Women is Precious
I wouldn’t have said Arlen was dull, more like preoccupied. A man’s mind can only be filled with so much—the rest has to wait its turn. At the moment, I was a part of “the rest,” pushed to the back burner—actually, set off to the side of the stove, I think, but still near the burner. What came before me were things like cheap hay to finish out the winter, wood to keep the fire going, reports from the weather radio gathered three times daily, and a Civil War chronicle five inches thick and not anywhere close to being finished but “completely interesting,” I was assured.
The winter itch had set in, that endless expanse of time between Christmas and April when the crop farmer waits for spring to arrive like a bull pacing in his pen, waiting to be turned out with the cows.
The old timers had their own take on it. The neighbor lady said spring would be here at the first sighting of a robin. Old man Cutter, who’d seen ninety-two springs himself, said the season takes its time in coming and any fool planting garden before the oak tree buds is just asking for failure.
I had my own ideas. Spring would surely be here, I knew, when Arlen emerged from the machine shed after three days of cussing and tinkering with the old diesel tractor and asked me to help him pull start it. Then I could count on being a crop farmer’s widow for the next month and a half while he was out doing what he was born to do—plant corn.
This particular winter was different, but not different enough to suit me. We were six months into a new phase in our lives, the empty nest, and I had big plans. After all I’d been dreaming since the days of diapers and Kool-Aid of the time we’d take back possession of our house. We had Kelly and Jes early into the marriage, and Andrea, our last, just left for college in the fall, leaving us alone in the house for the first time in twenty-three years.
We didn’t notice it so much at first, knee-deep into the harvest, then holidays and family gatherings, but as Andi headed out the front door that day in January, suitcase in hand, a certain stillness crept in the back way. An awkward quiet, the kind you look to fill. Arlen felt it, too, though he never said a word.
My friend Denise suggested a solution—the weight reducers class at the Y.
“Lose some weight, see the world,” she said, talking on the phone one day. “It’ll do you some good to get out of that house.”
Denise suffered a similar fate, married to the seasonally employed, only her farmer made shelves in the basement to the sounds of the country music station instead of reading the desk reference copy of the Civil War.
“I have to talk it over with Arlen.”
She snickered. “Go ahead. Ask permission.”
“It’s not like that,” I said. She knew better. Arlen and I discussed things, and she and Jerry didn’t. Denise preferred the non-confrontational approach, as she called it.
“Let me get back with you.”
The truth was I didn’t really want to go. But more than that, I hoped my husband would give me an out. I brought it up that night over dinner.
“Think I should go to that weight reducers class at the Y?”
“What? Yeah, if that’s what you want to do,” he said, stabbing at the pork chop on his plate.
“Well,” I said, spooning sugar into my tea, stirring gently, “I’m not sure if I will.”
He reached across the table toward me, his arm touching mine. I smiled at him. He smiled at me.
“Could you hand me the potatoes?” he asked.
I sighed, handing over the bowl. I was fishing for a compliment—something like, “Gee, hon, you don’t need to lose weight” or “I’d sure miss you if you weren’t here”—but he didn’t take the bait.
I tried again. “I won’t go if you think it’s too much. I mean, I do have that women’s meeting on Wednesdays.”
“Whatever you decide,” he said, making a mountain of mashed potatoes on his plate. “Never hurts to take off a few pounds. Could you hand me that gravy?”
_____
I say that I had big plans, but thinking on it now, I’d have to say that I had notions—the difference being that a plan is well thought out and a notion is just out there, ready to make a fool out of you when you least expect it. Take the Walmart incident, for example—or as Denise laughingly calls it, Black Tuesday.
In town early that day, I stocked up for the approaching blizzard, forecast by the weather radio, when one of those notions hit me. Making my rounds in the paper products aisle, I tried to remember exactly how many rolls of toilet paper were in the bathroom cabinet or whether I should just buy the family size package. Blizzard, I reminded myself and tossed the jumbo pack into the cart. That’s when I spotted it—that little black something or other across several aisles in a part of the store marked WOMEN’S LINGERIE—and before I could consider it, that notion sidled up next to me and jumped right on into my head.
Me in that, I nearly said out loud. I laughed a little, my face turning a nice, warm red. Something I could share over the dinner table, have a good laugh about with Arlen. Then I remembered that article about putting the sizzle back in your marriage, and again, not thinking, I picked up that little black thing for closer inspection. It was soft and silky, stretchy in places. Daring, but dependable, sown with enough underwire to hold up a suspension bridge. The size worked. I could make it work or die trying.
“Oh, what the heck.” I stashed that little black number behind a large box of Tasty O’s and hurried off to the checkout line.
Random lane selection can be a dangerous thing, I soon discovered. After I heaped all my worldly goods onto the counter—my intimate apparel sandwiched between the economy-size box of Tide and several large sacks of Gold Medal flour—I noticed, with some apprehension, the boy with the peach fuzz mustache behind the cash register. I wondered if the grade school knew he was missing.
