THE SEVENTH DAY
by
John Martin Hill
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 aM. 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.
"Shore 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.
However his voice soon put Ellie to sleep in her
rocker and, noticing this, Arnet stretched out on the hard leather couch.
The quietness awakened him. The wind had stopped
blowing and outside it was nearly dark. Hastily Arnet arose and walked to
the kitchen door. From there he could see the high, black thunderheads
charging in from the southwest, lightning lacing them with quick, orange
jabs. By then the wind was kicking up again, pushing a bank of red dust
before it. Within minutes raindrops were pitting the dust in the driveway.
Ellie came into the kitchen, awakened by the thunder,
and together they went out on the back porch. The rain increased and
driven by the wind, began to spray over the porch dampening their clothes.
A half hour later it stopped. And almost in mockery,
a rainbow appeared, one end bending to earth in a spot where Arnet knew
his wheat was now crushed to the ground in ruin.
His gaze lowered to the yard before him and centered
on the pickup parked there, now a dark color from being wet, its tires
shiny black like new. He studied the galvanized wash tubs on the toolshed
porch and the scrub board, bleached to a pale white.
As he turned to Ellie, he saw the tears on her
cheeks. Fumbling, Arnet reached to the pocket in his overalls' bib and
pulled from it his father's big gold watch. He stared at it for a moment
then returned it to its place. Reaching for the screen door he beckoned
for Ellie to go before him.
"It's about time for church," he said, and followed
her into the house.
