Ana knew the effect the smell of the coffee would have, and smiled when she heard Paul stir behind the curtain. A few minutes later, he walked up behind her, put his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck gently. “You feel like a porcupine, you know that?” She giggled.
He pulled his face out of her hair.
“No, don’t stop. I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
Paul went back, and this time he buried his face in her neck and huffed a mouth full of air through his pursed lips, shaking his head.
Ana scrunched her shoulders with pleasure. “Now quit that. I’ve got work to do.” She glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping children.
Paul slapped her lightly on her behind. “I’m going to hold off on the coffee till I’ve taken care of the cow. I want to really enjoy that cup.” He put his coat on and went out the door.
Ana gathered the ingredients and mixed a piecrust. Half of the dough she rolled and laid in a pan, then she flattened the rest before she went to the stove. A wisp of steam followed the lifted lid as she tested the plumping dried apples. She’d decided on this treat earlier that morning when Paul’s soft moans and thrashing had roused her. She’d gotten up, set the apples to soak on the stove and gone back to bed. Now they were ready and she carried the pan to the table and dumped the fruit into a bowl. After adding a scant cup of crushed sugar, a handful of flour, and a teaspoon of cinnamon, she mixed the fragrant ingredients thoroughly.
In a few minutes, she’d finished and pushed the pie away from her, into the middle of the table. Beautiful, she thought proudly, just what we need today. Along with the pie-dough scraps, arranged in the bottom of a skillet and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, she put the pie in the oven. “Good job,” she said with a sigh, and rubbed her floury hands on her new apron. She felt eyes, and looked up to meet Simon’s as they peered over the edge of his bed. A contented smile wreathed his face, and she felt a rush of love for her oldest boy.
Paul came in with the milk bucket and set it down by the door. He carefully took off his coat and hung it on a peg, then took four eggs out of each pocket and presented them to Ana, one at a time.
“Things are looking up.” He chuckled. “Leastwise, the chickens seem to be happy.” He sniffed the air. “Smelled them apples when I got up. Could it be we’re having pie this evening?”
“If you’re good and don’t stay underfoot all day, you just might,” Ana said. “With the sun shining and good weather facing us, I thought I might get the children in the tub today.”
Bathing wasn’t bad in the summer when she could put the children in the sun to dry off and stay warm. In winter, it turned into a real chore. She put her washtub on the stove and looked at Simon. His scowl had told her what he thought of the idea when she’d mentioned it, and she didn’t blame him. At least they were able to get well water now and not have to melt snow. Simon started out the door with the bucket.
Simon was her appointed dryer. When Ana finished with the squirming Abbey, she draped the towel around the baby’s back, and pairing the ends together in front, lifted her from the tub. Then she swung her in the improvised sling, and after a couple of turns around and several squeals of delight, she deposited the tiny girl in Simon’s lap, to giggle and squirm some more. Ana figured they all did it because they thought it irritated him, and that was the way Simon played the game. He hollered, threatened and rubbed, until Abbey, pink, warm, and dry, sat on the bunk bed wrapped in a blanket; her turn to sit and watch the next victim. Ana pointed at Abe.
Simon came last, which meant the water, now a light-gray color, would be cool, almost cold. Starting over with fresh water was too much to consider, so he climbed into the tub, settled down with his knees poked out and submitted to her scrub brush. He acted like it was torture, plain and simple. But, finally, thoroughly scrubbed, Simon stood up in anticipation of his turn in the towel swing. He’s so skinny with his ribs sticking out. He rested his hands on his bony hips. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath, and threw the now-soggy towel around his back and just under his butt. She gathered the ends for a good grip, and when Simon leaned back, Ana lifted.
The piercing stab to her belly jerked her body stiff with one violent spasm. She let loose of the towel, powerless to catch Simon as he crashed to the floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she looked down to see him half in and half out of the tub. Water flew everywhere as the frightened boy bolted across the space to the bunk bed. The walls of the soddy spun around her and she fell. Struggling to remain conscious, she pushed herself partially upright on the muddy floor, and the children started to wail, all at the same time.
Small hands gripped her shoulders, and then she was sitting upright on the floor. She tried to get up and another dagger of pain shot through her belly. Rolling to her knees, her hands slipped on the muddy floor. Simon stood to help her to her feet. “I need to sit down,” she said and moved the three steps to the table where Simon pulled out a chair. Gingerly, she took a seat, fully expecting another assault on her body. “Get dressed and go find your father. I think he’s with Mr. Mace.”
