Baking is easy, you just have to hate yourself
enough to ride your bike through a predawn Midwestern Town
getting attitude from women in new trucks
getting your overalls caught in your spokes.
You have to turn on the radio, get something cold to drink, and
if you feel humanistic, wash your hands.

It is summer and the world smells like
a cornflake holocaust and
you forfeit your summer mornings which
like to slowly melt away, from leisurely sleep into
newspaper breakfasts at one of the Cornhusker Highways'
finest roadside eateries, to unneeded shopping expeditions or
trips by car tot eh river, where someone who
knows you too well will read your Tarot cards
and say
"you're much too brilliant to work"

But waking from staring at some strange
composite of dreamed images at
a cheerless hour
you will begin to know the
historic misery of bread --
its fever which overwhelmes the air,
its pasty beginning half smeared across
your hands, your apron and shoes

But you will rise early enought o know
small glories as well, like perfect
domes golden-brown in batches
and a free pint of Newcastle shortly
after noon, before the bath, and
of course,
the nap.

Mindy's den was the only cool place that summer.
We sat in the dark, listened to the window unit churn.
It blew icy drafts, pastin gour damp curls
like cool
cucumbers to our faces.

We drank our lemonade so slowly, stalling.
Each sip was a countdown:
empty glasses meant expulsion.

Once outside, we waded through humid air,
succumbed to the promise of comfort
sung by the sirens in the shade
of pines and dogwood.

So, while we could, we shared secrets,
plunked on Mindy's baby grand,
danced on her broadloom carpet,
and reveled in the splded knowledge
of what it was like to be rich.

Car Culture
[a Postcard]

Cherry red, five billion horse power, white-
wall-tired, one hundred percent grade "A"
American speedster...territorially shoved
between the sacred home and symbol of
the Native American.....this juxtaposition
must be delightful eye-catcher on the dry
mirage painting Route 66. "Pull over
honey" and "Let's play Indian for a night"
must have been rattled off inside the
dashboard-lit helm of one of these
awkwardly placed classics. Unrelenting
asphalt miles bring the ctatonic, stimuli-
hungry, coffee stained teeth, map-folding
automobile-ers tot his point. While these
far-from-homers sleep in their climate-
controlled, carpeted, and properly
furnished pseudo-teepes, some one
trudges on dry, red dirt in the distance.
These concrete teepees are no delightful
leg stretch, but more a flat tire, overheated
radiator, empty gas tank nocturnal voyage.
Every night, on his way home from
"Janitorial Duty," he struggles not to look
but finds the slightly crooked MOTEL sign
shining a little too brightly.

Thin and Happy

“I’m going to start my macrobiotic diet again tomorrow.”

He pulls off his running shorts, his T-shirt, and his underwear and steps into the shower through the pink shower curtain. The steam hits him hard. He likes clean sprays of water.

You grimace. Running your finger over your eyelids, you spread new eye shadow. You aren’t going anywhere tonight, but you have all your makeup on the bathroom counter. You try on different faces.

You hear him sing. Shutting the bathroom door, you leave him to his private happiness. You climb into bed and put on headphones. Listening to music, you think about a woman you saw at the grocery store—a plump woman with lots of hair. The woman was reading People Magazine, which flashed a headline: Why Do They Stay? The woman smiled at you. Was she flirting? Then you thought, Why DO they stay—Hillary and Kathy Lee and women who don’t get a whole lot of satisfaction, but who do get a whole lot of press?

The image of the soft woman fades when Eric slides into bed and pats your thigh and mouths, “Goodnight.”

It is a cycle: He alternates between health food diets and running, and lethargy and fast food. The change occurs every few months. It has something to do with full moons and seasonal temperatures. You know what will happen next.

His diet will have the side effect of no sex; he loses interest in sex. When you open your legs to Eric, he cowers and thinks of self-improvement. His fine, trim body deceives. Your friends admire you for having him, but you don’t have him. When you ask him about his waning interest in you, he claims that these diets sometimes make people depressed, or they make their libidos abandon them. He assures you those things are short-lived. In the end, he says, he’ll look ten years younger and live ten years longer. You’ll just have to hang on.

What happens is, you get really horny. You buy new perfume. You wear shirts with buttons opened enough to show your cleavage. As he forgives you of your wifely sexual duties, you are on fire. With painted red lips, you talk to people, unrelenting.

The music ends and you hear him snore. His hand is on your hip, flat, as if it is there by accident. He is bony at best, a scrawny chicken-neck of a man. He has bundles of energy, until he hits the bed. Then his lights go out and you dream in the dark.


