Chapter 35
Today is Abel’s thirteenth birthday. The day he becomes a man.
We sit around the table and sing to him.
He doesn’t receive any gifts. He looks properly shy from all the attention.
“You’re a man now,” Old Caleb says, but he isn’t, not really.
His voice has yet to crack. I’m still taller than him by a foot.
Together, we eat our eggs and biscuits, and the children guess what kind of man Abel will be. “Brave!” Noah says.
“Gentle,” Mary corrects.
“HUGE!” Maeve shouts. We all laugh at that.
After breakfast is over, Old Caleb looks at Abel. “Are you ready?” he says.
Abel looks terrified. He swallows and nods.
Mary, Maeve, Noah, and I stand on the porch, watching silently as Abel and Caleb walk slowly down the hill. Abel is old enough, now—for what? Only Old Caleb knows. The rest of the children simply parrot what he has told him. They’re off to the far woods. They’re going everywhere.
What I am thinking: It’s easy to go everywhere when you’re the one who sets the traps.
“Good luck,” Noah shouts to his brother when they’re almost out of sight. Abel turns halfway to shout something back, but then Old Caleb puts his arm around Abel’s shoulders, steering him forward, and soon the two of them are away, out of sight, off to a place only men can go.
Trust in the Lord, I remind myself. Outwardly, I am smiling. Inwardly, I feel like how Noah looks right now: desperately sad for having been left behind.
“Well,” Mary says. “What an exciting morning.” She turns to Noah and says softly, “It’ll be your turn before you know it.”
“No it won’t,” he says. “It’ll be years and years.”
“When will it be my turn?” Maeve asks.
“Never,” Noah mutters irritably, and now Maeve’s face has fallen, too.
I turn to the children. “Say, why don’t we have some fun today?
We could go pick some flowers, or play cowboys and Indians, or—” I look around for inspiration.
What do pioneer children do for fun? My gaze lands on the horse, standing in the far shadows of the paddock.
“What about the horse? Why don’t you take turns riding the horse? ”
“Flower picking is for little girls, and horses aren’t meant to be ridden,” Noah says exasperatedly. “Do you understand anything?”
I laugh confusedly. “What do you mean, horses aren’t meant to be—”
He bellows in return. “You don’t understand anything!”
“Noah,” Mary says sharply before I can respond. “You don’t speak to your mother like that.”
“But she’s useless,” he cries. His face is all red now. He looks despondent. “She’s so bad at being a mother!”
“Noah. Enough!” Mary looks like she’s on the verge of slapping him.
I touch her shoulder and say, “Really, it’s fine. I’m fine.” To Noah, I say gently, “Do you want to help me bake some bread?”
“No!” he cries. “That’s women’s work!”
Mary steps toward Noah, either to reproach him or offer comfort, but he backs away from her reach. He’s even more upset now. Tears are falling down his face. “You’re all stupid women!” he shouts, and then he runs down the porch stairs and down to the barn.
“Let him be,” Mary says.
Hours later, when dinner is ready, Mary walks down to the barn. She reemerges with Noah in her arms, curled up so that he looks much smaller than he actually is. He’s covered in hay and fast asleep. I stand by the kitchen sink, watching through the window as she slowly carries him up to the house.
The sun is setting. The men have not come home yet.