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held that in the Army, innocence was quickly lost. However, Ray apparently had worked away into adulthood, stuck out here on this farm. He was as lost as one of those pimple-faced and innocent boys on a first date back in high school, more self-conscious and jittery than I’d imagined a grown man could be.
    I wondered if I should move back next to the window, but then, how would he take that? I didn’t know what to do, so I ended up staying penciled in the seat next to Ray. But as we drove through some curves, I made certain I didn’t accidentally fall over and brush up against him.
    He showed me the bean fields, the onions fields, and finally the “head gates” that brought water from the canals onto his land and down feeder ditches to the crops. “We get our water from the Fort Lyon, the longest canal in Colorado. A hundred and thirteen miles long.”
    â€œAh,” I said.
    We never left Singleton land. We never saw another soul, either. On the way back, Ray started telling me the names of weeds growing along the roadway. Rabbit brush, apparently, had just finished blooming.
    Over the next few days, I saw Ray early in the morning before dawn and late in the evening just before sunset, when he arrived back at the house, sweaty and hungry. For dinner, I experimented with baking the beef, pork, and chicken I found in the icebox, fresh meat Ray had swapped with other farmers in the area, and for side dishes I heated cans of vegetables. Eating out of cans was considered most luxurious in those days, but the only fresh vegetables Ray brought in were some of the last tomatoes, so I had little choice. Usually I started my preparations way too early, then I had to let the meal sit and wait on the table until Ray returned. After he tromped in, he headed for the shower first, then sat and silently prayed for long minutes while the food continued to turn older.
    During the day, I cleaned the house and swept off the porch. I ironed all the clothes in my closet and refolded my lingerie in the drawers. Outside, the animals snorted and brayed to remind me I wasn’t totally alone, but Ray stopped coming back and checking on me midday. The only reading material I had was the La Junta Tribune, which came a day late, delivered by the rural mail carriers on the star route. We had no telephone, and no one came to call.
    In the evenings, Ray and I ate dinner together at the table. After eating, Ray always took an hour or so to work on farm business. He spread out receipts and ledger books on the table, pondered over them, and scratched down notes with a pencil. After he finished, he shoved everything back into one manila folder, marked simply “1944,” and crammed it inside a kitchen drawer. Afterward, he usually opened his Bible and read a few pages, then we listened to radio programs or worked on making conversation.
    After four long days of this, I told him over dinner, “We could stand to stock up on groceries.”
    He glanced up between bites of bread. “Sure thing. I’ll drive you into town tomorrow.”
    â€œI can drive a car.”
    He rumpled the napkin to his face and said, “Sure enough?” But his eyes told me he was uncertain. “Sometimes the clutch on that truck tends to stick.”
    â€œI’ll learn how to handle it.” I wanted to pat his hand or his back in the same manner one assures a child, but most certainly he would’ve crumbled into ash if I’d touched him. “If it would make you feel better, I’ll drive with you along first, so you can see for yourself.”
    He still looked as if he had just chewed cactus. “Tomorrow, then,” he said.
    The next morning, I drove with him in the truck, the “beet box,” as Ray called it, west toward La Junta, where I got my first glimpse of Japanese interns toiling in the fields along the way, their dark hair like ripe blackberries among the greenery.
    Ray gestured that way and