In the morning you hear him pull the pressure cooker out of the cabinet. He puts on a big pot of rice—steamed, brown, grainy, and voluminous. He douses its dullness with sea salt. You think of earthy minerals, metals, and stones.

“How does it look?” You are wearing a new red dress.

He nods. He smiles. “Looks like you’ve lost a little weight.”

He leaves. He goes to work. But you think he’s been gone for weeks.


You go to work where you cannot seem to extinguish the heat. You spend too much time before a computer screen, writing in a language that the computer understands. You check your e-mail over and over again. Lifting and closing the blinds several times, you think, Do you really want the sun in here?

In the bathroom, you stick your fingers inside yourself and taste yourself, curious. You taste different at different times of the month.


You return to the same grocery store after work, to the People Magazine rack, and you see Mark, your neighbor—husband of your friend, Susan.

“How is Susan?”

He glances at your open-mouthed blouse, at your soft breasts reaching.

“Good, good.”

You notice his beer belly. His pants are too tight. You face turns brilliant, scarlet. You can’t stop the revelation, especially here under fluorescent lights. He touches your shoulder.

“Hey, can you give me a lift? I was going to call Susan. She is still at work. This way, she won’t have to run home.”

You open the passenger door for him and he climbs in, too bulky for the position of the seat. You wonder if you look like a woman in heat to him. You sure feel like one. You remember you are married. You have the naive notion that married people handle unresolved lust by taking up new hobbies, running marathons, or becoming literacy volunteers. All you want is someone to acknowledge your heat—not drown it.

You drive in silence, not sure what to say, especially with these thoughts on your mind. You glance at him from time to time. Once, he peels off one of his fingernails with teeth. Another time, he taps in rhythm to the song on the radio.

“Oh, did you hear the latest Lewinsky joke??”

He mentions something about a blowjob and you think—dear god—am I conjuring sex talk by my very being? He smiles at you when he finishes.

“Funny, huh?”

He has a little bit of hair that pokes through the top of his shirt.

“I love Chinese food. I haven’t had Kung Pao Chicken in ages.” Mark rests his arm on the back of your seat.

“Well, Eric, he’s doing macrobiotics again. He’s training for the marathon.”

“Seaweed is okay for some people, but there’s nothing like a good peach cobbler.”

“I’ll never be a runner.”

“Running might be good for your husband. But I like to eat. And drink beer.” He puts his hands on his belly. “Though Susan has been trying to curtail my pleasure.”

“Curtail your pleasure!” You laugh, “Speaking of pleasure,” You say (you love to talk about pleasure), “I like those things too. I like to eat. And drink beer.”

You pull into his driveway. You think, I’ve never done this before—drive him home.

“Well, we could do it, but we can’t tell anyone.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about.

“Sure,” You mumble. You don’t look up, but you quietly reach and touch his hand.

He laughs, “I was talking about getting some Chinese food and beer and maybe some ice cream. Before they get home. You know.”

Embarrassed, you realize your mind already raced over thoughts of kissing him. You imagined him holding one of your breasts in his callused hand, measuring something—your level of desire? The possibility of more??

“Well, I am embarrassed.” You breathe through your mouth, a raspy inhalation, “But food sounds good.”


Mark suggests you both go pick up Chinese food, which you do in a silent hurry. You bring it back to his house. Walking into his den with two bags of hot food, you see a computer and couch. On the flashing screen, you notice he has three new e-mails. You see that Susan bought new pillows.

As you watch him lick his fingers clean of meaty juices, you imagine he knows how to make love. You imagine he appreciates your warmth, you availability. You imagine him saying, “You have lines in your skin from your underwear. I like that something has left a mark on you today.”

He finishes his food, guzzles his beer. You see he will die ten years too soon.

“Let’s walk down the street and get ice cream.”


You stroll down the street with Mark. He jokingly hooks his arm into your arm and you laugh, but you don’t push him away. You almost look like an ordinary couple.

When Mark opens the ice cream shop door, the little bell rings and you see a man at the counter with his head buried in a double-scoop of something. It is Eric. He turns, astonished. Mark puts his arm around you—a neighborly gesture.

“Hello, Eric. I just happened to pick up your wife. Or she happened to pick me up.”

Eric smiles at you. He is not jealous. He licks around the cone’s edges, catching drips. You look at him, amazed. He’s supposed to be running; this is his time for running. You wonder what else he is licking when you are not around. Macrobiotic, my ass.

He pecks your cheek.

You ask, “You’re not running today?”

