Aron sat down on the edge of the sidewalk. After a moment the latch lifted, the white gate opened, and Abra emerged. She walked across the walk and stood over him. “What do you want?”
Aron’s wide eyes looked up at her. “You aren’t engaged to anybody?”
“Silly,” she said.
He struggled up to his feet. “I guess it will be a long time before we can get married,” he said.
“Who wants to get married?”
Aron didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t hear. He walked along beside her.
Abra moved with firm and deliberate steps and she faced straight ahead. There was wisdom and sweetness in her expression. She seemed deep in thought. And Aron, walking beside her, never took his eyes from her face. His attention seemed tied to her face by a taut string.
They walked silently past the Baby School, and there the pavement ended. Abra turned right and led the way through the stubble of the summer’s hayfield. The black ’dobe clods crushed under their feet.
On the edge of the field stood a little pump house, and a willow tree flourished beside it, fed by the overspill of water. The long skirts of the willow hung down nearly to the ground.
Abra parted the switches like a curtain and went into the house of leaves made against the willow trunk by the sweeping branches. You could see out through the leaves, but inside it was sweetly protected and warm and safe. The afternoon sunlight came yellow through the aging leaves.
Abra sat down on the ground, or rather she seemed to drift down, and her full skirts settled in a billow around her. She folded her hands in her lap almost as though she were praying.
Aron sat down beside her. “I guess it will be a long time before we can get married,” he said again. “Not so long,” Abra said. “I wish it was now.”
“It won’t be so long,” said Abra. Aron asked, “Do you think your father will let you?”
It was a new thought to her, and she turned and looked at him. “Maybe I won’t ask him.”
“But your mother?”
“Let’s not disturb them,” she said. “They’d think it was funny or bad. Can’t you keep a secret?”
“Oh, yes. I can keep secrets better than anybody. And I’ve got some too.”
Abra said, “Well, you just put this one with the others.”
Aron picked up a twig and drew a line on the dark earth. “Abra, do you know how you get babies?”
“Yes,” she said. “Who told you?”
“Lee told me. He explained the whole thing. I guess we can’t have any babies for a long time.”
Abra’s mouth turned up at the corners with a condescending wisdom. “Not so long,” she said.
“We’ll have a house together some time,” Aron said, bemused. “We’ll go in and close the door and it will be nice. But that will be a long time.”
Abra put out her hand and touched him on the arm. “Don’t you worry about long times,” she said. “This is a kind of a house. We can play like we live here while we’re waiting. And you will be my husband and you can call me wife.”
He tried it over under his breath and then aloud. “Wife,” he said. “It’ll be like practicing,” said Abra.
Aron’s arm shook under her hand, and she put it, palm up, in her lap.
Aron said suddenly, “While we’re practicing, maybe we could do something else.”
“What?”
“Maybe you wouldn’t like it.”
“What is it?”
“Maybe we could pretend like you’re my mother.”
“That’s easy,” she said.
“Would you mind?”
“No, I’d like it. Do you want to start now?”
“Sure,” Aron said. “How do you want to go about it?”
“Oh, I can tell you that,” said Abra. She put a cooing tone in her voice and said, “Come, my baby, put your head in Mother’s lap. Come, my little son. Mother will hold you.” She drew his head down, and without warning Aron began to cry and could not stop. He wept quietly, and Abra stroked his cheek and wiped the flowing tears away with the edge of her skirt.
The sun crept down toward its setting place behind the Salinas River, and a bird began to sing wonderfully from the golden stubble of the field. It was as beautiful under the branches of the willow tree as anything in the world can be.
Very slowly Aron’s weeping stopped, and he felt good and he felt warm.
“My good little baby,” Abra said. “Here, let Mother brush your hair back.”
Aron sat up and said almost angrily, “I don’t hardly ever cry unless I’m mad. I don’t know why I cried.”
Abra asked, “Do you remember your mother?”
“No. She died when I was a little bit of a baby.”
“Don’t you know what she looked like?”
“No.”
“Maybe you saw a picture.”
“No, I tell you. We don’t have any pictures. I asked Lee and he said no pictures—no, I guess it was Cal asked Lee.”
“When did she die?”
“Right after Cal and I were born.”
“What was her name?”
“Lee says it was Cathy. Say, what you asking so much for?”
Abra went on calmly, “How was she complected?”
“What?”
“Light or dark hair?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t your father tell you?”
“We never asked him.”
Abra was silent, and after a while Aron asked, “What’s the matter—cat got your tongue?”
Abra inspected the setting sun.
Aron asked uneasily, “You mad with me”—and he added tentatively—“wife?”
“No, I’m not mad. I’m just wondering.”
“What about?”
“About something.” Abra’s firm face was tight against a seething inner argument. She asked, “What’s it like not to have any mother?”
“I don’t know. It’s like anything else.”
“I guess you wouldn’t even know the difference.”
“I would too. I wish you would talk out. You’re like riddles in the Bulletin.”
Abra continued in her concentrated imperturbability, “Do you want to have a mother?”
“That’s crazy,” said Aron. “ ’Course I do. Everybody does. You aren’t trying to hurt my feelings, are you? Cal tries that sometimes and then he laughs.”