intruding upon you. This is Mr. Kuno Francke, a visiting scholar from Germany.”
Francke bent low, then kissed her hand.
“He’s come from Germany to see my work. I’ve already traipsed him through three other houses. Do you mind if I show him around your home?”
“Not at all.” Mamah shot a furious look at Frank while Mr. Francke gazed at the ceiling.
“Mrs. Cheney speaks fluent German,” Frank said.
“Is that so?” the man said in a heavy accent. “Forgive me if I butcher the English, but I’m practicing. I am trying to convince your architect that his talents are wasted in America. The avant-garde in German architecture is head and shoulders above the Modern architects here. Except for Mr. Wright, who I think leads them all. He would be far better served to practice in Germany right now.”
“Well, I can’t think of a better place for him,” Mamah said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to get dressed to go out.”
When she headed to the hallway, Frank hurried to catch her. “Meet me in the field tonight. Nine o’clock. Will you?”
She didn’t answer him as she slipped into the bedroom and closed the door.
Batter my heart, three-personed God. Stop me in my tracks. Please.
Driving toward the north prairie, she found herself praying in sonnets. She looked around, half expecting to see a flash of bright light. But the sky was black and still.
As much as she could tell in the dark, no foundations had been dug since they had last met. The field remained as it had been, marked off by a few roads, laid out in a grid pattern.
Mamah thought about her departure from home.
“Meeting tonight,” she’d called out to Edwin. She wore a simple dress that was neither plain nor fine, a “meeting” dress.
“Go! Get out of the house and enjoy yourself!” he called back.
Now she sat alone in his car in the middle of a dark field. She knew what the prairie looked like by day—patches of grasses and trees. She and Frank had dared to lie there on the ground at sunset last summer. They had felt surprisingly safe, hidden in the maize-colored savannah, the smell of steamy earth wafting over them. But tonight, in the waning moon’s light, Mamah could see only the silhouettes of bur oaks spreading their ghoulish arms against the night sky.
It was nine o’clock, and Frank had not appeared. She was considering leaving when she saw the lights of a car turn onto the road leading to the development. A cold excitement swept over her, and she took a blanket from the backseat.
What if it wasn’t Frank? What if the developer had decided to come out to the field for some reason? How could she explain herself, sitting out here in the dark? She opened the door and slid from the driver’s seat, then hid behind the car, wrapped in the blanket.
Batter my heart. Batter my heart.
The car stopped twenty feet from where she stood. She peeked around the fender again and saw Frank leap from his car and race toward hers. Mamah stepped from behind the auto.
Frank didn’t speak to her at all, only held on to her, rocking her back and forth in his arms.
THEY SAT IN THE STUDEBAKER, looking out at the fields around them. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. In the dim light, she could discern green shoots pushing up through the brittle shafts of old grasses.
“You look so lovely right now.”
“Shhh.”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t try to charm me.”
“I thought you understood.”
“You could have sent some word, Frank. I’ve been living inside hell.”
“I wanted to come to you. There hasn’t been a day…”
Mamah felt something surrender inside. She took his hand and brushed her fingers over its familiar shape.
“She’s not going to abide by the agreement,” he said. “She’s off in her own world. Do you know how she spends her days? Filling a scrapbook with sentimental poems about fatherhood and clippings of the children’s hair. We have not
Francke bent low, then kissed her hand.
“He’s come from Germany to see my work. I’ve already traipsed him through three other houses. Do you mind if I show him around your home?”
“Not at all.” Mamah shot a furious look at Frank while Mr. Francke gazed at the ceiling.
“Mrs. Cheney speaks fluent German,” Frank said.
“Is that so?” the man said in a heavy accent. “Forgive me if I butcher the English, but I’m practicing. I am trying to convince your architect that his talents are wasted in America. The avant-garde in German architecture is head and shoulders above the Modern architects here. Except for Mr. Wright, who I think leads them all. He would be far better served to practice in Germany right now.”
“Well, I can’t think of a better place for him,” Mamah said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to get dressed to go out.”
When she headed to the hallway, Frank hurried to catch her. “Meet me in the field tonight. Nine o’clock. Will you?”
She didn’t answer him as she slipped into the bedroom and closed the door.
Batter my heart, three-personed God. Stop me in my tracks. Please.
Driving toward the north prairie, she found herself praying in sonnets. She looked around, half expecting to see a flash of bright light. But the sky was black and still.
As much as she could tell in the dark, no foundations had been dug since they had last met. The field remained as it had been, marked off by a few roads, laid out in a grid pattern.
Mamah thought about her departure from home.
“Meeting tonight,” she’d called out to Edwin. She wore a simple dress that was neither plain nor fine, a “meeting” dress.
“Go! Get out of the house and enjoy yourself!” he called back.
Now she sat alone in his car in the middle of a dark field. She knew what the prairie looked like by day—patches of grasses and trees. She and Frank had dared to lie there on the ground at sunset last summer. They had felt surprisingly safe, hidden in the maize-colored savannah, the smell of steamy earth wafting over them. But tonight, in the waning moon’s light, Mamah could see only the silhouettes of bur oaks spreading their ghoulish arms against the night sky.
It was nine o’clock, and Frank had not appeared. She was considering leaving when she saw the lights of a car turn onto the road leading to the development. A cold excitement swept over her, and she took a blanket from the backseat.
What if it wasn’t Frank? What if the developer had decided to come out to the field for some reason? How could she explain herself, sitting out here in the dark? She opened the door and slid from the driver’s seat, then hid behind the car, wrapped in the blanket.
Batter my heart. Batter my heart.
The car stopped twenty feet from where she stood. She peeked around the fender again and saw Frank leap from his car and race toward hers. Mamah stepped from behind the auto.
Frank didn’t speak to her at all, only held on to her, rocking her back and forth in his arms.
THEY SAT IN THE STUDEBAKER, looking out at the fields around them. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. In the dim light, she could discern green shoots pushing up through the brittle shafts of old grasses.
“You look so lovely right now.”
“Shhh.”
“I mean it.”
“Don’t try to charm me.”
“I thought you understood.”
“You could have sent some word, Frank. I’ve been living inside hell.”
“I wanted to come to you. There hasn’t been a day…”
Mamah felt something surrender inside. She took his hand and brushed her fingers over its familiar shape.
“She’s not going to abide by the agreement,” he said. “She’s off in her own world. Do you know how she spends her days? Filling a scrapbook with sentimental poems about fatherhood and clippings of the children’s hair. We have not
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