No need to panic, I thought. How difficult can it be to scan the merchandise?
The boy, in no particular hurry, picked up each item curiously, searching for that all-important bar code. Anxiety set in, followed closely by nail biting. I hoped and prayed that no one I knew would see me in there when I spotted Reverend Greyson coming into the store. I put my head down to avoid him, holding my breath till he passed by.
“Bonnie! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” he said, walking toward me. He went on to explain that he’d seen the car in the parking lot, thought he might catch me to let me know the women’s meeting had been called off.
I thanked him in as few words as possible, ever mindful that my dark secret lay hidden at the end of the counter, coming closer by the second.
But the reverend was chatty, invigorated, he said, by morning devotions. Did I know the joys of starting my day in prayer, he asked? Did I ever ponder the greatness of God? Was the Lord my help in times of trouble?
“Not often . . . sometimes . . . hopefully,” I answered in quick succession. Meanwhile, that little object of sin inched its way toward me down the conveyor belt of doom and destruction. I shuddered to think of what might happen when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the black material hoisted up off the counter. The kindergarten clerk picked up the garment carefully, clinically, afraid, I think, that his mother might appear at any moment and yell at him. The reverend didn’t seem to notice—not until the boy interrupted the mini sermon.
“Ma’am, did you know this, uh, thing is missing the tag?” Peach Fuzz asked.
I shook my head, afraid of what might come out of my mouth if I spoke.
“Is the tag maybe still in the cart?”
I glanced in the empty cart, hoping for one of those divine miracles. I shook my head for the second time.
“I need to get a price on it—uh, what do you call this thing?”
“Negligee,” I said in a barely audible voice, the first time I remember ever saying the word.
“What?” he asked, cupping his hand behind his ear.
I cleared my throat. “Negligee.”
The reverend, unable to look me in the eye, muttered something about seeing me in church Sunday and left, just as Boy Wonder held it up and yelled across the floor to the manager those five little words I’ve learned to fear most: “I need a price check . . .”
_____
I sat on the edge of the bed that night, tucked into my little black outfit, thinking I might still salvage the day. After all, the night was full of possibilities, and the thought of being snowed in lent a certain cozy, romantic feel to the evening. I dimmed the lights in the bedroom—tip #27 from the sizzle article—and listened for Arlen’s footsteps on the stairs. My hair was flowing and curly. Sprayed. I practiced looking demure—tip #43. I sized myself up in the partial darkness. Not half bad, I thought, hearing Arlen on the stairs, making his way to the bedroom. I watched the doorknob turning, Arlen standing in the doorway, the light from the hall making a silhouette out of him. He turned on the lamp.
“Good news! They took the snow out of the forecast, said it might even warm up. Have you seen my book? There it is. Thought I left it in here.”
He picked up the ten-pound volume and stopped a minute, looking me over. “Going to that weight meeting, huh? Be sure and wear something light for the weigh-in.”
I followed him out the door, watching him go down the stairs. “Thought I’d go in this,” I said.
“What?”
“Never mind!”
I changed into sweats and phoned Denise, telling her I suddenly had an opening in my social calendar. Grabbing my coat on the way out the door, I passed by Arlen.
“Hate to spoil the ending for you, but the blue team wins.”
He glanced up from his book and smiled. “Have a good time.”
I slammed the door and walked to the car. Denise met me with an expectant look as I slid in the passenger side.
“Didn’t notice a thing, did he—bless his heart.”
“He thought I was getting ready for the meeting,” I said.
Denise laughed. “And you were. You just didn’t know it at the time.”
“So much for being demure.”
She patted my arm. “Maybe you were just too good.”
_____
The weather turned warmer, just as they predicted, but I could feel myself becoming cooler by the day. My words to Arlen were few and sparse, and the annoying part was he didn’t seem to notice. He asked me one day, out of the blue, if I would ride along with him to pick up hay. I agreed to go—not that I suspected he wanted to have quality drive time conversation with me. What Arlen needed was a strong back to help carry the hay. I’d go all right, but he’d have to be the one to talk.
“You still mad at me?” he asked as we drove a lonely stretch of highway. “I mean, you seem kind of mad.”
I didn’t answer.
“If it’s about me forgetting to tell you about the reverend calling on Monday—”
I sighed. “The reverend called?”
“Uh-oh . . . Guess I got myself in deeper, huh.”
“You could say that.”
He glanced from me to the road then back again. “Why don’t you save us both a lot of time and tell me what the problem is?”
It was tempting, letting him suffer, but in all fairness, I couldn’t blame him. After all, I expected the guy who had trouble finding a matching pair of socks to suddenly become clairvoyant.
“This empty nest thing’s not working out like I thought,” I said finally.
“I know, I miss ’em, too,” he said. “But the kids are getting to that settling down age. Before you know it, we’ll have some little ones running around the house again. Then it won’t be so empty.”
