I step onto the concrete platform and look around.  Like most stations, it's long, with benches, and signs leading to Tickets and Information, Telephone and Restrooms.  The train is in the way of seeing the yard.  I'll have to come back later for that.  Maybe after dark.  For now, I walk through the building to the street side.  I find a taxi and hand the young driver the address.

"Huh," she says.  "I think this is the old name for the highway."

I shrug and smile.  "Let's find out."

She nods.  "All right, then."

As she drives, I crane my head, looking for--what?  I realize I'm looking for a brick building with a water wheel, and wonder if that's still possible.  More likely it'd be metal now, maybe beige or gray.  In the direction of the river, I see a tall stack poking above the low downtown buildings, a confusing array of pipes winding near its base.  I ask the driver, who says, "Yup, that's it.  Been here a long time."

I turn back and watch the town center slide past (a post office, two banks, an insurance company), then a strip center (dry cleaner, ice cream shop, video store), then subdivisions.  The ones closer to town have nice trees, sturdy houses.  Farther along, the trees shrink and the houses grow, all looking as though the first stiff wind might carry them off.

I'm surprised when we slow and turn, and the young woman says, "I think this is it.  Seem right?"

There've been no fields, no green buffer to speak of.  We sit at the end of a long drive.  It leads to what might be a two-story house.  It's hard to see through the massive trees surrounding it.  I think I can see a barn off the rear right corner.  I look back at the mailbox.  It has no name, just a number.  And a plaque.  I begin to feel my heartbeat against my collar and take a deep breath.  "Yes, I think this is it."

She stops at the crest of the drive.  I pay her and she agrees to wait, just in case.  I close the door behind me, smooth my slacks, and walk toward the front door.

The house has two stories (well, many stories, I think to myself), and a porch running the width of the front.  The paint's been well-maintained, and the house appears very solid for its age.  I climb the front steps, glad to see that no one is sitting out here.  I'll have a moment to collect my thoughts.

I wonder if she'll look anything like the photo I saw so long ago.  Hell, there's no guarantee she still lives here, or lives at all.  And if she is here, will I frighten her?  And it's almost dinner time. 

There are a million reasons why this is a bad idea.  A few are propelling me backward when the door swings open, and there he is.  We stop short at the sight of each other.

He's unchanged.  How is it possible, when I stand before him, hair white and knees arthritic, that his skin is still smooth, his own hair still brown?  "Jim?"

He snaps back to himself, his eyebrows rising.  "Yes?"

I step forward and whisper again.  "Jim?"

A woman's voice echoes mine from within the house.  "Jim?"

He keeps his eyes on me.  "Yes?" he calls back.

"Jim, what's wrong?"  Her voice is very close now.  "Is someone here?"

He looks over his shoulder, then back to me.  "Uh, yeah.  Mr...."

"It's me, Jim.  Hector...from the carnival."

He steps aside in the doorway and looks into the house.  "Um, Hector?"

She appears and looks out, curious.  When she sees me, she too stops and squeezes the towel she holds.  "Oh!"  Then, recognition?  "Hector," she says softly.

"Mrs. Anderson?"  She's the right age: about fifteen years older than me, I guess.

She smiles and reaches for my free hand.  "Yes.  But call me Pam."

I nod.  "Pam."

She straightens, then turns to him.  "Jim, this man was one of your grandfather's oldest friends."  She turns back to me.  "This is my grandson, Jim."

Jim offers his hand.  "Sir."

"Jim."

We stand for a moment, until she leans toward Jim and whispers loudly, "Why don't you take his case for him?"

"Right!"  He lunges forward.  "Can I get that for you?"

I hand it over, and watch him disappear into the house.  I shake my head.  "He looks just like him."

"Uncanny, isn't it?"  She smiles.  "Come on in."

I wave to the taxi driver and follow Pam into the house.  We settle in the front room.

Pam smiles.  "I'm sorry that Jim isn't here to see you again.  He would've gotten such a kick out of it."

I nod.  "Me, too."

"But you didn't know he would be here."

"No.  I actually came to meet you."

"Really?  Why?"

I hesitate, then, "I've written a book."

"Oh?"

"Yes.  It's about you and Jim."

"Oh!"  She considers a moment, then leans over and says, "May I read it?"

I chuckle.  "I was hoping you would say that."

It's a Tuesday in August, 1938.

Pam knows this because she checks the calendar every morning.  Not out of habit, or because she's counting down to something, but to reassure herself that each today is somehow different from each yesterday, if only in name or number.  Because they've been bleeding one into the next for a long time now.  She can't remember one distinct day from 1935.

She knows a few other things, too.  For instance, she knows it's hot--she can feel the air pressing against her skin like a warm quilt.  She knows that when she returns Mr. Cooper's shirts to him later today, he'll complain (she thinks today it'll be about the color of thread she used to repair the buttons).  She knows she'll make bean soup and cornbread for dinner, and wilted spinach, and that when Roy comes home from the mill, he'll wash out in the well house, and then sink into one of the rockers on the porch.  He'll ask for iced tea, and maybe comment on the smell of baking cornbread.  During dinner, they'll speak mostly about the mill.  Afterward, he'll listen to the radio while she readies the kitchen for another day just like today.  She knows these things.  What she doesn't know, and is beginning to doubt, is whether any of them will ever change.

She wipes her hands on a towel, and decides they look thinner than when the calendar said it was July.  She doesn't look in mirrors any more; she has an uneasy feeling that she wouldn't recognize herself.  Too many shirts, too many bean soup dinners, too many lean years.

She doesn't really understand what a stock market is.  She's seen a photograph of the exchange building in New York City, and whenever someone mentions the collapse, she imagines the huge limestone structure caving in on itself.  Roy explained one time that the crash wasn't a literal one, but she knows that something terrible happened there nine years ago.

She had been eighteen then.  Young and pretty--at least Roy said so--and not quite a wife yet.  She was busy attending barn dances and harvest festivals and finding kisses under a big, yellow moon.  Her future father-in-law owned the paper mill, and one day it would be Roy's to run.  In the meantime, it would afford them a nice-sized farmhouse, several acres of fertile land, a comfortable life.  When the newspaper ran a story about financial troubles in Manhattan, she hadn't given it a second thought.  Now she's certain she isn't the only Iowa housewife to be surprised that it changed her life

Now she pulls the laundry from the clothesline and tries not to remember.  It won't do to compare how she thought her life would be to how it's turned out.  It is what it is.  She'll make the best of it.

As she's pulling her underclothes from the line, a young man steps around the side of the house.  She yanks down the remaining items and stows them in the basket as he makes his way over to her.  He looks to be about her age, and about Roy's height, though lankier.  He sees her and gives a small nod.

"Hello, ma'am," he says, taking off his hat.  He has kind eyes.

"Hello," she says.

He points back over his shoulder with one thumb.  "I tried the front door, but there was no answer."

"Mr. Anderson's at work.  May I help you?"

"Well,...I noticed your sign."  His hat rotates in his hands.

He's seen the small plaque on the mailbox that labels this an open house, a place where a person down on his luck can get a hot meal, or a bed for the night.  It's never easy for them to ask, so she makes it a very matter-of-fact exchange.

"Dinner is at six-thirty.  You can rest on the front porch until we eat--it's shadiest there.  If you need a place to sleep tonight, we have that, too."

He watches her as she speaks, which is unusual.  Most of the men who inquire look at their feet.  This man looks her in the eyes, and nods along with her speech.  When she finishes, he smiles and thanks her.  "Here, let me get that."  And before she can stop him, he picks up the laundry basket.

"Oh!"

"Where would you like it?"

"You really don't have to--uh, the front porch'll be fine.  Thank you."

"Sure thing," and he's carrying off her underthings.

She follows, then realizes she's still holding clothespins, and has to stare at them for a moment before she can remember what they are.

"Must be the heat," she mutters.

He turns.  "Pardon me?"

"Oh," she says, embarrassed.  "I was just talking to myself."

He smiles.  "Must be the heat."

#

He sets the laundry basket down as if it doesn't weigh days and years, and turns to offer his hand.

"Name's Jim Halpert, by the way.  But you can call me Jim."

"Well, Mr. Halpert," she says, bending to the basket, "here's a fresh towel.  The well house is behind the barn.  Why don't you wash off the road, and then come back up for some iced tea?"

"Yes, ma'am."  He takes the towel, then grabs his knapsack from near the railing.  He takes the porch steps two at a time and rounds the corner of the house.

When he's out of sight, she notices the guitar case he's left behind.

#

Despite her best efforts, he insists on helping.

When she finds that the ice in the icebox is almost gone, she puts what's left in the tea pitcher.  It melts almost immediately.  She finds him on the porch, freshly scrubbed and combed, and apologizes for the warm tea.  He sets the tea down and asks where the cellar is.  After deflecting her protests with common sense ("Wouldn't want your food to spoil."), he carries a fresh block up from the cellar and puts it in the icebox.  Then he fetches fresh straw to pack the space where the ice block had been.  Then he sweeps the cellar steps clean of straw and water.

He whistles the entire time.  She thinks she hears a song she danced to in another life.  She can't be sure.

She sets up her ironing board on the front porch--it really is the shadiest spot, if not the coolest--and he leans against the far railing as she irons.

"Why don't you have a seat?"

He smiles, a bit sheepish.  "I feel bad sitting while you're working.  I'd rather stand, if you don't mind."

She shakes her head and turns a shirt over.  "I don't mind."

She glances up once to see him looking out over the front lawn, his hands on the railing.  His gaze seems to travel beyond the road, even beyond town and the river, to somewhere farther east.  After a moment, he turns to her, and raises his tea in thanks.  She nods and looks back down at her work.

When she finishes ironing and bundling laundry, he straps the bundles to her bicycle for her.  Only then does he take a seat in one of the woven chairs on the porch.  As she leaves to deliver the laundry, she hears him picking out a tune, the same one she heard him whistling earlier.

#

"So, Halpert.  What did you do?  Before?"  Roy takes a second helping of soup.

"Salesman."

"Roy makes paper."

Roy looks at her, surprised that she's spoken.  "Right, well, I help my pop run a mill that makes paper.  I don't deal with the salesmen.  You're not gonna try to sell me anything, are you?"

Jim smiles.  "I don't have anything to sell."

"Good."

"I, uh...I noticed you have some good-sized crops coming on.  Do you need help bringing them in?"

Roy looks at him, appraising.  "Ever done any carpentry?"

Jim shrugs.  "Helped my grandfather build a barn."

Roy looks at him a moment longer, and nods.  "I do have some work around here needs done.  We've had to let a few folks go at the mill, so I don't have the time to do it myself.  The harvest, of course.  But also some fence work...repairs on the barn...house needs re-shingling...need to clear more land for planting next year.  I can't pay you, but you'd have room and board."

"That's all I need."

"All right.  Pam'll get the bunkhouse ready for you.  Let's go out to the barn, I'll show you where the tools are."

"Sure.  Thank you."

"Yep."

Jim smiles as he stands.  "Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Anderson.  It was delicious."

"You're welcome."

"Yeah, she makes a good bean soup."  Roy tosses his napkin on the table and takes another piece of cornbread on his way out.  "Course, you've had enough practice, right, Pam?"

She begins to clear the table.  "Right."

#

She stands in the little bunkhouse and turns, making sure she hasn't forgotten anything.  She's wiped a layer of dust off the table and washstand, and filled the pitcher there.  Brought fresh candles and soap.  Swept the floor.  She's even cleaned the mirror.

When she took sheets from the linen closet, she didn't take the ones normally reserved for the bunkhouse.  Instead, she grabbed an old set for the house beds.  The cotton is thin and soft and feels nice on her cheek.

When the men come in, Jim puts his hat on the bedpost and thanks her.  When he reaches down and runs his fingertips across the pillowcase, she blushes, and crosses to stand next to Roy, who puts his arm around her.

"Breakfast's at six.  I'll show you the fence after that."

"All right.  Thanks."  He smiles at Pam.  "See you in the morning."

Another sound to add to the list, Jim thinks.  The last few years of his life have been marked by repetitive sounds.

sorry-buddy, sorry-buddy, sorry-buddy: literal and figurative doors closing in his face.

tricka-taka-tricka-taka-tricka-taka: iron wheels on iron rails, barely covering the thumping of his heart each time he jumps into a dark boxcar.

shif-clop, shif-clop, shif-clop: the soles of his shoes through towns where the train only stops in daylight.

scree-scree, scree-scree, scree-scree: a saw making its way through a fence post.  A saw whose handle is molded to another man's hand.

A few years ago that thought would've brought frustration, even anger, but now he knows that ownership is illusory.  His showcase, whose handle had fit his fingers perfectly, had been traded for a winter coat, which had then been traded for newer shoes when that winter ended.  He's gone through six winter coats so far.

He pushes and pulls, trying to make sure the saw bites away at the wood in both directions.  His right shoulder aches, and he's thankful for the calluses on his palm.  Maybe I'll get through this fence without blisters.

When he finishes the post, he decides to carry what he has out to the fence line.  He manages two posts on his shoulder per trip, then ten slats.  Finally, he grabs the hammer and the nail bucket, and heads back out.  At least there's a breeze outside the barn.

He works his way down the fence line.  In each of the holes he dug yesterday, he places a post.  He backfills each hole, tamping in as much soil as he can.  Then he clamps one end of a slat, and holds the other while he nails it to a post.