And why should what he puts in his mouth matter to you, you think? He never asks you to join him in his runs. You both know you move too slowly and you only hold him back.

“I already ran,” He says.

You think of what you could say, but you are not one for scenes. You prefer to simmer and then make seemingly sudden decisions.

He licks his cone. He thinks other men desire you only as much as he desires you. Empty of jealously, he looks guilty. But worse, he looks skinny.

He looks thin and happy.

Stewart's Dilemma

Ebony, someday I’ll work in ebony, thought Stewart as he rubbed the 000 steel wool over the varnished oak-stained surface of the gun rack. Ebony just like Julia’s hair…thick, black as space on a cloud covered night, black as the passage in Huseby’s Cave before I turn on my flashlight…all light disappears into her hair.

Stewart brushed the fine dust from the gun rack. He stood it up to inspect it, making sure all the rough spots were gone.

“Fine work, Stewart,” said Mr. Schneider. “It’s not every day that I get a talented student like you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Schneider,” Stewart replied. He half-turned to face him, almost flinching, waiting for the criticism that usually followed a compliment like that. But Mr. Schneider just walked to the next work station, leaving Stewart bewildered and wondering how any flaws escaped notice.

He’s right, thought Stewart. I do have talent. Most of my stuff has been much better than the other guys’.

Stewart noticed Mr. Schneider coming back his way. Here it comes, he thought.

“Stewart, I almost forgot. Come see me after class.” Mr. Schneider clapped his hand on Stewart’s shoulder, then went back to the next work station.

Stewart stared with suspicion at Mr. Schneider’s back. He looked at Randy at the next work station and raised his eyebrows. Randy shrugged and shook his head. Stewart carefully wrapped the gun rack in stiff brown paper and tied string around the package. He set it down on the floor, wondering how he was going to get it home, when the sharp electronic drone signaled the end of class.

Stewart walked to Mr. Schneider’s office, aware that all the other boys were staring at him, each with an expression of relief that he had not been the one chosen to face Mr. Schneider on his own ground. Stewart reached the door and tugged at his collar, breathing deeply. With a quick glance back into the shop, he knocked.

“Come in, Stewart,” said Mr. Schneider. Stewart wiped his hands on the back of his jeans, then opened the door.

“Come in, come in. Sit down, Stewart. I have some good news for you.”

Stewart was always amazed that Mr. Schneider’s office was so cluttered, since he insisted on total order in the shop. He glanced at the corner of Mr. Schneider’s desk where at least fourteen magazines were jumbled into a pile. Letters were set in rows down the middle of the desk and the in-out boxes had papers stacked so high they were leaning into each other, looking like a deck of cards in mid-shuffle. Mr. Schneider had turned his chair to face the bookcase behind his desk and was rummaging through some file folders that had been stacked on one of the shelves.

“Here it is,” said Mr. Schneider, turning his chair to face Stewart. “I have in my hand the application for a scholarship to the Vo-Tech up in Centerville. I think you should apply. It’s good for their woodworking and their cabinet-making courses. You could get a certificate in one of those and have a great way to make a living. You have a lot of talent, Stewart, and I’m betting that you can get this scholarship.”

Stewart looked at Mr. Schneider, his mouth wide open. He shook his head and stammered, “Gosh, Mr. Schneider, thanks. Thanks very much. What do I need to do?”

“Well, first you need to go see Mrs. Forbes in the counselor’s office and get an application for the school. Then you need to fill out this application and send it with your school application. The Vo-Tech will let you know if you win the scholarship. I don’t suppose there is any way for you to go to the school even if you don’t win the scholarship.”

“Nope. My Pa would never let me go up there if he had to pay for it. Says I’m too valuable to him on the farm. Says he’d have to pay for the school and pay for someone to do my chores for me.” Stewart didn’t tell Mr. Schneider that he did all the barn chores, and most of the field work, too.

“Well, I think you have a future in building cabinets, to say nothing of your talent for designing all that other stuff. Your gun rack is beautiful…the way you tapered the arms adds real class to it.” Mr. Schneider was leaning back in his big leather chair, his fingertips forming a tent over his ample belly. Stewart had never seen him smile so warmly. Stewart flushed a little, leaned on one arm over his knee and looked at the floor. “Thanks, Mr. Schneider,” he mumbled.

“Well, that’ll be all, Stewart. You’d better get to your next class.” The harsh tone in Mr. Schneider’s voice told Stewart that he’d better keep quiet about this, at least until he knew for sure if he got the scholarship. But he couldn’t wait to tell Julia.

