A Measured Thread
By Mary Behan
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About this ebook
Fifty years is a long time to keep a secret.
Looking back on her life, Maggie O’Connor is rightfully pleased. Fifty years ago she left Ireland with a single suitcase and a dream. After a long and satisfying career, she is enjoying retirement on her farm in rural Wisconsin — until she falls.
Determined to regain her independence, she hires Isobel, a young woman who is also an emigrant. Helping Maggie clean house, Isobel finds a cache of letters that Maggie wrote to her parents those many years ago and begins to read them aloud to Maggie.
But the letters contain a secret, one that Maggie has kept for fifty years. A secret that threatens to destroy her life and that of the people around her. With little time left, she must make a choice — give up, or face her past.
A Measured Thread is a powerful story that explores questions of guilt, abandonment, redemption, and the consequences of the choices we make.
Mary Behan
Mary Behan is a retired professor of neuroscience at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She devotes her time to writing fiction, memoir and short stories. Her first book, Abbey Girls, is a memoir she wrote with her sister, Valerie Behan, about their childhood in Ireland. She lives with her husband in the Driftless Area of southwest Wisconsin in a historic log cabin overlooking a tallgrass prairie.
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A Measured Thread - Mary Behan
Chapter 1
Maggie watched as the wall of flames approached. They licked upwards, shapeshifting, clamoring for oxygen. Twenty feet in the air, their orange tips released a pall of smoke that spread upward and outward, obscuring everything in their path. Maggie wiped her nose with the back of her gloved hand and stifled a cough. She could taste the smoke in the back of her throat. The fire made a peculiar crackling noise, like a strong gust of wind plowing through a field of dry corn stalks. The wall of flames came closer, and the sound swelled. She watched, transfixed, as the fire demolished everything in its path with a tornado-like fury. It hissed, whined and roared. All other sounds were drowned out. The birds had left much earlier, alerted by the piercing calls from crows on lookout in the surrounding pine trees. Occasionally, a field mouse erupted from the leading edge of the fire, running haphazardly away from the inferno.
Standing at the edge of the prairie, her feet slightly apart, Maggie leaned against her fire swatter, a crude pole topped by a flap of thick black rubber. Glancing down, she considered how inadequate a tool it was in the face of the approaching flames. She reminded herself that she wasn’t alone: to her left and right was a line of figures, many of them her neighbors, each of them alert and patient. A few carried fire swatters. Others were better armed, with backpack water pumps that weighed at least fifty pounds. In the early years, she too had carried a water pack, but those days were long gone. Had she chosen to watch the burn from the safety of her cabin, no one would have cared. But she was determined to play her part. After all, it was her prairie. Thirty years ago she had taken an exhausted corn field and transformed it into a kaleidoscope of color that changed with the seasons and over the years. When possible, she walked its perimeter, admiring its subtle beauty. That was her reward for being a good steward of her adopted home.
She held the fire swatter upright; its large rectangle of thick rubber would shield her face from the searing heat when the flames got closer. Her mind hopped to a silver-framed photograph of her grandmother on the mantlepiece in her parents’ house. Seated close to a fireplace, the smiling face was protected from the heat by a tapestry screen. Maggie considered her own outfit: leather work boots, bib overalls, a heavy cotton shirt with frayed cuffs and collar, a sweaty kerchief and a faded canvas bucket hat. Smiling to herself at the contrast, she angled the flapper to scan the black ribbon of charred grass that separated her from the oncoming flames. This was the last stand, a magical barrier through which fire could not pass. It looked inadequate and yet, from years of experience, she knew it would work. The only danger was if an errant gust of wind propelled embers across the ribbon into the adjacent woods. They were tinder-dry after a long winter and the ground was covered by a thick carpet of desiccated leaves.
Her body felt old. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, and the new feeling of discomfort, not quite pain, in her lower abdomen was a little disturbing. Scar tissue, she thought. All the same, it made her think: Would she be around for the next burn in three years’ time? She’d be eighty-three by then, older than her parents when they died, older than all of her grandparents. But they had lived much harder lives in Ireland. It wasn’t fair to use them as a comparison. Instead, she began to count the cousins who had survived past eighty, sticking out a gloved digit with each remembered name. A hand’s worth. Not very encouraging. Ireland seemed to be featuring more frequently in her thoughts these days. Did every emigrant think about their country when they grew old, she wondered? Did they ask themselves how it might have been had they never left? And what if she had stayed in Ireland? Better not to go there.
