Growing Season

by Melanie Lageschulte

  “Are the sheep out?” Susan hurried to join her, shading her eyes from the early-evening sun.

  “Worse. I think Cassie’s in. Do you have your shoes on?”

  They raced across the yard, Hobo turning to meet them as they came near the fence. The frightened ewes were jumping back and forth, bleating nervously, shoving each other out of the way to get at the vegetable peelings. Cassie, her paint-splattered limbs now also covered in dirt, was curled up in the middle of the pack, holding her hands over her head and yelling, “go away, get away!”

  “Cassie!” Melinda ran down to the gate and let herself through. “Are you OK? What are you doing? Back sheep, back!”

  At the sound of Melinda’s voice, the ewes turned away from Cassie. A few of them started to amble toward her, hoping she had more treats. The vegetable bowl had been kicked away nearly to the barn.

  “You said to just toss out the peelings!” Cassie struggled to her feet, wiping at her arms and legs. “You said they’d just lap them up. Why are they attacking me?”

  Melinda sighed. “I didn’t mean for you to go in the sheep yard. You just throw the stuff over the fence. But it’s OK. They’re just overly excited.”

  “That one over there ripped the bowl right out of my hand.” Cassie pointed an accusing finger at one of the ewes, who was searching the trampled grass by the barn for any remaining peelings. “She knocked me down, then her friends closed in for the kill.”

  “That’s Annie. She’s bossy and greedy. But she won’t hurt you, nor would the others. You are OK, right?”

  Cassie nodded, then sniffed. “Do I smell smoke, or am I hallucinating from a head injury?”

  “The chicken!” Susan called over her shoulder as she ran for the house. Hobo, sensing Melinda had Cassie under control, bolted after Susan.

  Melinda sighed as she saw Susan lift the grill’s lid and a black cloud bloom above the grate. “I hope you like your chicken well done.” She glanced down at Cassie’s open sandals and cringed. “Do your feet hurt? We’ll need to make sure you didn’t step on a nail or …”

  “Oh, no,” Cassie groaned as she examined the bottom of one of her no-longer-cute shoes. “You girls were right that I should have left these at home. I think they’re OK, though. My feet, I mean. The sandals, well …”

  Melinda recognized the pungent odor of fresh sheep manure. “You should consider yourself lucky.” She laughed, then helped Cassie over to the gate. “That stuff is in high demand for garden fertilizer. We could scrape it into a baggie and you could take it home for your rose bushes.”

  “No thanks. Let’s just eat. I don’t care if it’s cooked or raw or whatever at this point.”

  Sunday morning again dawned bright and clear, and the women made quick work of giving the kitchen’s walls a second coat of paint. The soft vanilla hue provided a unifying backdrop for the random mix of fixtures and furnishings. Inspired by the facelift, Susan volunteered to scrub down Horace’s tired stove until its chrome trim was mirror-bright. Then Cassie reached into her suitcase and handed Melinda a fresh set of burgundy-and-tan check dishtowels and pot holders. Melinda took Horace’s burnt, ragged pads down from the pegs above the stove, and arranged one of the new towels on the gleaming bar of the oven door.

  “It’s perfect,” she said, blinking back a few tears as Susan and Cassie beamed. “It’s like this old house is coming alive again.”

  “All it needed was a little paint and elbow grease,” Cassie said.

  “I’m not sure if it’s the paint or the painters.” Melinda gave each of her friends a hug. “It’s probably been some time since this place was full of people and laughter. By the way, I’ll be sad to see both of you go.”

  “You come up for the weekend, anytime.” Cassie motioned Melinda and Susan into the living room. They still needed to set the furniture back in place and hang the curtains. “I think I might even like to come back here again, as long as I stay out of the sheep yard.”

  Cassie rearranged the kitchen counters while Susan and Melinda created chicken salad out of last night’s leftovers. Beaming with pride, Melinda asked Susan to go into the cellar and bring up a jar of the canned strawberries, which were poured over dishes of vanilla ice cream for dessert.

