benignity.

“Sooo —.” Willie got no further. Over his wife’s shoulder, he saw Ol’ Jennie. He bowed his head. “Oh, hello, Jennie. The boy’s been tellin’ me poor Helen’s after leavin’ us. Poor soul! She suffered the tortures of Hell this last while. She’s lucky to be shed of all the pain.” He frowned. “God rest her soul,” he added as an afterthought.

“Ye’ll have to be goin’ to see will Dan Angus make her a box, Willie,” said Martha, “and see can ye git one of the boys up there to see the priest about a Buryin’ Mass.”

“I s’pose so,” Willie mumbled into his moustache. “Best git a bite to eat. Haven’t ate since mornin’.” Willie marched to the table, sat down, and waited for his dinner to be placed before him.

“Tell that feller to throw some hay to the mare, so’s she’ll have ate, time’s I’s ready to leave,” he grumbled, apparently to the food on his plate.

The girls came in to fetch the milking buckets.

“Granny,” said Sadie, “the cows was way up by Lawlors. We called in to tell them ’bout Helen. They said they’d be down as soon as they got the chores done.”

“All right, then,” said Martha. “Now, best ye git the milkin’ over and git back fer prayers when they come.”

Two hours passed before the Lawlors arrived. Willie came in soon after they were seated. He accepted their condolences and went directly upstairs to the attic.

“Well, I s’pose we’d best say a few prayers,” said Jennie. “I washed her, and bein’ there wasn’t any man to help, we thought it best to leave her be.”

Martha led the way into the little bedroom. The sound of Willie prowling overhead punctuated their prayers. They heard him tramp down the stairs.

“Would ye care fer a drop, Charlie?” he asked by way of greeting, when the devout had returned to the kitchen. “I have to keep her ahide, or she’d be gone.”

“And who but yerself would drink her?” said Martha, stating the truth with no trace of anger in her voice.

“When did it happen?” asked Charlie unexpectedly.

“This mornin’. Right after Willie left fer to go to town. Jennie and me was with her.”

“She went so fast there was no time fer to call anybody,” said Jennie, hoping to avoid further questioning. “We just got to our knees in time fer the beads. Willie bein’ away, I said to Martha here to git cleanin’ and fix things fer the wake. I was here, and there weren’t no use puttin’ other people out to help clean the house.”

“I know it weren’t anywhere lately she went,” said Charlie. “She’s after gittin’ stiff already. If I was ye, Willie, I’d git her outta that bed and straighten her legs. She won’t be fittin’ in any box the way she is.”

“I thought of it,” said Willie, “but fer about a month now, the rheumatiz’s been botherin’ me right arm, and havin’ nobody around but the boy fer to help . . . .” Willie’s voice trailed off.

“Is that so?” said Charlie. “I could’ve given a hand around the place. I had no idea yer arm was botherin’ ye.”

“Well now, seein’s yer here, we’d best git her outta here,” said Willie, as if he had just thought of it himself. “We’ll catch the ends of the sheet and bring her in, sheet and all.”

Willie took the head and left Charlie to manage the feet as best he could. Helen’s knees were drawn up under her chin. They tried to pass through the door into the kitchen, but had to turn this way and that, and finally turn her over on her side to get her through. They laid her on the table and threw back the sheet to expose her twisted form in its long flannel nightgown.

“Ye’d best not plan to keep her long,” said Charlie, looking around to make sure that Martha wasn’t near. “She’s smellin’ perty bad now.”

“That ain’t from bein’ dead,” Willie answered. “She’s been stinkin’ fer a long time now. Herself says it was cancer she had. I couldn’t say.”

“She musta suffered something terrible,” said Charlie, shaking his head. “Look at them legs. Doubled up like a fence staple, and that stiff! Bear down, Willie. See if we can git the knees straight.”

The men tugged and pushed. Willie complained at every move. But the legs were set. They would not move.

“Larry!” Willie yelled. “Go out into the barn and git that two-by-four standin’ against the door in the horse stable and fetch her here.”

“What’ll ye do with the two-by-four?” Charlie asked.

“Put it across the legs and bear down. The boy’ll help. Gotta git them down fer the box lid.”

Martha and Jennie were in the pantry making tea.

“What did ye shove me for at the stove?” asked Martha.

“To stop ye from tellin’ how long we was, givin’ out the news,” said Jennie. “Turned out the truth was best. When old Charlie said she was stiff, I knew how close he’d come to catchin’ us. I can just hear the valley buzzin’ now, if ye’d paid me any mind at all.”

“Jennie, I just don’t feel right about takin’ that money,” said Martha. “There’s Belle. Shouldn’t she be told?”

