From the Relief Society Magazine, September 1966 –

Always Be Near Me

By Frances C. Yost

Maurine Martin opened her eyes to a perfect morning. But her own day couldn’t be perfect, unless she could iron out one great big problem between herself and Con.

Tomorrow she wanted to leave for a three-day art convention. That is, she would if Con would give his consent for her to go. She surely wasn’t going without his good wishes . . . and his blessing.

Maurine had looked forward to the convention since the first day she had read about it, oh, just months ago. Everything she had done, every article of clothing she had bought or made since then, had been with the idea of the convention in mind. She had even stocked the deep freeze with goodies and main dishes to be used in her absence, even though Con was mighty handy as a cook himself. Con could manage alone, that wasn’t the problem. It was simply that he never wanted her to go, to leave him.

Maurine’s very soul hungered to go to this art center for instruction. She saw herself as a rare painting not yet finished, needing a bold, understanding brush to bring out its three dimensional reality. Attending this art show, these study classes where she would meet other struggling artists, she thought, would be helpful. There she would not only be able to study the finest paintings which would be on exhibit, but some of the finest instructors were scheduled to be there and hold classes.

Yes, Maurine thought, she had worked and planned and prepared and hoped and dreamed, but she hadn’t prepared Con for her going.

Maurine folded her arms over her breast in a prayerful attitude as she snuggled under the covers. Her voice whispered, “Three full days of art study, if only I can go.”

It had been a restless night for her. When Maurine had mentioned the art convention, a strained silence ensued.

Maurine had hoped for a chance to talk things over before the day began; but when sleep came to her toward morning, Con had slipped out without waking her, and no doubt had started his busy day. Con was always busy.

Maurine realized she should have told Con about the art convention months ago. She would have, but Con never liked her to leave him, even to see her folks for a few days. When she returned he welcomed her warmly and everything was heavenly until she mentioned going someplace again.

So Maurine had dreamed of this art convention and made minute, detailed preparation without bringing up the subject. Yesterday, on Monday, she had finally found courage to mention it. Tomorrow, Wednesday, she would have to leave, if she were going. Con didn’t know how important art was to her . . . deep inside.

Last night when she had brought up the subject of going. Con had been annoyed. He became stony. Maurine wondered what the day would bring. Well, she must pull herself from the warm bed and meet the day, whatever its problems.

The Martin home was attractive. It was the farm home that Con had always known. It was a good farm, and, since Con was an only child and his father and mother were both dead, it belonged to them entirely … no mortgages, no debts. They had much to be thankful for, and they still had their youth, and the hopes of a family of their own.

Maurine slipped on a pretty housedress, primped a little in front of the mirror, and went to the kitchen. The old farm kitchen resembled a cheery Currier and Ives print, fragrant and wholesome. Maurine started making French toast. Con especially liked her French toast. Someone had said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. A person could try. But Maurine was rather certain it would take more than food to break through Con’s cocoon of silence. ‘Maurine glanced out of the window. Con was coming toward the house swinging the milk buckets, but he wasn’t whistling as he usually did. She went to the back door and held it open for him.

“Good morning. Con darling.” Maurine smiled with affection.

Con washed and sat down at his place. Usually he showed her the courtesy of holding her chair for her.

“How is everything outside this beautiful morning?”

No reply.

“Any new little calves?” she asked with sparkling eye transmittance. No contact.

“No.” Con’s eyes reflected the sour grapefruit before him.

“I made French toast!”

“Didn’t need to put yourself out.” Mournful facial expression.

“Why no trouble at all. I simply love to cook for you,” she said with a wasted smile.

“Are you plowing today?” with deepest interest.

“No. Planting.” Sulkiness darkened the depths of his eyes.

“Then you’ll be really hungry at dinnertime. What would you like?”

“Too busy to stop,” he mumbled.

“Then I’ll bring lunch to the field!” Her voice was helpful.

“Don’t bother. Too busy to stop to eat.”

Con took his hat from the hanger behind the door and was gone.

Maurine stood in the doorway and watched until he mounted his tractor and rode off. Arms akimbo, she muttered to the great outdoors in general: ”What does one do when a man just won’t communicate?”