I shook my head. “You don’t get it.”
“Well I’m trying!” he said, getting flustered. “If you’d just tell me what’s bothering you.”
Silence filled the cab of the truck as we headed for the hay farm. An angry quiet, the kind you’re supposed to resolve before the sun goes down, and I was glad the days were getting longer again.
After a while, we got off the highway and turned onto a gravel road, heading for a little farm near the edge of the tree line. Arlen stopped in front of the house and went to find the owner. I looked things over, a habit of mine, trying to get a feel for the place.
The house and barn were painted a matching dull gray, and a swing set stood in the backyard, rusting by the minute. The pond lay next to the woods with a willow tree, a bench resting underneath its branches.
Something sad about this farm tucked away in the trees, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Arlen appeared, standing next to an old man. He pointed to the barn. Arlen nodded. They parted, and I watched the man, bent over, heading that way. Arlen got into the truck, slamming the door.
“He wants me to carry the hay from the back of the barn, says if we pull around in back the cows might get out,” he said, frowning.
“I’m sure he knows his own cows.”
“The dang cows are down in the woods, they’re not going anywhere.”
We pulled around to the front and got out of the truck.
“You stack,” Arlen said to me.
“Those bales might be too heavy for the lady,” the old man said.
“Naw, she’s strong as an ox.”
My husband, he could be such a flatterer at times.
I stepped onto the hay trailer as Arlen climbed the ladder to the loft and proceeded to fire down 65-pound bales next to me.
“If them bales is too heavy for you,” the old man said softly, “you just let me know.”
I smiled a polite smile at the man. I didn’t feel like talking, but he did. He mentioned the weather and asked me if I liked to garden, and soon I found myself warming a little inside. Arlen peered down from the loft, upset with me for not stacking quickly enough.
“Could you slow down?” I yelled up to him.
“Don’t have all day,” he answered.
True, he had that pressing date with the battle of Gettysburg.
Arlen threw down enough hay to finish out the load, dropping a bale off the trailer in the process. I went after the stray one, but before I could get to it, the old man was bent over, lifting with all he had in him.
“I’ll get this one for you,” he said.
Arlen climbed down the ladder in time to see the struggle and headed over to take charge. I caught him by the sleeve.
“Let the old guy do it,” I whispered.
What a grand sight to see! Chivalry, alive and kicking, in the form of an old man who walked with stooped shoulders and had trouble steadying his hands.
“There you go,” the old man said, setting the bale on the trailer, smiling a little.
“Thank you,” I said.
Arlen glanced at me impatiently. He went around the load, straightening my awful stacking job, while I leaned against the truck, making conversation.
“Nice pond you got back there,” I said. “Is it stocked?”
“There was some bluegill in it,” he said, “last time I fished it.”
“You don’t go anymore?”
“My wife and I used to fish—I still do sometimes . . . She passed on a few months back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
The old man wiped his nose on his sleeve and sat down on the tailgate of the truck.
“She used to plant trees in the spring—planted that willa tree next to the pond. I put the bench there so’s we could have a place to sit down. I go sit there when I fish, but it ain’t the same.”
Arlen looked over at me, caught my eye for a moment, and I knew his thoughts. He tightened the rope that held down the load and came around to join us.
“So we have her to thank for the view,” he said.
The old man cracked a smile. “She wouldn’t let me cut no trees, said the birds needed a home, too. She was always partial to the greenery.”
Arlen took a seat on the tailgate and talked to the old man about crops and baling machines and Nubian goats. And I looked on, remembering what I loved about my husband, that he was a kind man.
We passed the afternoon that way, swapping stories until the sun headed too far west in the sky, and we had to take our leave. The old man followed us around to the front of the truck, opening the door for me.
“You take care of her now,” he said to Arlen. “Women is precious.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Arlen said, and we waved good-bye.
We drove home that afternoon, neither of us speaking, though not for the same reason as before. It was a reflective quiet, the kind that makes you know a little more about life than you did. Arlen backed the load in the shed, and we walked to the house together.
“Kinda sad—that old man by himself. Makes you think,” he said.
I nodded. “Yes, it does.”
“Guess you think I take you for granted.”
“People take each other for granted. That’s part of it,” I said. “The point is to appreciate what we have right now.”
He took my hand. “Ah, honey, you know I love you.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s just nice to hear every once in a while.”
He smiled at me. “Know what you need after all that hard work?”
“What, a back brace?”
“No, a good soak in the tub. Then maybe you could put on that little black whatchamacallit.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “I didn’t think you noticed.”
“Took me awhile. Thought about it when I was down in the woods cutting firewood yesterday. Just that when I finally figured out what you had in mind, I was too tired to take you up on it.” He grinned at me. “But I’m feeling kind of sprightly today.”
_____
They say that in the spring a young man’s fancy turns to love. It’s that way with the middle-aged man, too. Just that sometimes he needs a little gentle reminding.
THE END