Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage

maybe higher than Neal’s head—she wanted to get into the shade of it. She made her way across the yard with this one thought in mind. The dogs thank God must have been taken inside.
    There was no fence. The cornfield just petered out into the yard. She walked straight ahead into it, onto the narrow path between two rows. The leaves flapped into her face and against her arms like streamers of oilcloth. She had to remove her hat so they would not knock it off. Each stalk had its cob, like a baby in a shroud. There was a strong, almost sickening smell of vegetable growth, of green starch and hot sap.
    What she’d thought she’d do, once she got in here, was lie down. Lie down in the shade of these large coarse leaves and not come out till she heard Neal calling her. Perhaps not even then. But the rows were too close together to permit that, and she was too busy thinking about something to take the trouble. She was too angry.
    It was not about anything that had happened recently. She was remembering how a group of people had been sitting around one evening on the floor of her living room—or meeting room—playing one of those serious psychological games. One of those games that were supposed to make a person more honest and resilient. You had to say just what came into your mind as you looked at each of the others. And a white-haired woman named Addie Norton, a friend of Neal’s, had said, “I hate to tell you this, Jinny, but whenever I look at you all I can think of is— Nice Nellie .”
    Jinny didn’t remember making any response at the time. Maybe you weren’t supposed to. What she said, now, in her head, was “Why do you say you hate to say that? Haven’t you noticed that whenever people say they hate to say something, they actually love to say it? Don’t you think since we’re being so honest we could at least start with that?”
    It was not the first time she had made this mental reply. And mentally pointed out to Neal what a farce that game was. For when it came Addie’s turn, did anyone dare say anything unpleasant to her? Oh, no. “Feisty,” they said or “Honest as a dash of cold water.” They were scared of her, that was all.
    She said, “Dash of cold water,” out loud, now, in a stinging voice.
    Other people had said kinder things to her. “Flower child” or “Madonna of the springs.” She happened to know that whoever said that meant “Manon of the Springs,” but she offered no correction. She was outraged at having to sit there and listen to people’s opinions of her. Everyone was wrong. She was not timid or acquiescent or natural or pure.
    When you died, of course, these wrong opinions were all there was left.
    While this was going through her mind she had done the easiest thing you could do in a cornfield—got lost. She had stepped over one row and then another and probably got turned around. She tried going back the way she had come, but it obviously wasn’t the right way. There were clouds over the sun again so she couldn’t tell where west was. And she had not known which direction she was going when she entered the field, so that would not have helped anyway. She stood still and heard nothing but the corn whispering away, and some distant traffic.
    Her heart was pounding just like any heart that had years and years of life ahead of it.
    Then a door opened, she heard the dogs barking and Matt yelling and the door slammed shut. She pushed her way through stalks and leaves in the direction of that noise.
    And it turned out that she had not gone far at all. She had been stumbling around in one small corner of the field all the time.
    Matt waved at her and warned off the dogs.
    “Don’t be scairt of them, don’t be scairt,” he called. He was going towards the car just as she was, though from another direction. As they got closer to each other he spoke in a lower, perhaps more intimate voice.
    “You shoulda come and knocked on the door.”
    He thought that she had gone into the corn to have a pee.
    “I just told your husband I’d come out and make sure you’re okay.”
    Jinny said, “I’m fine. Thank you.” She got into the van but left the door open. He might be insulted if she closed it. Also, she felt too weak.
    “He was sure hungry for that chili.”
    Who was he talking about?
    Neal.
    She was trembling and sweating and there was a hum in her head, as on a wire strung between her ears.
    “I could bring you some out if you’d like it.”
    She shook her