The Four Winds

It was nearly nine o’clock and the farm was quiet.

The only light on in the house shone in Loreda’s upstairs window. Her daughter was in bed reading, just as Elsa had done at her age. She walked out into the yard. The chickens roused themselves lethargically as she passed by and quieted quickly. She heard music coming from her in-laws’ bedroom. Tony was playing music on his fiddle. Elsa knew that music was how he spoke to Rose in these hard times, how he reminded them of their past and their future, how he said, I love you.

She saw Rafe in the darkness by the corral, an upright slash of black against the black slats of the corral, all of it sheened silver by the light of a waxing moon. The bright orange tip of his cigarette.

He heard her footsteps, she could tell.

Rafe pulled away from the corral, stubbed out his cigarette, and dropped the unsmoked portion into his shirt pocket. Tony’s love song wafted toward them.

Elsa stopped in front of Rafe. All it would take was the smallest movement and she could rest her hand on his shoulder. She knew the faded blue chambray of his work shirt would feel warm after this long, hot day. She’d hemmed and washed and stitched and folded every garment he owned and knew each one by touch.

How was it possible that Elsa was close enough to her husband that she could feel the heat coming off him and smell the whiskey and cigarettes on his breath and still feel as if an ocean sloshed between them?

He surprised her by taking her hand and pulling her into his arms.

“You remember that first night of ours, out in the truck in front of Steward’s barn?”

Elsa nodded uncertainly. These were things they didn’t speak of.

“You said you wanted to be brave. I just wanted … to be somewhere else.”

Elsa stared up at him, saw his pain, and it hurt her, too. “Oh, Rafe—”

He kissed her on the lips, long and slow and deep, letting his tongue taste hers. “You were my first kiss,” he whispered, drawing back just enough to look at her. “Remember me then?”

It was the most romantic thing he’d ever said to her, and it filled her with hope. “Always,” she whispered.

Tony’s music stopped, leaving a heavy silence behind. Insects sang their staccato songs. The geldings moved listlessly in the corral, bumping the fencing with their noses, reminding them that they were hungry.

The night around them

was black, the huge sky bright with stars. Maybe those were other universes she saw up there.

It felt beautiful and romantic, and just now, the two of them could be alone on the planet, attended to only by the sounds of the night.

“You’re thinking about California,” she began, trying to find the right words to begin a new conversation.

“Yeah. Ant walking one thousand miles on bad shoes. Us in a breadline somewhere. You were right. We can’t go.”

“Maybe in the spring—”

Rafe silenced her with a kiss. “Go to bed,” he murmured. “I’ll be there soon.”

Elsa felt him pulling away, releasing her. “Rafe, I think we should talk about—”

“Don’t fret, Els,” he said. “I’ll come to bed shortly. We can talk then. I just need to water the animals.”

Elsa wanted to stop him and make him listen, but such boldness was beyond her. Deep down, she was always afraid of how flimsy her hold on him was. She couldn’t test it.

But she would reach for him tonight, touch him with the kind of intimacy she dreamed of. She would overcome whatever was wrong with her and finally please him.

She would. And when they were finished making love, she would talk to him about leaving, talk seriously. More important, she would listen.

She returned to their room and paced. Finally, she went to the window and peeled away the dirt-crusted rags and newspaper that covered the sill and pane.

She could see the windmill, a slash of black lines, a flower almost, silhouetted against the bejeweled night sky.

Rafe was there, leaning against the frame, almost indistinguishable from the windmill. He was smoking.