The Collected Short Stories of Harriette Simpson Arnow

Love?

£gve? This story was first published in Twigs 8 (Fall 1971): 1-15, a literary magazine issued by Pikeville College, in Pikeville, Kentucky. 1seemed a sin to break that sprig of honeysuckle so fresh and pretty when she already had some in her hair. The flowers would wilt before she reached the Gospel Sing, but she'd still have the smell. Head lifted, reaching for a spray above the fence, her gaze went past the flowers into the sky. Her hands fell from the unbroken flower; only her head moved as her eyes followed the great circle of a hawk's flight. High and far away, she knew him from any other bird. No other creature she'd ever seen was so at home in the sky, soaring through the high blue spaces without effort. Watching him made her feel proud as he, and like him free of all miseries down here on earth. He wasn't exactly free. He and his wife had to feed their young. Early in the spring, the cow had wandered deep into the woods. It was while hunting the cow in the wild woods of the National Forest behind the house, she had first seen the hawk. He had not come in high, proud flight, but low with shrill, angry cries that told her better than words to be gone. She had walked on, not wanting to anger such a fine bird. His cries had . 226 . LOVE? continued; soon a second hawk cried out at her. She looked up; this one was smaller with a different voice, nor did it come so low, nor fly so widely. It had fluttered, more than circled around the broken out top of a tall maple. She'd tried to hide behind an oak to watch and try to see the nest she knew was high in the broken-topped maple. She'd learned there was no hiding from hawks and hurried away. Worried that she might have caused them to move their nest, for it had seemed too early for eggs, she'd gone back to that part of the woods a few weeks later. Afraid of upsetting them again, she had watched from the next hill over. By then the leaves were out, but after a long wait she'd seen flying low near the broken-topped maple the hawk she thought was the father. She had by now seen him many times above the house and yard. Now and then she'd see him sitting high in an old hickory at the edge of the woods; and always he'd come when she was alone. His visits were her secrets. Oscar, her husband, liked to hunt. The wild ducks on the river or black birds in the corn were all one to his guns. The hawk was now swinging lower, closer. She wanted to cry out: "Hawk, oh, Hawk, don't come any closer. My man's home. He'll shoot you down." The hawk, as if he'd heard, circled higher, but his moving shadow was a telltale on the earth. Mostly he had come on cloudy days or in the very early morning while she was milking, shadowless as a ghost. Now, it was dew-dried late on a sunny day. He and his wife must have a hard go to find food for their young. She watched him become a speck and continued to watch until the speck disappeared in the sky. He would be back. Oscar on the front porch shining his shoes would see its shadow. His guns were close. That would be the end of her hawk. She must scare him, keep him from circling lower when he came back. Noise? What kind of noise could she make that wouldn't make Oscar suspicious ? She drew a deep breath. Her mouth was dry. Her first notes were no better than a mouse's squeaks. She tried again, and let out loud and clear: "Rise fathers rise, let's go meet them in the skies, when we hear the trumpet sounding-." Oscar was yelling. "Stead a wasten your breath an time on that old song, you'd better be getten your grub into the car. We don't want to keep Si waiten, an I'm about finished with my shoes." . 227 . MICHIGAN: THE I940S & AFTER She wished Oscar would call Mr. Silas Denton, "Mr. Denton." He was a...