Valley So Low (6 page)

“Make love to me, Harry,” she said.  “I need you.”

He never hesitated.  His mouth came down to meet hers with the force of a sudden thunderstorm, wild and powerful.  Their lips latched tight and held fast.  Heat leaped between them with intensity and liquid honey replaced the blood in Maude’s veins.  Her nipples ached for release and the cleft between her legs turned wet.  Although they’d shared the pleasures of the flesh many times, Maude’d never sought sex with such reckless abandon or intense need.  He kissed her, his mouth hot and harsh, but she French-kissed him, tongue darting into his mouth with erotic speed.  Her searching hands undid his galluses and unbuttoned his shirt.  She tweaked his nipples with enough force Harry winced but he pulled away her dress with the same crazy need.  He kissed his way down her throat, pausing to nibble and leave love bites.  Each nip sent a wave of pleasure through her body and increased her desire.

Harry caressed her body, kneaded her breasts like bread dough, and suckled her nipples one at a time. Maude raked her short fingernails across his back and he groaned aloud.  Everything happened in a rush of want and wet and incredible hurry as Harry backed her up against the table and hiked her body up enough to give him entry.

He rammed into her with a powerful thrust, strong enough to penetrate into her core.  It rocked her but brought her to come so fast tears blinded her eyes and Maude struggled to breathe.  Harry filled her, consumed her, and took her to the distant stars.  His thorough fuck wiped away the grief, the loss, and banished death for the moment.  He took the victory and gave it to her.  By the time he climaxed too, Harry supported her half in the air as he pumped life into her.  He grunted, and when he came he moaned aloud with such release, Maude found air enough to laugh.  Harry joined her and they rode the physical sensation back to earth with a chorus of laughter.

Weak-kneed and trembling, Maude slipped from his grasp. He tried to catch her but she ended up on the floor shrieking with mirth and release.  Harry lifted her up, his garments awry and held her, tender and tight this time. “I needed it,” he whispered. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, Harry, not at all,” Maude answered. She’d gloried in their loving like a wanton but she felt no shame, just joy. “Let’s go to bed now and sleep.”

A grin split his mouth wide as he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I cain’t carry you this time, though. I’m beat.”

“We’ll go together.” They did, arms wrapped around each other.  Maude noted he limped more than before and marked it as fatigue.  Upstairs, they shucked their clothing and collapsed into bed, still clinging to each other.  And they slept, deep and hard until George woke Maude in his efforts to pry her eyelids open.

“Mama,” he called out in a bright, small voice. “Pop! Up!”

Maude roused with slow effort.  Beside her Harry chuckled. “You’re right, little man,” he said. “It’s daylight.”

“Is it?” she asked but when she sat up, she saw the sunshine in the hallway. 

“I should’ve been out hunting before now,” Harry said as he groped for his discarded clothing. “I think I’ll kill a hog instead.  I’ll need your help, though.”

Since she made the move from town to country, first with her aunt and uncle, then on the Whitney farm, Maude helped butcher hogs many times.  She knew each step necessary and all the hard work involved.  Most times, there’d been more hands to help but she and Harry could do it together.  “I’ll help,” she said.  Practical-minded Maude put on her dress and apron, then got George ready for the day.  Downstairs, she stoked the stove.  As soon as she put the coffeepot on the stove to boil, Maude headed out and gathered eggs from her hens.  She fried them with the last of the sausage her uncle’d brought and rolled out biscuits.  By the time Harry came downstairs dressed in some of his oldest clothing, Maude had breakfast on the table.

Butchering required hard work and effort but they managed. Harry headed out first to get a fire going and took Granny’s largest pot, the one they’d always used at butchering time, with him.  He’d add water and get it boiling before he did anything else.  Maude dressed in warm garments and bundled George up against the cold.  By the time they joined Harry, he’d lured the hog he’d chosen farther up behind the barn.  They arrived in time to watch him shoot it in the head.  When the pig dropped, Harry approached the animal.  Careful to avoid any flailing hooves, he cut the throat with one swift, sure stroke.  He angled the head downhill so the blood would drain and once it had, Harry needed her help to heist the pig into the boiling water.  Once the hide softened and hair loosened, they scraped the skin as clean as they could and Harry skinned it.   With Maude’s help they quartered it.  They stacked more than a hundred pounds of meat onto the sled and Harry’s mare pulled it to the back door. 