“Belle!” scoffed Jennie, sputtering with disgust. “Marthie, are ye after gittin’ queer? When was it ye last heard from Belle?”

“Never heard from her since she left,” Martha answered sadly.

“How can ye give her money, then?”

“I could git her address all right. Are you sure, Jennie? Are ye sure it’s not wrong what we’re doin’?” Martha was pale.

“Tell ye what,” said Jennie, closing the pantry door behind her. “Tell Father MacGillivray — about everything, just like it is. Everything now, mind ye, and see what he says. Trouble is, he’ll want a chunk of the money fer somethin’.”

“Helen was a lot of care for over a year now,” Martha sighed, as she took the roll of notes from her bosom. “I guess I have this comin’ to me. Here’s fifty fer ye.”

“No!” said Jennie firmly. “That’s yers. I only want ye to keep it.”

Jennie pursed her lips. “Poor Helen’s troubles started with that Belle of hers. Wouldn’t leave her in the Home. Oh no! Paid fer her sins with the rest of her life. She gave up everything fer that baby. If she didn’t have Belle, she could’ve found a good man and got married. Then fer Belle to run off as soon as she could make her own way and leave you to take care of her mother. Didn’t even have the decency to write. If I was you, I wouldn’t even bother to tell her Helen was dead.”

“But Helen cared fer her.” Martha shook her head.

“And how do ye know?” Jennie was not to be stopped now. “Helen didn’t see her in years. Ye took care of her after she come back. Ye put up with Willie grumblin’ and hollerin’. I heard him from over home, rantin’ and carryin’ on.”

“Jennie, I want ye to take this fifty,” said Martha, trying to change the subject. “I wouldn’t feel right if ye didn’t.”

“Well, if it’ll make ye feel any better. I didn’t expect it, mind ye.” Jennie stowed the bills safely in her bosom.

“Ye’ve always been a good neighbour, Jennie,” said Martha as she finished buttering the biscuits. “I’d be after goin’ foolish by now, only fer ye.”

“Will ye be all right now fer a while? I mustn’t stay no longer. The ol’ man’ll be after blowin’ the top of his head, bein’ there’s no supper fer him. We’ll both be back after we’ve ate,” said Jennie, as she put on her shawl.

The day of the funeral passed. And day after day, Willie searched the house. He tore the bed apart, he emptied boxes and drawers. Martha often caught him looking at her with his mouth shut tight and his eyes almost closed. The search went on.

Martha bought new dresses for the girls and one for herself. She hung new curtains in the kitchen. A parcel came from her cousin Frannie down in the States, with the usual things all too large or too small for the children. Martha hid the contents and disposed of the box. She felt safe now.

Then one day the silence was broken. It was on a Sunday, and they were in church. Willie reached across his wife to drop his envelope into the collection basket, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her new dress. Martha watched his eyes sweep over her and on to the girls at the end of the pew. Between her “Hail Mary’s” she whispered to herself, “Here it is — here it is.” Willie’s jaw was set hard.

After Mass, they all got into the rig for the journey home. Willie flicked the horse with the reins; leaning over so as not to splatter the rig, he spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into the light snow.

“New dresses ye and the girls got on?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Frannie sent a parcel?”

“Yes.”

They drove home in silence.

That night after supper, Martha pulled her shawl over her head and waded the river to Jennie’s place.

“Jennie,” said she, almost in tears, “I believe Willie’s caught on.”

“How?” asked Jennie, lowering herself into the comfort of her old rocking chair for support.

“The way he looks at me, when he looks at all. And he noticed the dresses — and he asked about them. I was lucky. Frannie’d sent a box, and when he asked about it, I said ‘Yes.’” Martha shuddered. “What if he’d not asked just the way he did?”

“What d’ye mean?” asked Jennie. “Which way did he ask?”

“He just said, ‘Frannie sent a box?’ What if he’d said, ‘Did Frannie send them things?’ What would I have said then?”

“Yeh! Ye and yer conscience!” Jennie went over to the stove to get the teapot. “Twould only have been a white lie if ye did say yes. Ye’re the one as should get the money anyway. That shouldn’t be no sin. If you said the Act of Contrition right away.”

“He’d know I was lyin’.” Martha left her tea untasted. “I was never one to lie. I just couldn’t do it. Oh! I’m after wishin’ I never started this thing at all.”

“There, there, now, drink yer tea and quit worryin’. Perhaps he’ll not be after askin’ ye more questions at all.”

Jennie was wrong. At dinner next day, Willie loaded his fork with herring and potatoes and pushed it into his mouth.

“Them curtains,” he said, with his mouth still full. “New, ain’t they? And the kids’ overalls?”

“Yes,” Martha answered.

