by E A Lake
“I just don’t see why you going round being all polite and nice to all these people,” Sunshine stated, chasing the last of her peas around her plate. Finally giving up, she used a small slice of flatbread to squash the green balls and shoved it into her mouth.
“My mother always said you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. It’s really that simple.” I wiped any remnants of my meal from my lips with a dirty plaid handkerchief and gave my friend a tiny smile.
“It’s bullshit,” she replied. “They own us. Maybe you don’t recognize it, but I sure as hell do. My people were slaves once upon a time. And that’s what we are now—slaves!”
Setting my hands palm down on the table, I attempted to slow her latest rant. Her way of thinking was not good for us, not good at all.
“We have food, Sunshine, because of our generous neighbors,” I quietly began. “Mr. Hulton provides us with seeds so we can grow our garden and with credit at the Amish store so we can get the other things we need. Mr. Frederickson brings us milk and butter and cheese weekly. They deserve our kind words and appreciation.”
Sunshine snorted at something. “Some folks say you give that Amish fellow something special in return. Don’t that bother you?”
I shook my head. “That’s just idle gossip. I refuse to be brought down to their level. We are better than that, Sunshine.”
She inched forward, leaning her bony elbows on the table. “But you gotta admit that you’re begotten to Mr. Hulton, at least.”
Rubbing my forehead, I recalled similar conversations we’d had over the last two years. “Without his help, I don’t think we’d be alive.”
“Without Walker in bondage, you mean.”
I felt my ears begin to ring as my jaw clenched. “Two years—that’s all he required. And he gave us what we needed so we wouldn’t starve that winter. I didn’t see anyone else stepping forward to help us, did you?”
Sunshine leaned back in her chair and stared at me through little slits of eyes. “Another thirteen months, and we’ll see how good that bastard’s words really are.”
“There’s a written contract, Sunshine. Mr. Hulton can’t go back on his word. It wouldn’t be good for his reputation.”
“What reputation?” Sunshine muttered as I rose and grabbed our empty plates and drinking glasses.
“Let’s be done with this,” I called from the kitchen. “We need to get to bed so we can get at planting right away in the morning.” I wanted the day, and the conversation, over. I needed sleep. We both needed sleep.
Lying in bed, I felt Sunshine braiding my hair from behind. Without any light to guide her work Sunshine was more playing than braiding, I figured.
“I don’t mean to upset you, Abby,” she whispered, not really knowing if I was awake or not. “I just want to help take care of you like you take care of me. That’s all.”
It wasn’t our daily ritual, but it happened on a weekly basis. The two of us exchanged harsh words and then spent our quiet hours making up to one another.
I knew Sunshine was on my side—always. But she didn’t understand what I missed, what I yearned for. One of my children was an indentured servant, hardly a half mile away. While he had gone willingly, and with a smile, I blamed myself.
Our crops had failed the previous year. Our family of four, plus Sunshine Jones, was barely existing. Our only hope was a decent growing season and a bountiful harvest. All of those hopes faded when we discovered our seeds had gone bad from improper storage.
Brady blamed me. Sunshine blamed Brady. I mostly cried and sank into a dark place. We had no choice but to sell my son’s labor to Rickard Hulton, a nearby prosperous farmer and entrepreneur. He gave us what we needed, and all I had to do was sign a single piece of paper.
Later that fall, Brady left for trades he had lined up in Rigby, some eight miles south and west of us. People, he claimed, were going to barter some of our harvest for meat and some decent clothing.
He took our daughter, Sasha, along. It was to be her first trip out of sight of our meager homestead. I remember feeling happy for her as they strolled hand in hand down the highway. My girl would have stories to tell when she returned.
If she ever returned.
More than half a year later, I still began each morning with the same ritual. Rising with first light, I went to the southwest window and looked for them on the road. One day they would come, and oh would they have a story to tell.
But that day hadn’t come, not yet at least.
Until then, I had to remain positive. I had to hold out with all my hope and prayers that my husband and—more importantly—my daughter would return.
They had to come back to me… both of them.
Chapter 7
I stared at the drizzle in the early morning light. I first noticed it on the road. Had it been fall or early spring, I would have believed that the pavement was covered in a sheer layer of ice. But I noticed the drips falling from the roofline, the moisture that covered the new foliage with a soggy sheen.
“Well, this is just a great way to start the day.” Sunshine’s voice and nearness made me leap. I hadn’t heard her rise. “We ain’t gonna plant in this crap, are we?”
Turning slowly for the kitchen, I patted her slumped shoulder as I passed.
“Ah, hell no,” she moaned. “I just got over that last cold. I don’t need another one right away. I’m gonna die.”
“We’ll wear several extra layers,” I called from the kitchen. “You can even wear the rain gear to start. I’ll trade you for it later.”
I didn’t hear a reply. Instead, the sounds of a dresser drawer slamming shut filled the otherwise quiet house. She knew we had to plant today, rain or shine. Happy or not.
We were instantly covered in mud. First our footwear, next our hands, then other parts of us as we began to try to wipe away the moisture. Within a half hour, we were miserable.
