I
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.
—John Donne
1
Early June, 1953
Ada reached the barn door first, her own hard breathing muffled by the cows’ high-pitched bellows. Inside, the panic: cows bugling alarm calls, chickens cackling, pigs squealing as they thumped against the pen walls. All of it out of sight. Thick smoke curtained the barn windows. “We’re coming, we’re coming,” Ada called, her voice its odd staccato, frantic and quick, but the cows couldn’t hear her over the roar of the fire.
When she opened the door, a bank of smoke poured out around her, and she hesitated, but not her mother, Kate. She pushed past and disappeared. Ada gasped at the suddenness of how she vanished. Then she too filled her lungs, held her breath, and dove into the doorway.
The smoke blinded her. Three steps in, Ada saw nothing; her eyes teared and she started coughing. Her heart thrashed against her ribs. Easy now. Easy. She tripped over a feed sack and caught herself on the stone wall. Don’t turn around. Keep going. She could almost see her shoes, the smoke not as thick, so she half crouched, half ran the rest of the way into the barn.
The barn. Their barn. This barn. Her great-great-grandfather had built it, with oak troughs, oak stanchions, oak posts and ceiling timbers. The huge loft above held all the first cutting of hay. Every part of this barn was tinder. Every part except the metal links that held each cow.
Earlier, the two women had brought in the milk cows and clipped each one to a chain fastened to the floor. Then they fed them and looked over their black-and-white ladies as they listened to the sounds of contented chewing. They had talked about Ada’s brother, Nathan, about how they might not see him for another year, even two. “And why is Peter late?” her mother had asked. Ada wrinkled her forehead in worry. Normally, her father would have the milking half done, but he had driven to Harrisburg to take Nathan back to the army. The train was late, and Peter hadn’t yet returned.
In the barn, flames flickered and crackled in a far corner, and Ada could just see Belle, the first cow. Sweat slicked the cow’s black hide, and her ribs swelled and heaved. The animal pulled at her collar, strained to look behind at the fire. Ada gentled the cow to her and unclipped the chain. Belle turned to gallop down the center aisle and away.
You can do this. Sweat burned Ada’s eyes; she looked across the aisle. Where’s Mama? Then came a low scrape and groan at the other end of the barn as her mother pushed open the sliding door to the barnyard. Cool air rushed in and brushed Ada’s hands. But this fresh air also fed the fire. The smoldering suddenly flared into flames that flashed on the pile of hay behind her. Above in the huge loft, the clatter and rumble grew louder. She knelt to release the next cow, leaning against it, touching its hot neck with her forehead. The desperate clamor of so many animals filled her head, her chest, her whole body.
Keep moving. You have to do this.
She hurried to the next animal. From the far side of the barn the sound of loosened chains clacked onto the floor as her mother worked down the opposite row. Ada grabbed chains, unclipped cows, moved.
Most of the older cows cooperated, but the younger ones were too panicked, too crazy with fear. They strained against the metal holds. Their bodies arched and glistened as they whole-body yanked against the restraint. They twisted and heaved—eyes bulging, ears back, mouth open to bellow again and again. Their drool soaked her hands. Ada pulled with her long body against each animal. She braced her feet, gripped chain with both hands, and leaned back. She looked each cow in the face, pleaded with it, yelling, “Come on! Come on!” as it inched close enough to be freed. At last, she held the clip open and worked it off the cow’s collar.
She moved to the next cow, and the next, the rumbling all around her.
Ada knew these animals. She had healed their cuts, chanted to stop their bleeding. Always, their dark eyes had comforted her, even made her laugh as they closed with pleasure when she scratched their chins. Now, these eyes didn’t see her. They looked into a dark place backlit with fire. Ada suddenly saw that place too, a hell she’d never before realized was so close.
She remembered the story of the three Jews: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. They were thrown into the fire and they did not burn. They had faith. They had someone in that furnace with them. A man made of fire. A man who held their hands. Where is he? Where’s my angel of fire?
She held her sleeve to her mouth, took a deep breath. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,