The crew from the Aldo Leopold Land Stewardship Program had arrived shortly after breakfast and set about unloading equipment. This was the fifth time Ron, the fire boss, had been to Maggie’s property, so he was familiar with the layout. He was accompanied by a group of six young interns, four men and two women, all of them eager to get started on the day’s project. They followed him as he walked around the perimeter of the prairie, checking for flammable material on the fire break. Several of Maggie’s neighbors arrived soon afterwards, and gradually everyone moved into place.
Walking briskly along one edge of the prairie, Ron had drib-bled lighted kerosene from a drip torch onto the dry grass. As the dry stalks caught and flared, everyone held their breath, waiting to see what would happen. Too little wind and it wouldn’t catch. Too much, or a change in wind direction, and the back fire could plow its way backwards into the heart of the prairie, out of control. This was the riskiest part of the burn, and it had gone smoothly, leaving a band of blackened grass that extended along the edge of the field. It contrasted starkly with tall yellow stalks of prairie grass on one side and a mowed, grassy fire break on the other.
Maggie waited patiently as the head fire made its way towards her. Smoke billowed across the ground, and for a moment she was enveloped in the choking swirl. Quickly, she pulled the kerchief up over her nose and mouth. Her eyes were watering uncontrollably, and she wiped away the tears with the back of her glove. She could feel the approaching heat and angled the flapper to shield her face. The clouds of billowing smoke made it impossible to see past a few feet in any direction. A patch of flame burst into color to her left, and she jerked the flapper down, snuffing it out. For a brief moment she relaxed, leaning on the shaft of the flapper, suppressing the urge to cough. As she straightened up, out of the corner of her eye she saw another patch of flame behind her, inching slowly towards the pine woods that bordered the prairie. The head fire had jumped the fire break.
Water. Here. Now!
Her voice sounded weak and hoarse as she swatted at the flames. The circle of embers was widening. Just as soon as she snuffed out one segment, another would begin its malevolent crawl towards the adjacent woods.
I need water now!
Maggie shouted at the top of her lungs. She could hear the panic in her voice.
Smoke continued to swirl around her and by now she had lost all sense of direction. Her chest felt tight and for a fleeting moment she wondered if she was having a heart attack. After all, it had happened to Aldo Leopold during a prescribed burn on his own prairie.
Over here!
she continued to shout, in between ragged breaths.
A figure emerged from the gloom, lurching under the weight of a water pack.
Where?
he shouted, pointing his brass wand in the direction of her flapper. She gestured to the growing circle of embers, and he pumped furiously, ejecting a strong spray of water onto the burning grass. The glow fizzled, sending up a puff of smoke. It caught again briefly, was doused with another jet of water and finally died.
They stood back to back, scouring the area around them for new threats. Another patch of dead leaves was burning strongly a few feet into the woods. The water pack man shouted urgently for help as he pumped and sprayed. The stream of water sputtered and died. His tank was empty. Now he was screaming for reinforcements. He grabbed her flapper out of her hands and began to beat at the burning leaves in a frenzy. Two more figures appeared out of the gloom and rushed to the widening circle of flames, one with a flapper, the other a water pack. Close to exhaustion, Maggie retreated to the mowed strip of grass at the edge of the woods. She bent over and took a few tentative, shallow breaths before filling her lungs greedily. Behind her she could hear people shouting to each other as they continued to put out flames. At the sound of an approaching engine, she straightened and waved her hands in the air.
Over here!
she shouted.
An ATV with a tank sprayer perched awkwardly on the back came to an abrupt stop beside her. Wordlessly, Maggie pointed in the direction of the three figures. The driver jumped off, flipped a switch near the tank, and an electric motor whined to life. Grabbing a hose, he ran into the woods in the direction of the shouting.
Maggie relaxed a little and leaned on her flapper, letting her mind wander. A week earlier she had called each of her neighbors to alert them to the burn, and most of them were here to help out. The notable exception was Bill Breunig. An image came to mind: a burly man in his late forties, well over six feet tall, a thick neck, and a shiny bald head below which a fleshy face radiated a permanent pink glow. He dressed like a new car salesman: crisp khakis, a cream-colored shirt and a blue blazer. Since her husband died, Bill had taken to dropping by Maggie’s cabin, unannounced. Initially she was polite, but gradually Maggie came to resent these visits. The man had a predatory air about him and despite the thirty years age gap, he made her feel uncomfortable. Two years ago she read in the local newsletter that he had purchased a small piece of land adjacent to the north boundary of her property. His land was accessed from a different highway, and at the time she reassured herself their paths need never cross. Unfortunately, Bill used this property as an excuse to visit Maggie more frequently.
