The Fulfillment Page 2

  He admitted that he’d given Pris more than enough reason to expect his proposal. They’d been constant companions for the last year, and once, but only once, they’d been more. Granted she’d given in to him only once. But that was enough to build her assumptions on. The memory of that encounter didn’t set lightly on Aaron. He knew she wasn’t the type to dally with every young buck in the county. Indeed, he’d been her first. And just because that was true, Aaron felt a responsibility toward Pris. But it made him feel he was being forced toward marriage. And he simply wasn’t ready for marriage.

  Still, habits are hard to break, and spending time with Pris wasn’t exactly a hardship. She was pretty, she lived close by, and they had fun together. So here he was again, headed down to her place to while away a Sunday, driving her pa’s rig like he’d already married into it!

  None of the others in Pris’s family had gone to church that day. Agnes, her mother, was due with her fifth baby. Coming up the rise now where his own driveway angled off to the left, Aaron asked, “You want to go straight home today, or should we have breakfast with Jonathan and Mary?”

  “It’s best I get straight back,” Pris answered. “Ma will need help with the meal and all.”

  From behind them Jonathan saw Aaron’s hand wave a farewell. The lead rig continued over the crest of the hill toward the Volence place, which lay a quarter mile beyond, at the bottom of the hill.

  “Looks like they’re not stopping for breakfast,” Jonathan observed.

  Mary watched the dust settle ahead of them, saw the rig disappear over the crest of the hill, and felt a wisp of loneliness dim the bright day. She would miss their usual Sunday breakfast together. The house would seem empty. Mary thought about the bustling Volence household with all those kids and didn’t blame Aaron for preferring it to their own silent house, which always seemed a little bigger and a little quieter on Sundays. Well, at least she could escape to the garden today, Mary thought, shaking off the bothersome emptiness, but what she said was, “Agnes will be needing help. It’s best they didn’t stop, anyway.”

  Newt Volence came charging down the driveway on his stubby six-year-old legs, a-hollering all the way, “Ma’s havin’ the baby! Ma’s havin’ the baby!”

  “You git down to the barn and stay there!” Pris yelled as the rig passed Newt in the dusty gravel. She was down and running to the house before Aaron could bring the rig to a full halt. When he stepped down, Newt was right on his feet, pulling at his hands and hollering, “Do I gotta go to the barn, Aaron, do I? Pris can’t make me!” And little drops of spit came flying out where his tongue peeked between his teeth.

  “Better do like she says, Newt, so you won’t be in the way,” Aaron said.

  “She just doesn’t want me to hear if Ma does some yellin’.”

  Aaron laughed and reached down to grab Newt under the arms and hoist him up, astraddle his own waist.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Jimmy Martin said his ma did plenty o’ hollerin’ last time,” Newt confided, “and so did Clara when her calf was born.”

  There was no arguing with that, Aaron decided, and offered to keep Newt company down in the barn with his sister Gracie—for a while, anyway. Cora was sixteen, so it seemed she’d be allowed to remain in the house.

  As it turned out, the baby was nowhere near to being born yet. The day lengthened and Aaron stayed, entertaining the young ones, getting news now and then from the house. Clem Volence wandered in and out of the house, and Aaron wondered what a man said to his wife at a time like this. Pris fixed sandwiches when the sun was well past midday and brought them to the barn for Aaron and the kids. She said Aaron needn’t stay, but he did. The afternoon dragged on. Finally, near suppertime, she sent Aaron to town to fetch Doc Haymes. Riding past his own place, he saw Mary coming from the hen house clutching an apron full of eggs. He waved and she waved back, stopping to watch him disappear toward town.

  On his return trip it was dark outside, but the lights were on at home. The house looked good and he wished he could pull in and stay, but he thought it best to hang around the Volences’ until he was sure he wasn’t needed any longer.

  Doc Haymes wasn’t far behind him. Priscilla was relieved when she saw both rigs pull in.

