Rock Island Line. David Rhodes
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over twenty”—“Young thirties”—“Twenty-four”—“Twenty-seven”—“Forty,” they answered together.
“It’s hard to say,” said Marion.
“Age isn’t important,” said Clara.
“Not really,” said Mrs. Bontrager.
“That’s so, of course,” said Della. “What else do you know about her?”
“Nothing,” said Marion. “We didn’t really talk to her ... just sort of saw her.”
“Oh.”
“She’s . . . real pretty.”
“Oh. John said she was pretty.”
“What? He said what?” asked Lewis Neal from several people back.
“I said he said she was pretty.”
“What else did he say?”
“Where did she come from?”
“Goodness, I don’t know. I don’t remember that he talked much about her at all. He was here for such a short time. He just came and checked the freezer and the car battery, said hello and went home. Why?”
“Nothing.” Then there was a great discomfort as everyone began noticing how many had really come. It was also realized that if Della had not yet seen Sarah, she couldn’t possibly understand. Later, then they would be curious to see what she thought. And because she hadn’t, there was no reason to be there in such an overpowering number. They all left as quickly as they had come, giving excuses and promising recipes and so on. Della waved to them from the porch step as they drove away and went around back to find Wilson and get him in the house, though his odd behavior usually didn’t begin until several hours after dinner, since she had to get him to take a nap.
John and Sarah came that night to visit, arriving before it was dark. A slow wind blew through the leftover afternoon air, and was laden with peach blossom, hyacinths, freshly cut grass, sweet clover, livestock dung, old fish from Wilson’s cleaning shed, the compost heap, day lilies and a wide mixture of unidentifiable variables. So when Sarah walked up through the yard, Della thought it was only the wind and its pleasant mixture of wildflowers and earth. John introduced her. She put out her hand, and Sarah took it between both of hers. Della’s feelings exploded. She knew then that the warm, sweet smell was Sarah’s body. The touch of Sarah’s hand sent shivers down Della’s arm and she immediately jerked her own hand halfway out of her grasp, then put it back, realizing it would be rude, and snatched it back without a thought when Sarah gently pressed it. John took Sarah over to his father. Della watched as Wilson’s eyes lit up, and she went over to him and got him to take his hand out of Sarah’s by politely laughing and backing into his arm. They smiled at each other. Whenever Sarah looked away, Della’s eyes darted all over her body. Once John put his arm around her waist, and Sarah wriggled just the slightest bit into it, so that it rested a half an inch lower than where he had first put it, in the beginning swell of her hip. Della’s face flushed bright red, and she rushed off inside, returning with wicker porch chairs.
“Do you cook?” she asked, staring at Sarah’s breasts, thinking in horror that such a natural shape could only mean she used no supports; but, forcing herself to be more composed, she realized it was only her imagination which saw the details, and the outline of the straps could be seen across Sarah’s back, though there seemed a kind of indecency in that as well. No, it wasn’t indecency. But something it was.
“Yes, I cook,” said Sarah, and smiled.
“What do you cook?”
“A little of this and a little of that.” She laughed.
They seated themselves, John and Sarah on the chairs and Wilson and Della in the swing. John’s gaze wandered frequently to his father, who looked to have aged eight years since he had gone away, and who said no more than four words the whole evening. Della saw sadness creep into her son’s eyes then, and thought to herself, He doesn’t understand that it’s not so bad to be old. Then she was drawn back to Sarah by her voice, and wondered why no one else had thought she was very strange. There had been a whole yard full of people talking about having seen her, and not one had said, “There’s something a little odd about her, attractive and frightening.” I must be mistaken about this, she thought. Feelings can be wrong. And to prove it she bombarded Sarah with countless questions to prove or disprove her normalcy, looking for her to either betray herself and confirm the suspicions or absolve them.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“How old is your mother?”
“Sixty-three. How old is yours?”
“My mother’s in heaven. Did you grow up in a city?”
“Well, yes and no. We lived in Mosstown when I was about twelve or thirteen.”
“Is this the first time you’ve been married?”
“Mother! What a question. Believe me, Sarah, usually my mother’s quite nice, keeps to herself. . . isn’t nosy. . . .”
“I don’t mind, John. I’ve been married before, Mrs. Montgomery.”
“Has Mom been feeling all right lately, Dad?”
“Yes,” said Wilson, smiling and looking at Sarah. “She has.”
“Two times,” said Sarah.
“Two times!” exclaimed Della, not wanting to show surprise, but unable to hide it. Two previous marriages seemed to pretty much confirm her suspicions, in some way not altogether clear.
“I know it seems like that,” said Sarah. “It strikes me like that too sometimes. But, believe me, it all sneaks up on you so slowly that the numbers have nothing to do with it.”
“Three husbands,” said Della, this time more in personal wonder than in surprise.
“Mother! What’s the matter with you?”
“No, John,” said Sarah, touching his arm. “Listen, Mrs. Montgomery,” and she looked intently into her eyes. Della tried to look away, but felt as though she couldn’t. “I was married when I was sixteen. I had a baby. The doctor said I would probably have no more. My husband was a roofer and worked early in the mornings before the heat of the afternoon but when the surface would be more dangerous because of the dew. We lived together a year and a half. Then he fell and was dead. That’s the way they told me: ‘He fell and he’s dead.’ That was all. Naturally, I couldn’t believe it at first. Even after I took everything out of the house that reminded me—his clothes, his guns—I sold his tools from the basement and cleaned up the piles of lumber he had taken off our old garage to make a boat with. Still it seemed he wouldn’t go away, but was always just in the next room, walking around, fooling with his harmonica or thinking about buying an automobile.”
Wilson began to fall asleep, and his rocking swing stopped.
“I thought it was more than I could bear. Then my baby died, and without reason. Just one morning when I went over to lift her from her crib, she was dead. We lived on the edge of town then and I ran in to our doctor and brought him, and he told me, ‘She’s dead.’ It was a fact then. Dead. Now she could be buried. Dead; that meant she was no longer. That meant that something that had been wasn’t any longer, come and gone. And I told myself that, and tried to keep eating, and tried to sleep, and found a job in a factory, and gave the house back to the bank and rented a room from an old lady, and lived for several years like I was dreaming. Several years, Mrs. Montgomery. One year, then two, then three. Month after month, never going out, having no friends, waiting quietly with Mrs. Wokey, and sitting in my room listening to her, peaceful until she went to bed and her footsteps carried by my door, because then it seemed like I would be alone. The sound of that old woman’s footsteps was the most precious thing I had. So I always tried to be asleep before that. Many nights I would try to calm myself with