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Authors: Louise Erdrich
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bought cheap rings for herself and Cyprian. There was no way she could appear back in Argus without at least the pretense of marriage.
“This does not mean crap,” she said, slipping on the wedding band, giving him a suspicious look. She waggled her finger.
“To you,” he countered.
“You either,” she warned. The band seemed tight already, and although it was smooth she’d heard of machines and car doors catching on rings and yanking off or breaking fingers. She’d never worn a ring before.“Don’t get any ideas,” she warned. “I don’t make breakfast. I’m not ready to be a housewife, yet.”
“Fine,” said Cyprian. “I’ll cook.”
Delphine hooted. He’d never so much as buttered a piece of bread in her presence. In cafés, she did it as a little graceful and womanly thing to do for him, but maybe now, she reflected, she should quit taking care of him so much. He’d think she meant to take care of him forever. She twisted the ring around and around, a little piece of armor against the Lutheran ladies who would have their eyes on every move she made. The ring would help, but people would talk about her anyway. Her father always gave them reason. Of course, they didn’t know half of what went on in the farmhouse marooned in the tangle of box elders, out of town, where she’d grown up. The only kindness was that her father’s misery, thus hers, was usually out of the town’s direct line of sight.
She feared the urge to return was a mistake. Not only the fake marriage. Would her father make a drinking friend of Cyprian? Schnapps, he couldn’t handle. The stuff would wreck his balance. She had no choice, though, because she truly missed Roy Watzka and she suffered from an annoying intuition. A series of melodramatic pictures nagged her: he was dying, gasping for her like the father in the fairy tale with the beast and the beauty. Plunging headlong drunk into the muscle of the river out behind their house. Drowning himself.
Delphine and Cyprian drove south, toward Argus. The fabulous tallgrass that had once covered all beneath the sky still vigorously waved from the margins of certain fields, from the edges of the sloughs that they passed, and from the banks of the pleasant little river that sometimes flooded all along its length and wrecked half the town. The fields of stunted wheat, bald in patches that year, turned in an endless rush. Armyworms were thick, their nests like gray mesh in the trees. From time to time, they passed an empty-windowed house, or one with a brave and hopeless bit of paint splashed across its padlocked front door. There were gas stations, pumps fixed in front of shaky little stores, here and there a thatch of houses, a lightning-struck cottonwood. And always, there was the friendly monotony, the patient sky rainless and gray as a tarp.
As they passed Waldvogel’s butcher shop on the near edge of town, a solid built whitewashed place bounded by two fields, they saw two people running. One was a woman in a flowered wash dress, an apron, and high feminine heels. The other was a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, with the build of an athlete and a flap of shining dark hair. The two had come from the field and were racing for some finish line just beyond the dusty parking lot in front of the store. They were neck and neck, laughing as they pumped their arms. Then suddenly the woman seemed to leap forward, though her stride actually shortened. She’d gone up on her toes and was bounding to the finish. As the car passed the two, Delphine turned to watch. The woman’s hair burst from its twist and floated out behind her, a sudden red-gold banner that announced her triumph, for she’d touched the fence at the end of the lot first and beaten the boy. Delphine turned back to direct Cyprian.
“You should have seen that woman. Can she ever run! Turn there.”
They turned down a short and half-overgrown road.
“Slow down,” said Delphine.
The road was a ragged track,
“This does not mean crap,” she said, slipping on the wedding band, giving him a suspicious look. She waggled her finger.
“To you,” he countered.
“You either,” she warned. The band seemed tight already, and although it was smooth she’d heard of machines and car doors catching on rings and yanking off or breaking fingers. She’d never worn a ring before.“Don’t get any ideas,” she warned. “I don’t make breakfast. I’m not ready to be a housewife, yet.”
“Fine,” said Cyprian. “I’ll cook.”
Delphine hooted. He’d never so much as buttered a piece of bread in her presence. In cafés, she did it as a little graceful and womanly thing to do for him, but maybe now, she reflected, she should quit taking care of him so much. He’d think she meant to take care of him forever. She twisted the ring around and around, a little piece of armor against the Lutheran ladies who would have their eyes on every move she made. The ring would help, but people would talk about her anyway. Her father always gave them reason. Of course, they didn’t know half of what went on in the farmhouse marooned in the tangle of box elders, out of town, where she’d grown up. The only kindness was that her father’s misery, thus hers, was usually out of the town’s direct line of sight.
She feared the urge to return was a mistake. Not only the fake marriage. Would her father make a drinking friend of Cyprian? Schnapps, he couldn’t handle. The stuff would wreck his balance. She had no choice, though, because she truly missed Roy Watzka and she suffered from an annoying intuition. A series of melodramatic pictures nagged her: he was dying, gasping for her like the father in the fairy tale with the beast and the beauty. Plunging headlong drunk into the muscle of the river out behind their house. Drowning himself.
Delphine and Cyprian drove south, toward Argus. The fabulous tallgrass that had once covered all beneath the sky still vigorously waved from the margins of certain fields, from the edges of the sloughs that they passed, and from the banks of the pleasant little river that sometimes flooded all along its length and wrecked half the town. The fields of stunted wheat, bald in patches that year, turned in an endless rush. Armyworms were thick, their nests like gray mesh in the trees. From time to time, they passed an empty-windowed house, or one with a brave and hopeless bit of paint splashed across its padlocked front door. There were gas stations, pumps fixed in front of shaky little stores, here and there a thatch of houses, a lightning-struck cottonwood. And always, there was the friendly monotony, the patient sky rainless and gray as a tarp.
As they passed Waldvogel’s butcher shop on the near edge of town, a solid built whitewashed place bounded by two fields, they saw two people running. One was a woman in a flowered wash dress, an apron, and high feminine heels. The other was a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, with the build of an athlete and a flap of shining dark hair. The two had come from the field and were racing for some finish line just beyond the dusty parking lot in front of the store. They were neck and neck, laughing as they pumped their arms. Then suddenly the woman seemed to leap forward, though her stride actually shortened. She’d gone up on her toes and was bounding to the finish. As the car passed the two, Delphine turned to watch. The woman’s hair burst from its twist and floated out behind her, a sudden red-gold banner that announced her triumph, for she’d touched the fence at the end of the lot first and beaten the boy. Delphine turned back to direct Cyprian.
“You should have seen that woman. Can she ever run! Turn there.”
They turned down a short and half-overgrown road.
“Slow down,” said Delphine.
The road was a ragged track,
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