Stewart spotted Julia waiting for him just inside the cafeteria door. She stood with her weight back on one foot with the other slightly forward, tapping her toe impatiently, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her purse hanging on the other. Her mouth was scowled into a pout, her eyes breathed fire. Even angry, Stewart thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

“Julia…Julia,” shouted Stewart. He gave her a hug and whispered, “Quick, let’s run out to your car. I have some great news.”

“It had better be great, Stewart Herman. I’ve been waiting here for you for five minutes. Lunch hour is half over.” Julia flounced in front of Stewart, walking with extra heavy steps that created an exaggerated bounce, her plaid pleated skirt swinging back and forth.

“Oh, Julia, I’m sorry. But you’ll see, this news is really awesome!” Stewart couldn’t stop grinning. He ran in front of Julia, catching her hand and pulled her in the direction of the parking lot.


Stewart touched Julia’s hair, lightly at first, then stroked it with firm, repeated caresses, then entwined his fingers through her curls. He bent his head down and brushed his lips over hers, back and forth, then around, adding occasional small kisses. Julia pulled back and looked at him. “Honestly, Stewart. What is this news you’re so excited about?” Her ice-blue eyes looked at him, steady and without curiosity. “We don’t have all afternoon. The bell will ring any minute.”

“Let’s just hunker down here and get comfortable.” He tugged at her waist until she was close to him, leaning on his chest. He slid himself down until he was lying on the seat, his head resting against the door, one leg up on the seat, and the other on the floor of the car. The leg on the seat found its way around Julia’s thigh, and he thrust his hips up, maneuvering her body’s contours in conjunction with his. Julia didn’t fight. She laid her head on his shoulder and traced the buttons on his shirt with her finger.

“Mr. Schneider called me into his office today. He told me about a scholarship to the Vo-Tech and he wants me to apply. He said I’d have a pretty good chance of winning it, so I can learn to make cabinets. I can’t believe it. I’ll have a chance to run my own business, anywhere I want, just like I’ve always wanted to.”

“Stewart, do you love me?” Her voice was soft and vulnerable.

“You know I do, Julia. You know there isn’t anyone else on this earth for me.” Stewart pressed his lips to her hair, not really kissing it, just absently stroking with his lips and his cheek.

Julia stiffened and tried to sit up.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Stewart tried to hold her close.

Julia pushed away from him. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t want to go away to the Vo-Tech.” Julia moved to the door and stared out the window.

“Julie. Honey. Please.” Stewart sat up and tried to turn her shoulders so that she would face him. “I know it’s far, but how else can I learn to make cabinets and stuff? It would be just for two years. You can finish up high school, then move up to Centerville with me until I finish. Then we can find a place just for us, Julia, away from here. If I don’t go to the Vo-Tech, I don’t have any other way out of here. I’ll be stuck in this dung hole of a town for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah? You’ve never asked me how I felt about all your big plans, Stewart. It’s always about you and how you feel about this town and how you have to get out of here. Well, I don’t feel that way. I love it here. My family’s here, and all my friends, too. It’s safe—it’s a great place to raise your kids. I don’t want to leave. I’ve never understood why you felt it was so important to get out of here. What am I supposed to do anyway, while you’re at school?”

Stewart narrowed his eyes and leaned toward Julia.

“You said you hated it here, too. You told me you wanted to learn to decorate people’s houses and have your own shop. You’ve got a lot of talent that way—you could do real good at that.”

“Well I lied. I just said that so you’d love me, Stewart. I want to stay here. Here! And have a family that grows up here. I know your family doesn’t have any money. Mine doesn’t have much either. But we have all of us here together, close by, my gram and gramps just on the other side of town. I love my family. I want to stay close to them. I never figured you could go off to school…I never figured it would happen.” Julia’s face was stone; she had no expression. She just sat looking out the window. Suddenly, she turned and leaned toward Stewart, her eyes flashing, her fists clenched. “So don’t think I’ll go with you, Stewart, and don’t think I’ll wait for you either.”

Stewart sat up, unable to breathe, and stared at Julia. “I have to go, Julia,” he whispered. “I have to try. I can’t look back ten years from now and wish I’d gone to the Vo-Tech. It will be too late then. If I stay here on the farm, I’ll never get away. My Pa would never let me.”

“Well, you’ll have to go without me. Nothing you can say will make me change my mind. I can’t believe I’ve wasted all this time on you.” Julia opened the door and got out of the car, slammed the door and walked quickly back to the school building, never once looking back.

Stewart sat for a moment, watching her walk away, breathing rapidly in gasps, trying to keep the shock and disappointment from pouring out of him. His fingers picked at the worn upholstery on the car seat, trying to find something to tear, to shatter, something he could break that might quell the terrible scream welling up in his throat.


