Yes mam. Your man yander sent me. He said to tell you he’d be along in just a minute.
She looked the young woman up and down. It’s half a hour till dinner, she said. You would expect somebody to know what time dinner was after nineteen year now wouldn’t ye?
Yes mam, she said, looking down.
It’s when I ring it, that’s when it is.
I didn’t know, she said.
Him, not you. Where’s he at?
He went to water.
Did he? She clapped the mold absently. Funny the way a man’s day gets shorter and a woman’s longer. And you’re here for dinner are ye?
If it ain’t no trouble.
Trouble? No trouble. Since I got a maid and a cook now it ain’t. Come in.
She went past and into the kitchen.
Get ye a chair. I’m just cleanin up this mess.
I’d be proud to help.
Just set. I’ll be done directly.
All right.
Not there. It’s broke.
All right.
She watched while the older woman ladled the last of the butter from the bottom of the churn into the mold and pressed it out.
That’s a sight of butter.
The woman was clearing away the things. She glanced at the hives of butter aligned on a board down the table. It ain’t near what I do in the winter, she said. They’s two different stores carries my butter.
The other folded her hands over the stained bundle of rags in her lap. I reckon that would keep a body busy with churnin.
It’d keep one busy just milkin. She ran the wooden blade of her ladle down the dasher.
Is it just you and your man here?
It is. We raised five. All dead.
She had been going to nod interest or approval but now her jaw fell and her hands knotted in her lap. In the silence of the kitchen only the dull sound of wood on buttered wood.
You’d think a man’s hand would fit a cow’s tit wouldn’t ye? the woman said.
She looked down at her feet and placed them very carefully together. I don’t know, she said.
You ain’t married?
No mam.
Well. You ever get married I expect you’ll find out they don’t.
Yes mam. Can I not help ye with nothin sure enough?
Near done now. Don’t need no help. You just set.
All right.
Four girls.
She sat, hands folded. The woman dampened cheesecloth to lay over the butter.
Oldest’n been near your age I reckon.
I’m nineteen, she said.
Yes. Oldest’n be just about your age. He ain’t comin is he?
She raised her head slightly and looked out the one small window. No mam. Not that I can see.
All right.
It’s faired off to be a right nice day ain’t it?
Yes. I don’t even know whether you’d say raised or not when they wasn’t but just young. The boy was near a growed man when he died.
Yes mam. I’m sorry you’ve had such troubles.
Mm-hmm. Sorry. Don’t need sorry. Not in this house. Sorry laid the hearth here. Sorry ways and sorry people and heavensent grief and heartache to make you pine for your death.
She was watching her toes.
For nineteen year.
Yes mam.
I believe that’s him now, she said. Called or not. You can look and see if that ain’t him now if you will.
It’s him, she said.
All right. We’ll eat directly he gets washed. If he’s washin.
When the man entered the house he nodded to her and went on through the door to the next room without speaking to the woman. She could hear him puttering about at some task. The woman raised aloft a stove-eye in black and steaming consecration and poked the fire. A gout of pale smoke ascended and flattened itself against the ceiling. It was very quiet in the kitchen. Flies droned back and forth. When the man came in again he skirted the table and sat at the far end and folded his hands before him on the oilcloth.
Hidy, she said.
Howdy. I expect you could use a bite to eat by now.
I ast could I help but she said she’d ruther to do it her own self.
She does everthing by herself.
The woman opened the oven door and slid forth a tray of cornbread.
That’s finelookin butter ain’t it? That she’s made.
I cain’t eat it, the man said.
Her joined hands went to her lips for a moment and returned to her lap again.
Cain’t eat it. Makes me sicker’n a dog.
I guess they’s some things everbody cain’t … I guess everbody has got somethin he cain’t eat.
What’s yourn?
What?
I said what’s yourn? That you cain’t eat. It ain’t turnips I don’t reckon.
She was watching her hands, yellow skin tautening over the knuckles. I don’t know, she said.
No.
A body gets hungry I reckon will eat pret-near anything.
I’ve heard that. I’m proud I ain’t never gone hungry.
It’s best not to have to. I reckon.
It’s best not to have to do lots of things. Like hunt somebody you never heard of … Was that not it?