When Darkness Loves Us

What she was getting used to, in fact, was her growing sexuality, her passion, her needs and desires. Her Christian upbringing was confused along with the rest of her uprooted ideals, but the sight of Harry’s hard sweat-slicked body made her weak in the knees, and she would work twice as hard to purge the vision from her mind.

At night, they would lie in bed and talk of the coming winter, and as his voice droned on in the darkness, she would stare at the nothingness above the bed and dream of making love on the wooden floor in front of the stove. She would touch him, lightly rubbing her fingers across his back, and she would ache between her legs, the way saliva glands hurt with the first taste of sweetness. Usually she stroked him like this until she heard his soft snoring; then she would curl into herself and wait for morning, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not.

At the commencement of winter, Fern’s gift blossomed. And so did she.

They had worked hard all summer getting the farm ready for the cold weather. They had a late crop of vegetables, which were put up and safely stored in the underground pantry. The house and barn were freshly caulked and painted, hay was stockpiled, wood cut and stacked, stores of food set in.

The sky turned the color of the dusty roads on a Sunday afternoon, and after lunch Harry took her outside, wiped the sweat from his forehead, tipped his hat to the back of his head, and looked up. “Snow’s gonna fly hard, Fern. Tonight. Tomorrow for sure.”

Fern remembered waking up with an air of expectancy, looking out from her second-story bedroom and seeing the first snow quietly covering everything in sight. She smiled to herself, anticipating a welcome contrast from the dry summer, but a quick look at Harry’s worried face slammed her back to the here and now. This would be no winter for carefree ice skating on the pond at the park. This was living with the weather as you live with the soil and the water. This was life-or-death weather. Though the day was still hot, she shivered, as if a premonition slithered up her spine but didn’t quite make it to her mind.

“Gotta get the tractor bedded down,” Harry was saying. “You going to town today?”

Fern noticed the wind picking up, swirling bits of this and that, stinging her ankles. She thought of her winter checklist, and the things that had yet to be done. “Yes. Oh, yes, I have lots of things to be done.”

“Good. Go to Mac’s store and see if he can send a boy out to help me this afternoon. I’ve got to get that tractor jacked up.”

Fern took a sweater, grabbed her list, and went directly to town, walking quickly, head down against the rising wind, wasting no time. Mac’s son, Dave, offered to drive her back and help Harry with the tractor. Gratefully, she completed all the shopping on her list, more than she could carry in three trips. She loaded it all into Dave’s buckboard, and with a snap of the reins, they drove home, shielding their eyes from the blinding dust.

Dave helped unload her purchases before putting the horse in the barn. He worked quickly, taking worried glances at the charged sky. Fern’s heart raced with excitement.

She put the groceries away, stacked fabric, yarn, and other winter projects, stored kerosene and fresh water jugs. The next item on her list was to stretch the lifeline.

She ran down the stairs to the fruit cellar, found the old rope coiled neatly on a meat hook. She put her shoulder into it and lifted it off the hook. Staggering under its weight, she climbed back up the stone steps. The wind was louder now, and suddenly cold, carrying pieces of trash and small bushes through the yard. She dumped the coils on the porch, hunted for the outside end of the rope, and threaded it through the iron eye that was screwed into the house.

Squinting against the particles of sand that stung her face and hands, she located the other end of the rope and began dragging the heavy line to the barn. Her dress whipped about her thighs and waist; her dark hair caught in her lips and tangled in her eyelashes. The world had turned reddish brown and gritty.

She threaded the end of the rope into its iron loop and pulled hard. She braced her foot on the side of the barn and pulled with all her might, sucking in sand that coated her tongue, but the heavy rope lifted only a few inches off the ground. It would have to do for now. She tied it as best she could and slipped into the barn carefully, so the wind wouldn’t catch the door.

It was almost silent. The barn was warm and cozy, sealed tight against the airborne sandpaper. The animals were restless, but quiet in contrast to the whistling madness outside. She laid a reassuring hand on each flank as she passed. They smelled like old friends. Dave and Harry were kneeling in the other corner, heads under the rear axle of the tractor. Harry looked up as she came in.

“I can’t get the rope very tight, the one from the house to the barn, Harry; you’ll have to help me.”