Stewart hurried down the road, almost running, determination showing in the way he leaned forward and moved his arms back and forth, almost as if he were pulling himself along on an invisible rope. He occasionally lifted his head, inhaled deeply, then blew the air out in a forced gust. His forehead gleamed with sweat as he strode along. It was Indian summer and the sun was shining brightly. He didn’t need the green plaid flannel shirt that flapped along his back, protesting his hurry. The fields of corn had been harvested and the stalks cut into silage. Pieces of corn stalk looking like parchment, some with small ears still clinging to them, were lying in and around the furrows of the rich, black earth. The ragweed on the side of the road was spotted with white sprays of Queen Anne’s lace and lazy black-eyed susans. Stewart didn’t hear the honking of the Canadian geese that flocked to the empty fields looking for stray kernels lying on the ground, a pit stop on their way south. Their gray bodies and distinctive black masks formed an undulating mass, a grounded cloud moving in the warm glow of the autumn sun.

Stewart reached the long gravel driveway that led to his house. His black work boots crunched as he trudged along, passing under fire red maples and somber yellow oaks, ignoring their play for his attention as they stood proudly shaking their leaves in the wind. As he neared the yard, he paused just long enough to grab a ripe red apple from the tree next to the flower garden, still rich with bronze and red chrysanthemums. As he took a huge bite out of the apple, he bounded up the steps and swung open the screen door.

The kitchen was dark and smelled of last night’s boiled dinner, cabbage tinged with peppered ham, and the slightly sour scent of milk left out too long. The curtains were drawn over the window, threadbare enough to let small filaments of light seep through, yet thick enough to keep sunlight at bay. A wilted African Violet stood on the window sill, along with a broken teacup, one of Grandma’s last china cups from her wedding set. Stewart went to the sink and moved the soaking pot out from under the faucet. He turned on the water and stuck what was left of the apple under it. He turned off the water and, as he turned to grab a paper towel from the holder on the wall, accidentally toppled two of the dirty dinner plates stacked on the counter from last night’s dinner. Stewart cringed as they hit the floor and spun around, finally settling against the cupboard. He quickly looked at the door leading to the den, even started an anxious walk toward it. When he heard nothing from upstairs, he let out a whoosh of relief and picked the plates up from the floor. He set them with the other dirty dishes, then pulled out a chair and sat down at the table

Stewart took another bit from the apple, sucking the juice as his teeth met. He closed his eyes and chewed with his mouth open, sloshing and slurping between small swallows. He was going over in his mind what he would say to his Pa when he got home from work. It had to be perfect. It had to. There had to be every good reason in the world why he should go on to the Vo-Tech and learn cabinet-making rather than say on this wretched farm, following his Pa’s miserable footsteps. He finished the apple, stood up and walked to the back door. He opened it and pitched the apple out into the yard, placing it right on the heap of compost his Ma had lovingly nursed ever since he could remember. He looked at the yard. It was his Ma’s true love, she lavished more attention on her garden than she did her husband or her child. There were rose bushes to the east. She had already pulled down the canes and anchored them to the ground. Stewart knew she would get hay from the barn and cover them up, so when the snow came they would be shielded from the cold. She had harvested most of her vegetables. There were a few squash and pumpkins left on the vine—too small to be of any value—his mother was in town right now trying to sell the bigger ones. She worked hard to make her yard beautiful.

Stewart often wondered why his Ma didn’t take the same care with the inside of the house. He was embarrassed to bring any of his friends by and sometimes tried to clean up. There were always magazines and newspapers cluttering the den. The curtains were more frayed than the kitchen ones, and they were always closed. Thick dust floated in the air every time someone sat down on the couch, which was a pathetic gray corduroy with worn spots on the seat cushions and on the arm rest where his Pa lay his head while he was watching TV. The coffee table held a huge turquoise blue ashtray that was always full of cigarette butts, and a tier of stale cigarette smoke filled the space between the top of the bookcase and the ceiling. The few scatter rugs close to the doors were made of woven rags—his Ma had taken great pride in weaving them—but the colors had faded and stains that wouldn’t come out spotted them. The stuffing on the leather recliner was bursting through worn threads at the seams, each place getting a little larger every time someone sat in it. The TV itself was an old 19" black and white. His Pa always said it was a waste of money to spend more on a new color model. They didn’t have cable either, even though it had been three years since it had made its way out to their part of the state. Instead, his dad had formed aluminum foil over the rabbit ears, saying that was all anybody needed to get what they wanted. It didn’t matter what his Pa wanted to watch, of course, since he was usually asleep ten minutes into any show he turned on.