Maude observed George to see if the activities upset him but he appeared interested, not alarmed.  She’d never shielded him from sometimes harsh realities.  Life and death were the stuff of everyday life on the farm.  She set aside both back straps to roast for the funeral guests while Harry hauled away the discarded skin and trimmings to the farthest edge of the property. Otherwise, wolves, bears, or other predators might be drawn too close for comfort.  He’d already dumped the water from the pot over the blood puddle to leach away as much as possible.

“I feel kinda bad about tossing the skin,” Harry said when he returned. “But I’m no tanner and don’t have time to cart it to town and have it done.  You do want the guts for casings, though?”

“I do,” Maude said.  She already had the grinder clamped tight to the table to grind some of the meat for sausage.  A bowl held the combined salt, brown sugar, and a few other seasonings she’d use to rub into the hams before Harry took them to the smokehouse. “If you could, would you rinse them good for me?”

By mid-afternoon, between the two of them, they’d managed to slice and salt a good bit of the meat into a couple of wooden kegs reserved for this.  Maude had two big bowls of sausage meat ready to force into the natural casings, and Harry’d taken the hams to the smokehouse where he had already built a low, slow fire.  She reserved some of the best pork chops, cut thick, to fry for supper with a mess of fried ‘taters and apples.  Afterward, although her body ached with the effort of different work, she basked before the fire, content for the moment.  Tomorrow she’d face the huge task of cooking for a mob but she’d manage, although Maude admitted she’d be glad when it was over.

Harry dozed beside her and George snoozed upstairs in his own bed.  She savored the quiet moments after the busy day.  In the midst of all the work, she’d forgotten Harry’s uncle knew they’d been living in one house without any chaperone.  A mild alarm tightened her chest for a few moments, then she decided she didn’t care.  She wasn’t a town girl to worry over reputation and besides, when she and Harry married, it would quiet any talk.  Maude indulged in a few daydreams about a wedding, then laughed at herself.  There wouldn’t be any big do, just the vows and a lifetime together.  And it would be good enough.

We should get to bed—it’ll be another long, hard day tomorrow.
  Before Maude could act on her thought, Harry stirred.  He stretched out his leg and winced.  She’d noticed earlier he’d favored it but said nothing because he didn’t like the fuss.  He’d told her once he didn’t want to feel like a cripple, not ever.  But now, familiar enough to ask, she said, “Does your leg pain you?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “A little.”

Maude abandoned her chair to kneel on the floor.  “There’s still some of Granny’s liniment left if you want me to fetch it.”  As she spoke, her hands rubbed up and down his calf in hopes she could work out some of the pain.  She could feel the bump of the badly healed break.

He grimaced. “All right, I guess.  It’s smarting more than usual.”

She brought the homemade tincture his grandmother made and poured some into her hands.  The aroma burned her nose with its’ mixture of alcohol, wintergreen, cayenne pepper, witch hazel, and herbs, including what she’d swear was sage.  Maude rubbed into his leg with slow, deliberate movement.  Judging by the grunts he made, it must help at least a little.  When she finished, she put up the bottle and washed her hands.  “Let’s get some sleep,” she said, and he nodded with a yawn before he banked the fire for the night.

Stiff in body, Maude curled up behind Harry once they retired.  Little of the heat from the fireplace ever made it up the stairs so she shivered, cold, until their body heat warmed them both.  She drifted to sleep making a mental list of all the things she had to do come morning and a time line to have dinner ready to serve by one or so.  Once fast asleep, she dreamed…

Her footsteps echoed as she walked through the house, loud and somehow ominous.  Maude shivered with cold, too, and she wept, tears trailing down both her cheeks.  Loneliness and sadness filled her with a deep ache, and as she wandered she called out for Harry but he didn’t answer.  She could scarcely see in the black rooms where dark shadows consumed what little light remained.  There wasn’t any fire in the hearth and none of the lamps were lit.  Maude climbed the stairs, her tread heavy and her heart weighed down with grief.   She couldn’t locate Harry or her son.  Her voice rang too loud in the empty rooms.

