Crash!

Sara looked down at the broken pieces of porcelain laying in the bottom of the sink. With a sigh, she wiped the perspiration from her brow, willing the tears back. Breaking that old mug was the least of her worries. Through the kitchen window, she could see Tom ramming a shovel into the hardened ground, pushing the last of winter away as he turned the soil in the garden. Her garden, he had called it.

The first time she’d been to the Smith farm had been a nerve-wracking experience. A new bride unsure of how to act, she’d sat quietly in the old beat-up Pinto as it chugged past field after field of wheat. It had seemed like an endless sea of yellow then, a perfect inland lake of color. Tom’s big frame had filled the seat, and he talked excitedly about the farm and the crops, subjects that meant nothing to Sara. As they’d driven up to the Victorian farmhouse, the warm, red brick seemed smothering, a reminder of where she would spend the rest of her life. Just as the feelings were about to overwhelm her, Tom snuck up behind her, enveloping her shoulders with his strong, farm-worked arms. "That will be your garden," he had whispered, pointing to a beautiful patch of daisies at the corner of the house.

Now, years later, Sara watched as her husband attacked the hardened earth, wondering if he’d ever learn to forgive her.

The calendar next to the sink was a month behind, and Sara absently flipped the page. A French castle, Pierrefonds, was the featured photograph. She’d been there years before, as a schoolgirl. Her father, the lifelong politician, was serving as the American ambassador to France, and while her mother and father reveled in the cocktail parties and receptions, Sara felt awkward and out of place in that glittering world. She'd always end up in a corner with a book, away from the crowds scrambling for social position. It was at one Embassy dinner that a young man, looking uncomfortable in his tux, came up to Sara. "Bleak House is a wonderful Dickens novel," he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes. "But David Copperfield is by far my favorite."

Even before she could tell him she agreed, her heart told her it was love.

Outside, the heat of the afternoon made the far off field swim in a haze. Tom’s face was red, the sweat rolling off his brow. She watched him stop, taking a moment to fill his lungs. His hairline was further back, and lines had sprouted like wheat at the corners of his eyes, but her heart still ached when she saw him, head bowed, standing firmly in the midst of the soil. She’d been asking him to till that garden for weeks, but with all the other work, he’d never gotten around to it. She watched as he attacked the earth with the shovel, almost like he was trying to take back the last few days with every pile of earth he cast aside.

She’d followed him back to the United States, to college in Illinois. There was a quiet understanding that the petite, blonde beauty wasn’t interested in dating, and that the man who drove up every weekend was more than just a friend. Sara’s parents had let her make up her own mind. They had never shown much interest in her life; her father was far too busy living the life of a politician, and her mother was far too concerned that she looked the part of a senator’s wife. Besides, they liked Tom’s farming background. "This may be the most helpful thing you’ve ever done for me," her father had announced when she’d told them of her engagement. "I can finally convince the farmers I’m on their side." When Tom announced he was going to go live on the family farm, it only solidified his place as the triumphant, politically-acceptable son-in-law.

"I can’t give you diamonds and pearls," Tom once told her, "But I can give you a magical place. A place where you can read to your heart’s content. A place where no one will arrive to find out what you think about the issues. And where no one will selfishly congratulate you on your choice of husbands."

Sara was sure living in the country would be the answer to all her longings, the peace and quiet drowning out the frantic pace of her hectic life. No classes to attend, no one watching to make sure she said the right thing, no television cameras arriving to record the highs and lows of her life. For the first year, all was well. Days melted into calm, wind-blown evenings, and Tom was there. As in all lives, however, the wind had changed from a pleasant breeze to a biting gale, and the troubles in their life threatened to overwhelm them.

First, the rain had come. Pouring rain filled the land with water, drenching the crops. Then the heat had arrived, burning what little was left of the wheat. As the farm dwindled down, so did Sara’s patience. The long, work-filled days faded into nights filled with exhaustion. When the gnawing in her abdomen became overwhelming, she begged Tom to let her stay in the farmhouse. "Ah, Sara," he sighed, the exhaustion bleeding through in his voice.

"I’m going to have a child."

His face told her all she needed to know. It was too early. They had been so careful. They couldn’t support a family, not with the farm the way it was. "I love you," he had said, catching her in his calloused embrace. But she had seen the look in his eyes, and she knew. He didn’t want the baby. He didn’t want the farm. And as she sat alone in the farmhouse day after day, another voice whispered in her ear, "He doesn’t want you either."

He usually spent a pleasant hour with her in the evenings, sitting on the porch, rocking in the swing as they watched the sun melt under the western field. Since Sara’s announcement, though, she’d sit on the porch on purpose, waiting for him to arrive home for the day, to sit with her, to show some sign that he was pleased. Every day, he’d drag up the porch steps, place his hand on her swelling belly, and kiss her forehead softly. "I missed you in the fields today," he’d say. As he would trudge into the house to have dinner, he’d never see Sara’s tears falling slowly, and he nearly always missed the sunset.

Finally, last night, as he came back covered in the dirt and mud of the day, she told him that she’d had enough. "If you don’t want me, or the baby, just say so, and be done." She stood trembling on the porch steps, her thin, cotton dress fluttering in the breeze.

She could still picture his face, etched against azure sky and golden fields as he looked up at her from the bottom of the stairs. "Ah, Sara," he said, "If I could only be sure it was me that you wanted." He turned slowly, making his way slowly to the shed and the beat-up cot that was there, leaving her alone in the brass bed in their bedroom to fend for herself.

That morning, when the sun was coming up and his breakfast dishes were being washed, she’d felt the twinge. The pain grew until she could bear it no more. She called for Tom, who bundled her into the pickup and drove her to the hospital. She returned, empty.

When they returned, it was as though he couldn’t speak, only able to glance at her out of the corner of his eyes. He told her he’d do the dishes, but when he was called away to help one of the farmhands, she’d stepped up to the sink. Why worry about myself? she thought. He’ll never look at me again the same way.

The back door was open. She felt the breeze blow through the house, cooling the back of her neck. With a start, she looked out the window; Tom wasn’t in the garden. He was headed back to the house, returning, no doubt, to tell her good-bye. Now that the baby was gone, what was there to hold him to her? She tensed her shoulders, waiting for the reverberation of the slamming door, the sound of the rage he had every right to feel. What would he say?

Then his arms were around her, cradling her from behind. Gently, he kissed the back of her head, whispering words into her hair that she could hardly hear, but somehow, she knew he was telling her it would be all right. He would make it right. The garden was hers. The farm was hers. He was hers. They would be all right.

Funny, she thought, I never heard the door close.

Copyright ©2000 Alicia Corts.  All Rights Reserved