Maurine did the dishes and made the bed, and tidied up in general. Since she had neither a chick nor a child to wait upon, and since she had planned her going away step by step for weeks, her housework was completely caught up. Why, there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. Her clothes were ready to pack, but she didn’t plan on doing that until she had the “go” sign from Con. Why did men . . . her special man, make life complicated for her?

Maurine tried to settle herself to knitting a sweater she was making as a surprise for Con, but the hours straggled on, instead of lilting as they usually did.

As she sat in the tiny genuine Early American rocker that had been Con’s mother’s when he was a baby, she wondered what the older Mrs. Martin was like. Con’s mother had died when he was just a slip of a boy. Con had said. Con had been reared by his father. He had taken him out in the winter to feed the cattle, and night and morning to milk the cows. He had taught him manners, saw to it that he had a fine education. Con had learned how to do household tasks as well as farm tasks. There wasn’t anything Con couldn’t whip up in the kitchen, if he decided to do so. Then why was he so balky about her going away for a few days?

Maurine glanced at the quaint china closet with the Bavarian china service with gilt rims and faded rosebuds. Con said he had a vague recollection of his father saying it had been a wedding present, but they had never used the dishes. Maurine walked across to the china closet and turned the key and opened the glass door. She brushed her finger across a fine teacup. There was a film of dust that she hadn’t noticed before. The china closet was supposed to be dust-proof.

Even though the house was shining clean, this china closet needed a bit of tidying. Carefully Maurine lifted the china out of the closet, piece by piece, shelf by shelf. She polished each piece carefully. It was as she moved a large platter at the back that she found the picture. There was no mistaking it. It was a picture of Con’s parents. No doubt it was their wedding picture, for his mother wore a lovely white satin dress, and held a single rose. Had someone deliberately hidden this picture? She must talk to Con. It should be framed and hung out to be enjoyed, instead of hidden away behind the china platter like this.

Had Con hidden the picture? Or had his father? Could it be that this house, the whole house was too humanly vacant, too lonesome for Con to bear when she was gone? Was Con too much of a man even to mention it? No wonder he was always unhappy at her leaving.

Time like a weaver’s shuttle had woven the morning into past tapestry. She must hurry and prepare the finest hot lunch that could possibly be carried to the field. Con, too busy to stop working, would, nevertheless, be hungry as a wolf. Maurine hurried like a nimble little housewife should at eleven-thirty on a week morning.

“I brought a hot dinner,” Maurine announced, when Con stopped the tractor.

“Good girl! I’m hungry as a hungry miner.”

“I brought the card table and folding chairs.”

“I’ll help you get them. We can set them up here in the shade of the tractor.”

Maurine saw the change in Con. Had he come to an understanding of her as he worked in the field, as she had come to a clearer understanding of him as she had cleaned out the dear old china closet?

For some time they sat in silence enjoying the food Maurine had carefully prepared. Then Con spoke: “Maurine, last night you mentioned some sort of art convention. What was it, a three-day course that you wanted to take? I believe you said it started Thursday morning and finished off sometime Saturday?”

“Yes, I did mention it. Con.”

Maurine studied his face. Con was a handsome man, even with the dirt of the day upon him . . . his lean brown face under thick waves of dark, unruly hair. He had won his callouses as an honest, hard-working farmer and enjoyed the fruits of his labor.

“You mentioned going on the bus tomorrow, so that you would be there for classes Thursday morning.”

“Yes, I did. Con.”

“Well by nightfall, working as I have, I can have the spring planting all done. Would you like me to drive you into the city?”

“Why, Con, that would be wonderful!”

“There’s a stock show I’d kind of like to take in.”

They laughed together heartily.

“Maurine, I did a lot of thinking this morning. I believe I planted all my sulkiness under this deep loam, and I’m sure it’s too cussed to grow.” He laughed. “I’ve had a lot of attributes of a mule, but I believe, with your patience, I can overcome most of them. I’ll try to treat my pretty wife better, be more considerate. But I have to admit the whole place seems like a grave when you are away.”

Suddenly she realized that Con’s hating to have her go was one way of showing his love!