She thought back to the last time Bill paid her a visit, a month ago. That morning, coming back from her walk, she heard a crunch of tires on the driveway and watched as a shiny black SUV with tinted windows swept into view. On seeing Maggie, the driver slammed on the brakes, and came to a stop by the barn, leaving two deep skid marks in the gravel. The door of the car swung open and Bill stepped down. His gaze travelled first to the cabin, then the prairie, and finally to Maggie. He walked slowly to where she was standing in front of the barn. Ignoring the conventions of personal space, he loomed over her, his head and body blocking out the sun.
Well Maggie. I see you made it through another winter unscathed.
He gestured towards the prairie.
Are you still throwing money away on that land of yours?
She looked up into his face to confirm the derision in his voice, and he returned her gaze with an inscrutable smile. Like all bullies, he reveled in verbal sparring, but Maggie was determined to keep her composure.
How are you Bill? Did you get another new car?
For a moment he was taken aback at the non-sequitur but recovered quickly.
You know, you could put that land into corn and finally make some money off this place. It’s the perfect time. The weeds haven’t come up yet.
Maggie could feel anger growing inside her. She despised this man with his fake southern accent. He reminded her of all the arrogant men she had encountered during her career as a scientist. It was a well-kept secret that bullies thrived in academia, and she had experienced her share of them.
She kept her voice free of emotion. They’re not weeds, Bill. It’s a prairie.
Prairie, whatever. It’s weeds to me. Corn prices are good right now, you know. Thirty acres would cover your property taxes.
Bill thrust his face down at her and demanded, How much are they in any case?
Maggie could smell his sweat. She took a step back from him and replied coldly, It’s none of your business.
He shrugged his shoulders. So, when are you going to sell this place to me?
He was smiling now—a professional smile that ended at his lips.
Maggie was speechless. She opened her mouth to say some-thing and found that her mind had gone blank.
But we’re neighbors, Maggie,
he said in a conciliatory tone, pointing in the direction of his land. His voice took on a cold hard edge. Didn’t you realize? I’m planning to buy you out. It’s just a matter of time.
An ATV engine coughed to life, jerking her back to the present. In the distance she could see Ron dabbing at the ground with his drip torch. Behind him, silhouetted against the hazy sun, was an old oak tree. On her morning walks, she had often wondered why this particular tree had been spared when so many others were cut down to build the cabin and the barn. Now, something about the tree triggered a memory: She had startled a hen turkey near there the previous week, the bird seeming to appear out of nowhere. Surprised, she watched it run into the neighboring field, its head bobbing awkwardly. But it hadn’t flown off, and when she thought about the encounter later, she decided the bird must have its nest hidden in the prairie close by.
Without thinking, Maggie dropped her flapper and ran towards the line of fire. It was beginning to take hold, inching stealthily into the dry grass. By the time she reached the spot, flames were beginning to climb the desiccated stalks of last year’s milkweed. In a panic she searched for the nest, aware the hen would have picked a well-concealed spot. The flames were more confident now, creeping towards the main body of the prairie and the oncoming fire. Maggie was oblivious, focused only on finding the nest with its precious clutch. Finally, she spotted them: nine perfect eggs nestled together under a swath of dry grass. Tearing her hat off, she knelt down and began to place the eggs, one by one, into their makeshift refuge.
Maggie, what are you doing?
Vic shouted, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet.
She recognized the voice and was surprised by its harsh tone. Vic, a young man whom she had known since he was a child growing up in the valley, had never spoken to her this way before, and for a moment she was confused. The loud crackle of burning grass made it impossible to hear what he was saying, but the look of alarm in his eyes was unambiguous. He jabbed his finger towards the wall of smoke, and when she didn’t move, pushed her ahead of him. She dropped her cap and the eggs spilled onto the ground. Instinctively, she stopped to pick them up, but the pressure of Vic’s hand on her back didn’t slacken. As he walked past the shattered eggs, he stooped to grab her hat and continued to herd her towards the edge of the prairie.
What were you thinking, Maggie? You could have gotten seriously hurt!