“Sooooo, Frannie sends all new things now?” Willie grabbed the backbone of the herring, scraped off the flesh and threw the bone down on the table. “Musta come into money. Couldn’t be Helen’s money bought them now, could it?”

Martha didn’t answer.

Willie didn’t expect her to.

Winter storms came early that year. Within two days the snow was well over three feet deep, and it kept on falling. Martha looked out at the sheep. Their wool was long. They seemed to love the cold. She watched them come out of their shelter to feed at the rack, to eat snow, and to mill about. When the storm abated, she put on her warmest clothes and went out to talk to them and stroke their heads. Willie watched her from the window, but turned his back when she entered the kitchen. Willie stalked through the house from win-dow to window, cursing as he went. He shovelled paths that filled in behind him. Martha crouched over her catalogues. She bought for everyone. Willie’s gumshoes showed holes through the patches. Martha bought him new ones. She made heavy woollen pants for him to wear in the woods, and a cap with earflaps. Willie accepted everything as if it were customary. He did not even blink when he saw new coats on the women folk.

Storm followed storm. Groceries ran out, and when it was possible to get to the store, everything was bought on credit. In the spring, when the timber was hauled out of the woods and the trucks loaded for the mill, the bills were paid. But when this spring came, the storms never abated. And spring held no hope, for there was no timber cut for loading.

For a long time past, Willie had taken his bed privileges without word or warmth. More than once, Martha had been on the point of telling him about the money and comforting him that all was not lost — that they could meet their bills. But she found herself unable to speak.

Martha spent most of her days with the sheep. It was lambing time.

“Cummina Hashen,” said Jennie, leaning over the sheep pen. “I thought this would be where I’d find ye.”

Martha smiled. “There’ll be a storm for sure with ye comin’ out,” she teased. “Come on in. I been out here day and night since the little lambs started comin’.” She held up a newborn lamb. “He wasn’t breathin’ at all at first. He came round though,” she said, stroking the baby lamb gently.

“Martha,” Jennie called. “Come and give me a hand. Seems I’ve hung me big arse up on a barbed wire.”

Martha set the lamb down and hurried over. For the first time in months, she laughed. “If you only knowed how funny ye look there in them wires, both arms swingin’ like a lobster, yer feet hardly touchin’ the ground, and yer rear end hoisted up in the air like a straw tickin’ out fer airin’ in the spring.”

And they laughed until they could laugh no more, and wiped their eyes.

“She was a bad winter,” said Jennie. “The ol’ feller nearly drove me outta me mind. In the house all the time, pickin’, pickin’, pickin’.”

“I know what ye mean,” said Martha, with a sigh. “Willie’s after buttonin’ hisself up inside fer nearly two months now. Talkin’ to no one except when he has to, or to give someone the what for.” She picked up her latest lamb, and they started toward the house.

“Ye didn’t tell him anything, did ye?” asked Jennie, peering into her friend’s face.

“Ye old fraud, ye!” Martha laughed. “That’s what’s been on yer mind since ye came. No! Not that I hadn’t a mind to tell him more than once. Just to see if he’d come out of it, knowin’ the bills could be paid. But every time I started, he’d look at me as if there weren’t nobody there, and I got tongue-tied. If he keeps on like this though, I’ll have to tell.”

With the aid of Larry, Willie repaired the ravages of winter.They spread manure on the fields and put in new fence posts. The shearers came and garnered the wool crop. Willie piled the bags of wool onto the truck-wagon, took Martha’s list of groceries, and went to town.

“It’s good Willie’s gone to town,” Martha said to the children. “Pray God he’ll be after comin’ back in better cheer.”

That night in bed, Martha felt that Willie turned to her for more than hasty relief. She ventured a question.

“Why didn’t ye manure the plowed field?” she asked.

“How?” Willie answered in an icy voice.

“Won’t it be too late if it’s put off much longer?”

“No!”

“No? How’s that, Willie?” Martha insisted.

“No need breakin’ me back manurin’ a field there’s no seed fer.”

“Won’t the wool buy the seed?” Martha could feel his body stiffen, but at last she had him talking and she intended to keep him talking.

“There’s bills, woman! How is it ye’re buttin’ into man’s business?” From Willie, that was enough. Martha lay quiet. But Willie did not seem anxious to let the conversation stop there.

“Course, there’s one thing more I could do.”

“Why don’t ye, Willie?” said Martha eagerly. “Twould be a sin to let the field lie fallow.”

“That’s right. And it plowed and all. I’ll do ’er tomorrer.”

“Do what? What is it ye’ll be after doin’ tomorrer?”

“Gittin’ a buyer fer the sheep.”

“The sheep!”

“Yeah, the sheep!” There was no mistaking the smugness in Willie’s voice.

