John Martin Meek

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The Seventh Day

by John Martin Meek

It was almost dark when Arnet got back to the wheat field. As he crawled tiredly from the pickup his height allowed him to see over the vehicle to where the last bit of sun had been nudged below the flat Texas plain. A warm, southerly breeze began to dry the wet back of his blue denim shirt and, somewhere in the fresh stubble, he could hear a field lark's sweet double call.

Slowly Arnet walked to the front of the truck, his shoulders sagging until it appeared the straps of his bibbed overalls would surely falloff.

In all his life he had never been so tired, he thought, as he parked a brogan on the bumper and leaned back against a fender. He had been up since an hour before daylight, doing chores and getting at the combining early. But it was those trips to the barn to scoop the pickup loads of wheat into bins that left him languid now. It was good to rest there a minute. The combine would be coming around soon to dump its last load and he was glad of that.

Or was he?

That meant the end of the day and his hired hands would be wanting to know about working tomorrow. Arnet closed his eyes and felt ashamed because he couldn't make up his mind, couldn't answer that question even to himself. It had been bothering him all afternoon, ever since he had seen that the combining could not be finished before dark. Being Saturday, it was up to him as owner of the farm to decide about working Sunday.

Three harvests had passed since Arnet took over the farm when his father died and he had never had to decide this before. Things had always worked out in years past so that the crop was in by Saturday night. But this year it rained Monday when the grain had been ready to cut and the soggy field delayed the beginning of harvest until Thursday. Working from daylight to dark for three days now just hadn't been enough.

When he first began thinking about what he should do, it had seemed pretty simple. Mostly it was a matter of resting a day and taking a chance on a storm ruining the rest of the grain, or working on Sunday. As the afternoon slipped by though, the arguments had increased on both sides until now he was even farther away from a decision.

Foremost in Arnet's mind were the words of the fourth commandment, learned by heart long ago. He repeated them slowly to himself:

"Six days thou shall labour, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God: In it thou shalt not do any work..."

He disliked breaking a commandment. He supposed it was because his mother had taught them to him and his father had insisted that he obey them.

But the Bible's teachings were not all the argument. Most of the congregation at his church were farmers and Arnet knew there would be many empty seats there the next day. It would be embarrassing to the preacher if everyone stayed home and worked. He liked the preacher and he liked to go to church. It was this attitude, he realized, not habit nor parental teaching, that took him there twice each Sunday and on Wednesday nights.

Just the same, Arnet reflected, he also had to consider his living as a farmer. Wheat sold only when thrashed and hauled to an elevator, not in the field. Having lived on this same farm all thirty-five years of his life, his wisdom told him that when the weather is hot enough to ripen grain there is also a better than average chance of thunderstorms.

A short burst of driving rain could flatten the top heavy grain in seconds.

Observing the combine turning a corner and heading toward the truck, Arnet pushed himself erect and looked over the long, rectangular patch of uncut wheat.

About thirty acres, he judged. Not enough to make it a matter of life or death but, still important. The money from those bushels would buy Ellie a wringer washing machine, something she had wanted for years. Arnet looked down at the pickup's slick tires and the oxidized paint on the fender, once a navy color but now a powder blue. There would be enough to fix that, too.

Maybe that was his trouble though, always considering the material things too much. His dad had never been like that when he was alive. Arnet could remember how he had decided matters like this, even when the entire wheat crop was at stake. "Arnet," he had always said sternly, "we'll not work on Sunday, crops or no crops!"

And when he had questioned his father's judgment, reminded him that the wheat was their living, he always received the same frown, the same advice: "Son, you must have faith..."

FAITH, FAITH, FAITH! The tractor and combine engines picked up the chant and hurled it at him across the field in a monotonous duet.

That was it then. He did not have his father's faith. The increasing noise of combine and tractor cut short Arnet's thoughts as they came close by him. Stepping quickly out of the path, he watched as young Billy Dugan guided the combine's grain spout over the truck bed. Then Billy hopped from the tractor as Harry Dawson, up on the combine, lowered the spout and let the grain spill into the truck.

When the bin was empty the engines were killed andthe men stood by the pickup, wiping dirt and chaff from their faces. Billy spoke first.

>"Sure has been a long old day," he said loudly, his ears deafened by the machines' noise. "Seems like we been here a week."

"Hit shore has been a longun," agreed Harry, and Arnet nodded his assent.

Then they talked a little about how much the wheat was making an acre and Harry told of seeing a rattlesnake on the last round. Even as they talked, Arnet knew they were expecting to work tomorrow; any man that hired out expected to, he guessed. Billy was growing impatient, since it was Saturday night.

"Well, we gonna hit 'er again tomorrow, Mr. Armitage?" he asked shyly.

Arnet hesitated, thinking about all the arguments once more. When he finally spoke his voice was strong, his shoulders straight.

>"I don't think we ought to work on Sunday, boys," he said. "We'll take the day off tomorrow and hit' er again early Monday.

Billy shrugged his shoulders, but Harry looked surprised. He swept his straw hat from his bald head and punched it to the west where a few long, stringy clouds were silhouetted against the sky.

"Well I shore don't want to tell you how to run yore business Mr. Armitage," he argued, "but to my way of thinkin' we gonna git some rain hereabouts tomorrow and it hain't gonna do this wheat no good when it gits here.

Arnet studied the clouds for an instant then reached for the truck door handle as he spoke: "If it rains, Harry, it'll just rain. Let's call 'er a day."

Sunday was a beautiful day and Arnet enjoyed the church service as much as he had ever enjoyed one. It was a little warm in the building, and the crowd was sparse, but he was glad he had chosen to be there instead of working in the harvest.

When the preacher dismissed the congregation he and Ellie chatted with friends for a while then drove back to the farm. After a cold chicken dinner Arnet took the Bible from atop the piano in the parlor and began to read aloud as was his custom.