1920's

I was married at 18, sold by my father to a man over 30 years my senior. Rawlings owned the farm next to us and had already worn down two previous wives. They're buried out back, in the family plot.

But no children. Rawlings desperately wanted children and had shed no tears when lowering his barren wives into their graves. My father coveted Rawling's farm for our family, so when he was approached by our neighbor, he was amenable to sell his youngest daughter for a pittance. Heck, I was only worth a prime bull and a heifer cow. Father was sure I'd outlive the old man and be happy to turn the farm over to him.

My new husband was sure that a young virgin bride was sure to give him the offspring he dreamed of. There was no romance in Rawlings. I despaired of sex -- it was rough, painful but mercifully quick. Rawlings reminded me of the bull in the pasture. The bull would walk up behind a cow at the trough, climb up, grunt a little, and move on. That was Rawlings -- a few grunts, then he'd roll over and go to sleep. I didn't exactly lie there placidly, like the cow that kept calmly munching away while the bull humped on her.

I would weep and sob, lying there under the brute that I'd married. Made no difference to him. Not only was there no romance in Rawlings, but there was no empathy or sympathy either. He cared more about the feelings of that heifer at the trough than of mine. I was bought and paid for and if I spread my legs and had his dinner on the table, he couldn't find a reason to exchange a word with me. And he would firmly silence me whenever I dared utter an unnecessary word. For the youngest child in a family of 12, the silence was more despairing than the sex. The sex was quick, the silence, unending.

I took to slipping out of bed once Rawlings began snoring after sex. Not much use in trying to sleep with that in my ear. I'd wash myself, using the cool water to ease the swelling and the pain that sex gave me. I'd read the book "Lorna Doone", which my eldest sister had given me for my eightteenth birthday. I'd already read it several times before Rawlings found it, declared it 'trash', and fed it to the fire. I felt like I'd lost my only friend.

My family had pretty much given up coming to see me. Rawlings made it known that they were unwelcome. He kept me isolated in the farmhouse, not even allowing me to go to church or into town for shopping. He would lock me in the house when he went to town, returning home with groceries and whatever other supplies he needed. Lorna had been my only outlet. And now she was gone.

After a couple of nights sitting in the parlor after Rawlings began snoring, watching the flickering flame in the lantern dip and turn, one night I finally just got up and opened the front door. The moonlight streamed into the house, and the pastureland and the woods around the farm glowed in a silvery sheen. It was magical. I walked out, the cool night air causing my skin to tingle as the meadow slipped through my fingers as I walked. My pace increased, faster and faster, until I was running across the fields. I wanted to yell; I wanted to sing. I felt free.

When I reached the woods, my world darkened, but the moonlight still streamed through. It was a wonderful world, a wonderful world beyond the farmhouse that was my prison. I wasn't locked in during the day, except when Rawlings went to town, but I was encouraged to stay inside. My husband had ways of making me aware he was unhappy if I was outside without purpose. And purpose was pretty much limited to hanging laundry, feeding the chickens, and gathering eggs, or tending the vegetable garden.

But I found nighttime was my time. I believed Rawlings knew that, barring a rainstorm, I would wander around the farm at night, even when snow was on the ground. I suspected that he'd followed me some nights, to make sure I didn't meet anyone or wander off the land. I don't know why he didn't stop me; I just think he didn't care as long as I was alone.

This went on for the first two years of my marriage. Then on my twentith birthday, my family showed up with cake and gifts, and the news that my father had died. Cake and death. Rawlings ate the cake, I wept for the death.

My siblings gave me clothing for my birthday, except my eldest sister. She presented me with a copy of 'A Roomh with A View'. Before they stopped visiting two years before, I'd told her about my losing 'Lorna'. She smiled as she slipped the book into the pile of clothing. After Rawlings had consumed his fill of cake, he let my family know that he, and I, had work to do and they should be leaving.

