Written by Nancy Dillingham – I – She watches as her husband plows the field, getting it ready for planting. His back to her now, leather reins around his neck, he moves forward, gently clucking to the horse, pulling expertly on the reins, holding the plow in a straight row. It is as though he and the horse are one interconnected force, the horse’s head up now as the man pulls on the reins, checking him, straining backward, the horse’s head down now as the man bends forward, giving him more rein.

As this force moves, machine-like, through the field, the earth turns under the plow’s powerful thrusts into ribbons of dark, shiny soil. She bends over slowly and takes off her sturdy brogans. She steps into the freshly turned earth, feeling its soft coolness under her bare feet. She picks up a handful and holds it close to her face, examining with wonder the tiny, white plants, miniatures of what they will become. Almost microscopic in size and tender to the touch, they extend delicate roots through the soil’s blackness.

This year, she feels a certain kinship with the earth. As it quickens, sending forth new life, so she feels the stirrings of new life in her. The baby is due soon, and she thinks as she stands there that the garden will be planted and up before it comes. Presently, she sits down on a big rock at the edge of the field, dusts off her feet, wipes her hands on her apron, puts her shoes back on and starts back towards the house.

It is a crisp day in March, and she inhales, with deep breaths, the day’s freshness, stretching her arms outward and upward. She sucks in her breath again, sharply this time, but continues to walk after a moment, bending over protectively, holding the roundness of herself under her apron, clutching it to her.

At dinnertime, lunch on the table, she muses in front of the kitchen window, leaning against the basin, as her husband leads the horse to the barn, walks to the pump where he bends over, pumps vigorously until the water gushes forth, washes his hands, rubs his face briskly, then stands up and throws back his head, shaking off droplets from his shiny, black hair. Her eyes follow him dreamily as he strides through the sunlight toward the house.

Still, she stands before the sink, lost in reverie so that when he appears in the open doorway, filling it up, cutting out the light, she turns her head slowly and looks at him.  The softness of her faces communicates something to him, and he moves toward her, putting his arms around the fullness of her. She smells his leathery smell. Placing her hands over his, she moves them downward on her stomach.

I felt the baby drop today, she says. It won’t be long now.

It is as though his hands, so sure on the plow, shaping the earth for planting, are also shaping the very progress of the life inside of her, molding it into a likeness of him.

II

A few days later, she walks down the lane and stands by the fence that separates the two farms, watching her husband as he plows the neighbor’s field. Movement is becoming increasingly difficult for her. As she leans against the fence, she shades her eyes from the sun and watches as he brings the horse to rest under a big apple tree at the field’s edge.  She sees the neighbor’s daughter approaching from the house with a bucket of water. At that moment, she moves out of her body into that of the young girl’s. As she moves into the shade of the tree, she feels the heat from the horse and smells its ripe smell as it stands there, exhausted from its efforts, dripping wet, its great sides moving in and out.  Nostrils flaring, it shakes its head up and down, making snorting sounds, foaming at the mouth from the bit place there.

She moves alongside the horse to the man who is leaning one arm on the plow. She stands before him, smelling his leathery smell. His nostrils flare and tremble slightly as his shoulders rise and fall with his labored breathing. His face is covered with sweat, some of it running in rivulets from his eyes to his mouth, moistening it. She moves closer and feels the heat from his body, his breath hot now on her face. She offers the water up to him. His hand burns hers as he takes the dipper from her. She feels a weakness in her knees.

Suddenly, there is a flash of light and she stands as before, gripping the fence post, her heavy body sagging against it. In the field, the young girl is holding up a dipperful of water to her husband, the sun glancing off its tin surface.

Late that night, she turns toward her husband in bed, her forehead resting against the taut smoothness of his back, the baby moving in its own world between them. She reaches out her hand and touches his shoulder. I’m sorry, she says softly. Wordless, he turns to her, laying his head on her breast. She cradles him there until he sleeps again.

III

A week later she calls her husband from the field and tells him it is time. The month is now April, and some of the men have begun their yearly practice of gathering in the evening at the store, talking weather and crops.

They stand outside in little groups, thumbs hooked inside the galluses of their overalls, or sit on the upturned drink-bottle crates, leaning against the building. It is still light when her husband pulls his battered pickup truck in at the store. It’ll only take a minute, he says, his words tumbling out rapidly in an effort to reassure her. I’ve got to fill up.

As they come to rest in front of the gas tanks, she notices that the front of the store is deserted. The wooden crates sit in their upright positions, empty. Her husband honks his horn, and the storekeeper comes out. His face is solemn. Something is wrong. Has someone died? she wonders distractedly. He turns the crank, jerks the hose out of its nozzle, and sticks it into the truck. She hears the gas gushing in and smells its thick, almost overpowering smell.

The storekeeper speaks to her husband through the rolled-down window as he feeds the gas into the truck’s tank. Be glad you weren’t here a little while ago, he says. That Beck boy just cut Old Man Mercer’s youngest boy’s throat. The ambulance and the law just left. He is speaking rapidly, in a low, controlled voice. He continues before her husband can warn him. It was over some girl they were both seeing. I saw it all. Joe Beck pulled up, and the Mercer kid got in the truck with him. It was right here, about where we are now. See that blood there? He motions with his head towards the ground.

She is going to faint. The truck is too hot and the smell of gas too overpowering.

It happened very quickly, the storekeeper continues. First, they were just sitting there talking, and, before I knew it, it was all over. Joe got out of the truck and waited in the store. Everybody else cleared out. I pulled his truck back there. He points with his chin to the side of the store where the truck sits, almost hidden in the shadow of the building. As best as I could tell, it was self-defense. That’s what I told them. I think they’ll go easy on him, though, his wife being pregnant and all.

She grips her husband’s arm and screams. I can’t stand it! Why does it always have to happen like this?

Not understanding, her husband, who has been sitting frozen at the wheel, turns to look at her. Don’t worry, he says hoarsely. We’ll get you there in no time. He is white around the mouth. He starts up the truck. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go, he says to the storekeeper.

The storekeeper looks stricken. I didn’t know, he says, shaking his head, heaving the hose back into its nozzle.

Her husband nods. Just put it on the book, he says, and they roar out onto the highway.  Nausea grips her and forces her to scream again. Her husband takes the curves very fast, his face grim and white all over now. Hold on. We’ll be there before you know it, he says, sounding breathless and shaken. But she is inconsolable, sobbing violently.  Alarmed, he looks at her again, still not comprehending. Then, helpless, he reaches out one arm, pulling her to him, holding her tightly, wrestling with his free hand and the steering wheel, the narrow, mountainous road that leads to town and the clinic. She lies against his hard shoulder, not feeling the violent jolts and twists. The pain in her heart is much greater.

Later, in the colorless hospital room, as she counts the tiny fingers and toes of her newborn baby son, she marvels at time and its power. As her husband looks at her, he wonders about the look of abject sorrow that passes over her face in that moment.

IV

Six weeks later, after getting the baby to sleep, she moves through the darkness to her husband’s side of the bed. She stands before him a moment, turns back the covers, and gets in beside him. Her slimness now matching his, she rests her body against the smoothness of his back. Instinctively, he turns toward her, awakening. She moves her body, accommodating him. His lips touch the fullness of her breasts. She moans softly.  Outside, the rain begins to fall. The budding earth drinks thirstily.

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Writer and educator Nancy Dillingham is a sixth-generation Dillingham from Big Ivy in WNC.  She has a forthcoming work in Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel: Vol. 18, The Dead, and a chapbook from Finishing Line Press released fall of 2015.