“I’m gonna go and see if I can’t find a better master,” Sunshine complained, dropping seeds in a rain-sloshed furrow. “Someone that maybe knows how to treat people better. Not make them work out in the rain and shit like this.”
I was busy carefully covering the seeds with three inches of rich black soil. Wet, muddy rich black soil. When I looked ahead, I could see we were about a quarter of the way down our first row. The first of 20. Already, my back ached from the stooping.
“It really isn’t raining anymore,” I finally replied, trying to point out the good of the day.
“It ain’t raining no more,” Sunshine mocked in return. “Well, that west sky don’t show no signs of brightening up any. So something tells me we’re gonna get wetter before we get drier.”
I urged my friend along with a smile. We could do this even if it meant drowning in the mud.
Claps of thunder a short time later hurried us along. Sunshine stopped planting and looked west as I caught up to her.
“I can’t see that old windmill out there anymore,” she said, wiping drips of water from her face with the back of a muddy hand. “Heavy rain’s coming, Abby. We’d better get these seeds inside before they get all wet. That can’t be good for them.”
Inspecting our progress, I felt my shoulders sag. We were just finishing our second row. We weren’t even ten percent done. I fought back tears and anger.
“Let’s get started on the third row, at least,” I chided, pushing the last of the soil over the new seeds already in the earth.
Another crack of thunder, and I realized Sunshine wasn’t moving. Around me, in the muddy soil, large drops of water began to splash. I felt myself cringe, knowing what was coming next.
The rain intensified, and I felt Sunshine pulling on my jacket. “Let’s go, Abby. No need in getting any wetter than we already are.”
That simply wasn’t possible. When I stood, I noticed how my soggy clothes clung to my lack of body. It was as if I were a scarecrow, made of sticks and dressed in the most worn-out, faded clothes someone could find, left in the rain
to rot.
Giving up on our task, I followed her toward the house. Planting would have to wait for another day, two actually. Tomorrow would be the day of rest, and I had plans that didn’t include wallowing in the mud.
An unexpected visitor stood at our back door late in the day. Soaked as much as a man could be, Mr. Lasky held several small plastic bags in his outstretched hand, looking none too happy.
I invited him in, and after pounding his muddy boots on a rug by the back door, he left his rain slicker and wet brown cowboy-style hat on a chair on the porch.
Sunshine met us in the dining room as he flopped the bags onto the table.
“Green beans, carrots, onions, beets, squash, pumpkins, and some other stuff,” he reported. “Should be enough here to give you plenty for the fall and winter. You might need some different stuff to get through spring, but Mr. Hulton will take care of you.”
Giving him a smile, I patted his arm twice. “Thank you. And give our thanks to Mr. Hulton. I… we… appreciate his generosity.”
He shot me a stern look; I assumed it was for touching him. “How’d we do on the corn today? Get it all in before the rain?”
My face tightened involuntarily and he noticed. “Not quite all of it. We hope to finish up in the next few days.”
He leaned closer, his face hardened with doubt. “Define that a little better. How much did you get done?”
“Almost three full rows,” I replied, hoping Sunshine wouldn’t spoil my little lie. “We’ll get the rest done right after the day of rest.”
“There was enough there for forty rows,” he grumbled. “You two sleep in today?”
“Twenty rows!” Sunshine shouted. “And we did the best we could.”
His eyes moved slothlike from me to Sunshine. I watched as he flexed his hands.
“You got ten percent planted,” he surmised. “Not a very good day’s work. But I see neither of you have a speck of mud anywhere on you. So the drizzle must have chased you off.”
Sunshine opened her mouth to argue, but I beat her to the punch. “We will get it done, Mr. Lasky. All of that corn will be planted so it can be harvested all at once in the fall. I promise you that.”
He let out a loud sigh and turned to leave. “Don’t be thinking about working on it tomorrow,” he groused. “Those Amish see you outside, toiling on the day of rest, and they’ll come a bitching to Mr. Hulton. He prides himself in giving every man, woman, and child under his watch that one day off a week. Don’t be besmudging his good name, now.”
I listened as the angry man left and slammed the back door. Only then did I dare to peek at Sunshine.
“He is one giant asshole,” she said, crossing her arms over her midsection.
I shrugged and leaned against a chair. Jeremy Lasky might have been that, I pondered, but keeping in his good graces was far more important than letting him know either of our opinions of him.
Chapter 8
The following morning greeted us with clear skies and a slight south breeze. With any luck, a day of this kind of weather, and our plot would be dry enough to continue planting.
Sunshine lazed most of the early morning away in bed, refusing to get up the several times I urged her to. She claimed she had a sniffle and might spend the day in bed. I assumed she was just being lazy, taking advantage of the day of rest.
Stoking the woodstove, I added several smaller pieces of dried golden oak. I checked the water bucket—empty. While I didn’t want to go outside right away, I did need a sip of water and something to put in the kettle to make tea.
Outdoors was as quiet as most mornings. The occasional bird called out, a blue jay here and a cardinal there. Several squirrels chased through the front-yard grass, chattering at me as they scurried up a nearby tree.
Simply put, it was a beautiful morning. If I didn’t know any better, I’d never know the world was as awful as it truly was.