Today, Stewart didn’t care about any of it. He was determined to convince his Pa that he had the talent and ambition to be able to carry out his dreams. It’s funny, he thought, that right now I’m more mad than sad. I can’t believe Julia…I just can’t believe her, talking to me like that…lying to me like that.

Stewart jumped suddenly. A car door slammed outside, and heavy footsteps were coming across the gravel. Stewart rubbed his hands over his face, trying to decide whether to stay where he was or bolt for his room. The door burst open, and his Pa came into the kitchen.

“Hi, Pa,” said Stewart quietly. “How was your day?”

“Spent the whole goddam day in town at the Co-op trying to get them parts for the conveyer, that’s how it was. Wasted a whole day in town, and the silage still ain’t in the silo.” Roger Herman dropped his work gloves onto the table and walked over to the sink. He turned on the faucet and washed his hands, wiping them on his jeans when he finished. “Where’s your mother? Can’t she clean up this mess for once? This place is a pig sty.”

“I think she’s down selling her squash, Pa. She wasn’t here when I got home.” Stewart looked down at the table, took a deep breath and said, “Um, Pa, I was talking with Mr. Schneider today. He…he thinks I can get a scholarship to the Vo-Tech up in Centerville. I could go up there and study woodworking and cabinet making. I’d really like to do that, Pa.”

Roger snorted. “Oh, sure, you just do that, Stewart. You just go on up to the Vo-Tech and become a snotty cabinet maker. You know damn well I need you here. I don’t want you galivantin’ off to the Vo-Tech and me have to hire someone to help with the chores. I ain’t got money for that. You belong here on this farm—it’s going to be yours someday.”

Stewart gulped and pushed against the table as if feeling the solid maple pressed against his hands would reinforce his courage. “I, um…I don’t want the farm, Pa. I don’t….”

“You don’t want the farm,” Roger bellowed. “You don’t want the farm. Do you think I wanted it? Do you think it’s been fun for me to go out every day and milk cows and feed pigs and plow fields and watch the sun in the summer dry up everything I’ve planted, then come home to a bunch of ingrates who think that money just grows on trees, that go spendin’ it every chance they get, leavin’ me in debt up to my ass? Who do you think you are? You’re so highfalutin special that you just think you can waltz up to the Vo-Tech and make yourself better’n’ me? Who the hell do you think you are?” Roger was pacing the kitchen in front of the sink, every now and then throwing his arms up and shaking his fist at Stewart. He caught one of the dinner plates and knocked it to the floor, swore, then kicked it through the door to the den.

“Pa, please. Listen to me. This won’t cost anything if I get the scholarship.”

“It ain’t gonna cost me anything, ‘cause you ain’t goin’,” Roger crossed his arms in the same gesture that baseball umpires use when a runner is safe. “And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Roger walked out the back door, deliberately slamming it shut. Stewart sat numbly with his arms crossed over his chest, his hands resting on his shoulders, his legs stretched underneath the table. This is all too much, he thought. First Julia, now this. What am I going to do? He heard his Ma’s car drive into the yard. She usually pulled off the gravel onto the grass so that his Pa could back his car out when he needed to. Stewart could hear their voices talking outside, words drifting in through the open kitchen window. “…and don’t you go puttin’ any high and mighty ideas in his head about this, neither,” his Pa was saying. “He ain’t goin’ anywhere after high school ‘cept out in those fields yonder.” His Ma’s soft voice spoke again, but he couldn’t hear what she said. He heard her on the stairs, and then she opened the door and asked him how he was. Stewart looked at her. He saw the weariness in the deep lines around her eyes, the hopeless expression on her face. He knew how rarely she smiled and how cruel his father had been to her, often slapping her when he was angry, or if she dared speak her mind about something. He stood up and went over to the sink, leaned on it and gazed through the window at her beautiful yard.

Blinking rapidly to keep his eyes dry, he turned toward her and smiled.

“I’m fine, Ma. Just fine.”

Dirt

“Go pick your brother up. He’s plowing on the Hamilton place.”

“Do I wait at the end of the turn row?”

“Yes, just wait for him to finish the round he’s on. But don’t let him start another one. It’s getting dark.”

Her daddy pushed his chair back from the kitchen table, glaring across the meat loaf at her mama.

He said nothing. He took one last gulp of his iced tea and slammed the glass down so hard on the table that the ice cubes rattled around. He stood up and stomped away from the table.

