Big Sunshine
by R. L. Ugolini

Thank the good Lord we keep chickens. Jerry needs a big breakfast to last him, and the pullet eggs go a long way in filling him up. It's always been my job to collect them fresh each morning – first for Mama and Daddy and now for my husband.

The screen door on the back porch squeaks, but I have a knack with it. Let Jerry sleep. The sun'll be rising soon enough, streaming over the eastern forty acres we keep wooded. Mostly pine – no good for firewood unless you're desperate. Real pretty to look at, though.

The hen house is quiet and I get hopeful the chickens are still bedded down. They peck something fierce when they get excited. Fading angry marks up and down my forearms are testament to their protective natures. Can't say I blame them – after all, I'm taking their babies.

There's a naked bulb hanging from the rafters, and I pull the chain, squinting in the glare of sixty watts. Margo, a black and white Leghorn, gives me the evil eye from her roost. She used to be my best layer, but now she's getting old, every day nearer to the stockpot. And, I suspect she knows it, too.

Jerry thinks it's funny I name the birds. They're not your friends, he says to me. They're food.

I know this, I say back to him. I'm the one who chops their pea-brained little heads off come Sunday dinner. But that don't mean we can't be civil in the meantime.

Eleven eggs today. Enough for breakfast and maybe a cake for later, if I have the flour to spare. I'm sure I'll manage somehow – Jerry loves when I bake for him. I turn off the light, but leave the door open. The chickens will be out grubbing soon.

I climb the back stairs to the porch and watch the miracle of another day trickle sunbeams across our land. Already the scant dew is dry and the mercury is rising. The sky is silver blue, the color of angels' eyes, but devoid of comfort and compassion. It's going to be another sweltering July day with no rain in sight.

Not a drop has fallen in almost three months. I remember the last storm we had was one of those bitter cold April showers. The kind that are supposed to bring May flowers, but never do. The old John Deere got stuck in the mud on account of balding tires that need replacing. No sense in burning out the engine trying to work it free – Jerry and I spent a wet afternoon pulling out the tractor with our 4x4.

That day was also our twentieth wedding anniversary. Maybe not the most romantic way to mark the occasion, but we got the dang thing back to the barn, and we did it together – that's what really matters.

The kitchen is flooded with morning light and I go about making breakfast. I've been doing it for so long now, I think I could fry bacon in my sleep. Some mornings, I think I have. Cooking is easy enough – it's just the two of us. Jerry and I were never blessed.

I lost so many babies over the years. Eight miscarriages, then the doc recommended we should stop trying. My body just wasn't meant to carry a child, he told us. Narrow pelvis.

I've always been real skinny – when Jerry and I were first married he'd tease me, call me 'String Bean.' My girlfriends were all jealous I could eat and eat and never gain weight. Meanwhile, they all got plump, but now they're the ones with kids graduating from high school.

And me? Like string beans left in the sun, my skin's gotten dry and tough, stretched tight over the hard bits inside. I can see in my friends' eyes they're no longer envious. But my husband, bless him, loves me all the same.

The coffee goes on, and in a minute, I hear Jerry rustling upstairs. I can't help but smile. Daddy used to say you got to play the cards you're dealt, and I think I lucked out, all told. Between my husband and our farm, I can't complain.

Oatmeal gets dished up as Jerry drops into his seat around the dinette set. He serves himself a heap of scrambled eggs and flicks his gaze to me. That man's got sad, bedroom eyes a woman would be a fool not to fall in love with over and over. And I am no fool. Between bites, he tells me he's going to be restringing barbed wire along our western property.

Our place used to butt against the Tyler farm. But ever since poor Bob died in that accident two harvests ago, Sheryl, his widow, has been selling off parcels for development. Seems a shame to chip away at a holding like that, but what's she going to do? Just a girl, really, with two little ones of her own; it's sell or starve.

Families have built three-bedroom, two-bath ranches over fields that used to celebrate life under the sun. Now, instead of acres of corn, it's a suburban jungle of satellite dishes, asphalt, and swimming pools. But we're still too remote out here. The older kids have nothing to do but get into trouble. Jerry's found more and more empty beer cans in our fields out that way. So, better fences.

I pour him a cup of coffee and notice blood on his neck, just below his jaw. You nicked yourself bad, I say to him. His hand swipes at the cut, smearing the clotted mess over his rough, weathered skin.

Let me get you a Band-Aid for that, I say, but he'll have none of it. Never wants to be fussed over. Then, I remember we're out of bandages, and anyway, the bleeding has stopped. I let it go. That man'd rather die than admit a hurt.

