Where’d we go wrong? he said.
You’re not talking to her, Maggie Jones said. You and Raymond don’t talk like you should to that girl. Women want to hear some conversation in the evening. We don’t think that’s too much to ask. We’re willing to put up with a lot from you men, but in the evening we want to hear some talking. We want to have a little conversation in the house.
What kind? Harold said.
Any kind. Just so you mean it.
Well damn it, Maggie, Harold said. You know I don’t know how to talk to women. You knew that before you ever brought her out there. And Raymond, he don’t know a thing about it either. Neither one of us does. In particular a young girl like her.
That’s why I’m telling you, Maggie said. Because you better learn.
But damn it, what would we talk to her about?
I expect you’ll think of something.
She said no more. Instead she walked away into one of the aisles of the grocery store, pushing her shopping cart ahead of her, her long dark skirt swirling briskly about her legs. Gazing after her, Harold followed her progress with considerable interest, watching from under the dirty brim of his hat. In his eyes there was the look of mystification and alarm.
When he returned to the house it was just before dark. Raymond was still outside. He located him out back of the horse barn and pulled him inside into one of the plank-sided stalls as if there were a need for privacy. With some excitement in his voice he reported to Raymond what Maggie Jones had said to him in the Highway 34 Grocery Store while he stood before the meat case considering pork roast for their supper.
Raymond received the news in silence. Afterward he looked up and studied his brother’s face for a moment. That’s what she said?
Yes. That’s what she said.
That’s all of it? The sum and total?
All I can remember.
Then we got to do something.
That’s what I think too, Harold said.
I’m talking about we got to do something today, Raymond said. Not next week.
That’s what I’m telling you, Harold said. I’m trying to agree with you.
The McPheron brothers made their attempt that same evening. They had decided it was safe to wait until after supper, but believed they could wait no longer. After supper they sallied forth together.
They and the girl had just finished eating a meal of fried meat and red onions, boiled potatoes, coffee, green beans, sliced bread and equally divided portions of canned peaches, bright yellow in their own syrup. It had been the customary nearly silent evening meal, eaten almost formally out in the dining room, and afterward the girl had cleared the square walnut table of their dishes and had taken the dishes to the kitchen and washed them and put them away, and then she was started back to her bedroom when Harold said: Victoria. He had to clear his throat. He started again. Victoria. Raymond and me was wanting to ask you a question, if you don’t mind. If we could. Before you started back to your studies there.
Yes? she said. What did you want to ask?
We just was wondering . . . what you thought of the market?
The girl looked at him. What? she said.
On the radio, he said. The man said today how soybeans was down a point. But that live cattle was holding steady.
And we wondered, Raymond said, what you thought of it. Buy or sell, would you say.
Oh, the girl said. She looked at their faces. The brothers were watching her closely, a little desperately, sitting at the table, their faces sober and weathered but still kindly, still well meaning, with their smooth white foreheads shining like polished marble under the dining room light. I wouldn’t know, she said. I couldn’t say about that. I don’t know anything about it. Maybe you could explain it to me.