It would all be easier with a second man, but this way he might have work--and dinner and a bed--for twice as many nights.  It's a theory, anyway.

By the time he's connected four of the posts with slats, sweat stings his eyes.  He takes off his hat, breathing deep when the breeze reaches his scalp.  Reluctant to put his hat back on, he takes a moment to wipe his forehead on his sleeve.  As his arm comes away, he hears the smack of the screen door, and sees Pam walking toward him with a metal pail.

He smoothes his hair and replaces his hat.  He doesn't have time to put up another slat before she nears, so he waits, hammer in hand.  He's more aware than usual that he stinks, and circles her slightly as she approaches to put her upwind.

"I brought your lunch," she says, still shy.  "Are you sure you won't eat at the house?"  She sounds hopeful and he almost gives in.

"No, ma'am, thank you."  He wipes his hands on his trousers.

She nods and he hopes she'll ask again tomorrow.  "Okay, well, here you go."

He's careful not to touch her fingers as he takes the pail.

She surveys his work.  "The fence looks nice...I guess."

He raises his eyebrows.  "You guess?"

Her eyes widen.  "I mean, I don't know anything about building fences.  It's nice and straight, and the posts are upright, so that's good, right?"

Her fingers are twisted in her apron.  She's out of her element, trying to compliment his work.  He can see that, and wants to smile, but manages to keep a straight face.

"Darn," he says, looking at the bit he's just finished, shaking his head.  "Now the neighbor's cows'll...well...never mind."

She looks concerned.  "What?  What will the neighbor's cows do?"

He squints.  "Well, not the cows, so much as the bulls."

"The bulls?"

He shrugs.  "Bulls can't resist straight lines.  Parallel slats.  Upright fence posts."  He looks to one side, then back to her, and whispers, "Makes ‘em, you know,...randy."

Her hands fly up to her mouth.  She looks at the fence, worried, then back to him.  She has pretty eyes.

He nods, serious.  "Oh, yeah.  Saw it happen in Illinois.  Quite a sight.  That farm had a lot of fence.  And a lot of bulls."

"Really?"

He can almost see the visions flying through her mind of bulls destroying fence in a frenzy of mounting.  He can no longer keep from smiling.

"No, I'm only kidding."

"Oh!"

"This is exactly what a fence should look like.  Or, well, Mr. Anderson can be the judge of that when he gets home."

She's laughing, looking relieved and a little embarrassed.  "I'm sure it's fine."

He feels the breeze shift to his back, so he steps around her toward a shade tree.

"I'd better eat so I can get back to work."  He lifts the pail.  "Thanks again."

"You're welcome," she smiles.  "See you at dinner."  She begins to walk away, then turns and adds, "Fried chicken tonight."

He pats his stomach and grins.  "Can't wait."

She smiles and turns back to the house, her fingers entwined behind her.

#

He sees her again when she comes out to take the laundry off the line.  When she serves dinner in the evenings, her fingers are pink and swollen.  She's offered to do his washing as well, but so far he's refused as politely as he can.  Instead, he washes his work clothes every night, hanging them to dry from the rafters of the bunkhouse.

As he nails up the slats, he tries to imagine what she might have looked like before.  He enjoys this game.  One of the things he loved about being a salesman was meeting people, and that hasn't changed.  What has changed is that the faces he meets now look old too soon, and sad too early in the day.  So he's gotten in the habit of trying to make people smile right away, and imagining a little extra weight under their skin.

He thinks her chin and elbows may have been a bit rounder, her hair shinier.  He'd like to think that she stood straighter and had a lighter step.  He imagines her dancing, pink-cheeked and smiling, at a barn dance somewhere.  Her feet skip in time to a fiddle, and her eyes shine, and when the song ends, her chest rises and falls rapidly as she laughs, trying to catch her breath.

He's watching her when he hits his thumb with the hammer.

He grips his thumb, waiting for the pain to kick in.  When it finds him, he wants to shout, or double over, or kick something, but she's still outside, so he turns away and leans on the post, his head down, cursing through gritted teeth.

You stupid sonuvabitch.  That's what you get, daydreaming about a married woman.

When the pain subsides enough that he can breathe again without panting, he bends to pick up the hammer.  Straightening, he glances toward the clotheslines.  She's been watching him, but turns away now, and pulls down the last of the clothes.

He doesn't know how to read the way she walks back to the house.

#

Roy approves of the fence so far, and when they enter the house for dinner, Jim almost forgets his throbbing thumb.  Pam presents them with an unlikely feast of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet green peas, and ripe tomato slices.

"What's the occasion?" Roy asks, as he serves himself.

"Oh, I just needed a change.  Is everything all right?  Milk, Jim?"

"Yes, please.  This looks amazing, ma'am."

She sets a glass of cold milk in front of him, and hands him the potatoes.  He reaches with his left hand, and she sees his thumb, now purple and swollen.

"What happened?"

"Oh.  Nothing.  Hammered my thumb."

Roy winces, and shakes his head.  "Did that once.  Made it a point to watch what the hell I was doing after that."

Jim nods because he can't tell whether or not it's a warning.

"When you think you'll have that fence done?" Roy asks.

"Well, I'm getting about fifty feet in per day, between digging and building, so I figure maybe four more weeks."

"That thumb gonna slow you down?"  Roy points to it with a chicken leg.

"No, sir."

"Good."

They eat in silence until Pam clears her throat.

"Jim told me something interesting about bulls today."

His fork stops halfway to his mouth.  Pam isn't looking at him, but at Roy.

Roy glances up at her, then holds Jim's eyes.  "Oh yeah?  What's that?"  He stops chewing.

Jim has a terrible urge to swallow.  He fights it.

She looks at Jim and smiles.  "He said that a grown bull can knock a fence post right over, just by rubbing on it."

Roy resumes eating and nods at Pam.  "Yup.  It's true.  A fifteen-hundred-pound bull's more'n match enough for a fence post.  How deep you puttin' those in?"

It takes Jim a moment to realize Roy's speaking to him.  "Oh, uh, eighteen inches, like we talked about."

"Well, that's about all we can do without wasting good wood."  He smiles at Pam.  "Don't worry, I'm sure Jim's puttin' ‘em in solid.  Right, Jim?"

"You bet.  Solid and straight."  To which Pam smiles and looks quickly down to her plate again.

Roy doesn't notice.  "'Sides, Freeman sold his last bull in July.  Couldn't afford to feed it."

#

When Roy leaves the table, Pam motions to Jim to wait a moment, and disappears into the kitchen.  When she returns, she hands him a flour-sack towel, full of something lumpy.

"Ice, for your thumb.  It'll help the swelling."  She smiles.  "And the pain."

She knows.  He smiles, sheepish.  "Thanks, ma'am."

She opens the back door for him.

"And Jim?"

He turns.

"After that bull story, I think you can call me Pam."

He chuckles and nods.  "All right.  Goodnight,...Pam."

"Goodnight, Jim."

Three weeks every year are marked by this ritual.  In that time, she puts away most of the vegetables and fruit they'll eat for the coming winter and spring.  She loves how her cellar shelves look when she's finished.  Hundreds of neatly ordered Mason jars attest to her productivity.  She likes to arrange them by the color of the food inside, carefully placing the tomatoes, corn, and beets, to break up the green and white of nearly everything else.

She lowers the last basket of snap beans into the water, replaces the lid, and wipes the steam from her forehead.  The kitchen door is open to the crisp outside air, and she can hear Jim stacking crates by the cellar door.

He's finishing up the harvest, bringing in the last of the root vegetables.  His back must be breaking, but he whistles, and hums, and seems...content.  The windows are fogged at the edges, and she finds herself glancing out to watch him as he works.  Every now and then, he stops and stretches his arms over his head, and she imagines he could reach places even Roy can't.

#

Sometimes they meet in the cool cellar, Jim carrying in a crate of potatoes or turnips from outside, Pam bringing fresh, hot jars down the steps from the kitchen.  She takes her time placing the jars on shelves, telling herself that she must work deliberately to avoid shattering one jar against another.

She also tells herself that she has no choice but to watch him to ensure that he puts the vegetables in the correct bins, and that he lays down an appropriate layer of straw between each load.  She has to do these things because Roy isn't here to supervise, and bruised vegetables won't last the winter, and she can't have carrots in the parsnip bin.  It just wouldn't do.

And so, each time they meet in the cellar, she keeps a surreptitious eye on Jim.  This time she notes that he's wearing his dungarees today, and a once-white work shirt, over long johns.  All of the fabric looks worn and soft, and she considers brushing past him to find out for sure.  Instead, she follows the contour of his suspenders up the center of his back, over either shoulder, and down his chest to the small buttons at his waist.  The only problem is that the buttons are inside his waistband, so she has to imagine them.  In her mind, she can see his fingers deftly buttoning (and unbuttoning) his suspenders in the morning (and evening), the muscles of his chest and arms visible against his undershirt.

He turns to find her staring at his damp waistband, the jar in her hand halfway to the shelf.  When she meets his eyes, his fingers flex on the handles of the crate he holds.  She blushes and turns quickly back to her jars.  He climbs the steps out of the cellar and she breathes again.

Weeks of steam, foggy windows, hot glass.  She wishes, not for the first time today, that Roy still took his lunch breaks at home.

#

At one point, she decides that everything would look nicer if she moved the jars from a bottom shelf to one at the very top.  She pulls out her step stool and begins transferring jars.  Suddenly, he's beside her, moving jars, reaching their new home without even lifting his heels from the floor.

"If you arranged these just right, you could make a Mexican flag."

"What?"  She looks up from his shoes.

He smiles and points at the shelves.  "The jars.  You have the colors to make a Mexican flag.  If you stand back and squint a bit.  Or you could make Italy's or Ireland's."

"Oh."  His fingers are long and hold each jar in a grip that's light but sure.  She places the jar she's been holding for several seconds.  "Have you been there?  I mean, to any of those places?"

"Not yet.  Maybe someday.  How 'bout you?  Done any traveling?"

"Me?  No.  Well, we took the train to Chicago for our honeymoon."

He pauses and she feels him looking at her.  "How was that?"

How was it?  It was her first real trip outside Iowa.  Roy had booked a sleeper compartment.  When she stepped into it that evening, she was very aware of how small it was, and wondered if maybe there wasn't quite enough air to breathe.

Roy lowered the bunk early and they stood back to back and undressed.  She turned around with an I love you on her lips, but was interrupted by his mouth on hers, his hands everywhere else.

Later, as he lay sleeping, she listened to the rumble of miles passing beneath her and wondered at the difference between courtship kisses and married ones.

"Pam?"

"Yes?"

Jim smiles at her.  "I asked how Chicago was."

"Ah."  She moves a jar, avoiding his eyes.  "Windy."

He chuckles.  "That's what they say."

When he offers her a hand to step down, she takes it.  His fingers feel warm and strong, and she decides to make spiced apples next.

They're Roy's favorite.

#

Jim finishes his work mid-afternoon.  When he comes to the kitchen door, wiping wet hands on his thighs, she finds a second knife, and he begins helping her prepare apples.  Across from her at the table, red and green strips of peel grow and curl, but rarely break.  When they do, he makes a disappointed sound and eats the evidence.

As they work, she finds herself distracted by the frayed cuffs of his undershirt, which peek out below the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt.  She wishes he would let her do his laundry so that she could mend them.  A round of whip stitches on the edges would contain the stray threads that keep drawing her eye, drawing her attention to the muscles working in his forearms and wrists as each apple gives up its skin.

For (at least) the second time today, he catches her watching him work.

He points with his knife to the apple baskets at their feet.  "I think I'm up on you by half a bushel."

"Oh."  She hopes her voice is casual as she looks at the apples.  "Is it a race?"

"Could be."

His look is a challenge.  She can feel the smile spreading on her face.

He nods.  "All right, then.  Let's level the field."  He leans down and puts some of her apples in his basket until they're even.  "Lay down your knife."

They both put their knives on the table.  Her hands rest behind her knife, one on top of the other to hide the trembling.  His are on either side of his knife, his fingertips drumming the table.

"Ready?"  He drums.

"Ready."

"Set?"  He stretches his hands and taps his index fingers on the table.

"Set," she whispers.

His fingers stop moving, are poised motionless above the table top.

When he says nothing, she looks up to find teeth smiling, eyes twinkling.  He winks.

"Go!"

She nearly knocks her knife from the table grabbing for it.

"So dangerous!  Trying to injure me?"

"Oh, hush!" she giggles, realizing he's peeled his first apple before she has control of her knife.

They laugh their way through the apples, peels and cores piling up between them.  She's breathless by the time she realizes his basket is empty and he's pulling apples from hers.

"When did you finish?"

He grins.  "About ten minutes ago."

"No!"

"Lots of practice.  My family ran an orchard.  Mom made pies and preserves every fall to sell, and my brothers and I were cheap labor.  She paid us in apple butter.  Still love it."  He puts the final two apple halves on the heap.

She brings a large bowl to the table, and begins slicing the apple halves into it.

He follows suit.  "What'll become of these?"

"Spiced apples."  After a quick mental inventory of her dry goods, she adds, "And apple butter."

#

"Good work on the harvest, Halpert.  I usually have to get two guys to bring it in."  Roy grins.  "If you aren't careful, you'll work yourself right out of a job.  Wouldn't want that."