Jerry's not invincible. Sometimes I worry one day I'll find him slumped over the steering wheel of the tractor, done away by heat stroke, heart attack, or plain stubbornness. I sit across from him and help myself to breakfast.

This is our time. We talk, or don't, depending on what and how much needs doing before sunset. Most days, chores keep us apart – we pack a lunch out to wherever we're working and don't see one another 'til supper. Today'll be no different.

Jerry sets down his fork and rests his hands on the Formica tabletop. His mouth is a thin line – something's weighing on his mind.

Talk to me, I want to say, but don't. My cup rests on my lower lip and I blow swirls in the hot coffee as I wait for him to speak. I know him better than he knows himself, but I don't know what's wrong. Tell me what's troubling you, I silently beg. Let me help.

Jerry snaps out of whatever spell had caught him and he picks up his fork again, stabbing a strip of bacon. You going out to check the lines today, he asks.

I let out a breath and nod, letting the coffee slide down my throat and warm my cold insides. It's the drought on his mind, is all.

We own a hundred and twenty acres of prime farmland and another eighty untilled. Not too big or too small an enterprise – perfect for just the two of us.

But the lack of rain has strained everything – during a normal growing season we don't have to even think about irrigating, but this summer, we have a strict watering rotation to keep the crops alive. Problem is, our outdated equipment isn't keeping pace.

The northern tracts get water today, but all four systems need maintenance before I open the pipes. Line three is acting squirrelly, I say. I'll flush them all like last time.

Keep an eye on the pressure, he says.

Ah, the heart of the problem. Our farm sits on an aquifer of cool, fresh water. The best I've ever tasted – sweet like rain saved special from that one golden summer of youth. But there's really no magic about it – the underground reservoir is fed by surface water filtering through hundreds of feet of bedrock. No rain, and the aquifer has no chance to recharge. No recharge, no pressure. No pressure, no hope.

We can't risk pumping dry. So far, our wells are gushing still, but slower in a way that makes me nervous.

Husband, I say, trying to lighten his concern, I used to dream about you all the livelong day. But now, all I think about is water.

That's my girl, he says, flashing me a smile that makes my toes curl, even after all these years.

I was teasing, of course, but I find there is some truth in everything. We've been conserving like crazy at the house. Any little thing to help. Maximizing loads of laundry, putting bricks in the toilet tank, taking short showers, then just using a wash cloth and a basin. During the hottest part of the day, I'm just dust held together with sweat. What I wouldn't give for a good long soak.

That, I do fantasize about. Jerry can join me, but only when the bath water needs heating up.

Breakfast is winding down and I push away from the table. The cut on his neck is bleeding again, a little. I stack dishes in my arms to restrain myself from tending to him. Jerry can't stand attention and he doesn't need me nagging.

He pulls his hat down tight, grabs the mini-cooler I packed for him, and heads out the back door to the equipment shed. I follow him as far as the porch, my eyes never leaving his side. In a moment, his truck pulls out onto the gravel service road, the rear window reflecting the sunrise in winks of white light. I wave once, just before Jerry disappears beyond the western horizon.

Then, I turn back into the house, now so quiet after the rush of eating breakfast and getting Jerry out the door. The silence is calming, as if the absence of sound could be itself a presence of good will. From the kitchen, if I listen real close, I can hear the tick-tock of the mantel clock – the only reminder in the peace of the morning of the day's tasks ahead.

Dishes go in the sink to soak and I fill the crock pot with supper. Then, a quick circuit around the house to sweep up some of the grit that gets in everything, and back to finish washing up. In no time at all, I'm grabbing my own sack lunch from the fridge and heading out the door. 

I take our other truck – it's almost as old as I am, but still runs fine. Again, like me. Jerry wants to trade it in, but I keep holding out – it's the older models that are easier to repair. I should know. Besides keeping chickens, I maintain all our equipment.

A county trunk road runs through our land. To get to the northern tracts, I need to cut across – the only folks on this road are locals, or lost, so this isn't a problem. The tricky time is in winter, when the plows sometimes seem to forget about us out here.

I ease the truck into worn wheel ruts cutting through the sorghum, and in a moment, a dark green sea surrounds me. A breeze out of the west washes over the wide blades of the grassy crop, making it ebb and flow like waves. I've heard the ocean is like a well-tended field. Stand beside either, and soon you feel your place under the sun. There's an immensity and scale to each that makes a person feel insignificant. But at the same time, connected to the natural order of things.

Small, yes, but vital.

Soon, I'm across to where the irrigation line waits for me. Just a long span of pipe supported by spindly aluminum wheels as tall as I am. But when the water pushes through, a clockwork mechanism drives the whole thing down field in a slow, steady march. That's when it's no longer just a piece of equipment – it comes alive, a mother, giving pap to tender young below.

