“He could pay you,” she said. “You could work at your own leisure.”
They were sitting at the dining room table, alternately talking and, when the mood to converse left them, reading. It was early April, mild weather, patches of mugginess tempered by soothing winds, and yet the length of the days, perhaps owing to the lackadaisical approach her life had taken on, felt laborious.
“And you suggest I go ask?” Caleb said.
“Would that be so terrible?”
“I would consider it if the request came from him. And not until then. I don’t wish to discuss it further.”
He fanned the newspaper at himself theatrically and disappeared upstairs.
That night, as George readied for bed, Isabelle told him to ask Caleb for assistance in the fields.
“I thought he was still convalescing,” George said, removing his boots.
She said he was not and that it would be good for him to have some structure.
George inquired with him early the following morning.
Caleb looked at his father, then at his mother, knowingly, and shrugged his assent.
“If you need the help.”
“Well, we are doing fine, but—”
Isabelle’s glare cut him off.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose we do.”
*
Not once had Isabelle herself visited the land that had been cleared for the farm, mostly out of uninterest, but now that Caleb was reporting there each morning she began to develop a curiosity. It had been another week with no visitors—not so much as a letter from Mildred—when she put on her boots and walked out the back door. The sun touched her right away and she moved briskly, as if to outpace it. Although the expanse, bare land where once there’d been a forest, was visible enough, the sun cast a flowing cape of gold upon the field, and at first she could discern no sign of human life. She shaded her eyes with a hand, to give them a moment to adjust, and the farm appeared in the distance suddenly, with the awe of a miracle. It wasn’t the scope of the operation—Old Ox had many farms that were double, if not triple, the size—but the fact that this one had been born from nothing. Its mere existence was akin to a wonder of the world materializing in her own backyard.
Furrows, like the carefully drawn lines of a fountain pen, ran at length toward the edge of the forest. They were fertile, coffee-brown in color, and lush in comparison to the soil at her feet. She could see the four men now. Each of them clutched a hoe, with a furrow to till on his own, and none spoke, the work taking precedence. They were not beneath her, but somehow they seemed to be, as if the land was tucked into a valley under the shade of two parallel hills, safe and at arm’s length from the rest of the world.
She could make out George, could take in the long strokes of his hoe, the gentle means by which he brought the tool down and lifted it again, taking precautions to upturn every bit of soil, each swing delicate but true. The wind struck her then, and she shivered like a plucked harp string, her toes clenching in her boots against the momentary chill. She could not shake the feeling that she was witnessing something intimate. This was, she realized, no place for an observer; no place for her. She started back to the cabin and decided that she would not return to the field.
This promise was kept for only a day, though Isabelle was not herself the cause of its undoing. The following afternoon, as she lay in front of the house on a blanket, enjoying a temperate sun, visitors on horseback appeared in the distance. It was Ted Morton and his hand, Gail Cooley, both slowing as they drew near. They did not dismount until the shadows of the horses crept over her and the sun vanished at their backs.
“Mrs. Walker,” Ted said.
She pushed herself up to a seated position and greeted the men.
“I’m looking for your husband,” Ted said. “It’s urgent.”
Knowing George, and knowing his views on Ted Morton, she found it difficult to imagine that the two men might share a single concern, let alone one of urgency. But she was well aware of the one entanglement that bound them together and could surmise what had brought her neighbor here.
“He’s very busy today,” she said. “Why don’t I let him know you came by?”
“Oh, I know he’s busy. I can show myself the way.”
“Ted.”
Ted put his horse to a slow trot and Gail trailed him out beyond the cabin. Isabelle followed, trying without success to persuade them to turn around. When they arrived at the field, all four men were shirtless, even George, who was rotund in the innocent manner of a child, his gut bouncing about with each thwack of his hoe. He seemed as confused by the sight of Isabelle as he was by Ted and Gail. He stopped working as they dismounted, and Caleb and the brothers did the same.