It would be years before I saw any of my family again. They sold the farm amid family feuds about inheritance. In the end, they divided the proceeds among us, with Rawlings pocketing my share. Then my sisters were absorbed into their husbands' families and my brothers wandered westward.

I'd hidden my birthday book behind the flour sacks that Rawlings never touched, afraid to be caught and deprived of it. Then one night as sadness at the loss of my father overcame me, I wandered down to the fence line between Rawlings farm and what had been my family farm. While walking down the property line, I saw the old cattle shed that my father had built at the top of the north pasture, the furthest point of the farm from his house.

On a whim, I scrambled over the fence and entered the shed. It seemed abandoned -- no store of hay or water. But there was a lantern, and when I shook it, it was full of kerosene. Looking around, I saw a shelf with matches on it. Taking one, I lit the lantern, and sat down on an old milking stool that was still in the shed. After a time, I blew out the lantern and went home. The next time I wandered after Rawlings got through with me, I brought my new book to the cattle shed and read the first chapter. How far Forster took me from that farm and from Rawlings. How joyous to read again, to escape from my life.

I read those twenty chapters at least twelve times before my life changed. I was on the last chapter in part one, chapter seven, knowing but still looking forward to enjoying Lucy's and Charlotte's flight to Rome when I found that the supply of matches on the shed's shelf had been replenished and the lantern had been refilled. The was also a rocking chair sitting under the shelf.

But most miraculous of all, there on the shelf next to the matches was a copy of Elinor Glyn's 'Three Weeks'. I never went back to Forster. I dreamed of being a Balkan Queen on a tiger-skin rug. I don't know how a tiger-skin rug would improve lovemaking, given how I understood the whole process with Rawlings, but Elinor made it sound so wonderful. I was tingling and moist in ways Rawlings never inspired.

As I approached the end of Lady Henrietta's romance, one night I found 'The Age of Innocence', by Edith Wharton, had joined 'A Room with A View' and 'Three Weeks' on the shelf. With it were a pad of paper, a pencil, and an envelope addressed simply to 'The Reader'. I was torn between greedily examining the new book or fearfully learning who my mysterious benefactor was. The benefactor won, and I retrieved his note from the envelope.

"My dear Reader,

I hope that you have enjoyed 'Three Weeks' and will find equal pleasure in 'The Age of Innocence'. I have found both to be stimulating and the writing in both to be transcendent. I have other books I would gladly supply but would ask that you let me know how you feel about the books. What you enjoy about them, what you think of the plots and the characters, and what you would change were you the author. It would give me great pleasure, as I have found no one with whom I can discuss these things.

Just jot down your thoughts and leave them on the shelf.

Your Librarian."

That was the inception of our correspondence. That night I left a note thanking the Librarian for the books, matches and kerosene, and gushed mindlessly about the romance of Lady Henrietta. I'm afraid that I offered no insights or any real depth of thought. I filled two pages with what I now realize was nothing but an enthusiastic recap of the novel. But it seemed to satisfy my correspondent. His reply referenced mine, making points of insight that I had missed in my reading. "His" reply? It was obvious in his response that he identified with Paul Verdayne, while I clearly identified with the Queen.

For the next year, we corresponded through our own 'Age of Innocence', and through the 'Great Gatsby'. Our correspondence evolved, moving from our literary discussions to exchanges concerning our loneliness and despair. Yes, he was lonely as well. He had purchased my father's farm from my siblings, having lost his wife and children to the Spanish Flu. The move to the farm was a fresh start, but one that he allowed to isolate him from the world. He was an outsider and the townspeople tended to shun outsiders. Unlike me who was isolated by my husband, my Librarian isolated himself. I was his only outlet, as he was mine.

One night, as I was reading in Gatsby that Tom and Daisy were calmly eating fried chicken while Myrtle lies dead, I was startled by a knock on the doorframe of the cattle shed. I jumped up, dropping Gatsby to the ground and whirled to face my intruder.