  “This is wondrous.” Susan wiped strawberry juice off her chin with one of the paper-towel napkins Melinda handed around. “Even more amazing is how many jars of it you have down there.”

  “Well, Mabel and Angie know their way around a kitchen. I learned from the masters.”

  Sometimes, when she’d had a hard day at Prosper Hardware, she went down to the basement just to admire the rows of ruby-hued jars, encouraged by the hard work and friendship they represented.

  Susan stretched her arms above her head and twisted in her chair. “I’m going to be sore tomorrow. When did we get so old, ladies? But before we go, I think there’s one more task on our to-do list.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the barn.

  Melinda grinned and got up from the table. “I’ll get the baby food.”

  “Never before has a little jar of mashed-up meat been so exciting.” Cassie reached for her sunglasses. “Do you think they’ll come to us?”

  “If this stuff is as addictive as Susan says, we might have a chance,” Melinda said, “but I can’t promise anything.”

  She had seen both cats that morning. The orange one had at least turned at the sound of her cooing, but wouldn’t double back to see what she wanted. The gray-and-white cat simply took off when it heard her enter the barn. Their kibble and fresh water would be set out in the grain room either way, and they knew it.

  Hobo barely looked up from his sunny spot on the sidewalk as the ladies passed. After two days of excitement, he was ready for a rest.

  “Maybe this isn’t the best way to go about it, all of us going in the barn together,” Susan said in a low voice, as if the cats could hear her.

  “We’ll just have to stay relaxed and not stare them down,” Melinda said. “I’ll call them and we’ll see what happens.”

  The barn appeared to be vacant, as the ewes were lounging in the south pasture. Melinda’s repeated calls of “here, kitties!” were met with silence. The cats could be anywhere, hunting in the ditch or even up by the creek, or napping in the cool shade of the windbreak. Or …

  “Let’s check the haymow, just in case,” she said in a near whisper as she beckoned Susan and Cassie over to the stairs. “Step quietly.” She took the lead and peeked over the edge of the haymow floor, then motioned for Susan to hand her the jar and plastic spoon.

  “Hey,” Melinda said softly, “want a snack?”

  The gray-and-white cat had been asleep on the stack of hay bales but now had his head up, watching. Melinda tipped the open jar toward the cat, whose nose started to twitch.

  “Are they there?” Susan whispered.

  “The gray one is,” Melinda whispered back. “I think he might come to me. He’s sniffing the air. Maybe he’ll want to see what’s in this jar.”

  Suddenly there was a thump below them in the grain room. Then two orange, furry ears poked up out of the space where the haymow floor met the west wall, not three feet from Melinda’s post on the stairs. Then, two golden eyes were watching her and the jar in her hand, the orange cat easing his way up into the haymow. The gray cat remained alert but didn’t come any closer.

  She scooped the blended chicken and held the spoon out, reaching as far as she could without stepping forward. The orange cat hesitated at first but then padded cautiously across the floorboards, tail down, and sat about a foot away from the spoon.

  Melinda waved the spoon slightly back and forth. “Come here, kitty,” she cooed. The orange cat leaned forward as he evaluated her, as well as the treat.

  “Should we go?” Cassie whispered from where she and Susan were crouched on the stairs. “Are we scaring him?”

  “Just stay there,” Melinda breathed. “I think going down the steps would startle him.”

  A few mo
re hesitant steps forward, and then the orange cat lifted his left paw. He tapped the side of the spoon and then peered under it while Melinda fought down her laughter. His inspection emboldened the gray cat, who jumped down from the stack of hay bales and inched forward, crouched so low he was almost crawling on his belly.

  Slowly, cautiously, the orange cat touched the baby food with his nose and then tried to bite down on the plastic spoon. Once he tasted the chicken, his shoulders relaxed and he began to lick the spoon clean. For a moment, Melinda thought the gray cat might join his friend.

  But then there was a rustling in the rafters, and two starlings began to squawk. The orange cat jumped back and the gray cat ran for the shelter of the hay bales. Before she could refill the spoon, the orange cat scurried away to the far side of the haymow.