Simon frantically scrambled to get his wet feet into his pants. Not pausing to put on socks, he stamped his feet into his shoes, grabbed his coat, and ran out.
Ana sat at the table and anxiously watched the door while the children sat quietly on the bunk beds and watched. Several minutes passed, and then Ana was startled by a knock on the door. Expecting Paul or Simon, she was unsure what to do.
The knock came again. “Hello? Mrs. Steele? It’s Irene Kings-ley.”
“Come in. Please come in.”
The door opened and Irene Kingsley stepped into the room. Ana knew who she was, the judge’s wife, and had spoken briefly to her a time or two at the store, and seen her at church. Comely and well-dressed, but not pretentious, she looked old enough to make Ana wonder why she had a daughter as young as Sarah. Ana liked her. “Hello, Mrs. Kingsley.”
Mrs. Kingsley came to the table. “What’s wrong? Simon told me you fell and were hurt.”
“I didn’t mean for him to trouble neighbors. I told him to go get his father.” Ana attempted to get to her feet.
“Don’t you get up.” Mrs. Kingsley moved to Ana’s side. “You sit still. I saw Simon coming up the road like the devil himself was after him. I made him stop and tell me what the matter was.” She took off a long woolen overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair.
“I’m not sure what happened,” Ana said. “I was bathing the children when I suddenly felt weak as a kitten. Then a most awful pain came to my belly, and I couldn’t stand. Simon helped me into this chair and went for his father.”
“Have you had another pain?”
“No, I seem to be okay. It just kinda give me a fright. I’m sorry Simon troubled you, Mrs. Kingsley.” Ana glanced down at the half-empty tub of gray water.
“Please call me Irene, Mrs. Steele. Can I call you Ana?”
“Of course, Mrs. Kingsley.”
“Irene.” The judge’s wife smiled. “I’m not surprised you were frightened.” She paused for a moment. “Can I ask you something a little personal, woman to woman? Please say no if you don’t want to talk about this.”
“Yes, I’m expecting.”
“Oh, dear. Are you far along?”
“About four months.”
“Are you still feeling all right? Is there anything I can get you?”
“I seem to be all right, not even light-headed now. I think I’ll be okay. Just a spell.” Ana grasped the back of the chair and stood. “It was very nice of you to come see what was happening. That’s a long walk.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No, really, I think I’ll be all right.” Ana let go of the chair. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“Please, let me do something.” Irene looked at the four children. “Can I dress the smaller ones?”
“You can get them the cinnamon treats. They’re in the warmer.”
Irene went to the stove and removed the skillet. The treats, gold-colored with puffy spots all over, glistened with a glaze of melted sugar. The smell and the sight of them had the children’s full attention, and Axel and Abel made a move to climb off the bed.
“You two stay right there,” Ana ordered. “I have to get clothes on you before you start running around.” She walked over to the bed.
The door banged open and Paul rushed in, his face contorted with worry. “Ana?” he gasped, obviously out of breath. He rushed past Mrs. Kingsley. “What happened?”
“I seem to have had a little spell or something. I’m okay now. Mrs. Kingsley came over to see if she could help.”
Ana looked past Paul at the door. “Where’s Simon?”
“I’m afraid . . . I kinda left him . . . behind a bit. He’s coming.”
“Hello, Mr. Steele, I hope I’m not intruding,” Mrs. Kingsley said as she returned the skillet to the stove.
“Not at all, Mrs. Kingsley . . . it’s very good of you,” Paul said, still breathing heavily. “Are you sure you’re . . . okay, Ana?” Paul asked.
For the first time she noticed the mud on her hands and skirt. “Other than being a little muddy, I’m all right.” Then she looked again at the tub of water, and winced at the mess around it. Suddenly, she became acutely aware of the judge’s wife’s presence and the state of her house. She felt her face flush, and that triggered another emotion, the shame of being ashamed. She turned quickly and started to dress Axel.
“Can I do anything else?” Irene offered.
“No, Mrs. Kingsley, we’re all right now,” Paul said. “Thank you again, very much. It’s nice to know we have such a good neighbor.”
“Very well, then, I’ll be going. I am so glad you’re okay, Ana. It’s nice to see you at the store. We should get to know one another better.” Irene gathered her coat from the chair.
Ana could only nod, still feeling the effects of her embarrassment. Paul opened the door for Mrs. Kingsley and Simon charged in, looked around frantically for his mother, then hurried over, and grabbed her waist.