Walker appeared in my mind mid-pump. Immediately, the guilt crept in; how could a mother ever give up her son to bondage? Though it was a desperate time, I couldn’t recall what individual event pushed my desperation over the top.
Twenty-four months. That was the exact time on the contract, handwritten on a faded yellow piece of legal paper. Walker would no longer be mine, not to be with me physically at least. He belonged to a man, a man I wasn’t sure I trusted. But a man whose help I needed badly.
I had expected Mr. Hulton to wear a smirk when he turned the paper my way. Instead, he looked sullen, almost sad. The act seemed to give him no joy either. It was something that we both were forced to do; our hands were tied—together it seemed.
Back inside, I slopped several ladles of water into the dulled aluminum kettle we used to warm water. It began to sizzle the second I placed it on the hot metal stove surface. In a short time, I’d have tea, albeit weak. Perhaps then Sunshine would join me.
A while later, I strolled through the damp grass out back by the garden. Sunshine was still being lazy, pulling the worn calico comforter over her head, begging for “just one more minute” of sleep.
Since we couldn’t go over and visit Walker until after the midday meal was done, I gave my friend her reprieve and decided to see how much of a setback the rain had caused.
Studying the overturned soil, I noticed that whatever furrows we had made the previous day were gone. Enough rain had fallen to erase our work. That meant once the garden was dry enough, we’d have to re-dig our rows before we continued planting.
I allowed myself a moment of frustration, feeling my face contort into a bewildered expression.
“Just great,” I muttered. “Just stinking great. I sure hope Mr. Lasky doesn’t drop by and see this rotten mess.”
“Those are pretty strong words from a lady that likes to keep her cool.” Sunshine’s nearby voice startled me. I turned to see her staring at me.
“I thought you were sleeping,” I answered, turning back to face our garden mess. “We can’t leave for a while yet. I haven’t heard the midday-meal bell over at the Hulton ranch.”
She came and stood next to me, snaking a thin arm around my waist. “It’s gonna be okay.” Laying her head on my shoulder, she squeezed tighter. “Everything’s going to be fine, Abby. We’ll get everything planted. I promise.”
I nodded involuntarily. That seemed to be part of my instant response mechanism lately. Nod and smile; agree with everything. And then maybe, just maybe, things would turn out all right.
If only I actually believed that.
Chapter 9
We shared another meager meal of dried flatbread, three thin slices of goat cheese, and tepid water. Sunshine didn’t complain, for a change. I was beginning to think the poor girl was actually starting to feel sorry for me. Too bad I’d beaten her to it almost a year ago.
Closing the back-porch door, I caught up with Sunshine as she waited for me in the gravel near the barn. It was really a collapsed barn, something that had happened years before Brady and I arrived. But we still referred to that area as the barn.
We strolled along a path next to a field that must have been 40 acres at one time. Perhaps they grew corn or soybeans there. Maybe some type of crop to feed their animals with—something like hay or alfalfa. It didn’t matter. Now, it was wasted empty space. A place that no one cared to dig up because of all of the work required to plow it first and maintain it afterward.
Brady had told me shortly after we arrived here that he thought it would take 20 men and women to make the field productive again. We’d have to form some type of cooperative farm, he claimed. I remember chuckling when he said the number. I felt it would require at least twice that amount to even get started on it.
Around a corner at the far end and from a small rise, I could see the tops of the fences that enclosed the Hulton ranch. The fences were there to keep the wild animals out, thus saving valuable crops. But I knew they kept many indentured souls in as well. No one cared to talk about that, though.
We passed another field
with a small woods on the far end. I knew what we could find in that wood, and I knew how valuable it was. Deer walked through that area carefree, not as easily startled as they were in the open fields. If we could only harvest one every month or so.
But that was impossible. We, Sunshine and I—and even Brady, for that matter—had no weapons. Well, Brady brought a nearly worn-out .22 rifle to our union. How quickly the ammunition disappeared, though. Once the bullets were gone, the gun was useless.
Brady claimed he knew a man in Rigby that had a stash of .22 bullets. Enough, the unnamed man boasted, to supply an army. Occasionally, I wondered if that’s what was keeping Brady so long. Was he trying to locate this man and procure us a much-needed weapon and ammunition? The rusty Remington, after all, had gone missing months before his departure.
I licked my lips, thinking of how long it had been since we’d had fresh venison. It had to have been two years at least, maybe even three. Without a way of harvesting deer, you had to depend on the kindness of strangers. Most of that came in the form of canned or dried meat. How I despised dried, leathery deer meat.
I looked forward; we were almost there. Just down one more tree line, up a small incline, and onto the one-time blacktop known as County Road P—or R. We couldn’t tell from the faded signpost near the end of our property. Years of wind and sun and everything else that southwestern Minnesota had to throw at it had rendered the marker unreadable.
Most in the area called it Hulton Road. Who was I to argue?
Another hundred steps or so, and we turned for the last few hundred feet. Down a lane that was once covered with what was a beautiful canopy of tree limbs, I increased my pace, seeing Walker waiting ahead, just inside the fence.
Next to me, Sunshine hustled to keep up while gazing at the blue sky overhead.