  Susan and Cassie were beaming. “Who knew farm life could be so exciting?” Cassie clenched her palms together. “That had more drama than any mystery novel I’ve read lately.”

  “Just call her the cat whisperer,” Susan said, reaching up to take back the jar and spoon. “You’ll win them over yet. They know you and are starting to trust you. It’ll just take time, and a great deal of patience.”

  “I hope so,” Melinda sighed, “but they aren’t exactly the snuggly type.” She was encouraged by this small step of progress, but it also made her wistful and sad. She still missed Oreo terribly, and here were two kitties living right in Horace’s barn. She wished she could give them both a pet, sit on the back porch steps with one in her lap and one at her feet. Maybe they didn’t want anything from her but food and shelter, but she had to keep trying.

  “It won’t be easy,” Cassie declared as the three friends clomped down the wooden stairs. “But I think you’re up for this challenge. You’ve practically got a Noah’s Ark going on here, what’s a few more animals to look after?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Early mornings became Melinda’s favorite moments in the garden. The summer air still held some of the night’s coolness as the sky turned from lilac to mauve and, finally, a pale blue. Hobo was always her assistant, waiting nose-on-paws at the end of the next row, his tail thumping slightly as he eyed the water gushing out of the hose, the dirt spraying as she moved from one plant to the next. Maybe he just wanted to be at hand the moment she was ready to dish out his breakfast, but she could see there was more to it than that. Hobo always watched her with a light in his brown eyes and what could only be a smile on his face.

  Melinda could think out here in the garden, really think. She could survey the growing fields, feel the fresh breeze and hear the chirps and chortles of the birds as they began their day. She often found herself humming as she checked the progress of the tomato plants, their still-green fruits hanging thick and heavy inside their cages. According to Mabel and Jerry, the first tomatoes should be ripe in a few weeks. The peppers, green beans, and sweet corn would soon follow. It wouldn’t be long before she could reap the rewards of her weeks of hard work.

  Cassie and Susan’s visit had brought her a reassurance she hadn’t realized she was seeking. Something about having both sides of her life come together for even a few days gave her a sense of peace, of balance. Seeing the farm and the animals through her friends’ eyes reminded Melinda of how much she had already accomplished this summer.

  The past few months had been hard, full of change and uncertainty, and the challenge of letting go of the old and trying to embrace the new. There had been loneliness, too, but she could see now that most of that lifted once she left Minneapolis. She didn’t miss those long, dreary days when she wandered around her apartment in a fog, trying to find her way back into a life that was already gone. Every time she met up with friends, or went to the grocery store, or walked over to the park by the lake, she had hoped to somehow magically be herself again. But it never felt the same.

  Prosper didn’t quite fit, either, but it was a welcome change, a chance to catch her breath, figure out what she wanted to do next. Her life here had purpose, and there were skills to learn and people to meet. Her new friends seemed to find something in her that they admired. Still smarting from the loss of her career and torn away from the anchors of her day-to-day life, she just wasn’t sure what that was.

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter what they see in me, or that I can’t yet see it in myself,” she said to Hobo one morning in late July as she watered the pepper plants. “It’s enough to know that they care, isn’t it?” She slid the garden hose over to a tomato cage and set it the dirt long enough to reach over and scratch Hobo’s ears.

  “I just wish your kitty friends were as social as you are. You tell them I want to be friends, OK?” He let out a happy whimper and rolled over for a tummy rub.

  She’d tried at least once a day to tempt the cats with baby food, and had been delighted when the gray-and-white cat had finally joined the orange one in taking a few licks off the spoon. But the moment she tried to touch one of them, both cats scattered. Even so, they just happened to appear when she was outside, keeping their distance but stationing themselves so they could observe her activities. If they were willing to give up some of their time in the haymow and the fields to at least be in her presence, she was going to call that progress.

  “I know Horace said you two don’t seem to want names,” she told the cats that morning, “but I’m going to make an executive decision.” The kitties were sprawled out in the ferns on the north side of the garage, pretending to nap while they waited for their breakfast. But Melinda could feel their eyes on her as she moved down the rows.

