Jane married. Her new husband’s grandfather had no teeth, and said “Go live near the Armstrongs. They have an ox. You can use the ox when they are not. With the ox you will plow the dry ground and plant things that grow.” Jane’s husband agreed.

They moved to the Armstrong’s land. With time they had their own small cabin on the other side of the dirt road across from the Armstrong’s. The cabin was made of logs. Jane wondered where the logs came from--there weren’t trees in this part of the country.

Instead of trees the land was filled with small bushes which were always dry. Every living thing looked dead. Here, the dirt looked deader than the dirt in other places. Where there weren’t crispy bushes growing, the clay dirt was cracked like the skin of a dehydrated reptile.

The most prominent feature of Jane’s new neighborhood was the ever-present sunshine and heat. Nothing would grow here if not for irrigation. It rarely rained. It seemed like summer all year long. It was hot and dry inside and outside, morning and night, summer and winter. The heat was penetrating. Even the rocks sat in dry sockets, not the usual cool wet underbellies filled with worms and sow bugs.

Jim Armstrong, the man that lived on the south side of the dirt road separating the two families, was a distant cousin to Jane’s husband. He owned an ox. He farmed plants and collected rusty plow tools. He had a wife, but Jane didn't know her name. Jane and Jane's husband referred to her as Jim’s Wife. That name seemed sufficient because there weren’t any other Jims around to confuse things.

Jane crossed the dirt road to visit Jim’s wife. After a few hours Jim came charging through the front door. His neck was covered in dirt mixed with sweat. The children scattered, afraid. Jim was rarely home in the afternoon.

“New blasted horse is no good. Slowest creatur’ just when you wanna go fast. I whip an’ whip an’ he just keeps a walkin’ like it’s a holiday. The Bailey’s are out of town for some reason or other. They’re always a runnin’ around the valley, tootin’ their money. Let’s see what you have a cookin’. Nothin’ good again, huh. Le’ me taste it anyways. Nasty! That’s bad stew. Hope it weren’t the good cow that went to make that stuff. But none of them cows have been good cows for years. I got to write a letter to Blaine down at the co-op. You have any ink? That stuff’s expensive. Don’t let them varmit kids of yurs spill it again. Art projects ain’t worth a poop. Hi Jane. I see this year’s crop is turnin’ out all right for you and the husband. He’s a worker, he is. Plenty of runoff from the mountains this year. Wife, you get to the writin’ of what I say. You got the better handwritin’ anyway. Write this: ‘Mr. Blaine, I got me a hundred pounds of potatoes an’ extra alpha, some good canned peaches too. Trade me for that plow extension that just came in. You know, the big one. My ox can handle ‘er. You know, I own an ox.’ Now le’ me read whachya wrote there.”

Jim sat at the small kitchen table, set his hat on the table, and was silent for a long time, reading. Jim’s Wife reached across him to clear the bowl of unfinished stew. Her hip touched his arm. He twitched away. The twitch was habit.

They had many children. The children were still hiding. Jim, having lifted the lid on the stew pot, let out the stew’s aromas. Eyes of the hungry children began appearing. The hungriest—and smallest and youngest and least accustomed to Jim’s humor—braved a journey towards Jim’s unfinished bowl. Jim yelled at the boy, told him to wait, spanked him, said something about saying grace and having no gratitude, and the boy cried into the worn fabric covering his mother's knees.

Jim continued reading. Finally he signed the paper and shoved it into his pocket and said “I do own an ox. A good ox." Jim put his hat on his head. "I’m a goin’ to the post office. Gunna stop at the Albertson farm an’ pick up them peaches. I’ll take this here bread for my supper. Don’t want none of that stew. Any clean canteens? Did'n think so. One of these days I’ll die of somethin’ growing in these dirty dishes. I’ll be back after sundown. Quit yur crying, little one. You got what was comin’ to ya. I’m talking the good horse."

The door opened, letting in a blast of light and warm air, and letting out Jim. The door slammed. The good horse galloped away. Jane looked at the chair Jim was sitting in, now covered some of the dust that Jim brought in with him. A few minutes later the oldest daughter came in the house from her hiding place and reported that the ox was dead. Jim’s wife sighed, and then sharply told Jane to scram back to her own house and mind her own business.

Jane went back to her own house to mind her own business, crossing the dirt road, having said nothing the entire visit. She could see her husband’s fields growing in the sun. How different it looked now that it had been plowed and planted. No more dry earth. Still, the cabin was dry--and hot. She saw her husband inside toweling off her only son who was wearing a wet pair of swimming trunks.

Jane’s husband looked at her and smiled, put the child down, and kissed his wife.

“I just saw Jim bolting out of here.”

“He’s going to the post office.”

“He just went yesterday.”

“He wants to get a plow extension from the co-op.”

“I'm sure he will find an extension useful.”

“I doubt it,” said Jane.

She liked this time of year. Her husband spent more time around the house while the crops needed less maintenance. She noticed her husband had made the bed and had started cooking lunch.

“Did you two go swimming?”

“We sure did! We were reading when I noticed how we both smelled. I thought some good water would do the trick.”

“It did.” They kissed again. The boy squirmed.

“Jim compliments your farming skills.”

“How unusual.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I forgot to ask," said Jane's husband. "Did you read Uncle Dan's letter yet? How is everyone at the ranch?”

“They are just fine. Uncle has rounded up a few dozen more horses. He has three set aside for you, and an empty ranch house, and a lot of fertile land which never needs irrigation. We should go.”

Jane’s husband looked towards the Armstrong’s house, calculating his answer. He saw the family across the road, all but Jim, gathering around the shed where the ox laid.

"We should eat lunch. Our clothes are still wet."

Jane waited for the response to her suggestion. Then her husband spoke, "We'll leave after they're dry. We should pay respect to the ox. We owe the ox."

"The ox is dead."

This was a big deal. Jane was not joking. Also, she was good at minding her own business. Jane's husband frowned. "Hmmmph. Then we leave now, before Jim gets back."