by Sophie Weeks
After that, the bull seemed to feel his adventure was well done with and got into the pen with little enough fuss. Jon hopped out and closed the gate, then came around to the passenger side of the truck, his deep blue eyes very merry. “Honey, I know I didn't raise you to be much of a cowgirl, but I thought you knew better than to poke a full-grown bull in the balls.”
“I told you to hold the truck steady,” Margaret grumbled, deeply embarrassed. “I was trying to poke his butt.” She met his gaze and burst out laughing.
“Well,” and Jon looked at the dent in the truck. “I guess we got off easy, and you certainly showed him who was boss.” He opened up the door and helped her out. “Maybe you should help out the next time we're castrating.”
“Yeah, Dad, that sounds amazing,” Margaret rolled her eyes. “I need to start dinner. Will the boys be all right to do the mucking?”
“I'll do it,” Jon said. “But I need to get this pen fixed first, or he'll take off again. And I have to see if Gene and I can get the reaper-binder going again. It's a two-man job. He's real good with machines, though. Guess he was roughnecking up by Utikuma before this.” Unlike Rob, who had been a fixture since Margaret's girlhood, Gene was relatively new and had only been taken on at the ranch a year before. He hardly ever said a word, but he was polite enough in his own way. “You just keep those girls in line and help Mom.”
“Okay.” Margaret was still flushed and cheerful from the rough ride and from laughing. As she passed the kitchen garden, she called, “All right, Bonne-maman?”
Louise waved as best she could, her arms full of burlap. Margaret worried about whether she should be letting her do any of this, but then again, it wasn't exactly a question of letting. Her grandmother wasn't the type to ask permission from anyone, let alone her children or grandchildren. “I need another load of manure.”
Margaret paused, rubbing her forehead. She was already getting tired, her body unused to such continued demand. The work of a ranch was far different from sitting in a classroom or even shelving books in the college library, which she'd done for the last six years on the side to help pay her way. “I'll bring it. Just give me a minute.” Louise nodded, and Margaret hurried into the kitchen.
“Did you get the bull? Did Mr. Campbell rope him?” Jess asked, hopping off her stool.
“Rope him?” Margaret burst out laughing. “Sweetie, you can't rope much from a truck, and anyway, thing about roping a bull is you don't want him that close to you, if you can help it.”
“Okay, but what happened? Where's the broom?” Sam was equally excited.
Margaret told the story and endured the laughs and jokes, then said, “I'll get a new broom next time I'm in town. Jess, would you like me to call your mom and ask if you can stay for dinner?”
“No, ma'am, thank you kindly. She doesn't like me riding my bike on the roads after dark. Guess I should set off now.” Jess nodded respectfully. “Thanks for the cocoa, ma'am, it was real good.”
“Okay. If you want to come over some night this weekend, I can drive you home after dinner. I'm just … there's a lot to do today.”
“Yes, ma'am, that'd be real nice.” Jess gathered up her books and homework and set out the door.
When Sam came back from seeing her off, Margaret said, “She's a nice kid. Is she in your class?”
“She is now. But she's only ten. They skipped her a year. Jess is really smart.”
“I guess so. Where do she and her mother live? Did Kate stay out at her dad's old place?”
“No. Jess's grandpa moved away last year. They live up by the crossroads in the mobile park. But we like to hang out here.” Sam's voice was just a little overly casual on the last sentence.
Margaret, knowing Kate, could read pretty well between the lines. Old Willis must have lost the dairy, and his daughter had chosen to stay in the only way her limited means would allow, accepting the trailer park as better than moving to the city. “Sure,” Margaret said with equal casualness. “Listen, can you help me with dinner? You won't cut your finger off?”
“Well, I haven't cut one off yet,” Sam said, somewhat offended.
Then Margaret handed her a bowl full of sweet potatoes and gave directions. “Just get those ready for me. I won't be long.” She pulled her coat back on and went out to get another barrow full of rotted manure for the garden.
It was getting colder, and when she brought it around to the garden, she said quietly, “Bonne-maman, you should go lie down. You've been working all day.”
Louise looked stubborn. “Margaret, I am perfectly well.”
