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but then she took off. Well, you know how it is. You single?”
    Colm nodded. Had Ruth told him that? What more had she told him? But Tim was moving forward with his story.
    “So two years ago I came here. Pete hired me. I said could I bring along Willy, he’s developmentally disabled, happens to be epileptic, too. I had him on meds by then, though there’s still seizures—when he’s stressed out. I got a brother with epilepsy— it’s tough, he’s an artist. Got nothing to do with brains, epilepsy. I learned that early on.” Tim’s voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the planting.
    “How was it working with Pete?” Colm didn’t know why he asked, it had nothing to do with the assault. Pete was in New York.
    Tim jammed his spade into the ground, leaned on it. “He left her, that tells you somethin’. But he’s not a bad guy, he left me alone with my work. But I could tell his heart wasn’t in farmin’.” He thought a minute and gazed off at the mountains. “Maybe that was part of it. He has an unfocused side to him, prob’ly never will know what he wants. Even if he comes back.”
    “You think he’ll come back?” Colm felt a pull in the groin.
    “He’s got kids, all this—he’s got to settle somethin’. But who knows? Maybe he’ll dump the whole thing on her.”
    “She seems to be dealing with it.”
    “Yeah. I’ll stick around awhile. The two of us, right, Willy?”
    “Right,” said Willy. “You and me. You wanna pass me them trees, Mister?”
    Tim said, “Those trees, Willy, those trees!” And Colm hefted the pail over.
    “Gotta get ‘em in right,” said Willy. “Gotta get ‘em deep in so they live. We wan’m to live, right, Tim?”
    “Right,” said Tim. “We want ‘em to live.”
    * * * *
    Lucien looked up when Belle entered the room. She was wearing something pink. That was new, Belle never wore pink. Green was her color, like the grass, like the trees. It was because she was Indian he told her, and she laughed. Her mother, though, was ashamed. Indians are dirt, her mother said, people walk on them. Indian color is brown. Marie’s worse even, wants nothing to do with Indians. She hit Lucien once—her own dad!—when he called her a squaw. Nine years old at the time. Mother of God!
    “I married you, didn’tI?” he said aloud. “I married you, ” he repeated. He didn’t have to give reasons.
    “Lucien?” she said, coming closer to the bed.
    What was he doing in bed at this hour? What time was it?
    “What time is it?” he shouted. He tried to get up, but Belle pushed him back. “What in hell you doing?” he growled. “The milking don’t wait.”
    “Lucien, it’s not Belle.”
    He rubbed his eyes. What was he doing in bed? “Help me out of this bed, Belle, this damn arthritis. Put some wood in the stove, Belle. I need heat.”
    “Lucien, it’s Ruth. Ruth from next door. You’re in the hospital, Lucien. You were hurt, someone hurt you. But you’re going to be all right.”
    Lucien squinted at the pink shirt, at the white face. He recognized her now. She’d been coming in all night, waking him up like he don’t have to be up anyway at four-thirty for milking. To stick something in his mouth, his arm, his bum. He turned his head away, closed his eyes. He felt her fussing over him.
    “Tell me what you remember, Lucien. Who was it hit you? Were there two of them? What hit you? Where did those marks come from, on your face?”
    Too much talk, too many questions. He opened his eyes. He couldn’t see her for the fear. It rose between them, thick and white, like lightning hitting all over the farm at once and nowhere to hide. He shielded his face with his arms.
    “Where’s Belle?” His eyes squeezed shut. “What’d they do with her? Belle!”
    * * * *
    Belle was swimming, long lusty strokes that took her out in the stormy lake and then, whiplashed by a wave, back toward shore again. It was out and back, out and back, her hair floating on the weedy water,