By Robert A. Cmar

“The stove, the wood stove at the old farm, that was a good stove,” he said, lifting the kettle off the electric burner. “This one, it’s easy, sure, but the old stove? That was a good stove.”

He poured hot water into a teapot and pulled two chipped mugs from the cupboard. 

“Please don’t.” She glanced up from her book. “The farm, I want to forget all that. Thirty years gone; you still talk like it was paradise.”

“I grew up there,” he said, “if you could have seen back when ….” 

“I grew up there, too. Remember?” she said, staring up at him. “Seventeen, I married you and moved in with your family. I was a young, stupid girl.”

“We were both young,” he answered, dropping a teabag into the pot.

“So young,” she said. “And so stupid. I didn’t know, when I married you, that I married it all: your father, your mother, your brother, the cows, the bank loan, all that is what I married.” She turned a page in her book. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You never want to talk about this,” he said. “We had good times, kissing in the barn. And the food, my mother, her cooking. Remember the fresh bread?”

“The bread?” she said. “I had to keep the stove going for hours. And who fetched the wood? Me! Your father never lifted a hand, not after he had his drinks.”

“I worked, too, you know,” he said, placing a mug before her and pouring out the tea. “The cows ….”

God, you’ve forgotten everything. You and me, we had less than a year together on that farm, then you got drafted and I was alone with them.” 

He sat and sipped from his mug.

“Those two years you were away,” she continued. “Work, only work. In the barn, the fields, to the well, over and over. In the winter it was so cold, that’s why my fingers are what they are now.” 

She held the warm teacup in both hands, blowing across the hot water, sending a whiff of steam across the table.

“So much work,” she said. “The first fall, after you went to the war, the well went dry. I had to beg for water from the neighbors, then put the barrels in the truck, like a pioneer. All winter, we couldn’t take proper baths.”

“My brother was supposed to help.”

“No” she said. “We’re not talking about this.” 

They sat in silence, facing each other, both looking down into their mugs. 

“Yes, my father was getting old,” he said, “but my brother, he could run that farm all by himself.” 

“Oh god, you want to do this? Your brother.” She looked out the window, through the lace curtain, at the lights of the apartment building across the wide avenue. “Your brother. Those first months, yes, he did his work. His ‘work.’ You want to talk about that? What happened? No.” 

“They say he’s in California,” he said.

“I say …” she paused. “I say he’s in hell. He never came back, not for your mother’s funeral, not for …”

“They should have buried mother in the churchyard,” he said. “Not at the farm. We should go out there, see what they’ve done, maybe find the graves.”

“We went back there, remember,” she said. “Years ago. We drove up and down all those new streets, where the farm was, all those new houses that we could never afford. We never found the graves, we never found anything.”

“My brother,” he asked, “was he still there when my mother died?” 

She sipped her tea, looking out the window, then at her husband.

“Your brother,” she said. “I told you, stop it. He wouldn’t talk to me, and once I started to show, he left. You were gone, he was gone, your mother, dead. I had to give the baby to the neighbor for days and days, so I could take care of the farm and your drunken father.”

“We didn’t get mail out in the bush,” he said. “Mother was already dead six weeks when I found out.”

“Two days, you stayed with us on leave,” she said. “Gone over a year, and you stayed two days. You didn’t even pick up the baby. He was so beautiful, little Michael. You never picked him up, even after your discharge. No wonder he hates you.” 

He looked up from his tea, to see her staring into his eyes. He looked away, and stood, putting his mug into the sink.

“We should go back to the doctor,” he said, “show him your hands. Maybe there’s something?”

“Aspirin,” she said. “That’s all the doctor says.”

“Have you heard from Michael?” he asked. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

She looked up at him. “I don’t know. I don’t know. He’s on his second tour, that stupid boy, like you. Maybe he’ll come home. Maybe he’ll go to California, like he always said he would.”

“I got a bonus for re-upping,” he said. “I wanted to save the farm.” 

“A few hundred dollars,” she answered. “That didn’t even cover the interest. The truck broke, I had to hitchhike to town to get diapers and formula.”

“Nobody told me it was so bad,” he said. “I was ten thousand miles away.”

“Tell you? On your visits,” she said, “you seemed so angry; I was afraid you’d never come back. What was I going to say? Leave the army, help us, we’re in hell?”

“I’ve said I’m sorry, so many times,” he said. “And the farm, I didn’t know it was gone until you sent that letter.”

She looked up into his eyes, then back down to her tea. 

“After the sheriff threw us out,” she said, “the bank, they put it all up for auction, all I could keep was a few old pictures and some beat-up furniture. God, that dirty apartment I found, so small, your father sleeping on the sofa, Michael and me on a broken old bed.” 

 “When I got back,” he answered, “I got a job the second day, remember? Things were hard but it got better. We had some good times. Remember Niagara Falls?”

“Michael was so scared,” she said, “on that boat, all that water, he held both our hands, so tight. But then when it was over, he wanted to go back for another ride.” She smiled.

“I did my best to raise him,” he said. “I did what I could.” 

“You never said a positive thing to that boy,” she said, “No wonder, the day he graduates high school, he joins the army. That’s what you did for Michael. He didn’t even say goodbye, only that damn little note.”

“You should have told him,” he said. “Maybe things would have been better.”

“Tell him?” She answered. “Jesus. Again with this. Tell him? What, that you left me alone with your dying mother, your drunken father, and your pathetic, perverted brother? Michael figured that all out, long ago. You never treated him like a son, like a father should treat a son. No more,” she said, standing, the wooden chair legs scraping across the floor. “All this talk won’t change anything.”

She walked to the sink, ran water to wash the mugs.

“I’ll do it. Your hands,” he said.

“It’s just these two. I’m already done.” 

He stood next to her, picked up a towel and began to dry the mugs.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m stubborn. When Michael comes back, I’ll talk to him, I’ll make it right.”

Standing there, together, at the sink, she put her arm around his waist. 

“Not again,” she said. “About the farm, no more talk about those days.” 

“No. Never again,” he said. “You must be tired. Let’s get to sleep.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice softer now, as she returned to the table, “But first I’m going to finish reading my story.”

“Yes,” he said, his back turned as he moved toward the bedroom. “Don’t stay up late.”

                                                                 *   *   *

Robert A. Cmar is a Brooklyn-based writer whose work ranges from depressing to bleak to emotionally scarring. His writing has appeared in publications including The Offing and Silent Writing Happy Hour, and he is currently working on his first novel. He recently retired from a 35-year career in technical writing, having also held more stimulating jobs such as steelworker, line cook, and gravedigger.