Second Cut -- i

THE ONLY ROAD EAST out of town was packed hard and dry by the heat of the July sun.  Clumps of clover and awkward thistle stems jutted from the edge of the road into the dusty ruts which pointed to the summit of the hill.  Edgar Hartman walked slowly, for he was in no particular hurry to arrive on the job.  Jung's second cut would not go so easy as the first; the mid-summer heat and humidity made field work more oppressive.  And, a healthy coat of dew still glistened on the roadside grasses, delaying, for a time, any thought of haying.

When he reached the top of the slope, he turned back to the little community of dwellings.  The rectangular gray buildings all looked alike from here; they stood straight and square among the oaks and maples that shaded the village. And there was that kind of closeness in the town, the only home he had known in his fifteen years.  Out of the face of a gusty west wind, he turned to the north to look over three-foot corn and several acres of alfalfa, then to the south and to already barren fields where June peas had been harvested.  To the east lay more Wisconsin farmland, bordered finally by a belt of timber that underlined the gray-green horizon of water.  As far as he could see to the left and right, the big lake touched the sky at the eastern horizon.

For several days now, winds from the west had turned this great body of water into a roaring king, and even from this point he could hear and feel, almost, the unusually powerful surf pounding on the heavy shore sand.  All night, from his home a mile west of the shoreline, he had heard this relentless beating.  But Edgar kept walking now; nothing had been done yesterday, so he knew there was much to be done today.

The roaring of the waves last night had been as disturbing as the day itself.  All day long his father's blacksmith shop had been full of quiet business; few men had spent all day in the field; the funeral had brought entire families to town.  Throughout the day the dusty main street was alive with subdued movement as farmers decided to use the trip to town to accomplish other purposes as well.  Heels clicked all day long on the thick wooden sidewalks; horses and wagons moved constantly up and down the seldom used streets, carrying a thick layer of dust into the shop.

His father had had work to keep him busy yesterday, of course, keeping the fire hot, and, when things were busy, sharpening blades and shares.  But the steady clang of the hammer on the anvil was the only sound to break the unsettled order, for things were purposely hushed.  The men of the village, usually brimming with talk of weather and fields and crops, were remarkably calmed on the day of the funeral.  Even the usually spirited talk of the war in Europe failed to excite the contemplative atmosphere of shop and town.

Only the anvil spoke conventionally, as Henry Hartman's work proceeded, unhindered by outside events.  Edgar's father was not a tall man, but his years as a blacksmith had molded his body into a straight, bulging stump of strength.  He had seen his father working late into the day, the sun long set, only the jumpy rays of a noisy fire providing needed light.  Late into warm, spring evenings his thick, muscular arms, wet with sweat, swung that hammer, always in the same monotonous beat, pounding, shaping, bending stubborn iron into implements for the farmers.  But as much as he admired his father's strength, Edgar saw and knew him as a respected leader of the little Dutch community in which he lived, for Henry Hartman's impressive physical stature was equaled only by the strength of his character.

Men were drawn to his father somehow-family problems, church problems, financial problems; his father heard them all, it seemed, but Edgar heard none.  Often, just as he was turning the glowing iron into an arc, he heard that quiet command, "Edgar, go to your mother," when some somber-looking man would enter the shop.

But last Monday things had been somehow different.  Teunis Jansen had come in with the news: Gerrit Van Ess and Peter Blom were dead, drowned in the lake on Sunday afternoon.

His father had stopped his work; he had looked at Teunis. The shop had been very quiet, Edgar remembered.

The bodies already had been found, one close to where they had gone swimming, the other far up the beach near Amsterdam.

Edgar's father said nothing then; he glared, it seemed, at the anvil.  The fire crackled and dimmed slowly.  A few more words passed quickly, the funeral. . .the families. . .then Teunis left.

Quietly, his father motioned him to follow into the house.  The wooden steps creaked under their feet.  Edgar's mother greeted their unexpected entry silently, and, without asking, heated the coffee.

"The boy of Van Ess, and oldest boy of Blom. They are dead, Dina. In the lake yesterday."

His mother stopped moving momentarily, turning her face as if she'd been slapped.  "Och heden, " she said, mumbling almost, then looked back to her husband.  Saying no more, she continued her work, looking away again.  His father rested his forehead in his hand; Edgar felt a cloud of anguish lying like lake fog in the steamy kitchen.

"On Sunday?" Mother asked.

His father replied softly.  Silence returned.

Edgar watched his mother moving around the stove.  He glanced at the bluish dishes hung from the wall and at the figure of the farmer on the shelf, all brought over from the old country.  The chair creaked into the silence as he jerked up his hand to scratch his forehead.  No one else moved.