“Ma, are you all right?” Simon asked, his face pinched with worry. “I was scared.”
“I’m just fine. I had a spell. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m okay now.”
“Oh, Ma,” Simon gasped, his voice cracking. He buried his face in her side and clutched her tightly.
Ana stroked his hair for a moment, then patted him on the head before seeing Irene Kingsley out.
As she closed the door, another shot of pain started in her back, gripped ferociously, and then subsided. She took several small panting breaths, turned back to her family, and forced a smile.
Ana drifted on the edge of consciousness in the late afternoon. She wasn’t used to sleeping in the day, but the episode of that morning had tired her more than she thought it could. Paul had taken the children down to the river and told her to rest. Her eyes kept popping open as the thought of what the pain meant kept creeping into her mind. She’d seen many miscarriages, and knew it was just a matter of time. Thy will be done, she prayed silently to ease her fear and closed her eyes again. Then the contractions came, sharp and savage, until what could not be, was. She did not even try suppressing the tears, and let her grief fill the small space. Afterwards, she sat on the edge of her bed and sobbed until her gaze fell on the small bed where her youngest slept at night. Then, with one last shuddering gasp, she forced her mind to accept her loss, and she slept.
As soon as Paul and the children returned, the sorrow she tried to hide could not be denied. He hugged her while she whispered reassurance in his ear and the children watched; simple smiles on the faces of the younger ones and a worried look on Simon’s. The trauma of the morning had to be put behind them, and Ana’s gaze settled on the apple pie in the middle of the table, uncut, beautifully brown, with streaks of caramel where the sugar juice had leaked out of the cuts in the crust.
“Paul, I want you to go to the cowshed and get that chicken,” Ana said. He’d left the hen there when he’d moved the rest back into the coop about two weeks earlier and seen yolk on her beak—an egg eater. Paul headed outside, Axel hot on his heels.
Chicken, mashed spuds and gravy, biscuits, candied parsnips, milk, and apple pie with cream. Ana grabbed the water bucket and handed it to Simon. “Go fill that about three-fourths full, and put it on the stove. Then go to the cellar and get about seven big spuds, and a few parsnips.”
She went to the storage shelf and got the bag of flour Ruth had sent. A loaf of sourdough bread would have been better, but that was an all-day job. Tomorrow maybe. She started to make soda bread.
Simon came in with the water, and she pushed another piece of sycamore into the firebox before setting the bucket on the stove. Simon went out again. Ana mixed four cups of flour, four tablespoons of sugar, a teaspoon and a bit of soda and some salt, then cut in half a cup of butter and a generous cup of buttermilk for the soda to work on. Kneaded a dozen times, she flattened it out in a greased skillet, cut the traditional “X” in the top, and put it in the oven.
Next, she prepared the chicken. After plunging the headless bird into the hot water, she stripped the feathers off. That stank. Plucked, the fine downy fuzz had to be burned off in the flame of a cornhusk torch. And that stank. Then, a slice around the bottom of the breastbone and all the way down to the legs opened the body. Reaching inside, she carefully grasped the innards and pulled them out. And that stank most of all. Ana did not like doing a bird.
For the next two hours, she busied herself with the special meal, and filled the sod house with a heavenly aroma. She’d done the chicken the way Paul liked it best, flour-coated with some salt and pepper, and cooked slow in the heavy covered frying pan. The skillet now held the perfectly smooth gravy she’d whisked together. Axel, Abel, and Abbey all perched on the bench against the wall, their eyes fixed on the plate of chicken in front of them. With everything ready, Ana put the gravy on the table, and after removing the bread, put the pie in the warmer.
She called Paul in from outside, and he sat down to give the children his bless-this-food look. Down went five heads, three with furtive sideways glances at their neighbor while Eric busily worried a nicely browned wing tip.
“Lord,” Paul began, “we invite You to our home as we share Your bountiful gifts. We give all thanks to You for our health, our safety, and this food. Bless this to our bodies. For all things we are grateful. We ask Your blessing in—”
A loud, firm knock on the door interrupted him. Everybody looked up, first at him, and then at the door, before he deliberately bowed his head and finished. “We ask Your blessing in Jesus’s name, Amen.”
He got up and opened the door to a very tall, slim, older man dressed in a long, black coat, matching pants, a black, short-brimmed felt hat and dusty black boots—quality clothes.