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Rachel, first wife
Lord forgive me, I lied to a policeman today. I told him Blake had never raised a hand to me. I’d like to say I was protecting his memory, but that would be another lie. The truth is, I simply couldn’t stand another judgment from an outsider about our way of life.
I was at the ranch when the officers came. I’d laid out my jars, neat and clean, and was filling them with cut salted potatoes. We had a big rain this year and more crop than average, so there was plenty to can.
The routine always did soothe me. It reminds me of being a little girl canning food for winter, my brothers and sisters all barefoot in the kitchen. I was humming a little tune, wiping the rims, screwing the lids. My pantry had grown steadily full, with brightly colored vegetables and corned beef. Never could get the meat to look pretty, but it sure tastes good.
I guess the Nelson ranch looks plain to city folk. It’s an old smallholding of a few acres, which held a handful of cattle in the fifties. Blake fitted out the dilapidated farmhouse with a stove and basic plumbing five years back. Nothing out here for one hundred miles but the desert and some big old turkey-vultures. To me, it’s a paradise on earth.
The weather was still warm for fall, so all the doors were wide open. I could already feel the beginning of change in the air. That sudden slip in heat that brings the storms and sends fat white clouds scudding into the deep desert sky. I’d closed my eyes, letting the sun beat down on my face through the little kitchen window. When I opened them again, a pack of police was standing at the farmhouse door.
‘Mrs Nelson?’
I looked up, knife in hand. I must have looked quite the picture to those city officers, in a shapeless prairie dress with long wing-shouldered sleeves, buttoned neck to ankle, my blond hair plaited down my back. I wiped the white potato starch from the blade. Set it down.
‘Which Mrs Nelson do you want, sir?’ I looked at them each in turn.
A few of them were openly taking in the ranch. Outside is a little shambolic, with our decrepit outbuildings, dry-goods storehouse, and half-finished vegetable beds. Inside it’s neat and cozy, with a good deal of home-crocheted items. There’s a little couch, with two cushions I made myself, with ‘Home is Where the Heart is,’ and ‘God is Love,’ in big bright colors. Our kitchen is a basic worktop and sink. There’s a shelf with a little gas stove for when we heat our food and some food-preserving equipment that Blake bought me for our second wedding anniversary.
To the back is the old hayloft, where we’ve put our beds. Two singles for two wives. A master, for Blake and whomever is favored that night.
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