the house again. They made a sound like corn popping as they bumped against the walls and windows, not a welcome noise by any means; it heralded another terrible season of pig reek. By June she wouldn’t be able to open her windows and doors. The air conditioning would run non-stop. Even if she changed the filters every week, the smell of her clothes would make her gag.
Gerry never minded as much; but then, after the lung-scorching stench of the barns themselves, ammonia so dense it made her eyes run, the rest of their property probably came as a breath of fresh air. On summer nights, he often sat outside on the lawn and drank a beer or two. She’d seen him take his pie and coffee out to the picnic table under the maple and eat it with a hundred flies buzzing around his head.
When they were first married, she assumed she would get used to everything, but in fact it seemed to get worse with time. Every year from April to November, Isabel felt sick to her stomach; and now, with the warm weather on its way, she would begin again to dread Gerry’s coming to bed at night, settling his long frame on their cheap Sears mattress set, the one they had bought before they were married and that now dipped so badly shehad to cling to the edge to keep from rolling into him. Even after a shower, the smell of him, the prickle of his leg hair, and especially those crazy tufts on his back, were too much for her. She tried not to think it, but more and more often the picture came to her that she was lying in the dark with a hog, and she felt stricken in her heart that she could ever think such things about the man she had married.
Lord knew she wasn’t perfect. She had never been a beauty, twiggy as a brush pile. She knew that people talked about her, too. They would say she wore too much perfume. They’d wonder who she was trying to impress—the new clothes always, the beauty parlour once a week. And they would think it curious that she insisted on having a job when Gerry needed her there on the farm to do all the things a farmwife does. They’d feel sorry for Gerry, and she was pretty sure he would agree with them (though he would never let on).
But Isabel didn’t care about any of that. She was proud she had graduated top of her class from the real estate course at St. Clair College. She enjoyed painting her nails. She loved her new cream pantsuit, and the older red and blue ones she had bought last summer at Dainty Miss. She loved her briefcase with its rich leather and brassy clasps, and loved how it felt to get behind the wheel of the big new Buick she leased from Rollie Marks to chauffeur clients around. She was thrilled most of all to have a job at Demeter Real Estate and to get away from the damn pigs. It seemed to her such a sensible decision. At last. At last she was moving in the right direction. And while she understood that you couldn’t turn back the clock, she felt you could at least make up for lost time, which was just what she planned to do.
After she had finished her coffee, she lit her first cigarette, the only guilt-free smoke of the day. Then she headed upstairs to get ready for work. She had just finished putting on her makeup when she heard Gerry clomp upstairs and stand in the hallway. He pushed open the bathroom door with the toe of his boot and stood watching her awhile, his arms across his chest.
“Be late tonight?” he asked.
She brushed off the front of her blouse, then double-checked to see if she could do anything more with her face. At last she turned to him and said, “No, I don’t think so. No appointments. I thought we could have baked chicken and Rice-A-Roni.”
He nodded, his mind not on dinner or her job. “About Reg Foster.…”
She tossed her cosmetics into her little zippered bag. Without turning, she said, “I thought we’d been over this. You always said we’d never use the home farm for collateral.”
“I know what I said. But maybe this is different.”
“Gerry, the
Gerry never minded as much; but then, after the lung-scorching stench of the barns themselves, ammonia so dense it made her eyes run, the rest of their property probably came as a breath of fresh air. On summer nights, he often sat outside on the lawn and drank a beer or two. She’d seen him take his pie and coffee out to the picnic table under the maple and eat it with a hundred flies buzzing around his head.
When they were first married, she assumed she would get used to everything, but in fact it seemed to get worse with time. Every year from April to November, Isabel felt sick to her stomach; and now, with the warm weather on its way, she would begin again to dread Gerry’s coming to bed at night, settling his long frame on their cheap Sears mattress set, the one they had bought before they were married and that now dipped so badly shehad to cling to the edge to keep from rolling into him. Even after a shower, the smell of him, the prickle of his leg hair, and especially those crazy tufts on his back, were too much for her. She tried not to think it, but more and more often the picture came to her that she was lying in the dark with a hog, and she felt stricken in her heart that she could ever think such things about the man she had married.
Lord knew she wasn’t perfect. She had never been a beauty, twiggy as a brush pile. She knew that people talked about her, too. They would say she wore too much perfume. They’d wonder who she was trying to impress—the new clothes always, the beauty parlour once a week. And they would think it curious that she insisted on having a job when Gerry needed her there on the farm to do all the things a farmwife does. They’d feel sorry for Gerry, and she was pretty sure he would agree with them (though he would never let on).
But Isabel didn’t care about any of that. She was proud she had graduated top of her class from the real estate course at St. Clair College. She enjoyed painting her nails. She loved her new cream pantsuit, and the older red and blue ones she had bought last summer at Dainty Miss. She loved her briefcase with its rich leather and brassy clasps, and loved how it felt to get behind the wheel of the big new Buick she leased from Rollie Marks to chauffeur clients around. She was thrilled most of all to have a job at Demeter Real Estate and to get away from the damn pigs. It seemed to her such a sensible decision. At last. At last she was moving in the right direction. And while she understood that you couldn’t turn back the clock, she felt you could at least make up for lost time, which was just what she planned to do.
After she had finished her coffee, she lit her first cigarette, the only guilt-free smoke of the day. Then she headed upstairs to get ready for work. She had just finished putting on her makeup when she heard Gerry clomp upstairs and stand in the hallway. He pushed open the bathroom door with the toe of his boot and stood watching her awhile, his arms across his chest.
“Be late tonight?” he asked.
She brushed off the front of her blouse, then double-checked to see if she could do anything more with her face. At last she turned to him and said, “No, I don’t think so. No appointments. I thought we could have baked chicken and Rice-A-Roni.”
He nodded, his mind not on dinner or her job. “About Reg Foster.…”
She tossed her cosmetics into her little zippered bag. Without turning, she said, “I thought we’d been over this. You always said we’d never use the home farm for collateral.”
“I know what I said. But maybe this is different.”
“Gerry, the
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