My first three stops are routine – knock the gunk out of the filters, check the pressure at the pumps, flush the pipes, tighten flange locks, and open the valves. The wheel-line sprinklers will roll over the sorghum field until just before supper, when I'll come back to shut the water off.

But line three needs work, and I save it for last. The truck's shocks are worn out, as are the springs in the bench seat inside, making for a jarring ride. As I bounce down the service road between fields, I roll down the driver's side window and rest my arm on the sill. The hot, green smell of summer fills the cab, reminding me of the way sweet peas taste fresh from the garden. 

I grew up on a farm not much different from Jerry's and mine. But Mama had a half dozen of us to raise – my four brothers, my sister, and me. All those mouths meant in addition to the acres of wheat, corn, and sorghum Daddy planted for the local grange, there was also a huge vegetable garden for the family. Just thinking of Mama's sun-ripened tomatoes makes my mouth water. Servicing the irrigation lines may not seem like much, but it sure is hungry work.

By the time I pull up to line three, my stomach is growling. Must be well past noon. I grab my lunch, hop out of the truck, and cast about for a deep patch of shade.

A couple yards down the hedgerow, I find the perfect spot under a scraggly elm. The grass is thick and cool, and I rest my back against the weathered trunk. From where I sit, the sky is framed by a lacy canopy of branches, some tender shoots, some deadwood. But the mix lets just enough sun through for rays to dance over my tired legs.

Jerry must be laying down the spool of barbed wire about now, breaking for lunch under the same big, blue sky. Knowing this, though we're at opposite ends of our property, separated by almost two miles, I feel him beside me.

As I eat, I watch the honeybees bumble down the rows of sorghum, their sleepy buzzing like a whispered psalm. My muscles are stiff when I stand, my skin dry and raw. The sun blazes above, washing out the sky. I wet my chapped lips and scan the horizon for a merciful afternoon thunderhead. Nothing. 

Work goes on, and soon I find the problem with the drive mechanism. But fixing it takes most of the afternoon. By the time I'm ready to irrigate, there's only an hour before I have to make the rounds again to turn off the lines.

Fatigue hits me, and I wonder if I should wait on this field. Like Miss Scarlet says, tomorrow is another day. But some water is better than none at all, and I lift my leaden arms, cranking the valve wide open.

The pipe buckles and groans as its increasing weight settles over the wheels – a disturbing sound to those without faith. But I've heard it before and wait, eager, as complaints soon give way to song.

Water shoots down the pipe, filling it like air in a flute. The aluminum tube vibrates and perfect harmonic pitches ring out in a glorious chorus of joy. Then, the sprinkler heads spurt and man-made rain falls upon the dusty ground.

All around, sunlight pierces the mist and scatters into rainbows. Imagine so many colors hidden in sunshine – secret splendors of light. Proof indeed, if anyone's looking, that there is more to life than what you might think.

I let the vapor cloud envelope me – nothing could pull me away from the display. Even though I've seen and heard all this before, it seems like a brand-new miracle each time. Droplets bead on my parched skin, soothing, caressing. Soon, my clothes are drenched, heavy with pure, cool spring water.

I swipe my wet hair from my forehead, close my eyes, and tilt my head into the spray. Gooseflesh races down my arms, my legs. I've never felt anything so good. My fingers feel stubby and awkward as they start to prune.

Perhaps it is my failing that sometimes I need to be reminded of the satisfaction of another day under the sun, working this land I love. Days like today are gifts, as well as lessons. My soul feels recharged. My body, renewed.

I open my eyes, blinking away drops on my lashes. The line has started its slow roll down the field, taking with it the prisms of light. At my feet, the sorghum drinks and butterflies light on dripping leaves.

The sun is casting its glance upon the western horizon now and shadows creep eastward. Time to shut the lines down for the night. Tomorrow, I'll start them up right where they left off. My sodden blue jeans squelch on the truck's vinyl seat, but a little moisture won't hurt nothing. My toes wiggle in my muddy sneakers, and I can tell they, too, are wet and wrinkly. What should have been a discomfort, today, is a welcome novelty.

By the time I pull the old truck into the equipment shed, my clothes are almost dry, the parched air having sucked what moisture it could from the fibers. But I rush upstairs to change anyway. A pretty cotton dress, impractical for farm chores, but just the thing after such a perfect day.

The wheel-lines are all up and running once again, the crop looks good, and the aquifer pressure is holding. Jerry will be relieved by the news.