"No, sir."

Pam smiles at Roy, who raises a forkful of spiced apples and winks at her.  She's pleased that he noticed.  About the apples, she tells herself.

When they finish, Jim clears his throat.  "Well, I'd best get some rest.  Tilling everything under tomorrow.  Good night."  He nods at Roy who nods back and heads toward the front of the house.  "Ma'am."  He still doesn't say her name when Roy's around.  It makes her feel as though she has a secret.

"Good night, Jim."  As he steps out the kitchen door, she notices how his hair brushes his collar.

She walks into the sitting room to find Roy in his chair, listening to the radio.  She walks over to it, and turns the knob until Roosevelt's voice disappears completely.  Roy's watching her as she walks to him and settles onto his lap.  She brushes a finger over the top button of his shirt.  He brings his arms around her waist.

"That was the President."

"Mm-hm."  She smoothes her palms across his shoulders.

"How am I supposed to know what's happening in the world when you turn the radio off?"

She shrugs.  "You could buy a newspaper tomorrow."  She slips her fingers into his hair.  It's curlier, she thinks, then stops thinking before she finishes the comparison.

"A newspaper."

"Mm-hm.  Say,...can you help me with something?  Upstairs?"  She kisses him lightly and stands, holding out her hand.

Jim looks up when the draft horse nickers.

"What is it, fella?"  He follows the horse's gaze to find Roy's father walking toward him.  Jim chucks the rock he's holding into the wagon and wipes his hands on his trousers.  "Mr. Anderson.  Out for some fresh air?"

The older man shakes his hand, his eyes wide.  "I think my daughter-in-law's turned into a tornado.  When I left her, all I could see was a blur of flour dust."

Jim imagines her whirling with a pan in each hand, her hair curling at her temples.  "She chase you out?"

"Oh, no.  Pammy's too sweet for that.  But the last thing she needs is an old man underfoot while she's getting dinner on.  I told her she shouldn't go to so much trouble for the four of us, but," he shrugs, "she says she has a lot to be thankful for this year, so..."  He looks around.  "Clearing land?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please.  Henry."

Jim nods.  "Henry.  Roy wants to plant more next year.  So I'm loading the rocks I can see, then I'll till and clear what that turns up."

"Big job."

"Sure."

"Then you won't mind if I roll up my sleeves and jump in."  Henry shakes his head.  "Strange not to be working on a Thursday, holiday or not."

"I hear that."

They fill the wagon with stones, working together to unearth the largest ones.  Jim brings the horse over from where he's been grazing and hitches him up.  The men walk the horse and wagon into the trees on the rear boundary of the property.  There, by a small stream, they unload the stones onto a large pile.  Henry's work is punctuated by a few short bouts of coughing.

"Got any family missing you today, Jim?"

Jim laughs.  "I don't know about ‘missing'.  My oldest brother took over the family business.  My mother lives with his family.  My other brother's in Virginia.  How ‘bout the Andersons?"

Henry spreads his hands.  "We're it.  My wife died a few years ago."

Jim stops throwing stones.  "I'm sorry."

"Oh, that's all right," Henry says, waving him off.  "I think Pam took it hardest, to be honest."

"Really?"

"Pam lost her own parents when she was fourteen.  Got caught in a snowstorm.  Terrible thing.  We practically adopted her."  He smiles.  "Martha loved having a girl in the house.  She'd only ever had boys."

"Yeah?  Does Roy have a brother?"

"Had.  He died in France.  Almost twenty years ago...hard to believe."  Henry looks thoughtful.  "Roy was about ten, I guess.  Really looked up to Will."

Jim tries to imagine a French battlefield, or a ten-year-old Roy, or the military courier who delivered the news.  More recent was his own brother's letter, the one that finally found him in Louisville, three months after his father's funeral.  He wrote back, saying a fraction of what he felt, hoping the rest would be obvious.  That night, he hopped the first train heading west, and sat in the open doorway watching the hills pass in a wet blur.

It still hurts.  He tries to think of something else, but when he does, he keeps seeing a teenage Pam waiting for her mother and father to come home, while snow howls outside a dark window.

He shakes his head and chucks another rock.  "How'd you get into paper?"

"My father.  He was a newspaper man in Chicago.  He saw circulation double in the time he was there.  That big hunger for news meant a big demand for paper.  When he married my mother, he wanted out of the city, so he came to Iowa, found a spot on the river, and built a mill.  The bulk of our business is still newsprint going to Chicago, St. Louis, Memphis, Kansas City..."

"Roy said you've had to let some folks go."

"Yeah.  We're down to a pretty bare-bones crew."  Henry sighs.  "I had such an easy time of it.  Business was established by the time it came down to me to run it.  I'm afraid I'm handing Roy a winded horse.  He's there right now."

"At the mill?"

Henry nods.  "Helping repair one of the rollers.  He'll be home soon, though."  He chuckles.  "Wouldn't miss Pam's sweet potatoes."

Jim raises his eyebrows.  "Haven't had the pleasure yet."

Henry points at him and grins.  "You're in for a treat, Jim.  Martha taught her how to make ‘em."  With a  glance at the sky, he says, "I know I should say that my wife's were best.  But Pam's are better.  Girl does something magical with the brown sugar."

Jim laughs with him until Henry's seized by another coughing fit.  Jim's about to pound him on the back when Henry raises a hand and shakes his head.

"Paper dust.  Got my dad.  Professional hazard."

Jim wonders if Roy wakes up mornings knowing it'll get him, too.

#

Roy finds them finishing their fourth wagon load.  His hands and clothes are smeared with black grease.

"Puttin' the old man to work, Halpert?"

Jim starts to make an excuse, but Henry speaks up.

"Wanted to get my hands dirty."

"Shoulda come with me, then."  Roy holds up his hands and grins.  "I've been directed to the well house to wash up.  Dinner's ‘bout on."

Henry points to the wagon.  "We just need to dump this."

Roy puts an arm around Henry's shoulders, steering him away.  "C'mon, Pop.  Jim can finish that later.  Pam'll kill me if you die haulin' rocks."

Jim wonders what Pam would do if he died hauling rocks.

In the well house, the three men strip to the waist and scrub with rough soap and rougher towels.  Henry is a shorter, ruddier version of Roy.  As they talk about the repaired roller, Jim decides that Roy's mother must have had curly hair and brown eyes.

On his way to the bunkhouse to change clothes, Jim watches Roy and Henry walk to the house.  For a moment, he can almost see the shadow of the older brother that follows them.

#

The kitchen is everything warm and rich and home.

When Jim enters, Pam is pulling something from the oven.  He can hear the men in another room, and Pam hasn't heard him come in, so he allows himself to take her in for a moment.

Her hair is pinned up in neat rolls, though a few stray curls have escaped at the nape of her neck.  She's wearing a pink dress with a lacy collar, and stockings whose seams lead his eyes up her calves and halfway to madness.  Her apron strings complete the journey.  His fingers itch to untie the bow.

She turns and drops the basket of rolls.  "Oh!  Jim!"

"Sorry," he chuckles, "didn't mean to sneak up on you."

As they crawl around retrieving rolls, he notes that there isn't a trace of flour on her.  He's not sure why that disappoints him just a little.

Her face is flushed when she gets up.  "Okay, troublemaker, off to the dining room with you.  Here, take these."

"Yes, ma'am."  Smiling, he takes the basket and goes.  She follows with the butter and takes a seat between Roy and Henry.  Jim settles into the seat opposite her.

Henry smiles at him.  "Jim, would you say the blessing?"

"Oh, uh, sure."  He looks at Roy, but he and Pam are already lowering their heads.

He clears his throat.  "Well, I'm not a religious man, but I am thankful today.  I'm thankful for hot meals, and a soft bed, and the work to earn them.  So I guess I should say I'm grateful for bountiful harvests, fields full of rocks, and fences that need to be made straight.  But not too straight."

Pam giggles.  He senses Roy looking between them, so he wraps it up.

"May the coming year bring prosperity to the mill, and happiness to this house."

"Amen," says Henry, rubbing his hands together.  "Son, carve that bird."

#

Jim knows that the food was delicious because he feels stuffed as he walks back out to the wagon.  He can't remember tasting it, though.  He was too busy reminding himself not to stare at her.

She smiled easily, and doted on Henry.  When Henry mentioned Jim's family, she prodded him to tell them about New York.  Her skin seemed lit from within as she laughed at his stories, and he knows he'd tell her every story he can remember, then start making some up, just to hear her laugh like that again.

He walks the wagon back into the trees and unloads the rocks.

#

He works until dusk drops a soft, purple veil over the farm.  He leads the horse back to the barn and wipes him down.  A chill in the air makes his own skin feel clammy, so he goes to the well house for a second time.  He shivers under the cold well water, and looks forward to having a fire tonight.

When he returns to the bunkhouse, he finds fresh linens on his bed and a covered basket on the table.  He builds a crackling fire before settling into a chair and pulling the basket onto his lap.  It has a nice weight and heat to it.  He lifts the towel to find several warm rolls, a jar of apple butter, and a note.  He takes his time opening it, then smiles.

                                    I found these under the stove.

                                    Happy Thanksgiving, Jim

It's her confirmation.  More so than the queasiness that wakes her some mornings, or the absence of blood, or the way her hands have been hovering protectively over her abdomen.

As soon as she touches her fingers to her dress, the sensation dissipates.  She closes her eyes, hugs her waist.

Please stay.

#

The days are cold and dry.  Snow scuds across the hard ground, building up on the sides of buildings and fences and autumn stubble.

Winter changes her laundry routine.  Roy moves her washing machine and wringer into the enclosed back porch.  If she waits until late morning, the sun warms the little room slightly, so that by the time she finishes, only the tip of her nose is cool to the touch.

It's chilly, but affords her the occasional glimpse of a cardinal.

Or of Jim.

He works in the barn now, for the most part, but comes outside to haul and split firewood.  Today he returns from the woods with a wagonload that is mostly deadfall trees, with a few freshly-cut ones on top.  He spends the next hour or so sawing the trees into stove-deep sections, then begins splitting them.

She watches as he stands a broad section up on end, then buries the edge of a hatchet near its rim.  He uses a mallet to wedge the hatchet in further, until the section is cleaved in two.  He repeats this process until the pieces are manageable, then uses an axe to split them.  She can hear its dull thunk through the windows.

He's wearing a coat she assumes he got doing odd jobs on Sundays, when he's off at the farm.  She knows he's done work in town to trade for postage, and for newer shoes.  The coat is secondhand, the sleeves a touch too short, but it looks warm enough.

He works barehanded, she supposes so that he doesn't lose his grip on the axe.  He stops occasionally to rub his hands and flex his fingers.  During one of these pauses, he looks toward the porch, and waves when he sees her there.

She wonders whether he knows she watches him, if he can feel it on his skin the way she does sometimes.

Each time she glances up, the pile of wood behind him has grown, until he's finished and begins carrying it to the shed on the side of the barn.  He'll bring up the household wood at lunchtime.  She makes a note to check his coat for any needed mending.

When she's squeezed as much water as she can from the clothes, she carries them to the attic.  There, where the house's heat gathers under the rafters, she hangs the clothes on their winter lines.  The fabrics are heavier now, so she has to make several trips.  When she finishes, the lines bow in the middle with the weight of wet wool.  She wipes stray fibers onto her apron, and carefully descends the stairs.

#

She smoothes her fingers over the soft, brown cotton, and sets the iron aside.  She folds the shirt, places it on top of the other two, and carefully wraps them in paper.  Instead of the twine she uses for laundry bundles, she ties the package with a length of red ribbon, untying and retying until the bow meets her approval.  She puts the package under her side of the bed and goes back downstairs.

#

On the Sunday before Christmas, Roy and Henry cut a tree for the sitting room.  She invites Jim in, and he and Henry begin stringing the popcorn she made earlier in the day, punctuating the white kernels with cranberries.

When Roy teases the men about their "sewing", Jim sits up primly, drapes his popcorn strand around his neck like boa, and claims he doesn't have the slightest idea what Roy's talking about.  This prompts Henry to prance across the room, wiggling his sturdy hips, twirling his popcorn string like Mae West.  Roy shakes his head, muttering something about skirts, and busies himself sawing the lowest branches from the tree, then stringing the lights.

As she unpacks the ornaments, she wonders why it is that these three men, together in one room, make her feel as though anything is possible.

#

After supper on Christmas Eve, the four go into the sitting room to exchange gifts.  She turns the radio on.  After a few moments, carols softly fill the corners of the room.  She settles onto the arm of Roy's chair.

Henry is an exuberant Santa.

Roy and Henry are happy with their new knitted vests, and she laughs when she finds that her gift from Henry is more yarn.  Henry gives Jim a pocketknife, and Jim in turn gives Henry a pipe.  Roy gives her a set of lotion and perfume in pretty, cut-glass bottles.  She smoothes the lotion onto her hands absently as she watches Jim open his gift from her.  He smiles, and wraps the red scarf around his neck and slips on the matching fingerless gloves.  She's pleased that she guessed the size correctly, and decides it's a good thing she looks at his hands so often.

Finally, Henry hands her a heavy package.

