The first year, everybody brought food.
The second, people stopped checking as often.
By the third, many assumed grief had a schedule and hers should be finished.
Clara did not discuss it.
She worked.
Work was easier.
Work did not ask whether she still dreamed about a dead man.
Work did not care whether she occasionally woke reaching toward an empty side of the bed.
Work simply demanded completion.
Caleb had never told her to move on.
He had never asked whether she was ready.
That was one reason she tolerated him.
Another was the way he looked at her.
Not with pity.
Not the way some men looked at a widow and calculated vulnerability.
Caleb looked at her as though she were difficult.
Capable.
Beautiful.
Sometimes all three at once.
Clara poured coffee.
He accepted the cup.
“What else are you saving?”
“Everything.”
“Helpful.”
“Flour.”
“I saw.”
“Corn.”
“Yes.”
“Dried beans.”
He nodded.
“Herbs.”
“Obviously.”
“Salt.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That means a lot.”
“It means enough.”
Caleb drank.
Clara continued.
“Rendered fat.”
“From?”
“Pork.”
“Anything else?”
“Chicken fat later.”
He looked toward the two unfortunate birds.
“They have fat?”
“Not much.”
Caleb smiled.
Clara pointed at him.
“Keep laughing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m admiring.”
She paused.
“What?”
“Your chickens.”
“Liar.”
His eyes remained on her.
“I didn’t say what I was admiring.”
The cabin suddenly felt warmer.
Clara turned toward the stove.
“Drink your coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The first frost arrived that night.
By morning, every pumpkin vine in the lower garden had collapsed.
Clara harvested what remained.
Green tomatoes.
Small squash.
Late beans.
Nothing wasted.
She pickled some.
Dried others.
The settlement continued laughing.
Not cruelly at first.
Mostly because her preparations seemed excessive.
Mrs. Turner saw Clara collecting bruised apples after market.
“Those are nearly rotten.”
“Nearly isn’t rotten.”
“You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I’m going to make vinegar.”
Mrs. Turner blinked.
“You can do that?”
Clara smiled.
“Yes.”
At the mill, a young man watched her buy cracked grain usually used for animals.
“You feeding chickens?”
“Some.”
“What else?”
“People, if needed.”
He laughed.
“With that?”
Clara shrugged.
“If needed.”
Rumors grew.
The Bennett widow expects the world to end.
She’s storing scraps.
She bought market chickens nobody wanted.
She’s boiling bones.
She even saved bacon grease from somebody else’s breakfast.
That last one was true.
Clara did not care.
Caleb cared more.
One afternoon, he found two men laughing outside the mercantile.
“Maybe she’ll serve boiled feathers.”
Caleb stopped.
The men saw him.
Their laughter faded.
Caleb asked:
“Something funny?”
“No.”
“Sounded funny.”
One man looked uncomfortable.
“We were joking.”
“About Clara?”
Nobody answered.
Caleb stepped closer.
“You ever eaten at her table?”
One man shook his head.
“Then don’t criticize the cook.”
He walked away.
Later Clara heard.
She confronted him that evening.
“You threatened two men over chickens?”
Caleb looked offended.
“I did not threaten anyone.”
“They said you stood there looking like you wanted to bury them in snow.”
“I always look like that.”
Clara folded her arms.
“You don’t need to protect me from jokes.”