The Fulfillment by Lavyrle Spencer Read Free Book Online Page B

would lay fallow and which usedfor grazing, which section of woods needed thinning at woodcutting time, which sow would be slaughtered, which cow would be bred, which heifers would be kept and which sold.
    His decisions were not so much edicts as effects, for they were born of his oneness with the land, his simple knowing of its every need. Aaron sensed this and accepted it without rancor, even when Jonathan wrote, “Come home, Aaron, the farm needs you.” He came back from the city then, and things were pretty much as they’d been before.
    But now, hearing the iron ring of the stove lids, it seemed Jonathan called him, ringing the lids like a schoolmarm might ring the bell for a tardy pupil, and Aaron resented it for the first time.
    When he came into the kitchen it was empty but the fire was snapping. Jonathan had already gone to the barn and Mary wasn’t up yet. Standing by the range, savoring its heat on the chilly morning, he made an effort to shake off his resentment, blaming it on the argument they’d had last night. But it stayed with him while he took his jacket from the hook behind the door and shrugged it on, heading outside.
    The April morning was lost on Aaron, spring’s specialness remote from his mind. The yard, still half-locked by winter, waited for spring to release it. The transient robins hadn’t returned yet, but the ever-present sparrows twittered around the chicken coop and granary, looking for kernels the chickens had missed. Pale patches of green showed across the yard where the first brave grass had poked its way into the new season, hesitating as if reserving the right to duck back under if it didn’t like what it found. Inside the barn the cows, grown heavy and lazy over the winter, turned inquiring eyes on him as he entered. A couple of barn cats came out of somewhere to sit on the step of the big, open, east door, nosing the air and waiting to cadge their cream. Everything was the same as always. Everything except Jonathan and Aaron.
    They worked silently together, their routines meshing from long practice: filling the troughs with fodder, squatting on their milk stools, making the empty pails ring, setting the froth-topped pails aside, filling the tins for the cats, moving to the next cow. But neither spoke. The words of the night before were still between them. Aaron had too many more he’d like to add, while Jonathan had too few. Knowing they’d only make the situation worse if they hashed it over again, both remained silent.
    Mary saw them coming up the yard with the milk pails and was determined to keep things sensible. If she knew anything about these two, she knew they’d brood and stew until there’d be no living with either one of them. They came into the kitchen, mouths drawn. She was bound to set them right. Doubtful herself, fearing her own misgivings, she nonetheless resolved to do her best to restore peace among them.
    â€œMornin’, Jonathan. Mornin’, Aaron,” she said as they set the pails down.
    They answered together, but then the room was quiet again and Mary’s heart fluttered again with doubt. She went to the breakfront and got a clean dish towel, as always, and went to wet itat the sink. Aaron turned toward the cistern at the same moment she did. Any other day he’d have pumped the handle while she wet the towel and squeezed it, but today he hesitated, backed off, and left her to do it herself. She took the pails into the cool, concrete buttery under the stairs and covered them with the wet towel as she always did. Before going back into the kitchen, she placed her hands to her cheeks, then dropped them to smooth her apron and chastise herself for being so vulnerable in Aaron’s presence. She could see it was up to her to settle him down. Aaron was as twitchy as a cow’s tail at fly time.
    â€œHurry with your washing, then,” she called, coming up out of the buttery into the kitchen again.