  “Nothing yet,” was all she said before she and the doc went inside, leaving Aaron in the damp chill, uncomfortable and restless.

  The barn was warmer, drier, and Aaron found the kids bedded down there, so he joined them, alternately dozing and waking, finding his thoughts hazily reconstructing the memory of Pris and himself, that one time in the hay in the chill of a February night.

  Later she came without a lantern, and Aaron awoke at the sound of her entering below. He came down the ladder from the mow. Turning, he nearly bumped into her in the darkness.

  “Mama had a boy,” she whispered.

  “How are they faring?”

  “They’re both fine.”

  “Is the doc still here?”

  “No. He offered to give you a lift home, but I fibbed and told him you’d most likely be sleeping the night in the barn. I wanted to talk before you got away. Let’s go outside in the air.”

  He took her hand and led her out into the crisp, glittering night. As he carefully closed the barn door, holding the latch from making its customary click, Pris sighed, a confession of how long the day had been.

  Aaron turned and drew her into his arms, pushing her head down until it nestled beneath his chin.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  She moved her head, and it bumped his chin. “But happy.”

  “Yes, I reckon everyone is, now that it’s over. Won’t Newt be happy he’s got a brother?”

  She pulled away from him momentarily. “Oh, I should have checked on the kids. Are they all right up there?”

  “Yes, yes, don’t worry over them. They’re tuckered, too, and sound asleep.”

  “You know, you didn’t have to stay in the barn. Ma just meant for Newt and Gracie to stay out from underfoot.”

  “I was more comfortable out here, too,” he admitted. “How did Cora take it?”

  “Oh, you know Cora…never misses anything. Sixteen and snoopy.” Pris laughed, remembering Cora’s grown-up attempts to be helpful and her undisguised chagrin at the sounds going on in the house.

  “And you, Pris, what do you think of it all?” Aaron asked, brushing a hand across her cheek, the memories from the hayloft still fresh in his mind.

  “I guess it’s more beautiful every time it happens. I remember when Newt was born, and it was something to treasure. But now that I’m older—of age, you might say—well, it’s just about the most beautiful thing there could be. You should have seen Mama and Papa together afterward. I guess there’s no time two human beings feel closer than after a birthing.” She paused, as if expecting a reply, but when he made none she went on, “Thank you for staying, Aaron. I appreciate your taking to the little ones the way you do and keeping them from underfoot.”

  “I couldn’t very well run off without knowing whether it was a boy or a girl, could I?” He leaned back and smiled down at her.

  “Which would you rather have, Aaron, a boy or a girl?” she asked, and there was a catch in her heart, a moment of uncertainty during which she knew it was a mistake to press Aaron. She sensed his withdrawal. His hand dropped down from her face, where it had been, and the night cooled the skin he’d been touching.

  “What difference does it make?” There was an edge of annoyance in his words.

  “Things like that matter to a woman,” Pris replied. “She’d like to think they do to her man.”

  Her words formed a cinch around his gut, and he felt it tightening in a way that needed escape, like he imagined strangling must feel.

  “Am I your man?” he asked. There was no warmth to the question.

  “I don’t know. Are you, Aaron?”

  He knew damn well what she was trying to lead him to, and the worst part of it was she had every r
ight. But he wasn’t ready to be confronted.

  “Don’t push me, Pris,” he said.

  “Have I ever pushed you?”

  “Maybe push is the wrong word. Maybe it’s pull.”

  She said nothing, and he turned to walk toward the drive. In spite of his reluctance to speak of marriage, he felt he owed her something. He could feel the hope springing in her, and in himself there was something akin to pity because he hadn’t the same nesting urge she had.

  They walked together, but apart, near the corncrib and toward the road. The moon highlighted things: her hair—mussed now—an old, misshapen sweater she’d thrown on against the chill, her downturned face.

  He took her hand in apology and drew her against his side. They walked very slowly, their hips bumping in a familiar way with each step, until by some unspoken agreement they stopped. He knew it had to be brought out into the open, and she’d done her part, more than a woman should have to. His silence belittled her, and she deserved better.

