Pursuing Daisy Garfield

The road was rutted by the wheels of mule wagons and washed out by the annual torrents of spring. The wallows jarred the wheels pretty rough, and the mule had to be encouraged with whip and reins, but the wagon trundled on, and the trail led upward into a mystery of green that looked very like the mystery left behind. The waggoneer cursed, as well he ought, for cursing comes natural in desolate places. God is in nature—everyone insists it is so—but He is shy and unpredictable as a hummingbird, and you've got to look obliquely and quickly at that, and even then, He has probably already flown. Maybe if God were more Jove-like, standing tall and majestic as an oak with mistletoe hair and the doves of Aphrodite twittering and coupling in his branches, the waggoneer might have been gentler in his admonitions. But Jehovah God is not an oak. He is a hummingbird or a beetle iridescent with green, scuttling for cover under leaf mold.

The waggoneer was not old, not yet forty—the prime of life for many. His beard was carefully cropped and still coal black, and what wrinkles he had were gained by squinting in the sun; his eyes were brown, almost black, and he wore his hat pulled down to his brows. In fact, he was a plain man of common height who fastidiously tended what God and nature had bestowed. The crazy pulse of youthful desire had settled into a kind of throbbing of perpetual pursuit, and he could not pass the Garfield place without some hope of seeing Mrs. Garfield scattering corn to the chickens or pinning laundry to the line. Once she waved at him through the window, but he wanted more than she could or would consent to give.

Mr. Garfield was not dead. A week ago, his axe had sheared away from the chopping block and delivered a bone-splitting gash to his lower shin. The leg had been doctored by an old woman who applied mayapple pap and slipped chicken bones in his pockets, but in a matter of days, the gash became a stinking wound, and either the leg would go, or Garfield would. And it was a shame. Garfield had shot dead a ruffian who raped a girl over in Notch and was threatening more mischief; it was a fair fight with a just conclusion, and Garfield had never wavered. He had simply shot the ruffian thrice through the gut and that was that. And now here Garfield was, stinking of gangrene because of a goddamned knot he failed to see while swinging an axe as he had done ten thousand times before. It was shit luck. But for the waggoneer, it wasn't shit luck at all, at least not today, because Mrs. Garfield—Daisy—was out front of the cabin, restoring a cedar rail to the top of the split rail fence and brushing the hair from her eyes. The rail was not particularly heavy, and one end had begun to rot and fester. A couple of useless and rusty nails pointed nowhere in particular and would never be driven into anything. Still the rail could last another year or so, maybe. The fence kept nothing out nor nothing in, but once constructed, it seemed necessary.

"Mornin', Mizz Garfield." The waggoneer lifted his hat and smiled, and he hoped that his wrinkles might manifest his good humor and trustworthiness, along with some latent traces of youth.

"Mr. Crawford," Daisy replied.

"Need help?"

"Not with this here, but thank you."

"Fences is always fallin' down, ain't they? Rain, critters . . . time, I reckon. How's Mr. Garfield?"

Tears pooled in Daisy's eyes, and she rolled the fence rail so the rotted end faced down. "Not too good. We had a regular doctor out yesterday who gave him something for pain, and he said John wouldn't . . . . And a preacher came by, praying and pretending he knows things nobody knows." Her pretty head drooped, and a curl of her hair fell forward.

"Now I'm s'prised to hear you say that, Mizz Garfield, 'bout preachers. Most women of my acquaintance put more stock in the maunderin' of preachers."

"Most women, like most men, are liars." Daisy studied William a moment before she said, "Tell me, Mr. Crawford, why do I tend my husband, do you think?"

"Well, I reckon because you'un's belong to one another by troth and Holy Writ."

"Yes, that is true. We do belong to one other. But taking care of John is more like tending to this fence. John living, breathing, sitting at the table and touching my hand keeps away the rain and the vermin and even time. I say unto you, Mr. Crawford, that John upright and polishing his rifle fends off time while John abed, well . . .". Daisy looked Crawford in the eye and resumed, "God ain't nothin' but time, Mr. Crawford. John upright keeps God at bay while John dying ushers God right into my bedroom."