He stared down at her, his eyes blazing. Luckily, I saw you leave the line. I thought you were going back to your cabin, but you ran directly towards the fire. You scared the shit out of me.
His voice cracked, and he looked away.
I thought I could…
Maggie began to speak, but the inhale caught in her throat and she bent over, coughing. Vic unclipped the water bottle hanging from his belt and pushed it into her hand. Still bent over, she nodded her head up and down, unscrewed the cap and took a sip. Straightening, she ventured a deep breath.
Sorry, Vic,
she said, handing the bottle back, I wasn’t thinking clearly.
She looked back towards the prairie. A shift in the wind had cleared the wall of smoke, revealing blackened stubble where the nest had been.
I saw a hen lurking around that spot last week. I should have shooed her off, made sure she didn’t lay her eggs there. I knew we’d be burning the prairie.
Her shoulders slumped.
Aargh, Maggie. You’re such a softie.
The worried expression on his face was replaced by a reluctant smile. He held out her hat and put his arm around her shoulder. She looked at the empty hat, and with a sigh, crammed it back on her head.
Don’t worry, Maggie. It’s early in the season yet. She’ll have time for another clutch.
They heard shouts from the direction of the fire break where Maggie had been standing earlier.
Come on,
Vic said, We better get back to our places on the line.
He began to run, and she followed as quickly as she could.
Suddenly, it was all over. An eerie silence descended. Maggie looked out across the prairie, a vast blackened landscape interrupted here and there by the still-smoldering stems of young willow trees and blackberry bushes. In the distance she could see figures moving slowly around the perimeter, checking for any residual hot spots. There was still one small segment of oak savanna to be burned beside the barn, but Maggie felt no compunction to help. She needed a little time to recover, especially as everyone would be coming back to her place for refreshments. The last thing she wanted to do was host a party, but it would be expected. She caught Ron’s eye and pointed in the direction of her cabin. He nodded briefly and continued to give instructions to the interns, who were sprawled on the ground, their packs and flappers strewn around them. The young man who carried her flapper back from the fire break, jumped up and offered it to her. She shook her head.
Thanks, but I’m done for the day. I’ll see you all at the cabin.
Walking back along the fire break towards her four-wheeler, Maggie let her gaze travel past the scorched earth to an old log cabin nestled into a sandstone hillside, partially obscured by tall pine trees. Slightly downhill from the cabin stood a low-slung log barn, its sagging roof bearing witness to years of weathering. The guest house, which she called the Firhouse, was barely visible behind the barn. To the left, she could just make out the line of young willow trees growing by the edge of the pond. This view never failed to delight her, and Maggie indulged in a rare feeling of achievement. Not many immigrants managed to secure a slice of paradise, yet she had pulled it off single-handedly. As quickly as the thought came, it was replaced by the chastening reminder that everything comes with a price.
A familiar figure sidled up. Loren, one of the neighbors who shared the gravel road to her cabin, nudged her shoulder playfully.
So, you abandoned us, Maggie. I saw you running away from the line when things heated up.
He grinned at Vic, who was walking over to join them.
You saw her, Vic, didn’t you? Leaving us alone out there.
The rebuke was jovial.
Maggie swung around to face him.
How dare you, Loren Zander!
Loren scrutinized Maggie’s face for any sign of levity.
Her eyes were blazing. How dare you say I abandoned you. I was doing my best…
Her voice broke, and she turned away.
Maggie, I didn’t mean to….
He put his hand out to touch her arm, but she jerked it away. Vic looked at Loren who responded with a shrug.
Without a backwards glance, Maggie strode towards the Gator, climbed in, and drove off.
Chapter 2
Waking was a painful reminder to Maggie of her frenetic efforts during the prairie burn just twelve hours before. The anti-inflammatory tablet she took before going to bed had worn off, exposing the true state of her aging joints and muscles. Her shoulders felt stiff, her wrists hurt and there was a dull ache at the base of her spine. The clock face showed three-fifteen. These were the worst times: waking in the middle of the night, knowing that sleep would evade her for three or four hours. During these pre-dawn hours, her mind took her on journeys into the past she would rather avoid. It had been easier when her husband was alive and when she was still working at the university. In those days her life had purpose. She could focus on endless to-do lists: entertaining, holiday planning, house projects, lab experiments, journal articles. Some of her best thinking was done during those private, middle-of-the-night hours, but now she dreaded them. Try as she might, her brain always managed to tear free of her carefully-maintained narrative and lead her down memory-filled