I beheld a tanned, attractive man of average height, holding a basket which, ironically, held fried chicken. I was struck how this man was the very vision of how I had pictured Jay Gatsby.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you. I thought we should meet, and I brought a snack in case you were hungry." He smiled shyly.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" I was shivering, realizing suddenly just how isolated I was.

"Well," he said. "I think primarily, I'm your Librarian. Beyond that, I am Jeff Lynch. This is my farm."

"I'm Mrs. Rawlings." As I said it, I thought it strange to be introducing myself to someone who I had corresponded with for so long.

"Mrs. Rawlings?" Jeff looked shocked. "I've met Rawlings, but never knew he was married. I've only seen him in town alone."

"My husband doesn't allow me in town. It's been years since I've left the farm, other than coming here at night while my husband sleeps." I stooped to retrieve 'Gatsby' and to hide my embarrassment.

He stood there for a moment, quietly looking at me. Then he knelt, spreading a napkin on the ground and retrieved a platter of chicken from the basket, placing it on the napkin. It was followed by a saucer of sliced cheese, and a bottle filled with iced tea with two glasses. He then sat back, spreading his hands in an invitation to me to eat.

I took a piece of chicken and nibbled at it. He followed my lead, and we silently consumed the chicken and the cheese. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. Suddenly I realized that I had overstayed and had to run back home. "I've got to go," I offered and hurried out the door.

I was sweating when I slipped into bed, but Rawlings was still snoring. I shivered, either in fear of discovery, anticipation of seeing more of Jeff, or of a feeling growing in my core, which I didn't recognize, but suspected might be love.

It took more than a month for me to reach the conclusion of the 'Great Gatsby'. Jeff was there each night when I arrived at the shed. I don't know how many nights he waited in vain, whether he had come every night or not. I had always only slipped away after Rawlings had used me for sex, so I was afraid to go on other nights. He might awaken. I felt like he slept more soundly after satisfying his cravings. How much more lightly he might be sleeping on other nights I was afraid to test.

But each night when I entered the shed, Jeff was there, or appeared shortly after I arrived. We talked, and we talked. I no longer remember or wish to bore you with the minutia that people falling in love find fascinating, but that's what we talked about. Jeff could have read the Sears Catalogue and I would have been hanging on to his every word. I still remember his eyes in the lantern light, dark and deep with love for me.

Of course, it wasn't long before we were lingering in the doorway when I had to leave, hugging before parting. In time, a kiss in parting seemed natural. A caress, a little fondling, soon gave way to passionate embraces. In no time at all, on a blanket in the lantern light, I made love for the first time in my life. As I had when Rawlings had taken my virginity, I wept and sobbed. Unlike Rawlings, Jeff Lynch was immediately concerned, withdrawing, and holding me, asking what was wrong.

How do you explain that you are weeping for the waste that was your life, how empty and repulsive this wonderful act of sex was with my husband and how beautiful it was with my lover? I just shook my head, pulling him back onto and into me. I howled as the first of several orgasms overcame me.

I lived thereafter for those nights in the shed. I had lived before for those nights, but that was about books. We never returned to the books again. Surprisingly, I never missed them.

My husband was overjoyed when I told him. He even took me to town for dinner, after taking me first to the doctor. People in town stared at me, only a few recognizing me. I think they'd forgotten that I even existed after all these years. They must have thought I'd moved away with my family.

Yes, my husband was overjoyed. He was finally going to get the child he had dreamed of. But life rarely works out like you think it will. He celebrated our happy news at the restaurant with several whiskeys, until he staggered out to the car to drive us home. Unfortunately, the route he ended up taking went through an old oak tree.

It was touch and go, but we saved the baby. After I mourned my husband, I found love. The town joined in the celebration when I married my neighbor and we joined the farms together, finally fulfilling my father's dream.

The townspeople embraced Jeff Lynch after our marriage, honoring the way he was raising another man's son as his own.