She opens it to find the most beautiful bowl she's ever seen.  It's made of a light-colored wood.  The surface is smooth and glossy, but it's the pattern in the grain that fascinates her.  Floating just below the surface are small whorls of darker and lighter wood.  When she tips the bowl from side to side, the whorls dance and shift in the light.

"It's birdseye maple," Jim says.  "A tree fell a couple months ago, and when I cut into it, I noticed the grain.  That bowl came from a burl on the trunk."  He turns to Roy.  "I'm planing the rest of it into planks for you."  Roy nods, pleased.

Pam imagines the hours Jim's spent shaping and smoothing the bowl, then polishing it to a soft sheen.  She can see his hands working over it, firm but careful.  When she looks up, he's watching her expectantly, his fingers laced, thumbs tapping each other.

"It's beautiful."

He grins.  "Merry Christmas."

#

Soon, Henry's yawning, and she insists he stay the night.  Jim takes the opportunity to say goodnight as well.  Roy settles back in his chair and closes his eyes, his arm around her waist.  She continues to gaze at her new bowl, turning it this way and that in the soft glow of the tree lights.  The choir on the radio sings Ave Maria.

When Roy drops off, she rises from the chair and puts the bowl on the kitchen table.  She retrieves the package under the bed, dons her coat, and slips out the kitchen door.

She pauses when she reaches the door of the bunkhouse.  The air is still, and after a moment she can hear him playing.  She listens until he finishes the carol, then knocks lightly on the door.

He's not expecting her; his eyes are trained to Roy's height when he opens the door.  When he looks down to find her instead, he smiles.  "Pam.  Oh, here, come in."

She steps inside.  The room is tidy, and the little potbelly stove has had a chance to warm it nicely.  Her cheeks feel pink in here.  When he closes the door, she smiles to see that he made a wreath of the discarded branches of the Christmas tree.  It's trimmed with pine cones and a strand of popcorn.

"I like your wreath."

He shrugs.  "Just thought it'd make the place festive, you know?"

She nods, then remembers the package.  "I have another present for you."  She holds the package out to him.

"Another present?"  He takes it, squeezes it a little and looks at her.

She can tell he's wondering why she didn't give it to him inside.  She smiles and nods toward it.  "Go ahead."

He smiles, too, "All right," and unties the ribbon.  As the paper falls back, he frowns and shakes his head.  "Oh, you shouldn't have."

He's worried I bought them, she thinks.  "I didn't."

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean, they're Roy's.  He doesn't need them, and you do."

Her tone tells him that Roy doesn't know.  He looks surprised.  "Won't he miss them?"

She shakes her head, reassuring.  "He has enough."

He looks down, as though gauging how to phrase his next question.  "But...won't he recognize them?"

She can't quite meet his eyes.  "I dyed them."

He's quiet as he takes that in, his fingertips caressing the fabric.  When she raises her eyes back to his, she can't read his expression.  Finally he smiles.

"Well, I think I should try one on, eh?"  He lays the package on the table and starts unbuttoning his overshirt.

"Oh--" Something inside her is panicking a little bit, but she's rooted to the spot, watching his fingers work the buttons, then the shirt slipping back off his shoulders until he wears just his long john shirt.  She can see the shape of his chest clearly, even a little hair through the open collar.  He picks up one of the new shirts, and shakes it out.  The muscles between his neck and shoulders bunch as he puts it on.  He buttons the front, then holds his arms out in front of him, waving a hand before her eyes.  She's startled, and looks up to find him grinning.

"Perfect!"  He shows her how the sleeves cover his wrists.  Then he puts his hands on her shoulders, leans down, and kisses her lightly on the temple.

"Thank you, Pam.  I really appreciate it."

Her skin is tingling, besides the blush.  "You're welcome."  She smiles shyly, and finds she doesn't want to leave just yet.  His guitar is leaning against his bed.  She dares herself.

"Would you play for me?  A carol, I mean?"

He looks at the guitar and back to her.  "Sure."  He pulls a chair over to the stove for her.  "What would you like to hear?"

She sits and smiles up at him.  "Your choice."

"All right," he says, sitting on the edge of his bed.  "I like this one."

He plays O Holy Night, and the strains are simple and soft.  She imagines them drifting from him to her, floating up on the heat from the stove, swirling about the rafters.  She sways just a bit, and closes her eyes.  Lets the sound of his fingers on the strings thrum through her skin.

When he finishes, she waits until the last swirl disappears in her mind's eye, then exhales, content.  "Thank you."

"Any time."

She smiles and stands.  "I should get back."

"Sure."  He stands.

She's very aware of his height as he opens the door for her, wonders if he'll lean in again.  He's more reserved now, though, and doesn't.  She looks toward the house, then back to him.  "Good night, Jim."  Touches his arm.  "Merry Christmas."

He smiles.  Then softly, "Merry Christmas, Pam."

#

On a Tuesday morning in early January, too early in the day, and just...too early, Jim looks up from the firewood to see Roy's truck pull up the drive.

Roy sits behind the wheel for a moment, then gets out and walks toward the house.

Something isn't right.

Jim stands, holding the axe in both hands, and watches the silent scene.

Pam, as usual for this time of day, is in the back porch room doing laundry.  She's bent over the machine when she hears the front door open.  She straightens up, holding something wet, and looks toward the front of the house.  Soon, Roy appears through the kitchen door.  His head is down.

She watches him.  He says something.  She's still.

Then she's shaking her head, raising the wet clothing to her mouth.  She seems to sway a bit, and Jim takes a reflexive step forward.  Roy is there, though, and catches her, wrapping his arms around her, one hand on the back of her head.

Her face is buried in his chest, his in her hair, and suddenly Jim feels like he's intruding.  Quietly, and he hopes invisibly, he walks into the barn, and waits.

#

Roy steps into the barn about an hour later.  Jim's been sharpening the axe for most of that time.  It's much too sharp now.

"Hey, Jim."  Roy's eyes are red, his voice hoarse.

"Roy.  What--?"

"Pop died last night."

Jim doesn't know what to say.  He just saw Henry - when?  Sunday?  Saturday?  "How?"

Roy lets out a heavy breath and looks around the barn, shaking his head.  "I don't--his lungs?--the doctor's still deciding or something.  When he didn't show this morning, I thought his car had broken down...run out of fuel...I don't know.  I sent one of the guys to meet him halfway, bring him on in, but...he was still at the house, in his bed."

"Roy, I'm sorry."

Roy's head is down, but he's nodding.  "Thanks."  Then, "I have a favor to ask."

"Sure, what?"

"Would you build...you know.  Outta the birdseye planks?"

Jim nods.  "Of course."

"They need it tomorrow."

"I'll start now."

"Thanks, Jim."  Roy shakes his hand and turns to go.  Near the door he stops and turns back.  "Pam's not up to cooking today.  Just come in and make something when you get hungry, all right?"

"Sure.  Thanks."

"Yup."

Jim watches him go, then looks down to find he's still holding the axe.  He puts the edge to the grindstone, dulling it enough to store the axe safely, then pulls down the planks.

#

He works until supper time.

When he steps into the house, it's unnaturally quiet.  And pitch black.  He fumbles around until he finds a light switch, then makes a cheese sandwich.  He eats at the kitchen table and thinks how empty the room seems without her.  The bowl he made for her sits in the center of the table, filled with apples.

As he steps back onto the porch, he notices that the wet laundry is still there.  Some pieces have been wrung out and lie flat in a basket.  The rest are still in a tub, under a thin crust of ice.

One by one, he rolls the wet pieces through the wringer, careful not to break any buttons, and drapes them over the basket.  He knows that Pam hangs them in the attic, but decides to leave them on the porch for now.  He'd probably stumble on the stairs in the dark and startle her.

He empties the tub of water, and heads back to the barn.

#

Henry is buried two days later, next to his wife.

Jim helps lower the maple coffin into the ground, then steps away.  It seems to him that the entire town stands behind Roy and Pam.  He recognizes the grocer and the postmistress, and a few men from the mill.  He remembers that the very oldest man in the crowd was the schoolmaster when Henry was a boy.  The man's expression is sad, but resigned, as though he's attended too many services like this.

As the minister says what the whole town already knows, Jim watches Pam.

She wears a dress he's never seen, and hopes never to see again.  The stiff, black fabric looks both restrictive and shapeless at the same time.  She stands next to Roy, leaning on him slightly.  She stares at the coffin, and her shoulders jump when the first shovelful of dirt lands on top.  Roy tightens his arm around her briefly, then turns to accept condolences from his neighbors.

Jim wants to step forward, say something to her, but before he can move, she walks away to the truck where she sits quietly, waiting for Roy.

#

He doesn't see her the next day, or the two after that.  On the fourth day, a doctor comes to see her, and each morning after that, a nurse comes to the house for about an hour, moving around the kitchen, then disappearing upstairs.

Every day, after the nurse has gone, he comes inside to eat lunch.

Every day, the food that Pam has refused to eat sits in the ice box.

Every day, he makes a cheese sandwich and eats an apple from the bowl, and manages to climb one more of the stairs than the day before.

One day, there are no more apples in the bowl, and he finds himself standing outside her bedroom door.

#

He stands quietly, staring at the glass door knob.  His chest feels hollow, and at the same time as though it's filled with stones.  He leans his forehead on the door and closes his eyes.  He hears nothing but the occasional creak of the house.  He bites his lip and slowly opens the door.

She's lying on her side, facing the far wall.

He stands in the doorway, watching her.  She's covered with thick quilts.  Her hair is loose on her pillow, and looks limp.  She's motionless.

He takes a deep breath and steps into the room.  The floorboards squeak under his shoes, but she doesn't move.  He continues walking until he rounds the bed at her feet.

She's staring at the wall.

He whispers.  "Pam?"

No answer.  He steps forward and kneels in front of her, one hand on the edge of the bed.

Her face looks thinner.  Dark smudges surround her eyes.  Her lips are pale.  She stares through him.  He's frightened, so he reaches out and brushes her hair from her forehead.  Her eyelids flutter and she looks up at his face.  He can't tell if she recognizes him.

"Pam?"

She looks at him, then draws one of her hands out from under the covers, and opens it toward him.  Her fingers and palm are smeared with blood.  She closes her eyes, and touches her fingers to her lips.  Tears slide sideways onto her pillow.

"Oh, Pam."

He rises and brings over the washbasin and a towel.  He gently cleans her hand and her face.  Her eyes remain closed.

Today, it's her sewing machine.

She's well past the point where the strain could cause her any damage.  She tries to be practical and tell him this, but she stumbles over the word damage.  Something in his expression angers her.

"Don't."

He frowns.  "Don't what?"

"Don't pity me."

"No.  I'm--Pam.  I just want to help.  Let me help."

She sighs, gesturing toward the barn.  "You have your own work."

"And I'll get right back to it as soon as you let me move this machine."  He smiles.  "You're only holding me up."

And she gives in, as she has every time.

#

As she was waiting for Roy at the cemetery, she realized she hadn't felt the flutter that day, or the day before.  When she got home, she climbed into bed and held herself very still, her attention focused on her belly.

Nothing.

She lay quiet and focused for three days.

Nothing.

She had never told Roy.  When she stopped eating, he assumed she was grieving for Henry.  She was, but that wasn't why she didn't eat.  She needed the gnawing in her stomach; it covered the silence lower down.

She waited for confirmation, marking her waking hours by the sounds Jim made.

The scrape of the snow shovel.

The porch door, then the kitchen door as he came in for breakfast.

The low murmur of his voice.

Splashing as he washed the dishes.

Kitchen door, porch door.

Soft snuffling from the horse, the creak of the wagon, the axe.

Shoes stamping as he knocked them clean.

Porch door, kitchen door, icebox door, pantry door.

Chair legs scraping on linoleum.

Footsteps in the hall.

Footsteps on the stairs, each day one more up, one more down.

Kitchen door, porch door.

Hammering from the barn.

Then she would sleep until she heard the snow shovel again.

After a while she could see him between sounds.

Pausing at the chopping block, his breath swirling around his head.

Brushing the horse's mane after hanging up the harness.

Taking an apple from the bowl.

Looking at her door, his hand squeezing the banister.

Sitting against a stall, elbows on his knees, his chin resting on the cool metal of the hammer head.

When he finally reached out for the glass door knob, she had felt the trickle, warm and red, between her legs.

Confirmation.

#

She looks up from the sewing machine, and realizes he's asked her a question.

"Hm?"

"Where would you like it?"

"Oh.  By that window.  The light's better."  And it looks onto the back yard.

"Okay."  He lifts it, grunting, and nearly topples when his feet run into the treadle.  He puts it down under the window.

"Other way."

He turns it the wrong way.

"Um, other way."

He crosses his arms and looks at her.

"So that the window is to my right."  She walks over and stands in position.  "Like this."

He turns it, then leans down on his hands across from her, his eyebrow cocked.  His face is very close.

"Thank you," she squeaks.

When he says nothing, she's defensive.

"I told you I didn't need help."

He continues his accusing stare.  "You were going to move this.  By yourself."

"Yes?"

"What is it, lead?"

"Wood.  And cast iron."

"Mm-hm.  Pam?"

"Yes?"

"It's okay to ask for help.  That's why I'm here."

She looks down at his hands.

#

She was so used to seeing him in her imagination that it had taken a moment to realize he was kneeling before her.  His fingertips on her forehead brought him into focus.