He turned on the TV. The blare of the 6 o’clock news filled the house.

“Now what did I do?” her mama asked, but there was no answer. There never was. She sat silent at the table, pushing green beans around on her plate with her fork. She wanted to fight, wanted to yell, wanted to cry but she knew he wouldn’t respond. She wanted to break a plate against the kitchen wall just to get his attention, but if she did that he’d just put on his hat and stomp out the back door without even looking at her. The only way to win was to stay quiet, but that was just another way of losing.

So she would wash the dishes in silence, and he would watch the weather, turn the TV off, go feed the cows, come home, read and go to bed without saying a word.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Reid?”

“Can I take Ben?”

Her mama laughed. “Yes, honey, you can take Ben. But don’t drive so fast that you throw him off. That road is bumpy.”

Reid washed her plate off in the sink. “Mama?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Why is Daddy mad?”

Her mama stood staring out the kitchen window at the field of cotton. It was late July, and the bolls were starting to bloom. Soon, all the cotton fields would be clothed in white.

“I don’t know. But he’ll be fine. He’s just got a lot on his mind. It needs to rain.”

“But Mama, he’s always mad.”

“Honey, you’d better get going. It’s getting dark.”

Reid wanted to ask more, but she could tell it would be better to stay quiet. Mama was always telling her how smart she was for an 8-year-old. And Mama was always telling her she was the happiest child she had ever known, that Reid could find a silver lining in a cloud filled with hail.

Reid didn’t quite understand that one. She loved storms. She loved thunder and lightning. She loved the wind and the dust storms, which got so bad you couldn’t see 10 feet in front of you and if you were driving to town, you had to swerve around the tumbleweeds.

She loved her family and didn’t understand why everybody was so mad all the time. There was so much to be happy about. Travis was always mad, and he was 13 and got to drive a tractor. She was the one who always got stuck hoeing. Reid stepped out on the back porch.

The sun was ducking its head and diving into the earth. Reid loved that time between sun and moon, when all things were possible just after supper. That’s when she ran the fastest. She’d take off her boots and dirt-filled socks, shaking out rocks and sticks and dead ladybugs on the back porch.

Barefoot, she’d run through the back yard to the field, to a blank row between rows of 4-foot-tall cotton.

There was power in dusk. The sun sank, and she soared, kicking up dirt and imagining it bouncing off her wings. She could hear the buttered squash and milk splashing around in her stomach, and she laughed, knowing she was more alive than anybody in the world and she could fly and she could land in the garden and eat sweet corn off the stalk and run to the barn and jump on the back of the white horse and ride without a bridle or saddle, hanging only onto his mane.

She was magic, and the sky was magic and everything fit together.

But no time for running tonight.

“Come on Ben!” The burly black Labrador retriever barked in excitement.

“Come on!”

They ran to the 1965 white Chevrolet pickup, Ben clearing the tailgate with a foot to spare.

Ben was rolling around in some left-over silage from the morning’s feeding at the steer lot. He snorted in delight.

Reid took off down the caliche road. Ben, his ears flapping in the wind, climbed on top of the rusty toolbox and watched the passing fields, like a captain surveying the sea.

Reid was growing like a weed but still could barely reach the clutch. She sat all the way up, so that her bottom was barely hanging on the seat. Her boots slid on the metal clutch and brake.

Travis was reaching the end of his round. He was plowing with a cultivator, clearing out weeds growing as close as six inches to the cotton. Reid stopped 50 yards away and waited. He’s really good, she thought. So careful. Never plows up a stalk of cotton.

She thought briefly about forming a game plan. But the last time she’d picked him up hadn’t been so bad. So, she said to herself, tonight will be even better. He’ll be nice. He wasn’t really nice the last time, but he didn’t hit her, and that was progress. Reid believed her happiness could make Travis happy. He just wasn’t giving her a chance.

Reid could see the scowl even before he climbed down off the International 560 tractor. It’s a black cloud day, she thought. Here he comes. Stand your ground.

Travis wore his cap down low over his brow, the brim almost covering his dark eyes. His shirt was untucked, and his face was streaked with dirt and sweat.

“Move over.”

“No! Daddy said I could drive.”

“Well, I’m driving now. Move over.”

“No!”

He reached through the open window and grabbed her hair, yanking hard. Ben barked. “Move!”

I will not cry, she swore to herself. I will not cry. And I will drive home.

“Reid, if you don’t move right now, you’re gonna get punched.”

She pulled the keys out of the ignition and stuffed them in her jeans pocket. She hooked her arms through the steering wheel.

“I’m driving. Daddy said I could.”