I lean over the kitchen sink and part the curtains. From here, I can see our outbuildings. Waiting for my husband to roll in is my favorite part of every day. The anticipation of his return, combined with the hum of muscles worked hard and the aroma of supper cooking, is heaven on earth.

As soon as the cake goes in, I slip out the back door and take a seat on the porch stairs. A breeze blows through the dooryard, whipping last autumn's leaves in an eddy and catching my hem. I smooth my dress over my legs and tuck the fabric beneath me.

The dying sun gasps its last, the heat searing my cheeks. I shield my eyes with a hand. The chickens cluster against the hen house, peeking out from the shadows, looking back my way. They live each day under the relentless sun, like me. I wonder what they think of their lot.

The cake is done – I can smell the chocolate. Inside, I set the pans to cool and lay the table. Supper is done and waiting, so I turn down the heat to keep it warm. Then, back outside, squinting into the sunset, scanning the service road for the telltale dust trail of an incoming vehicle.

Nothing.

The first star of evening blinks on, its appearance a silent reminder of the time. Jerry should have been home by now. An uneasy weight settles in my stomach and I send up a prayer that today not be the day.

Not the day Jerry doesn't come home.

Not the day the county coroner has to make a house call, like he did for Sheryl after her husband Bill met his end.

No. Not my Jerry.

All he was up to today was stringing barbed wire. Wives don't lose husbands that way. I wipe my clammy hands on the folds of my skirt, as if the act could slough off my worry.

The gravel road shimmers like a desert mirage and then the 4x4 materializes from a cloud of dust. He's fine. Of course he's fine.

Thank you, thank you, God. I feel like such an old fool.

Jerry takes the truck straight into the equipment shed. Before the motor's even switched off, I'm running to greet him, my dress hitched up past my knees.

He cuts the engine and opens his door. I give him a moment to slide out, then rush him, throwing my arms around him like I used to when we were first married.

Easy girl, he says, staggering back, a strange smile on his face.

He's caked with dirt, but I don't let that stop me. I nuzzle close, breathing in his comforting smell. My fingers trace his jaw, peppered now with a day's stubble, where this morning he'd been clean-shaven. Impulse takes me, and I go to kiss the spot where he'd nicked himself.

There's a Band-Aid there.

My head snaps back and my arms fall to my sides. All sense leaves me and I let out a self-conscious laugh to cover my confusion.

Supper's ready, I say. My gaze lights on the shed rafters, my house shoes, the 4x4 bumper – anywhere but his eyes. I turn to go, but pause, and I say, I made chocolate cake.

I can barely form words – each syllable tears at my insides. I nod, as if to reassure myself and then I set brisk pace to the house. Every step sends a jolt through me. I feel brittle, shattered, but I don't stop.

Jerry calls after me. My favorite, he says.

The kitchen is small and dark, and I can't breathe in there. Jerry's taking his time putting his tools away, so I slip out to the back porch. My roost.

I try to lose myself in the slice of sun still visible on the horizon, but my mind spins with questions. I close my eyes and all I can see is the Band-Aid on my husband's neck. The bandage was one of those covered in cartoon characters to distract little kids from their hurt.

If only it could distract me from mine. I let self-pity take me. One hand covers my mouth and I choke back a sob. The other slides across my belly, over my empty womb.

The porch boards groan and I look over my shoulder. Jerry's watching me, his face drawn. My gaze rivets to his neck – he's removed the bandage.

So. He knows I know. I turn my attention back to the sunset, but soon feel his chest, warm and solid, against my back. I pull a ragged breath, fighting the tension in my muscles.

His arms come around me and he brushes his lips across the nape of my neck. There's hardly enough of you to hold, String Bean, he says into my hair.

Before I can stop myself, a tear slides down my cheek. I can't live without him. But I don't know what to do.

Mama would say, Make. Do. Mend. I choke down my hurt and train my gaze west, on the last glimmer of the last perfect day. Tomorrow, life will go on in the big sunshine. I suppose I will, too.

I feel like a skittish foal as I let myself lean into his embrace. My knees tremble so badly, I worry I'm about to fall. But Jerry holds me up – he holds me to him.

We watch the hens peck their way to their roost. How 'bout fried chicken after church? Jerry asks.

I can tell he's got his eye on Margo. But she...she is not food. Not ever. I shake my head. I've got some pork chops in the freezer, I say. Then, I sense his disappointment. My husband does love to eat. So I say, if we have the eggs, there'll be dessert.

R.L. Ugolini is the president of the San Antonio Writers' Guild. Her work has been featured in Farfelu and will appear in Peeks & Valleys in 2009.

© 2008 prickofthespindle.com