He was wearing one of the brown shirts.  There were tiny chips of wood clinging to it.  He smelled like snow and work.  His eyes brimmed.

When she closed hers, she felt only his hands and his voice.

He held her hand as he washed it, then tucked it back under the quilt.  He wiped her lips and chin with the cold towel, then patted them dry with the sheet.  His other hand rested on her hair, his thumb light on her cheek.  He had whispered her name over and over, soothing.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand heavy on her back, until the doctor came.

#

She raises her eyes to his.

"I know.  Thank you."

"All right.  I'd better get back to work."  He brings over her chair.  "You know where to find me."

She nods and sits.  Listens to the boards creak under him as he goes.

Kitchen door, porch door.

She waves when he looks up to the window on his way to the barn, then pulls her knitting basket onto her lap.

She finds them at the bottom, small and soft.  She catches a loose yarn end, one she hadn't dared tie off properly yet, and begins winding it around her fingers.  As the stitches unravel, she stares out at the bare trees and wonders how long winter will last.

The first flakes fall just before lunch.

#

Pam finds him in the barn around four.  By then, snow is gusting in under the eaves.  Thick flakes cling to her hair as she hugs herself.

"Roy just telephoned.  Storm's coming."

"I think it's here already."

"He said it's going to get worse."  She pauses.  "Do you think you could finish up early here, and help me with something inside?"

"Sure.  I'll be right in."

"Oh, you can finish what you're doing, I just..."  She looks toward the door.

He waits, but she doesn't finish.  "All right."

"Thanks."

He watches her go, then walks to the door to make sure she's made it to the house.

#

When he's finished, he puts away the chisels and mallet.  He checks the horse's water, breaking the thin crust of ice around the very edge.

When he opens the barn door, it's already dark.  He can barely see the house.  He latches the door behind him, and walks along the outer wall to the corner.  The wind is strong enough now that his shoulder keeps bumping the building.  When he reaches the corner of the barn, he grabs the rope that attaches it to the house, and staggers to the porch door.

He doesn't realize how loud the wind has been until he's inside the house, where it sounds like his ears are stuffed with cotton.  He shakes his coat off and hangs it by the door, brushes the snow from his trousers.  He steps into the kitchen.  A large, covered pot is heating on the range.

"Pam?"

No answer.  He takes a few steps, and calls more loudly.

"Down here!"

He follows her voice down the cellar stairs.  She's rearranging the canned goods.  Again.

He walks over, begins handing her jars from the top shelf.

"No, the corn."

"Ah."

She's intent on her task, whatever it is.

"Then green beans."

"Yes, ma'am."

She laughs softly.  "You must think I'm silly."

"Silly?"  He frowns, shaking his head.  "Nah.  Just yesterday, I was thinking, those jars in the cellar are arranged in such an old-fashioned manner.  Pam should really do something about that."

She smiles, then says quietly, "It's the only place in the house where I can't hear the wind."  She slides a jar onto the shelf in front of her and it clicks dully against another.  Upstairs, the telephone rings.  "That'll be Roy.  I'll be right back."

He continues moving jars down from the top shelf.  He's not sure why she keeps so many jars up this high.  When the shelf is empty and he steps away to survey his work, he finds her watching him from the steps.  She looks a little pale, but it could be the bare bulb.

"What would you like for dessert tonight?"  She gestures at the jars.  "Your pick."

"Well, Roy likes the apples, right?"  He reaches for them.

"Roy won't be home."

He turns to her, questioning.  Her fingers are fidgeting with an apron string.

"He's socked in at the mill.  Didn't leave in time, so he's going to spend the night."  She nods past him.  "Your pick."

He turns back to the shelf.  "Well, all right.  In that case--peaches."  As he takes a jar, the light goes out.

"Oh!  There goes the power.  The candles are upstairs."  Her weight shifts on the wooden steps.

"Wait.  Just keep talking so I can find the stairs."

"All right.  Um, here they are.  Watch your footing.  The ground's a little uneven."

He reaches her in three strides, but stands silent, enjoying the closeness of her voice.

"We're having soup for dinner.  Chicken with noodles.  And carrots.  And biscuits.  And peaches.  Um, it's snowing.  Are you here yet?"

He takes a step backward.  "Yup, just.  Thanks."

"Follow me."

He has trouble hearing her footsteps, and runs into her halfway up the stairs.  He reaches around to catch her from falling forward.  His hand comes to rest just above her apron, and he can feel her ribs under his fingertips.  Her breath rises and falls, once each, before he lets go.  "Sorry.  Clumsy."

"Still have the peaches?"  Her voice sounds a little high.

"Yup."

"Good man," she whispers.

#

The kitchen is dimly lit by the gas flame.  She pulls two large candles from a drawer, lights them on the range, and places them on saucers.

"Soup?"

"Yes, please."

He steals glances at her between bites.  Once or twice, she looks up and startles him.  She laughs because he can't keep the noodles on his spoon.  "Would you like a fork?"

He plays indignant.  "No, I would not like a fork.  These noodles are uncommonly long, is all.  They're freakish.  You should show them at a carnival.  Charge admission."

She's laughing, and her eyes are shining with candlelight, and he's never considered a blizzard lucky until now.

#

When they've had their fill of soup, she brings over two bowls of peaches, drizzled with cream, sprinkled with nutmeg.  He decides they taste like spicy autumn sunlight.  Or like peaches.  No need to get poetic.  They're good, and in his enthusiasm, he slurps.

She giggles.  "Who raised you?"

"Band of hyenas.  No manners."

She laughs again, and he wonders if a blizzard has ever lasted for a week.

#

When they finish the dishes, they're both subdued.

"I guess I'd better head back to the bunkhouse."

She follows him out into the porch room.  The wind is howling around the edges, surrounding them.  He can't see a thing outside the window.  He feels her hand on his arm.

"Don't."

He looks down to find her eyes pleading with him.  "What?"

"Don't go out there."

Out there.  To Roy's bunkhouse on Roy's farm, where Jim is employed, thanks to Roy.  Instead, inside?  In Roy's house, enjoying Roy's coal heat and the way the candlelight plays on the teeth of Roy's wife when she smiles?  Both options are stamped with the other man's mark.  Tonight, though, the wind is sanding away those impressions, leaving only raw, smooth surfaces.

"Please?"

Her eyes look haunted, and when he glances around the small porch room, her ghosts surround them.  He reaches for her hand and squeezes it.  "All right.  I won't.  But--"

"You can stay in the guest room tonight."

He nods.  The relief feels like disappointment.

Reassured, she returns to the kitchen.  He glances outside, toward the bed he should be in, but sees only a gray blur.  He leaves his coat where it hangs by the door, and follows her.

"Well, how about a game?  What can we play in the dark?"

She ducks her eyes at that.  "Um...well, I used to play hide-the-thimble when I was little, but--"

"Perfect."

"Oh.  Okay, let me go get one.  They're upstairs."

They take turns hiding the thimble in increasingly difficult places.

Finally, on his turn to hide it, he keeps it in his hand and follows her from room to room while she hunts for it.  While she's rifling through a bookshelf, he slips it into her apron pocket.  After fifteen minutes of giving her clues like "so close" no matter what room she's in, she's exasperated and beautiful.

He feigns curiosity and points to her pocket.  "Huh.  What's that?"

She looks down, pulls it out of her pocket, and smiles.  "How did you do that?"

He shrugs.  "Magic."

"Magic."

He squints.  "Well, more sleight of hand than magic, really."  He makes a few smooth, complicated motions with his hands in front of her eyes.  "I'm very deft."

He thinks she blushes, just a bit.

He yawns.  "Ooo, all this fancy finger work's taking it out of me."

She laughs softly.  "Here, I'll show you to your room."

He knows the way, but quietly enjoys following her.

#

She lingers, showing him things he couldn't possibly need for an overnight stay--drawers, closets, a chair. He lets her.

#

When his bladder wakes him in the night, the wind has reached a fever pitch.

On his way back from the bathroom, he finds her huddled beside his door.

"Pam?"  He kneels in front of her, putting his candle on the floor.  "Pam, what's wrong?"  But he knows.  He reaches out to her shoulders.

She's shaking.

"Oh, Pam.  Come here."  He pulls her up onto her knees and wraps his arms around her.  "Shhh.  It's all right.  It's only wind."

She's stiff against him, her teeth chattering, her fists hard against his ribs.

"You're freezing."  He lifts her to her feet.  "Let's get you back into bed."  He begins to move toward her room, but she resists.

"No."

"What?"

"Please?  Can I...can I just stay in here?  With you?"

"Pam, I--"

She closes her eyes and squeezes his hand with cold fingers, and whispers, "Please, Jim."

#

He leads her to the bed, lifting the covers for her.  When she crawls under, he tucks her in, and walks to the other side.  He puts the candle on the bedside table and slips in next to her.  Her hand finds his arm.  He looks over to see her facing him. He blows out the candle and turns back to her, reaches a hand to the small of her back.

"C'mere."  He draws her into him.  She rests her head on his arm, still shivering.  Her nightgown is soft and thin, and as his hand glides over it, trying to warm her, he can imagine it's her skin.  "Shhh.  It's all right."

When she speaks, he realizes her lips are resting on his throat.  "I'm so tired of being afraid."

He closes his eyes and presses her to him.  "Oh, Pam.  So am I."

Open your eyes.

She hasn't looked--really looked--at herself in years.  Over the past few months she's found herself glancing into mirrors in passing, checking for stray curls, pinching her cheeks.  Sometimes, she wets her lips to see what that looks like.

Today, she feels a need to look extra nice for Roy.  He has a surprise for her.  When he left for work, he told her not to worry with the laundry this morning, that he would see her at lunchtime.

She smoothes the front of her dress blindly.

Open your eyes.

She remembers learning that she's the same age as Ginger Rogers.  She groans, looks in the mirror long enough to tuck up a few curls, and heads downstairs.

#

Roy leads her onto the back porch, his fingers warm and moist on her eyelids.  He turns her to face the kitchen wall and yanks his hands away.

"Surprise!"

She blinks her eyes and stares at the white enamel box in front of her.  It stands waist-high, and has a circular door on the front.  A small chrome plaque says Bendix in raised red letters.

"It's an automatic clothes washer!"  Roy squeezes her shoulder.  "No more scrubbing or cranking or wringing--it does all that for you!"

She's speechless, can't imagine how much it's cost him.  She turns to find Jim standing in the corner watching her.  He raises his eyebrows enthusiastically, as though to say, Not bad!  She gives him a bemused smile, and turns back to Roy, who grins.

"And it's faster.  Now you can take in twice as much laundry!"  He pats her on the back, hard, and moves toward the machine.  "Now where is the water intake?"

Jim brushes past her and out the porch door, squeezing her arm as he goes.  She watches him walk toward the tractor, clenching his hands.

#

Roy gets the washer hooked up and powered, and they stand watching the wet, soapy clothes turn in the little round window.  She begins to get dizzy, so she reaches out for his hand.

He's smiling at the machine.  "It's something, huh?"

"Yes, it sure is."

He looks down to her, frowning slightly.  "Do you like it?"

She gives him a reassuring smile.  "Yes.  Thank you, Roy.  It'll help a lot."

He squeezes her hand.  "Well, Happy Birthday.  I've gotta head back.  See you at dinner."  He kisses her on the forehead.  "I don't know what you're going to do with all your free time now," he says as he walks toward the front door.  "Oh, wait, that's right--more laundry!"  He chuckles at his joke as he closes the door behind him.

She pulls up a chair and watches until the cycle finishes.

As she hangs the sheets outside, she wonders how many more clotheslines she'll need.

#

Since the morning after the blizzard, when she awoke once more to the sound of the snow shovel, she constantly finds herself comparing them.  Both are kind.  Both laugh deeply and easily.  Both make her feel safe.  Neither would knowingly hurt her.

She watches from the kitchen window as Jim maneuvers the tractor through a turn.  The field turns to corduroy as he drives over it.  His hat hides his face, but she can see the easy way he holds the wheel in one hand, his other resting on his thigh, or sometimes on the gear shift.  When he doubles back at the end of a row, his hands cross over and over each other, and she can see the muscles in his shoulders and arms working.  She feels a heat spreading through her lap.

And that's the difference.

When she looks at Roy, she sees security.  He's responsible to a fault.  She knows she'll never be hungry, or cold, or without a home.  His hands are meaty and she feels protected when he touches her.  Appreciated, if not necessarily understood.  She has known him since they were children, and has lived in his house since she was fourteen.  He is as much her brother as her husband.  She loves him in a deep, complicated way.

When she looks at Jim, she sees possibility.  He's a creature of habit, and yet the most unpredictable person she knows.  His hands are lean, and she continues to feel his touch long after it's gone.  When he looks at her, she feels as though her skin is turned inside out.  He makes her feel feminine in a way she hasn't since she was a girl.  He's become her closest friend, and more.  She wants to share everything with him.

#

The sunlight is warm on her face.

She's almost forgotten how cloth smells when it dries in the sun and wind.  She closes her eyes and brings the sheet to her nose.  She breathes deeply and images of daisies come and go on the orange of her eyelids.

She pulls the sheet down and nearly jumps out of her skin to see Jim standing there.  Before she can say anything, or laugh, or scold, he takes her hand.  "Come with me."

She drops the sheet in the basket, and lets herself be pulled away.