  He eased his hold on her hand and very lightly stroked his thumb up and down her own, feeling her shiver as he did.

  “Pris, I know what you want,” Aaron said, and his voice was so quiet that her breathing seemed a roar in her ears.

  He stood beside her, unmoving, except for the warm thumb that kept stroking across hers. She waited for him to go on, but he just stood there, the thoughts so quietly loud around them that perhaps they were already spoken.

  “What is it I want, Aaron?”

  He swung to face her then, and gripped both her hands so hard they hurt. As if unable to look at her, he put his face up toward the sky instead. “Oh God, girl…you want me to marry you, and I should be askin’ right now.” Something told her his eyes were closed, and she heard him swallow.

  “But you’re not?”

  He looked down at her then, but she was looking at the ground. She wondered if Aaron could feel the heat of her face through the night chill.

  “No, Pris, I’m not. I’m just not ready for it yet. And that makes me feel guilty.”

  “Is it something I did?” she asked, meaning the time she gave herself to him, blaming herself for it.

  He held her right hand in his, and with his free hand ran the length of her forearm, up and down again and again from wrist to elbow.

  “It’s nothing, Pris, nothing you did. Please believe me. It’s got to do with me, not you. People had us marching down the aisle before we even got used to the changes we saw in each other. We sort of fell together like, living so close like we do. And it’s for sure I enjoy being here—I mean I like your folks…the kids…and you.”

  He put a hand under her chin and made her look up at him as he asked, “Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “No.” The word was choked out.

  “I’m saying I’ve been unfair to you. I’ve come around here for a year now, and I can feel all the threads tightening me to you…and some days I feel like they’re strangling me because I’m not ready to be tied down yet. That’s the part that’s unfair to you. Folks in these parts see me coming to call, and right away they say she’s Aaron’s property. Nobody asks me, and nobody asks you. Meanwhile, the others who might take a fancy to you keep away, thinking it’s all set between you and me. It seems I can’t have the pleasure of you without us taking vows.”

  “I never said that, Aaron.”

  “No, you never did, but it’s the truth, nevertheless. Do you know what I was doing up there in the loft tonight while I was waiting for you? I was remembering the time we made love up there, and wishing it would happen again. Even though I don’t want to marry yet, and even though I know what…well, how guilty you felt after the first time. And if I keep hangin’ around here, I’m going to keep after you until it does happen again. So I think it’s best I leave and make way for somebody who’ll think of marriage first and haylofts second. With me aside, other fellows might feel more welcome around here.”

  “But they aren’t welcome, Aaron. You’re the only one I want.”

  He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her face against his neck. “I know that, Pris, and I want you, too. But wanting and marrying are two different things to a man. To a woman they’re the same.”

  She felt the heat of her face centered now in her eyes, and tears spilled.

  “Don’t cry for me, Pris, don’t.”

  “I know why you’re saying all this,” she cried, her voice muffled. “It’s because of what I let you do last winter. If I hadn’t held myself so cheap, you wouldn’t, either.”

  “That’s not true,” he argued. He had to make her see it wasn’t true. “I’m the one at fault for that. I knew you couldn’t…knew I shouldn’t…”

  Finally she said, “If I hadn’t given in then, you’d be asking me to marry you now.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Wasn’t I good enough?”

  He pulled her roughly against him, put his arms clear around her shoulders, which were jerking quietly.

  “Jesus, Pris, don’t do this to yourself.”

  And then, to comfort her, he lowered his mouth to hers. As she always could, she made his body surge with desire. She opened her mouth without thinking, and in that slackening movement he lost himself. Her arms clung to his neck, fear of losing him a threat that hurt more than the slats of the corncrib digging into her back.

  With his fingers between the wooden slats behind her head, he pulled the length of his body against hers, and she could feel what the kiss had started. One of Aaron’s hands left the slats and found her breast inside the old woolen sweater, and he made a groaning sound, while his body betrayed him.

