The sun was up, all the way up already. Sylvie could hear sounds from downstairs, the boys moving around in the kitchen, Daniel’s still-babyish voice protesting about something.
It was good to be home. She had hated staying at the Uptons’ the night of the fire. Beulah Upton had tried to be kind, but her pity was so apparent Sylvie had felt like she was choking on it. She had felt so aware of the way Beulah watched the boys, taking in their clothes and hair. Sylvie cut it herself, but it had been a while and Louis’s grazed his shoulders. Next to the Upton boys and their barbershop cuts, he looked ragged and moth-eaten. She hadn’t felt she could refuse to go, though, and she’d had to pretend to take the doctor’s sleeping pills and then pretend to sleep since she didn’t like taking medicine, a skepticism she’d learned from Hugh. She had counted the minutes until they could go home.
Sylvie lay there for a minute, sun streaming in the windows, her hand on her belly. She felt the baby move. She’d been afraid to tell Hugh when she’d realized she was expecting, but he’d been pleased. “Maybe a girl this time,” he’d said with a smile. She had had a sudden image of a small girl running through a field, her black hair streaming behind her, the sun making a halo around her head.
The sob surprised her, rising from somewhere deep within, from something beyond her mind or heart. From deep in body’s dredge. Drudge. Dredging up.
She cried a little, took a deep breath, and then pulled on an old skirt and settled it just under the swell of her belly. She put on one of Hugh’s shirts and left the bottom three buttons unbuttoned. The shirt smelled of him, sweat and the faint yellow tang of the barn. She recognized that it didn’t make her sad or wistful. Nor did it really remind her of him. It was the smell of them all, anyone who worked with animals. Sweat and shit. It wasn’t particular to Hugh or anybody else. Her own father had always smelled that way, all her brothers, most of the men she knew.
Scott was in the kitchen, frying eggs for the little boys. The full basket of eggs sat on the counter and she touched his shoulder to say thank you. The little clock over the door said eight. Daniel called out, “Maman, Scott say I have one egg. I want two egg.”
“Have one, love. We’ll make a cake with the others later.”
“Cake?” He grinned, his little fist clenched around a spoon. Scott slid one of the eggs onto the plate and put it in front of him.
“I can do that,” she said, but he waved her away and put another plate with an egg on it on the table.
“I’ll need to make bread today,” she said.
“Do you know how?” Louis asked, his brown eyes wide. “Papa always made the bread.” She swallowed, hard, looked down at the plate.
“Of course, silly,” she said. “I know how to make bread.”
Louis smiled at her, reassured.
“Now,” she said, trying to keep her voice high and cheery, “I know it’s hard to think of it, but work might … work might help. What do we need to do today?”
“Sheep need to be moved,” Scott said. “And we’ll be ready to hay again soon, if the weather holds.” He looked worried. Of course he would be. How would they manage? She felt panic rise in her stomach. She would need to bury Hugh. He wouldn’t have wanted a church funeral, but they’d need to put him somewhere. How would she pay for it?
“It’s okay. Let’s do one thing at a time,” she said. “Let’s move the sheep. The garden needs to be weeded too. Tomatoes harvested. And there are raspberries to pick, lots of them. I’m going to need to make jam. We can do that today. Tomorrow we’ll start again.” She felt a little bit of peace settle over her. A farm demanded work of you. When things were ready, you had to pick them, preserve them, put them up. If you didn’t, you’d lose them forever. Sometimes, she was overwhelmed by the farm’s demands, but today, she was glad of them. They gave her a map for the day.
Scott, his blunt face inscrutable, nodded and came over with his own plate.
It was the right thing to say. One thing at a time. It would be okay.
They finished eating and she tipped the plates into the sink while the boys dressed.
Then she stood at the back door for a minute looking out across the back fields, listening to the boys clatter down the stairs, arguing about a baseball Louis had found.
The sun had cleared the trees at the bottom of the field; the birds were in full chorus already. The smell of smoke was almost gone. Instead, the air smelled of fresh grass, of goldenrod, of green, growing things.
Warming roots. Sun-addled leaf.
She and Scott decided to get some manure for the garden first. Then they’d weed and spread it around.
The day grew hot as they worked, the sun rising steadily in the solid blue sky. She told Scott to go and get them some water and got down on her hands and knees to pull weeds around the beets and potatoes. Her back hurt. The baby rolled, faintly, delicately, as if in protest.
“Maman?” Louis was there, behind her suddenly. How long had he been standing there?
“Yes?”
“There’s two men here. One of ’em’s a policeman.”