Shannon O'Day had married four times, had four wives, three ex wives that is, and one present wife; as he looked into the window, standing in the wet grass, fat and short, trying to raise himself higher by standing on the toes of his shoes, and rigid with his own shaky softness, he thought of all four of them. One lived in Fargo, another in Fergus Falls, the third in Minneapolis, and the forth, the present one, in St. Paul. He had not seen three of them since the previous winter. He looked into the big foundry window, staring as if in a trance, and thought what summer would mean. And how he loved the cornfields outside of town, the yellow cornfields and getting drunk with his friends, wife. He was always very happy when he and his wife were intoxicated in those fields. They would listen to the trains go by, and walk among the stocks of corn; they'd lay down by one another drunk and would watch the stars appear. They would find their way back to the farm, a friend's farm, and sit under the oak tree, in a little rut, overlooking the barn and drink, still listening to the trains in the far-off distance, on those iron tracks racing by. They'd drink all night. Often in the summer when all the yellow corn was high, they'd drink for three days straight, and just laugh as if they were crazy. They felt it did them good; made them both burly, happy, like to like, as the old saying goes.
Shannon O'Day had a daughter by his forth wife, whom he teasingly called, Cantina O'Day, her real name was Catherine O'Day.
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