"Where are we going?"

He turns, and puts a finger to his lips.  "Shh.  It's a secret."  He grins.  They begin whispering.

"A secret?  Where is it?"

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's a surprise."

"A surprise secret or a secret surprise?"

"Both."

"Is it bigger than a bread box?"

He stops, pulls a bandanna from his pocket, and ties it over her mouth.  It tastes of sweat and cotton.  He looks pointedly at her, then takes her hand again, and leads her toward the trees.  His fingers are laced loosely in hers, and she could escape if she wanted to.  She doesn't.

When they come to the edge of the trees, he stops again.  "No questions?"

She shakes her head.

"Good, because I need this to cover your eyes."  He unties the bandanna and blindfolds her.  "No peeking.  Watch your step."

"How can I watch--?"

"Shh!"

He walks slowly so she won't stumble, and she can see a bit out the bottom of the bandanna.  His trouser leg flaps just above his shoe as he walks, and his hand in hers swings in and out of view.  He guides her across a creek and over a log, his other hand warm on her waist.  Her breath is a little catchy, and she's glad he can't see how pink her cheeks must be.

They walk deep into the trees before stopping.  She hears birds, and new leaves rustling.  He moves to stand behind her and puts his hands on her shoulders.  His voice is soft next to her ear.

"When I saw this spot, I thought of you.  The more I came here, the more I wanted to share it."

Her tummy tumbles at that.

Then his fingers are working the knot from the blindfold.  He whispers, "Happy Birthday, Pam," and the blindfold falls away.

She gasps.

Before her, in the midst of the small clearing, is a stone fireplace, tall and broad.  A neat arrangement of firewood waits inside.  Crocuses dot the grass surrounding it.

"Now turn this way," and he turns her around.

Directly behind her is a round pool, lined with the same stones, and beyond that a small, three-sided stone shelter.

"Jim--" she begins, in wonder.

"Wait.  Come over here."  He leads her to stand in front of the shelter, facing the pool and fireplace.  "When you have a fire, you'll be able to see it in the water as well."

Her hands cover her mouth.  She's not sure she's ever seen anything so beautiful.  Suddenly everything is blurry.  She blinks and laughs.  "Are these the stones from the field?"  But she knows they are.  She looks up and sees love twinkling back at her.  "It's perfect."

He looks down, and breathes out with equal parts relief and satisfaction.

Her hands on his face bring his eyes back to hers.  She nods.  "Perfect."

She rises on her toes and pulls him down until his lips meet hers, warm and dry and soft.  His hands find her waist.  Her fingers discover that his hair still brushes his collar in the back.  When their lips part, his breath is warm in her mouth.  His hands are trembling slightly.

"Perfect," she whispers into him.

Her fingers, one by one, as he showed her how to hold the guitar.

Her palms while she kneaded bread.

Her wrist as she straightened his collar.  Her ear when she blushed about her wrist.

Her cheek when she cried over the pale blue chips of a robin's eggs.

Her nose, many times, counting the freckles there.

Her upper lip because it made her smile.

Her lower lip because it made her gasp.

Jim groans, and adjusts his position.  The problem with his line of work is: the more kisses he steals, the more kisses he wants.

#

She agrees to give him a haircut after lunch.  He couldn't care less what his hair looks like.  It's all part of the quest.

He brings a chair from the kitchen and takes a seat in the sunny back yard.  She tucks his collar under, then sweeps a sheet over his body, pinning it at his neck.  When her fingers brush the short hairs there, he feels them rise.

"Okay, tilt your head back."

When he does, she is lit from behind and smiling.  "Close your eyes."

He makes a disappointed noise, but complies.  He feels the side of her hand at the top of his forehead, then cool water is spreading across his scalp.  He shudders.

"Too cold?"

"No, it's good."

She smoothes the water through his hair, then lathers it.  Her fingertips focus all of his attention on ten moving points.  Then she uses her nails, around and around, in a way that makes him glad he's covered with a sheet.  Too soon, she's pouring more water, working out the soap.

She pats out the excess water with a towel.  "Okay, you can straighten up now."

He opens his eyes and everything is strangely bluish for a moment.  He blinks until the barn is red again.

She stands against his knee.  "Look toward me."

He looks up at her and smiles.

She smiles back but shakes her head.  "Not at my face.  Here."  She pats her tummy.

"Yes, ma'am."  He takes his time lowering his gaze.

She draws a part and begins combing his hair out.  She moves around him so that soon he's surrounded by her scent.

She begins by cutting the length off of his neck.  When the cool, smooth edge of the scissor glides across his skin, he shudders again.  Occasionally, she smoothes his hair down to check her line, then brushes the cuttings from his back.  She draws his hair up and out with the comb, trimming the ends.

She is quiet and deliberate.  She hums to herself the tune he's been teaching her, the one she says he whistled the day he arrived.  He remembers.  He composed it in her honor.

Next, she moves to his side and begins trimming over his ears.  He slips a hand out from under the sheet and runs his fingers lightly up her calf.

"Stop it," she warns.

"Hm?"

She tries to bump his hand away with her knee.  "Stop it."  Now there's a giggle in her voice.

His hand finds its way back.  "Oh, you mean this?"

"Jim."  She opens the scissors and places it at the top of his ear.  "Don't make me slice your ear off."

"You wouldn't," he says confidently.  His fingers trace her seam upward.  She closes the scissor lightly onto the edge of his ear.

"Ow."

"It'd be a shame, really.  I like your ears.  It's up to you."

He drops his hand, smiling to himself.  "Okay.  I'll be good."  For now.

"That's better."  She releases the scissors and caresses his ear with her fingertips.  "I'd hate to have to maim you."

When she's finished the sides, she moves to stand by his knee again.  She brushes his hair down over his eyes, which disappoints him because now is when he has the best view.

"Cut that quickly, please."

"Why?"

"No reason."

"Mm-hm."

She keeps bumping into his leg trying to get a head-on look.  She steps away for a moment, and he feels her hands on his knees, spreading them apart.  His breath catches.  Then she steps between them and he can feel her legs against the insides of his thighs.  His lungs are burning.  Breathe out.  Slowly.

He's trying to exhale normally when the scissors snitch across his forehead and he can see her again.  She finishes one pass, then smoothes and makes another, straightening the edge.  Only then does she look him in the eye.

"Hello."

"Hi," he manages.

She's leaning over to see her work better, but before he can put his thieving skills into action, she stands again.  She moves in a little closer and begins combing his hair up and out again, trimming.

Now her breasts are inches from his face and he's conflicted.

If he does what he really wants to do, he'll probably lose an eye.

If he closes his eyes like he should, he won't be able to see how the fabric of her dress pulls a bit in front and on the sides, and bunches in all the right places, and how the flowers on the fabric look like they're cushioned, as on pillows.

He compromises, and averts his eyes, stealing occasional sidelong glances.  He thinks he could develop a second specialty.

Suddenly the flowers are moving away.

"There!"

He looks up.  "Finished?"

She smiles.  "Not bad for a first try."

"You've never cut hair before?"

She grins.  "Nope!"

He makes an indignant sound and reaches up to his hair protectively.  "I could've been hideous!"

"What?"

He continues to feign reproach.  "I'm not sure I can trust you now."

She smiles and steps forward.  "Oh, really?"

He looks off to the side.  "Really."  Almost there.

She comes closer, and he catches her around the waist, pulling her down onto his lap.  "Gotcha."

"That was some trap."

"I know," he says smugly.  "It's all in the execution."

She brushes his hair off his forehead, then runs her fingers through the rest of it, mussing.  "That's more like it.  Now you're Jim again."

He reaches up and touches the top of his head.  "Something feels funny here.  Can you see anything there?"

When she leans forward to look, he presses his lips to her throat.  She sighs, in the best way, and he adds another kiss to his collection.

#

He's on the roof again, outside her sewing room window, and ready for his next plan.  He pulls up a shingle, then walks to the edge and tosses it to the ground, gauging again the distance to the porch roof.  Yup, should work.

He walks to her window and leans on the sill.  She sits at her sewing machine.

"You're in my light."

"I think there's a bird's nest under the eave out here."

She stands and looks up at the gable above her.  "I don't see anything."

"No," he says, walking toward the edge of the roof.  "Under here."  He kneels down and pretends to peer over the edge.

"Be careful..."

"I will.  Yup, here it is, it's--oh!"  He starts windmilling his arms.  "Oh no--!"  He rolls off the edge, landing on the porch roof, out of sight.

"Jim!  JIM!"  He can picture her leaning out the window as she shouts.  Pretty soon, she'll be running down the stairs, so he doesn't have much time.  He drops off the side of the porch roof, and runs to lie on the ground below where he "fell".

She bursts from the porch door.  "JIM!  Oh God, Jim, are you all right?!"

He moans, pathetic.

She kneels beside him.  "Oh--" Her hands are hovering over him, afraid to cause him more pain.  She takes in the awkward angle of his legs, then looks at his face, worried.  "Oh, no..."

He looks at her, then smiles slowly and sits up, putting his arms around her waist.  He pulls her to him, but then his plan is going terribly wrong, because she's hitting him, and she looks angrier than he's ever seen her.

"How dare you!  I thought you were hurt!"  She throws his arms off and stands.

"Wait, Pam--"

"No!  You could have broken your neck!"

He stands, moving toward her.  "I'm sorry, Pam, it was just a joke."

But she shakes her head, "Not funny, Jim," and stalks back into the house.

He watches her go and hangs his head.

#

He's as nervous as he's ever been, getting ready for dinner.  He decides to go up early, to try to make it right before Roy gets home.

When he steps into the kitchen, she's standing at the stove, her back to him.  He closes the door quietly.

"Pam?"

She doesn't turn.

He walks to her side.  She continues stirring the stew.

"Pam, I didn't mean to frighten you."

She stirs.

"I wasn't thinking."

She stirs.

"I'm sorry."

She nods, still stirring.

He takes the spoon from her, setting it aside, and turns her to face him.  He lifts her chin until he can look in her eyes, and silently apologizes again.  He leans in and gently kisses her.  Her lips are impossibly soft.  When he pulls away, he rests his forehead on hers, their noses touching.

Her breath puffs on his mouth as she giggles softly. "Gotcha."

His eyes fly open, and he straightens up.  "No!"

She's smiling, smug.  "It's all in the execution."

He nods with approval.  "Masterful."

"Thank you."  She turns back to the stew.  "Make yourself useful and set the table, would you?"

He laughs and throws his arms around her waist from behind, planting a sloppy kiss on her neck.  "Yes, ma'am!"

"Mmm."  Pam surfaces slowly.  His arm is heavy on her waist, his hand on her stomach, rubbing.  Not the hand she was just dreaming about.  He's propped on his elbow behind her.  She can feel him looming, feels as though she's being pushed out of bed.  It makes her a little cross.

When he plants a kiss on her temple, she gives him a quick peck back and slips out of bed.

#

She stands at the dresser, pinning up her hair.  She can hear the predictable sounds of Roy shaving.

Scrape-scrape-scrape, splash.

She has a question for him.  She already knows the answer.  "Roy?"

Scrape, splash.  "Yeah."

"Did you notice a carnival's in town?"

Scrape, splash.  "Yeah, saw ‘em setting up yesterday."

"Well, it's Saturday.  Will you take me tonight?  After dinner?"

Splash.  "Can't, hon."

She mouths the words with him.

"Workin' late."

She sighs.  "Okay."

He steps out of the bathroom, patting his face with a towel.  He's fully dressed from the waist down.  On top he wears only his undershirt, already tucked.  She used to love to watch him shave, would play with the suspenders that hung on his hips, knowing that she was the only woman who'd ever done that.

She hasn't watched him shave in a long time.

"Do you really want to go?"

She shrugs.  "It only comes once a year."  She isn't trying very hard to hide her disappointment.

He looks at her for a long moment, squeezing the towel with his hands.  "Why don't you ask Jim to take you?"

"Really?"  She wonders if she was able to keep the thrill from her voice.

He looks at her a moment longer, then says softly, "Yeah."  He reaches in his pocket and puts a few dollars on the dresser.  "That should cover everything."

She looks at the bills and knows she'll use her laundry money instead.  She crosses to him, dabs a spot of lather from his ear, and kisses him on the cheek.  "Thank you."

He turns back to the bathroom.  "Sure."

#

Jim knows just when she's least able to defend herself.

She swats his hands away, again, splashing him with dishwater.  But since they're on her, she gets soaked.  "Don't you have work to do?"

His answer is muffled against the nape of her neck.  The low vibration of it causes her to grip the edge of the sink.

"Well, I have work to do."

He works his way across to her jaw.  "Then you'd better get crackin'."

"I'm trying."  Then pointedly, "I want to enjoy the carnival tonight."

"Mm.  Me, too.  Just one more thing, then."

She feels a tug at the small of her back, and her apron drops to her feet.

His whisper is warm in her ear.  "I've been wanting to do that for months."

She tosses a handful of water over her shoulder.  He sputters and chuckles on his way out the kitchen door.

#

She finds him in front of the barn after dinner.

He's fashioning a second seat on her bicycle.  He looks up and smiles.  "Ready?"

"Mm-hm."

He smiles.  "You look really pretty."  He turns back to the seat.  "Almost finished here.  It's no carriage, but it's no pumpkin, either."  He straightens up and checks that the seat is securely attached.  "All right, m'lady, your non-carriage awaits."