The tears were coming. No, she thought, no.

He grabbed her left arm, pulling so hard she thought he would break it. He pried her arm free from the steering wheel, the other came loose, and in one mean tug, he had the door open and Reid flat on her back on the sunbaked ground beside the pickup.

“Give me the keys.”

“No!”

“Give me the keys!” Now he was yelling, and she knew she was in for it.

“All right, let me up and I’ll give them to you.”

He took one step back. She stood up, fishing them out of her pocket, and threw them into the field. They landed in a clump of blue weeds where he hadn’t plowed yet. She started running. He caught her after 10 steps and pushed her face first into dirt. She split her chin open on a rock, and she felt the warm trickle of blood.

He saw the blood. “Now we’re both in trouble, and it’s your fault. Quit crying.”

He kicked her thigh hard with his steel-toed boot. “Go find the keys.”

“No!” Her voice was muffled through the dirt.

“Now!”

He backed away and pointed at the field.

  “Go!” He started pacing, muttering to himself. Crazy girl, nothing but trouble.

Reid sprinted madly back to the pickup. She jumped inside the cab, rolled up the window and locked the doors. She was breathing hard. Ben was quiet, his dark brown eyes taking in everything. He never jumped out of the back out of the pickup until given permission.

Reid, shaking in fear, watched Travis silently, angrily, methodically picking up clods of dirt. He piled them at his feet. He started chunking them, bombing the hood and window. Ben crawled under the toolbox.

It was almost dark now. Travis kept throwing. His supper is getting cold, Reid thought. He’ll have to warm it up. The clods sounded like hailstones. She wondered if he could break the window. She covered her ears and hummed.

After about 20 minutes, Travis stalked into the field and found the keys. He twirled them on his finger.

He unlocked the driver’s-side door.

“Don’t hit me,’’ Reid said.

“Just shut up,” Travis said. “Scoot over. I’m driving.”

“OK, but I’m walking home.”

Reid slid out the passenger side. She started walking, thinking it was time to ask for a new pair of boots. These had holes in the bottom.

Travis cranked up the pickup, turned around in the field and pulled up beside her.

“Get in.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Come on, get in and quit crying. You want both of us to get a whipping?”

She got in. He had turned on the headlights. It had gotten dark fast.

“Here, wipe that blood off your face.” He handed her his handkerchief. She wiped off blood and tears. She sat in her anger and fear on a cracked seat cover. She wanted to hit him, but that never worked. Once, when Mama and Daddy had gone to Lubbock for the afternoon, she had hit him really hard on the back and made him cry. He threw her down on the new living-room carpet and ground the heel of his boot into her back. It hurt like hell.

She grinned. She could think the word hell and not get in trouble. Hell, hell, hell.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t see what’s so funny.”

“Not a damn thing.”

Reid was bold now. She’d never said damn out loud before.

He glared at her. He stared at a big, fat yellow moon staring back at him. “You’re really something, you know that? Really something. Don’t you dare say anything to Mama or Daddy. If they ask about your face, you fell down. Accidentally. Got that?”

“Damn straight.”

There was power in cursing, she thought. He couldn’t tell on her because he’d get in trouble for repeating the word.

Sure enough, Travis’ supper was cold. Cold meat loaf, green beans and cornbread.

Daddy was reading a book. The TV was off, and the house was silent.

“Where’s Mama?” Reid asked.

“I don’t know.”

Reid saw the light coming out under her parents’ bedroom door. Mama must be holed up in there, reading the newspaper, Reid thought. She wondered if Daddy had seen the blood on her chin, or wondered what took her and Travis so long to get home. She wondered why Daddy said he didn’t know where Mama was, when it was as plain as day she was in the bedroom.

She wondered why they sometimes left her and Travis alone at the house when they went to town. She got scared when they did that. Sometimes Travis was nice, and sometimes he wasn’t. Once she had told on him, and Daddy had told her to be careful about crying wolf.

Mama seemed to not notice that Reid and Travis fought all the time. Reid figured that meant the fighting wasn’t really all that bad and that getting hit was normal, at least for brothers and sisters. Daddy never hit Mama, and she was glad for that. Reid just wished they would touch each other sometimes, or kiss.

Reid went to her room and closed the door. Later, when everybody was asleep, she’d sneak out and sit with Ben in the back yard. It was almost a full moon. She wanted to talk to Mama. Maybe she’d wait until Daddy was taking his bath.          

At the kitchen table, Travis drenched his meat loaf with ketchup. He felt the keys in his pocket. He stood up, dug them out and hung them on the peg beside the hat rack.