  “Fluffy-orange cat, I’m going to call you Sunny. And gray-and-white cat, you are now Stormy. I know you aren’t gray all over, and your gray isn’t very dark, but it’s better than naming you Partly Cloudy.” Sunny blinked at her declaration, as if he might be listening, but Stormy just stretched and rolled over.

  “If we’re going to hang out the rest of the summer, we’ve got to be on a first-name basis around here. Isn’t that right, Hobo?” Hobo gave her what could only be an agreeable look, then hurried to the other side of the garden. She was about to move the hose down to reach the last of the plants, and he didn’t want to miss anything.

  That afternoon, the pleasantly warm day morphed into the steamy, sweltering weather Iowa is known for that time of year. Phantom water puddles, always just down the road, began to appear on the blacktop under the blazing sun. While the stifling humidity was tiresome for people and animals alike, the crops and gardens loved it. Melinda could almost see the corn growing in the field across the road, and the garden seemed to expand in height and volume overnight. Horace’s neat rows of tender, spiky plants had evolved into a wild tangle of vines and stalks in the last month and now threatened to overtake the garden’s walkways. She began carrying a roll of twine and scissors in her pocket each morning, checking for trailing plant shoots and tying them to their fences and cages.

  The few puffy clouds lounging in the sky drifted lazily along, and the flags at Prosper’s post office and in front of City Hall sagged in the stagnant, humid afternoons. Main Street was quieter than usual. Bill said activity in the little town wouldn’t pick up until just before school started in August.

  The heat lost some of its punch in the evening but even at firefly time, Melinda could still work up a sweat just relaxing at the picnic table with a large bottle of water.

  “I say, today’s the day,” Auggie said Friday morning as the men gathered around the vintage sideboard at Prosper Hardware. “We’re overdue for some thunderstorms to roll through. This weather’s got to break sometime. It’s so hot, I don’t know how I can continue to drink this coffee.”

  “You know, Auggie, they do have iced versions these days,” Melinda suggested as she came inside with the watering can. Jerry was out of town, and she had been carrying the ladder out to water the flower baskets every morning. Yesterday the blooms were so droopy by late afternoon that she gave them a second drink before going home.

  “That would be t
oo fancy for me. All those syrups and stuff they put in those drinks? Takes longer to make the coffee than gulp it down.”

  “What’s your prediction, then?” Doc leaned back in his chair.

  “Hard to say,” Auggie hedged. “Days like this are ripe for severe weather to break out. We could get hail, high winds, even a tornado. Might hold off until sunset, though.”

  Doc nodded, concern showing on his sun-weathered face. “It’s been too hot and humid for too many days. The air just doesn’t feel right.” He lowered his voice.

  “I was out at the Emmersons’ farm this morning, right around sunrise, for a cow having trouble giving birth. She came through fine, but it was the other cows that gave me pause. They were pacing, anxious, mooing more than usual. The Emmersons have horses, too, and those horses were jumpy and on edge. Made me uneasy.”

  The group fell silent. George rubbed his chin. “I’ve seen that before, but not very often. People who say animals are dumb have no idea.”

  “And it wasn’t just the livestock.” Doc stared into his coffee mug. “Will Emmerson said he had this sense of foreboding, like something was wrong. He thought a storm was coming.”

  “Melinda, better make sure that weather radio under the counter has fresh batteries,” Auggie said. “I remember one time when I worked here in high school, we had a bad storm roll through. Your grandpa and grandma hurried everyone into the basement.”

  Melinda could only nod and glance to the back, where she could hear Bill’s table saw already whirring through an order. It gave her comfort that Bill, like Doc, was a member of Prosper’s volunteer emergency department. “I hope you’re wrong, Auggie. And you, too, Doc. And George.”

  “And Will Emmerson’s cows,” George said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “And the cows,” Melinda managed a laugh. “And the horses, and Will Emmerson himself. If it makes any of you feel better, Horace’s sheep didn’t seem the least bit concerned this morning.”

  Nearly every customer that day asked if Auggie had made a prediction and wanted to know exactly what it was. But not everyone believed his forecast.