  She pushed in denial against the hand on her breast, but he held her pinioned against the corncrib wall, her head firmly against the slats and his mouth holding her still. She struggled until she could twist free and gasp, “No, Aaron, not again! If you set out to prove you can make me want you, you did! But I can’t.”

  His angry words cut her off.

  “I didn’t set out to prove anything by you, and you know it! I’m just not made of a goddamn lump of stone, Priscilla. I can’t turn my body on and off like you can!”

  “Just what are you aiming to do here, Aaron? Threaten to leave me so I’ll give in to you again?” Her anger matched his, making her accuse him when she might not otherwise have done so.

  “That’s a cheap accusation and you know it. It’s hardly worthy of you.”

  “Do you think just because I want to marry you, you have the right to act as if we’re already married?”

  “I don’t stop to make lists of rights—or wrongs—and maybe if you didn’t, you’d quit trying to push me into marriage and give your body what it’s panting for!”

  She slapped him then, and it cracked through the April night, stunning them both into silence.

  He broke it first.

  “I’m sorry, Pris. But a man has physical needs, and I’d say I’ve done quite well, pressing mine as little as I have.”

  “Well, go press them somewhere else. Go try one of the chippies at the Bohemian Hall Saturday night. After all, their price is cheaper than mine. All they want is money. I demand marriage in return for my favors.”

  Meaning to hurt her, he backed a step away, bowed slightly, and said with quiet sarcasm, “Ah, yes, if favors they could be called.”

  He had hit his mark, and he heard her sharp, sucking breath of surprise and shame, and he wanted suddenly to grab back the words. But she was running up the drive toward the house, and it was too late.

  She heard him call her. There was apology in his voice, but she was too humiliated to hear it. She heard only the words that cheapened what they’d once done together. They hurt more than the absent proposal ever had.

  Mary was lying awake when she heard Aaron’s steps on the gravel. A glance at the alarm clock in the moonlight showed it was well past midnight. Jonathan was snoring lightly, and she lay listening to his snores and waiting to hear Aaron come into
the house downstairs. Glancing at the clock again, she wondered if she had really heard footsteps. Ten minutes had passed, and Aaron hadn’t come in. Climbing over the foot of the bed, she jostled Jonathan, who rolled over. He made a snuffling sound but continued sleeping. Grabbing her chenille robe from the back of the bedroom door, she made her way into the dark upper hall, where no moonlight touched the floor. The familiar railing guided her down the squeaky stair more surely than any moonlight could have done.

  Aaron was home, all right, sitting on the back porch step, looking all worn out. His elbows rested on his knees, and one hand hung limply down while the other massaged the back of his neck. If it hadn’t been for the moving hand, she’d have thought he was asleep.

  “Aaron? You okay?” she whispered.

  “What’re you doing up?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep for wondering about Agnes. Is everything all right down there?”

  “Yeah, it’s just fine. The baby’s a boy.”

  “A boy…” she repeated, her voice like the trailing-away note of a mourning dove, wistful and uncertain.

  “Did you see him, Aaron?”

  “No, not yet,” he said, and he knew she wanted to hear far more of it than he was able to tell her. He patted the step beside him and hitched himself over a bit. “Come on out,” he invited in an indulgent tone. “There’s room for two, and I can tell you’re not going to let up till I tell you all I know.”

  She eased the door shut behind her and squatted on the wide step above him, hugging her long robe around her ankles and knees against the damp.

  “It took a long time, did it?” she asked as she settled.

  But he didn’t reply, as if he’d forgotten he’d invited her out there.

  “Aaron?”

  At the sound of his name he seemed to waken.

  “Oh, longer for Clem and Pris than for Agnes, probably.”

  She laughed. “Honestly, Aaron, the things you say. No sympathy for poor Agnes?” But her tone was not accusing. “Now tell me about it.”

  “I would if I knew more, but I spent most of the day with the kids in the barn, then riding into town to fetch Doc Haymes.”