“Willie, how much d’ye have to have? Fer the seed, I mean. Perhaps I could git the money, and you’d not have to sell the sheep —” Martha’s voice broke. “The wool crop each year is a big help, and the little lambs . . . .”

“It’s meself that knows how much of a help the wool and the lambs be each year, but a man can’t leave his horses and cows to starve either. I’ll be goin’ to town again tomorrer to see about a buyer.”

“Willie! It was meself that got Helen’s money! Ye could have it. No need to sell the sheep!”

“I know ye had it, woman, all along. How much?”

“Ye didn’t ask me before.”

“Didn’t have to. How much have ye got after the spendin’ spree ye’ve been havin’ all winter?” There was no softness in Willie’s voice.

“There’s six hundred left. That should pay up everything and be enough over fer the seed.” Martha waited.

“Git the money and give it here!” said Willie, striking a match and lighting the lamp beside the bed.

“Right now? In the middle of the night?”

“Course, now! It may be I’ll be after leavin’ afore ye gits up, come mornin’.”

Martha leapt up from the bed and went to her ragbag in the corner beyond the old chest. Out of its depths she took a knotted rag and handed it to Willie. In the flickering lamp light, she watched him count out five hundred and eight dollars. Martha smiled secretly. What did money matter? She was free from guilt now, and her sheep would be safe.

Willie was gone by daybreak.

At about ten o’clock, Jennie came over the river. “Well, I must say ye looks happy this mornin’,” she said, sitting down in her usual chair. “The ol’ fella sleep with ye last night?”

Martha blushed and Jennie chortled. “Ye’re blushin’, Marthie. Ye know, I ain’t sure it ain’t a downright sin fer a woman yer age to be still as pretty as ye are, when ye blush.”

“Ye’re an old fraud, Jennie.” Martha threw her head back and laughed. But Martha was not accustomed to laughing, and it seemed as if the sound of her voice startled her. “Don’t know if I could stand things if ye and yer jokes wasn’t around to put some life into the world.”

“Why? What happened?” said Jennie. She wasn’t teasing now.

“Ye’re gonna take me fer a fool, but I gave Willie what was left of the money. He was gonna sell the sheep!”

Willie was back by noon. He had never returned from town so early before.

“Give the horses a drink,” he shouted to Larry, “and some feed. Then git the harrow out. I’ll be needin’ ye, so don’t go away.”

And Willie went in for his dinner.

Martha took up the food she’d left warming in pots at the back of the stove, and sat beside him with a cup of tea, watching him as he ate.

“Ye had a quick trip, then,” she said.

“No need fer talk with all the work that’s to be done.”

“Ye got the seed with the money?”

“Yeh.” Willie was in rare good humour. “Seed and some fertilizer. New stuff. S’pose to sweeten the land.”

Martha watched him as he walked down to the barn. She saw the loaded truck-wagon and turned to her work. There was no one in the house to hear her singing. Willie had bought apples and some raisins. She’d bake him a pie. Apple and raisin pie was his favourite. Might as well make nice fresh biscuits too, long as she was at it. Martha’s nook of a pantry was tiny and without a window. What light there was came in through the doorway. The flour barrel furnished a stand for her breadboard, and the three small shelves above held her spices. She neither saw nor heard the men arrive. They didn’t come any further than the barn.

Willie and the children talked all through supper. Willie praised the children for their help. He praised Martha for her cooking.

“Marthie, ye’re a wonder! Me favourite pie! Guess there ain’t no one can make apple and raisin pie like yer granma, kids,” he said. The children smiled nervously. They knew something they didn’t understand was going on. It was Larry who spoke. “Will them fellers be takin’ the sheep to town?” “No, Son. They’ll be takin’ them to Sydney. They’ll be slaughtered there.”

In the field beside the old apple tree, Martha wept. She wept tears for today — for yesterday — for the whole long winter. For her whole life. When there were no tears left and the sun had given the day its last embrace, she got up, straightened her shawl, and walked slowly down to the river. On the bank, she unlaced her shoes, tied them together, and hung them around her neck. She stepped into the cool water. The sharp rocks bit into her bare feet. She didn’t feel them. On the other side, she sat down and slowly pulled her shoes back on. It was there Jennie found her.

“Cummina Hashen! I was just startin’ over to yer place. Bein’ ye’ve come to mine, all the better. What’s the matter, Marthie? What’s wrong? Ye sick? Ye look that white and peaked! Here. Let me help ye up to the house. The ol’ man’s gone off fer to see can he git a deer. We can talk it all over on a cup o’ tea.”

Martha didn’t move.

“Willie sold the sheep,” she said. “Behind me back it was — while I was bakin’ him a pie — special. And me thinkin’ they was saved.”