The Homestead
By Patricia Dreyfus
Author’s Note:
My grandmother told this story to my mother about her first marriage. Mom was the youngest child of her mother’s second happier marriage.
_______
I pray every night he will die.
I hear the barn door slam. “Shhh, children.”
He’s coming. Supper is on the table. The children are sitting quietly. My heart pounds.
I know his moods. When the door bangs with such violence, I know to keep quiet. I have nowhere to turn, no one to talk to, no one to step between us.
How will I tell him I’m pregnant again?
Why did I let my father talk me into this marriage?
Magnus put on such an act for my parents. He forbids singing now. He doesn’t speak to me unless it’s an order or a complaint. He tells me it’s my fault that his grand plans for riches have vanished.
It’s our seventh year on this farm. One hundred and sixty acres of snow six or seven months a year. One hundred and sixty acres of summer wind and drought. One hundred and sixty acres of crops destroyed by drought, grasshoppers, prairie fires, hail. No other women close by to visit, to share chores, or laugh with. No church to find solace either.
We spent five years here to make the farm ours. They call it Proving. We built the house and filed the claim two years ago with the government. We were here to stay.
We proved it, but Magnus declares it’s his, not ours. Not mine.
Our nearest neighbours helped at first, but Magnus didn’t like the way Sven looked at me. His wife, Alma, had been my only friend. When they came to visit, Magnus told them they were not welcome. Then, it was just the two of us.
Magnus bragged about how fine a farmer he is. He told my dad he’s smart. No one can tell him how to do things. Sven tried to help, but Magnus always knew better.
I cut the sod slabs one-by-two feet to make the eight-by-ten foot house, walls two feet thick. He stacked them using them as bricks. I wanted the house bigger in anticipation of children since I was already pregnant. It was hard work and Magnus could only manage that much, which is the minimum size needed to get the homestead. Even so, he really doesn’t know how to do things, the walls are uneven. We packed the floor down, stomping hard to keep it smooth.
The roof sags in places. Dirt falls from the ceiling. I ask him to buy muslin or get some paper, to stop the dirt, but he says it’s my fault the dirt falls. I tell him it’s not healthy for the children. He shrugs.
Magnus isn’t good at much, he knows that I am aware of his failings.
We have a table, with one chair and a bench on one side. Our bed is made from stacked sod topped with a mattress filled with straw. The children all sleep together on a straw mattress on the floor except the baby.
My only possessions are my mother’s scratched bentwood cradle, my tattered pink shawl, and my rosemaling platter. I hide the platter from him because it’s the only lovely thing I have. I fear he may throw it in the stove.
The stove is on the side wall. It has a cistern in the back that keeps water warm and the coffee pot going. The cupboard stands beside the stove. It is tall and narrow, open shelves to hold tin plates, cups, flour, and other goods.
We have a dugout cellar for food storage, canned goods, and smoked meat. I put the milk in the well in the summer. In the winter ice forms on the top of the well and it takes time to break it to get to the water.
The cows are in their own soddy. We use buffalo and cow chips for fuel because there is no wood on the prairie. The outhouse is beside the barn. They need to be near the house because of the fierce blizzards, and the wild animals. I accompany the older children outside summer and winter.
I work the fields, plant, harvest, can the food, knit, sew the clothes, take care of the cows and chickens. Magnus doesn’t know how to milk and refuses to learn.
I birthed, nursed, and cared for six children these last seven years. I can’t say we live in this house. Living is for another time or place.
Here the winter nights are long. Dark comes early and light arrives late. When we are imprisoned by snow in the winter, Magnus’ rages become constant. Summer is better because he stays outside longer. I try to write to my father once a month, but Magnus doesn’t like that. I think he’s afraid I will tell my father about him.
One frozen night as I held my firstborn, the wind was howling as it does on these flat plains. I knew she, my little Ruby, my only jewel, was sick. She laid listless in my arms, too weak to nurse. Magnus told me to leave her, come to bed. He calls me most nights. It isn’t from love, or devotion, it’s the rutting of a beast. It is disgusting to me. I am pregnant every year like the cows. Every pregnancy he shouts, “Whose child is it? Slut, whore, bitch, whose?”
This time I told him I couldn’t, with the baby sick. She needed me.
He was cruel even before the children, calling me lazy and stupid. He chased other people away. He accused me of adultery with Sven, said that Ruby was Sven’s child. I haven’t seen Sven or Alma for two years.
On that night he grabbed my arm, and I almost dropped Ruby. “Come here,” he snarled.
“Wait,” I said.
As soon as I lay Ruby down. Magnus tore at me. “I’m your husband,” he said as he pushed me on the bed. I was pregnant again and afraid of what he would do if I told him. I was very quiet and let him do what he wished. “Stay here,” he said. I lay still right next to him until he went to sleep. When I got up to hold Ruby, she was dead. I can never forgive him for that.
I am so alone. If we go to town, he is always there, but I am still alone. Even when I birthed the children. Two of them, I delivered by myself. because he wouldn’t go for help.
What kind of a Christian am I? I pray every day that I will be rescued from him. What have I done that God lets us suffer so?
I am pregnant again at least three months along. I know it means another beating. More abuse. The children are getting big, aware. Pearl is five now, Edna four, Edwin three, Mary two, Minnie almost one. We have a hard time feeding those we have. I want to leave but I can’t take the children. I can’t leave them with him either.
I hear him at the door. He shoves it open, pushes it closed, stares at the kids then me. He seems to take all of the air out of the room. The children are very still like pheasants when the fox is near.
How can I let him do this to my children, to me?
I ask him to please sit and I’ll get his dinner. He is sweating and complains it’s too hot in here. He is very thirsty and I pour him another cup of water. He berates Pearl, tells her she is sloppy. He pushes Edwin, slaps him on the head. The little boy seems to get the worst of it.
The rat poison is on the top shelf of the cupboard.
I reach up and take a pinch, just a pinch and put it on his lefse. He likes lots of butter and sugar, it will cover the taste of the powder. I roll it up for him and serve it on my rosemaling platter.
He asks why I’m using my best plate. I just smile hoping this will calm him. He watches how much I give each child and becomes angry if he thinks it’s too much. He is stingy with their food.
I serve him first, as always. I spoon the rabbit stew onto his plate with another dose of the powder. The garlic taste goes well with the stew. The children keep their faces down and eat quietly. Even at so young an age they live in fear and try to avoid punishment.
After dinner, Magnus feels sick. He goes to the outhouse and stays for a long time. He comes back and demands more water. Tells me my stew was terrible. His pupils are dilated. He lies on the bed, shouts at the children to be quiet. He sweats and shakes. He seems confused about where he is. His eyelids close. His breathing gets slower. He is very still.
I put the kids to bed.
He will not call me tonight.
Patricia Dreyfus is an award-winning poet and writer. She published stories in the Best Travel Writing, the Los Angeles Times. She has poems and stories in She Writes Anthology, Three Minus One. Twins Magazine, and The California Quarterly. She was a finalist for the Laura Prize. Her memoir, Woman-Be Quiet, will be out soon. Patricia is a member of PEN, Greater Los Angeles Writers Society, Academy of American Poets, Los Angeles Poets and Writers Collective, AWP, California State Poetry Society, Amherst Writers and Artists, IWWG, the Story Circle Network, Women Writing the West, and the Thursday Writers Critique Group.