He holds the bicycle while she climbs onto the seat, sidesaddle, and tucks her skirt under her legs.  He straddles his seat and she puts her arms around his waist, linking her hands in front.

He groans as he begins pedaling.  "What've you been eating?!"

She giggles and smacks his stomach.  "Very funny!"

He begins pedaling easily.  "So I say we hit every attraction.  Rides, games, shows...do it right..."

She's only half listening.  Her hands are flat on his stomach now, feeling the muscles there tighten and relax.  She presses her fingers against them.

Slowly, she inches the fingertips of one hand between two of his shirt buttons, until she feels his undershirt.  His skin is warm underneath.  Her other hand creeps up his shirt to his chest.  She can feel his voice there, and his heart.

"Excuse me, are you taking advantage of me?"  He looks over his shoulder, but she ducks so he can't see her.

"I don't know what you're talking about.  What was that you were saying about cotton candy?"  She brushes her thumb across his nipple.

"I said, if you're good, I'll get you some."

"Aren't I being good?"  Her fingers are stealthily untucking his undershirt.

"Pam..."

She finally finds the hem, and her fingertips brush his skin.  She feels his breath catch.

"Are you trying to make us crash?"

She grazes his skin with her fingernails.  The bicycle swerves.  She yelps, and grabs him tightly.

"See?  That's very dangerous.  Are you gonna behave now?"

She's not sure she can make that promise, but pulls her fingers from his shirt and links her hands again.

"That's better.  We're getting close, anyway."

When they come to the edge of town, she sits upright and holds onto the handle he made.

#

The midway is crowded with people who know them, so they're careful.

He buys her cotton candy, with some grumbling.  She marvels at how sparkly the spun sugar looks and how quickly it melts on her tongue.  It's gone in minutes, and both of their tongues are bright pink.

Every hawker encourages Jim to win a prize for his girl.  It thrills her a little how eagerly he tries.

He manages to overcome the odds once and presents her with a bracelet.  It has a tiny copper heart dangling from it, and when he puts it on her, he lets his thumb brush across her wrist.

They pass through curtains to see all manner of human wonders.

The strong man lifts two women, one on each bicep.

Jim leans over and whispers, "I can do that, too.  I just don't want to show off."

The fat lady pulls Jim onto her knee and looks at Pam.  "Sweetie, you need to feed him more."  She bounces him for effect.

He smiles at Pam and she looks down to avoid the eyes of her neighbors.

A fortune teller waves ringed fingers over a glass ball, and tells them she sees a triangle that turns into a circle.

They wait until they're outside again, then start giggling.

"What?"

"I don't know!"

They see a tattooed fellow who eats fire, swallows a sword, and juggles, all the while telling tall tales, an exotic lilt to his voice.

They watch as a man with a worn purple coat and bloodshot eyes pulls a rabbit from a top hat, only to have it hop through the crowd and out the curtain.

They even see a pair of skinny girls who fold themselves into complicated shapes, then unfold so they can tumble about the tent.

Through the last curtain is a so-called dog-boy.

The barker pulls aside a curtain to reveal a thin boy covered with silky black hair.  When prompted, he produces squeaky barks.  Between barks, he shifts uncomfortably on his stool, absentmindedly scratching at his cuffs.

Jim squeezes her hand.  When she looks at him, he looks concerned.  She realizes she's crying.

They decide it's time for the Ferris wheel.

As the operator fills the cars, they slowly travel higher on the wheel.  The carnival is a riot of garish colors, easily the brightest spot in town.  They find the people just beyond the midway most interesting.  They see the magician staggering away from his tent, and a man passing out bowls of food from a chuckwagon.

When they reach the very top, the wheel stops again.  Their seat swings a bit.  She detects the smell of approaching rain that was masked on the midway.  Jim inches closer and kisses her hair.  She turns to kiss him back, but the wheel lurches to life.

They mark each summit with a kiss, the last few held maybe a bit too long.  By the time they exit the ride, Pam's cheeks are as pink as her tongue, and it's late.

#

The first drops hit them near the edge of town.

At first, Pam is protected by huddling behind Jim.  He pedals quickly, but the rain still catches up.  Halfway home they're both drenched.  Water flies off the back wheel onto the underside of Pam's legs, dripping into her shoes.  She hugs Jim's waist, with her ear to his back.  He takes a hand off the handle bars once or twice to squeeze her hands, and she hugs him tighter.

Near the house, she gives in to curiosity and places her hand on his thigh to feel the muscles there work.  He doesn't move her hand.

The house is dark when they reach it, save for one lamp in the sitting room window.  Jim guides the bicycle into the barn.  Pam slides off into the dark and waits while he stands the bicycle against the wall.  She hears the horse shuffle, and smells straw and hay and cedar.  The rain has stopped.

She's blind, but when he returns she can sense the heat coming off of him.  And something else.  She reaches out with both hands and finds his chest.  His shirt is plastered to him there.  He takes her hands in his, raises them, kissing each.  She draws his hands back in hers, and brushes her lips over his knuckles.  When she comes to a thumb, she opens her mouth and slips it in, sucking on it lightly.

For a moment she can hear only the horse, and then Jim's pulling her toward the barn door.  She stumbles, then half-runs to keep up with his stride.

He pulls her past the barn, past the well house, past the bunkhouse, toward the trees.  Her shoes squelch on her feet before she loses both.  His breath comes back to her in gasps.  Or are those her own?  She can't tell.  By now they're running.  Through brush, around trees, across the creek, over the log.  When they reach the clearing, he brings her to the shelter.

"Wait here," he says, his voice hoarse.

He grabs an armful of wood and another of kindling, and jogs to the fireplace.  He arranges it quickly, then grabs the large tin standing nearby.  Pulling newspaper from the tin, he wads sheet after sheet, stuffing them under the wood.  A flaring match gives her his silhouette as he kneels before the wood, blowing it into flame.  As soon as the kindling catches, he stands and strides toward her.

Before she can step forward, his hands are on her face, his mouth on hers.  She opens to him, flicking out her tongue, and he moans.  He tastes like salt and rain and she drinks him in.

When they come apart, the fire lights half of his face.  His mouth is open slightly as he stares at her.  Her hands are holding his ribs together.

He swallows and closes his eyes, his hands resting on her shoulders.  He leans in and kisses her gently, lingering over her bottom lip.  She's sighing into his mouth, but then he's moving down, his tongue tracing a hot trail to her chin, her throat, her pulse.

He drops to his knees, his hands on her back, pressing her body to his mouth.  She can feel his tongue through her light cotton dress as he nips his way down to her navel.  She grips his head, his hair wet in her fingers, and then she can no longer stand.

She kneels to join him, holding his eyes as she unbuttons his shirt.  When it slides back off his shoulders, she lifts the undershirt over his head, and leans forward to kiss his chest.  Her fingers glide over his skin from neck to collarbones to shoulders to wrists, causing him to shiver.  She opens her mouth and tastes his stomach, drawing circles downward in the hair there until her chin hits his waistband.  She rests her cheek on the taut front of his trousers and forces hot breaths through the fabric.  He groans in a way that almost makes her lose her nerve.

She straightens and begins undoing the buttons of his trousers.  He's making it difficult, though, trying to pull her dress over her head at the same time.  They start to laugh and it turns to ragged gasps as they tear successive layers of clothing from each other.

When nothing remains, he draws her to him.  His words are soft and low in her ear. She sobs, once, and nods.

They don't make it inside the shelter.

#

Above her, he's surrounded by stars.  Beneath her, cool grass tickles her skin.

He lowers himself to kiss her, and he's hard and heavy against her belly.  Spasms come and go in her thighs.  She catches his eye and nods.

As he pushes into her, her gasp becomes a cry.  He waits while she catches her breath, then moves slowly out, slowly in.  The friction of his motion threatens her sanity.  She moans and digs into his back.

When he begins moving faster, harder, she feels the tremors begin.  She pulls at his hips and begins to cry out with each stroke.  He develops a keening groan and pumps deeper. She feels an explosion, deep and white-hot.  Waves pour outward from her center, crashing, and she's calling his name, laughing, sobbing.  He makes a sound like he's falling, and tenses, jumping inside her.

She surrenders to the sky.

#

She finds only one shoe on the way back.  Their clothing hangs awkwardly on their bodies, buttons absent, seams undone.  They walk hand in hand, silent.

He kisses her under the porch door and she feels him watching her as she steps into the house.  She turns to catch his shadow disappearing into the dark.

#

She slips into the bedroom, kicks her clothes under the bed, and eases under the covers next to Roy.  He's facing away from her, and it takes her a moment to realize that he's unusually quiet.

"Did you have a good time?"

Her voice cracks.  "Yes."

He's quiet for a moment, then sighs.  "I love you, Pam."

Tears slide down her cheeks and her throat is too tight.  She has to whisper. "I love you, too."

Several families have arrived already, firm in their belief that there's a best place from which to watch fireworks.  Children, immune to the heat, run here and there.  One young boy loses the ice cream off of his cone, and is about the retrieve it when a stray dog beats him to it.  When Jim slips a penny into the sticky fingers, the empty cone falls to the ground and tears are forgotten.  Small feet pound their way back to the ice cream stand.

"That was kind of you."

He turns toward her voice.  "Well, it's happened to all of us, hasn't it?"

She nods.  "The folks from the mill are setting up over there," she points back and up the slope.  "We have some time, though."

"Walk?"

"Sure."  She looks over her shoulder, spots Roy and waves to him.  He waves back, watching a moment longer before turning back to his conversation.

They walk far enough to round the bend in the river.  When the picnic area is out of sight, he pulls her behind a tree.  Her shoulders are bare in her sundress, and he's wanted to kiss them all day.  Her skin is soft and warm under his lips, and smells like caramel.  Her hands bring his lips to hers, where he lingers a moment.  She laughs softly and steps backward.  He follows.

As they step into the open again, they look up to see a woman approaching.  She wears a camera around her neck on a strap.  She introduces herself, and asks to take their photograph.  Pam is unsure until the woman tells them she's just passing through on her way to an assignment.  When they decide it should be okay, the woman asks them to stand by the tree.

She positions Jim on one side, Pam on the other, and asks them to each rest a hand on the back of the tree.  While she readies her camera, Jim's hand finds Pam's, and he laces his fingers through hers.  She looks over to him and grins; he looks down at his shoes, smiling.  The camera shutter clicks.

"Oh!"  Pam looks up, surprised.  "I'm sorry, I wasn't looking.  Would you like another?"

The woman smiles and shakes her head.  "No.  That was perfect."

She offers them a print and gives Jim a card with a local address where he can pick it up.  Then she thanks them and walks back toward the picnic area.

#

When Jim picks up the photograph, they giggle that they put one over on the photographer.  Pam helps him find a spot under his mattress where the photo will be safe.

"Near your heart," she says.

Jim has gazed at the photo every night for two weeks when Roy seeks him out.

"Hey there, Jim."

"Hey, Roy."

"How's that comin'?"  Roy gestures toward the new pump Jim's installing in the well house.

"Ah, almost there.  Should be finished in about an hour."

"Right."

When he doesn't say anything for a moment, Jim looks up again.  "What can I do for you?"

Roy sighs.  He sets a muslin flour sack on the ground; glass jars inside clink against one another.  He sits down on a crate, his elbows on his knees, his fingertips touching.  "I need your help."

Jim sits back on his heels and puts down the wrench.  "Sure.  With what?"

Roy is serious.  "Jim, have you ever made a promise to someone?"

"Sure."

"Have you ever broken one?"

Jim doesn't like to think of how many he's broken.  He nods.  "Yeah."

Roy takes that in, and looks down to his hands.  "I've made a lot of promises over the years.  To my mother, to take care of Pop.  To Pop, to take care of the employees after he was gone.  To the employees, to keep the mill afloat.  To suppliers, contractors, customers..."  He looks up.  "A lot of promises."

Jim frowns and watches him.

"I've never broken a promise.  Ever."

Jim's still frowning, but nods.  He wants to ask if there's a problem at the mill, but Roy continues, looking at his hands.

"When Pam's parents died, and she came to live with us, I started making promises to her, too.  That I'd protect her, provide for her, love her."  He looks at Jim.  "Trust her."

Jim's heart thuds to a halt.  It feels cold and too high in his chest.

"Jim, I need your help.  Because I've promised to trust her, and I don't wanna break that promise."

Jim's lungs feel as though they're collapsing.  Please, no.  Don't make me ask.  He can't breathe, but Roy is waiting.  When Jim speaks, his voice is soft.  "What do you need me to do?"

Roy looks at him steadily.  His eyes are sad.

"I need you to leave, Jim."

Jim's jaws are clenched together, and his breath is coming out in puffs through his nose.  Roy is becoming blurry.  Jim nods, tries to swallow, but his throat is too tight.

"You've been a great help around here, Jim.  More than you know."

Jim's head is down.  He's shaking it from side to side.

"You're a good man, Jim."

Jim closes his eyes.  He disagrees.

"You are.  And I don't blame you."

Jim lets out a short, sad sound of disbelief.

"I don't.  How can I?"  Roy shakes his head.  "She's everything."

Everything.  His insides are twisted as though he's being wrung out.  He breathes out slowly.  Nods before he loses his will.

"All right."

