I
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.
—John Donne
1
Early June, 1953
Ada reached the barn door first, her own hard breathing muffled by the cows’ high-pitched bellows. Inside, the panic: cows bugling alarm calls, chickens cackling, pigs squealing as they thumped against the pen walls. All of it out of sight. Thick smoke curtained the barn windows. “We’re coming, we’re coming,” Ada called, her voice its odd staccato, frantic and quick, but the cows couldn’t hear her over the roar of the fire.
When she opened the door, a bank of smoke poured out around her, and she hesitated, but not her mother, Kate. She pushed past and disappeared. Ada gasped at the suddenness of how she vanished. Then she too filled her lungs, held her breath, and dove into the doorway.
The smoke blinded her. Three steps in, Ada saw nothing; her eyes teared and she started coughing. Her heart thrashed against her ribs. Easy now. Easy. She tripped over a feed sack and caught herself on the stone wall. Don’t turn around. Keep going. She could almost see her shoes, the smoke not as thick, so she half crouched, half ran the rest of the way into the barn.
The barn. Their barn. This barn. Her great-great-grandfather had built it, with oak troughs, oak stanchions, oak posts and ceiling timbers. The huge loft above held all the first cutting of hay. Every part of this barn was tinder. Every part except the metal links that held each cow.
Earlier, the two women had brought in the milk cows and clipped each one to a chain fastened to the floor. Then they fed them and looked over their black-and-white ladies as they listened to the sounds of contented chewing. They had talked about Ada’s brother, Nathan, about how they might not see him for another year, even two. “And why is Peter late?” her mother had asked. Ada wrinkled her forehead in worry. Normally, her father would have the milking half done, but he had driven to Harrisburg to take Nathan back to the army. The train was late, and Peter hadn’t yet returned.
In the barn, flames flickered and crackled in a far corner, and Ada could just see Belle, the first cow. Sweat slicked the cow’s black hide, and her ribs swelled and heaved. The animal pulled at her collar, strained to look behind at the fire. Ada gentled the cow to her and unclipped the chain. Belle turned to gallop down the center aisle and away.
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