Uncle Roy and Aunt Bette’s station wagon was still in the yard. Deep golden-red clouds seemed to sit on the surface of the dugout. It was still. Two mallards slipped off the shore. They glided silently through the water sending ripples out across the glassy surface. I watched as the clouds disintegrated into ripples. On the other side of the dugout, Uncle Roy was tossing hay bales over the fence for the cows. Bob was among the cows cutting the twines, gathering them up and giving the bales a kick to break them apart. The frogs stopped their refrains as I walked by the dugout. I climbed through the fence and went into the chicken coop to see if anyone gathered the eggs. There were lots. The egg-basket was in the house, so I got an old feedbag from outside and collected them. When I got to the house, Aunt Bette heard me at the door and opened it.
“You must be cold,” she said as she took the eggs and put them into the green plastic washtub.
“A little,” I replied. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but I turned on the yard light for Bob and Uncle Roy. I followed Aunt Bette into the kitchen where she was cleaning up dishes. She pointed to the table where a plate of potatoes, peas and roast beef sat waiting for me. I heard Mother, Elizabeth and Mary Ellen praying in the living room. Jo-jo, our budgie fluttered from one side of the cage to the other and then settled down in front of his mirror. I watched as he pecked and cooed at his reflection, and then began preening his wing feathers. The kitchen was warm. Aunt Bette pulled a sweater off the coat rack, handed it to me, and said “eat your supper, Mike”. “Thanks,” I said as I took off my blazer and put on the sweater. I didn’t want to talk or eat. She dusted off the blazer, hung it up for me, and went back to the kitchen sink. I went to the living room door.
Mother was leading the closing litany: “…I am numbered with those who go down into the pit; I am a man without strength.” They were kneeling in front of the crucifix on the wall.
“We cry out to You, oh Lord, have mercy on us,” Mary Ellen and Elizabeth responded. Mother looked up at me. Her eyes were puffy. She beckoned for me to come and kneel beside her. I remained motionless. Tears welled in her eyes. Returning her gaze to the prayer book and her rosary she continued.
“…You have plunged me into the bottom of the pit, into the dark abyss. Upon me, Your wrath lies heavy, and with all Your billows you overwhelm me.” Mother closed the prayer book. She looked up at me. Again, she signalled for me to come to her. I looked up at the picture above Dad’s chair. It was Our Lady of the Prairies. Mary holds a sheaf of wheat in her arms. She floats above a field of golden wheat sheaves and a pond. Mallards are taking off from the pond to join flocks already in the air, leaving, going south. Mary’s eyes do not look at us from this picture. Framed by a halo of bluish-white light, she gazes elsewhere, beyond the horizon into some distant perfect place.