Roy nods slowly.  "Thank you, Jim."  He sighs and stands, indicating the flour sack.  "I put some food together.  It should last you a couple--"

"Roy?"

Roy stops and looks up.

"Promise me..."

"I promise, Jim."

Jim drops his head and whispers, "Thank you."

#

After a while, he splashes cold water on his eyes.  He breathes slowly in, out, and tries to stop the trembling in his hands.  He finishes his work and returns the tools to their pegs.  Every muscle in him screams to look up at the house, find her in the kitchen window.  But he knows he can't and still leave.

He packs his clothes around the canning jars, around beans and tomatoes and peaches, and slips the photograph into his pocket.  Carrying his knapsack and guitar case, he leaves the bunkhouse and walks toward the trees.

When he reaches the shelter, he pulls out the photograph and carefully tears it in half.  With a pencil stub from his sack, he writes on the back of one half.  When he's finished, he opens the guitar case, weaves the half-photo through the strings, closes the case again and sets it against the back wall.

Then he walks.

I nod.

"How is it that I was blessed with those two men?  What did I ever do?"

"You loved them."

"Yes, I did.  I hope that was enough," she says softly.  Then she points to the mantle.  "It's right there, you know."

I follow her finger to a framed photo.  I rise and walk over to get a better look.  I saw half of it years ago: her profile, smiling.  In this frame are both halves, their ragged edges joined as neatly as possible.  Next to it stands another photo.  In it, Pam is standing before Jim, facing the camera and laughing.  He stands behind her, his arms wrapped around her middle, his face buried in her neck.  I'm thinking that he looks pretty much the same as when I knew him, just a bit older, when I notice it.

"When did this happen?" I ask, touching the glass.

She closes the manuscript and smoothes her fingertips over the blank cover.  "Do you have a few more hours in you tonight?"

"Yes, why?"

July 1939

When he doesn't come in for breakfast, Pam is concerned.  She sees Roy off with a kiss, hoping he hasn't noticed how many times she's looked outside.  She wraps a few warm biscuits in a towel, and goes to the barn.

He isn't there, or in the well house.  She knocks softly on the bunkhouse door, but he doesn't answer.  Frowning, she opens the door.

"Jim, are you al--"

She stares at the blanket folded on his bed.  Turns quickly to take in the room.

No.

The shelves are empty.  His razor is missing.  Guitar, coat, knapsack--gone.

No, no, no.

Biscuits roll across the floor and she's running for the woods.

No.  Please no.

When she reaches the clearing, it's much the same as when she saw it last.  Remnants of a fire.  Lily pads in the pool.  Crickets chirring in the grass.

Then she sees it.

Thank God.

She runs to the shelter.

"Jim?"  He must be in the trees.  She looks around and waits, but he doesn't answer.  She pulls over the case and opens it.  What she sees makes her heart seize.

Their photograph.  Or, rather, half of the photograph; it's been torn down the center.  In it, he's looking down with a soft smile, his arm disappearing behind the ragged tree trunk.  She pulls it from the strings, her hand shaking as she turns it over.

Hope, always.

A sob bursts from her.  Then the photo is shaking, and her lungs are being torn from her chest, and she thinks she may be sick, if she doesn't die first.

#

The grass is cool on the side of her face.

Her mouth is open and she's hiccupping a little.  One hand still clutches the photograph.  The other rests on the smooth surface of the guitar.  She moves her fingertips lightly over the strings, down, up, down, up.  The tiny ridges are soothing.

She sighs and closes her eyes.  That's when she feels it: a tiny flutter, low, deep, sacred.

She holds her breath and waits.

Then she feels it again, stronger this time, and her fingers press into her belly.  She turns the photo over to read the back again, and laughs.

Yes, I promise.

#

When she tells Roy that Jim has gone, he seems sad, but not surprised.

When she tells him she's pregnant, he wraps her in his arms and holds her tightly.

When she tells him she loves him, she knows it's true.

#

March 1940 

They name him Benjamin Henry, for their fathers.  He's strong and healthy and by the time he's four, she knows for sure.  But then, she's always known.  He's Roy's pride and joy, and if Roy ever notices the resemblance, he doesn't mention it.

# 

June 1945 

She clocks out from the mill, and heads to the post office.  Roy is due home later this month.  She and Ben receive regular postcards from Europe.  She's bought him a globe so that he can follow Roy's service path.  Today, they have another postcard, this one from London.

Soon now.

As she's leaving, the postmistress remembers.  "Oh, Pam--this, too.  Special instructions."

She hands Pam a small, fat envelope, addressed to her.  Also written on it is Please Hand Deliver.  The postmark is from Bethesda, Maryland.  She opens the envelope and a medal slides out into her hand.

She's seen this.  Not often, but enough.  A few of the men who've come back, and a few who haven't, have this medal.  Purple ribbon, gold heart.  Her hand is shaking as she pulls out a note.

Lost hope.

Found it again.

She bursts into tears, then begins laughing.

The postmistress smiles at her.  "That sounds like relief."

Pam nods.  It is.

#

June 1954 

The little girl at the next table gives her a shy smile, and Pam hopes that she can capture it.

Roy asked to attend the memorial service alone, so she sits in this café in Normandy, half a world from Iowa, and bides her time sketching the people around her.  She doesn't consider herself an artist, but being here, sipping coffee and listening to plush, mysterious words, makes her want to try something new. 

When an older gentleman nods on his way past and says, "C'est bon, Madame," she manages, "Merci, Monsieur."

She smiles back at the little girl, and continues shading.

#

October 1959 

In the end, it wasn't the paper dust after all.

Roy mentioned to his secretary that he felt sleepy, and asked that he not be disturbed for a little while.  After an hour, he had several messages, so she knocked on his door.  His head was resting on his arms.  She thought he was asleep, but couldn't wake him.  A stroke, the doctor said.  Painless.

That was April.

Ben came home from college, and stayed at the house all summer.  When autumn was near, he told her he wanted to help bring in the harvest, then take a year off from school.  Travel.

She watches him as he drives the tractor and decides.  She finds the box under her bed.  She sits, staring at it, her hands hovering near the lid.  She lets her fingertips trace swirls in the dust there until she can open it.  When she does, finally, she smiles.

The half photograph is on top.  Under that, the medal and the bracelet with the copper heart.  A pressed crocus.  Red yarn.  Wood shavings.  A canning label: peaches.  The old plaque from the mailbox.

After dinner, she asks Ben onto the front porch.  He settles on the front steps, all knees and elbows, and she hands him the guitar.

"I'd like for you to have this."

He's surprised.  "Your guitar?"

She smiles.  "Actually, it belonged to your father."

He scoffs.  "Pop never played guitar."

"No."  She looks at him steadily.  "But your father did."  And she shows him the photograph, and tells him the story.  When he leaves for Europe, he takes the guitar.  Soon after, she nails the plaque to the mailbox post again.

#

May 1960 

Even when Roy bought her a dryer, she continued to hang their sheets from the line outside.  She's convinced that sunlight infuses them with something that makes them soft, light, fresh.  The thought makes her happy and she begins to hum.  Always the same tune: lilting in spots, bouncy in others.  Sunlight and cotton have always brought it to mind.

She pins up another sheet, smoothing it down, and as the melody vibrates on her skin, she realizes she isn't the only one humming.

She falls silent.

The other voice is deeper, and it's behind the sheet.  She looks down.  A pair of unassuming brown shoes, one toe tapping.  Slowly, she reaches down, and lifts the bottom of the sheet.  Wool slacks, leather belt.  Creamy dress shirt.  Soft smile.  Eyes looking at his feet.

He stops humming and pulls something from his back pocket.  Half of a photograph.  He studies it, then her, and nods.

"Looks about right."  He smiles.  "Pam."

"Jim."

He tips his head toward the road.  "I noticed your sign."

She steps forward into him.

#

It's several minutes later, when she reaches for his left hand to lead him to the house, that she realizes it's prosthetic.  Then she remembers.

"The medal."

He nods.  "I tried pretty hard to make myself a target."  He raises the hand and shrugs.  "This is all they wanted."

"Oh, Jim."

He makes a joke about the biblical implications, that it somehow seems appropriate considering his history of taking things not his, and she begins to cry.

"Ah, now."  He pulls her close again and his smiling voice is warm on her ear.  "All it really means is that you'll have to be the one who plays the guitar now."

"I can't," she sniffles.

"Why not?"

After breakfast, Pam shows me around the farm.  The barn is unchanged, she says, except that now it houses a snowmobile instead of a horse.  Her grandson's, she insists.  The well house has been rebuilt and contains a modern pump.  The bunkhouse is gone.

"We had a heavy snow one winter, '53 I think.  It collapsed."  Pam shrugs.  "Roy didn't see any reason to rebuild it."

She points out her vegetable garden.  It's much smaller now, and there are only tiny sprouts so far, but already, she has plans for the harvest.

Then we begin walking toward the rear of the property.  The back lawn is huge, its new grass cut close.  A bark-mulch path leads down a shallow slope and across a flat strip, through a line of trees.  At a small creek, we cross a wooden bridge.  I notice as we walk over it that it has no nails or screws, just fine, tight joints, and I know he built it for her.  Sunlight winks and dances on the ground under the canopy, and then the trees pull back.  The meadow.

On one side of center stands the fieldstone hearth, weathered white outside, blackened inside by countless fires.  Nearer us is the little shelter, with a newish shingle roof.  Between them is the pool.  Pam leads me to a wooden bench that sits next to it.

"Is this original?"

She laughs.  "No.  This happened when we discovered we were too old to sit romantically on the ground.  The last time we did that, Jim couldn't get up again.  I managed to stand, and was trying to help haul him up, when I lost my balance.  He caught me, which probably saved my hip, but broke my rib instead.  He felt terrible.  So...the bench."

We sit, listening to birds call to one another in the trees around us.  The surface of the pool furrows under a breeze before smoothing again.  When I look over to Pam, she's gazing into the empty fireplace.

"It hasn't been long, has it?"

She shakes her head.  "Less than a year.  I still sense him sometimes."

"I'm sorry."

She looks surprised.  "For what?"

"For coming out of nowhere, dredging everything up again--"

"Hector, stop.  You haven't brought pain.  You've given me a gift.  Whether that was your intention or not, you have.  Of course, it wasn't all roses between us all the time, then or later.  Do you know, he refused to sleep in the master bedroom for almost ten years after he came back?  The moon landing changed all kinds of things."

She turns to me and smiles at the expression on my face.

"I'm very glad you came, Hector.  Jim had something of a rough time when he came back.  Ben accepted him easily enough, but the town...well, Roy had a lot of friends here.  For as many as Jim won over, there are still some who've never forgiven either of us.  I guess what I'm trying to say is it's always nice to meet someone who knew him, someone not here."

I nod.  "He caught up with us soon after he left here that summer.  Worked for the carnival till the war started.  Everybody loved him."

 She smiles.  "He touched so many people.  Sometimes I can't believe that I'm the one he came back to."  Her fingers pluck at her skirt, plain and unassuming.  "No accounting for taste, I guess."

When I laugh, she joins me.  When the only sounds left in the meadow are the birds, she stands.

"Coffee?  Maybe some toast?"

I pretend to consider it.  "Apple butter?" I venture, to which she grins.

"Of course -- specialty of the house."

The world encroaches on us again as we walk back toward the house -- a plane overhead, construction vehicles a few blocks away, traffic on the road.  The farm isn't quite the isolated place it once was, or seemed to be to the people living here.  I try hard to see the bunkhouse, hear his axe near the woodpile, catch the smell of wood shavings drifting from the barn.  I try so hard, that I almost miss it: the warmth of a large hand on my shoulder, the gentle pressure of a thank-you.

Since Hector existed because of Hope, I wanted to somehow incorporate Hope into the new novel.  I talked it over with Dave, my husband, and he came up with a cool idea: what if Hector is the author of Hope?  What if Hector somehow met Jim after Jim left the farm, learned the story of what had happened there, and later wrote it down along with his own memories of working in the carnival?

I finished the expanded novel almost exactly one year from the day I'd started Hope.  I'd changed everyone's names (Pam, Jim, and Roy became Beth, John, and Hank) and the two storylines -- the Iowa farm and the traveling carnival -- worked well side-by-side.  I pulled the original fanfic story from online archives and began to query publishers and agents.

There was just one problem: I didn't want to be seen as a romance author.  Hope seemed most marketable to, say, women who loved The Notebook.  The next project I was planning, though, was a young adult fantasy novel in a completely different style from Hope -- dark, satirical stuff not of interest to the same market.  So I wondered aloud to Dave, "Do I even need the farm chapters in this book?  What if I took them out and presented Hector's story to publishers as a young adult novel?"  He agreed that it would work, and probably better, in light of my plans for another YA book.

So, I stripped Dog-Boy (as it's now known at my house) of the original Hope chapters, and am currently working to fill the plot holes left behind.  

Although I'm not generally a fan of romance stories, I'm proud of parts of Hope, and as far as Dog-Boy is concerned, Hope has run its course -- writing it helped me imagine and develop characters wholly my own, resulting in a novel that has sparked ideas for more projects.

Long story short: I've put Hope back where it belongs -- in the fandom that inspired it.  Every one of you who read and commented on Hope in its first year encouraged me to keep writing.  I'll never forget that.  Thank you!