Then she found herself outside, wandering in circles.  Crows squawked in the sky above her, although she didn’t see them.  Their caws rang out and reverberated from the hills.  Low clouds hung heavy over the countryside and loomed dark, heavy with rain or pregnant with snow.  One way or another, a storm approached.  Her frantic need to find George and Harry sent her running into the woods.  Limbs lashed at her, branches slapped her face, and she lost her footing when she tripped over a rock.   Maude impacted the ground hard and her knees stung.  She groped to find her footing without success and screamed Harry’s name but no answer came.  Far in the distance she thought she heard George crying, the thin high wail of fatigue tempered with fear.  Head cocked, Maude tried to determine what direction the sound issued from but she couldn’t tell.  Her maternal instinct urged her to find her boy, but she didn’t know where to turn or what way to go.

Confused and afraid, she hesitated.  One more time she shouted for Harry, no longer expecting an answer but driven by desperation.  She called his name three times and she thought she heard him cry out.  Maude wasn’t certain, though, and she took several steps forward.

“Harry?” she called.  A rustling in the undergrowth to her left encouraged her and Maude walked closer.  What emerged from the woods, however, wasn’t Harry but a large, lean gray wolf.  The animal approached with sinister step and growled, low and deep.  Maude turned to bolt but she tripped, and before she hit the ground, the animal lunged.  Teeth, sharper than sewing needles, plunged into her back and she screamed.

Maude woke screeching worse than a startled owl and sat straight up.   She tossed away the covers and jumped out of bed.  The moment her feet touched the floor she began to run, wild and frenzied.  “Maudie,” Harry said as he caught her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

She whirled, relieved to find him in the flesh and threw her arms around him.  “Harry,” she sobbed. “Oh, Harry.”  He held her close and she began to sob, face buried against his shoulder.  “Hush, honey,” he crooned. “You’re safe, I’m here.  Did you have a nightmare?”

His quiet voice, thick with sleep, calmed most of her angst.  Maude nodded.  “Tell me if you want.”  She hesitated, afraid if she did it might come true.  He coaxed her out of silence, though.  “I dreamed I was all alone in the house.  I couldn’t find you or George or anyone,” she said.  Her voice caught on a sob.  “It was so dark and cold.  I went outside and thought I heard George crying so I headed into the woods.  Then I thought I heard you but it wasn’t you. It was a wolf.”  Maude couldn’t say any more.  Thinking about it upset her all over and she insisted on checking on George.  Her son slept in a tight curl, safe and warm.  She petted his curls with a trembling hand and clung to Harry.  “It’s just a dream,” he told her. “Sounds like a bad ‘un but it’s over.  Don’t fret, Maudie.”

Her body quivered despite his supporting arm around her shoulders.  “I don’t know why I’d dream such things,” she told him. “It scares me, though.  Maybe it’s an omen.”  Maude believed such things.  So did Granny Whitley.  Hoot owls could be an omen of death, and dreams held power.  Harry scoffed. “Ain’t any such thing, honey.  You’re just wrought up with all that’s happened, the buryings tomorrow, all the work today.  It’s just a dream and no more.  It don’t mean a thing, I promise.” 

Desire to believe him outweighed her fears. “Cross your heart and hope to die?” she asked, citing an old childhood vow.  Harry chuckled and hugged her as he led her out of the small bedroom.  “I do,” he said. “Let’s go back to bed and try to get some sleep.  It’s closer to morning than night now.”

“Will you hold me?” she asked.  Harry kissed her square on the mouth. “Always, honey,” he told her.

Nestled in Harry’s arms Maude relaxed but she didn’t sleep.  She thrust the lingering anxiety of the dream out of reach and focused on the cooking she had to do.  By the time the first fingers of dawn streaked the eastern sky with rose and gold, visible through the bedroom window, Harry slept deeply enough to snore.  Maude savored a few more moments snuggled with him and then untangled.  She dressed in the faint milk light and headed downstairs to begin her day.

She stirred up the fire in the stove and added kindling.  Once it burned, she put more wood into the box, then put the coffeepot on the stove.  Before she could snatch her heavy shawl from the peg by the back door to head out to milk the Jersey, Harry padded into the kitchen in sock feet.  “Good morning, Maudie,” he said. “You shoulda woke me.  The gravediggers are here.”