“Well,” Margaret said, considering, “tell you what, go a couple of years without dying, and then we'll talk about it.” She caught her grandmother's gloved hands in hers. “Please? We can get up early tomorrow and finish up, I promise.”
Louise sighed, and Margaret knew she had won. It didn't make her happy, though. If she had won, it was because Louise knew she was right—and was tired. But all Margaret said was, “I'll finish up this section now.”
“Very well. Promise not to stay out too long? I have to find you a heavier coat …”
“I promise.” Margaret grabbed the shovel and smiled. “I'll see you at dinner.” Then she began layering the manure and straw around the bases of the young fruit trees and covering them. Her back ached, and her arms shook a little. She didn't stop, though. It was just like doing a harder workout for the first time—you had to push through. When she finally got back to the kitchen, she had to sit down for a minute before she even washed her hands. She drew in several deep breaths, and then got up for a cup of coffee. Coffee was the family vice—there was always a pot made, and even Emilie drank it black, though Sam still preferred tea. In a cold country with hard winds and hard work, strong hot coffee was a readily available comfort.
Soon, a sweet potato bake was in the oven, fragrant with maple and just a little bacon. Margaret worked fast to get the rest of dinner ready; the sun would be down soon, and the men would be coming in hungry. Margaret was so tired she had to focus fiercely to make sure everything was in order. The girls were nowhere to be seen, and she didn't have time to chase them down, so she set the table herself.
Sure enough, there was no time to spare between when the bake came out and the kitchen filled up with hungry people. Margaret just sat down in her place and drank a glass of water until everyone was served, and then she took a little food herself. Conversation was all about sickle-double-bar somethings and combines and suchlike, and it was very easy to stop paying attention and just sit. Sam tried to talk to her a couple of times but gave up when Margaret scarcely responded.
Louise's eyes were sharp occasionally on her granddaughter's face, and when the meal was done, she said, “Emilie, clean up in here.”
“It's not my turn,” Emilie said, immediately.
“It's never your turn,” Sam said, then darted off to her room before any of the adults could give up and take advantage of her comparative docility.
“I haven't done my homework,” Emilie appealed. “Miss Hamilton gives us so much work, I have twenty math problems.”
“You should have done it after school,” Jon grunted. “Do what your grandmother tells you.” As he stood up with a soft groan, Margaret's eyes were drawn to him for just a moment. It was strange to think of her father, who worked himself like a machine, being tired, but the burning fatigue in her muscles somehow told her that he was.
“I'll come and do feed,” Margaret said, standing up.
“No, Daisy,” Louise said imperiously, and Jon shook his head too.
“I'll do it, honey,” he said.
“It'll take twice as long,” Margaret argued, and headed for the door.
But suddenly, Gene was there blocking her, and he said, “I got it. Only fair. Saw you tryin' out for my job earlier.” He gave a bit of a grin and was out the door before she could argue. Margaret looked back at the kitchen. Louise was standing over Emilie while she did the dishes, and everything seemed
done, or as done as it was going to get for the evening. She took advantage and went upstairs before any other task could present itself.
Margaret was dirty and sore, and she grabbed a robe so she could climb into the tub and soak for a while. She let the hot water run into the frigid tub to warm it for a minute or two before she undressed and climbed in, groaning with pleasure. Every taut, tired muscle in her body seemed to melt like butter in the heat, though she knew from experience that tomorrow wouldn't be pleasant.
It wasn't just the hard work—adjusting to the pace of Sandy's Acres again wasn't easy. It was a slower, deeper rhythm that wasn't punctuated by twenty texts a day or the quick currents of social media. Margaret didn't think about it consciously, but her mind worked differently out here—more meditative and less quick.
She stayed in the bath for a long time, and when she got out and wrapped up warm in her robe, she could hear yelling downstairs—Jon's voice raised and Emilie's shrill with indignation. Margaret really, really didn't want to go down … but she knew she ought to, and she entered the kitchen to find Emilie with her arms crossed across her chest and Jon staring down at her angrily. “What now?” Margaret sighed.
Jon held up the list that Margaret had made that morning. Emilie and Sam's chores each had a column, but while one was almost entirely crossed off, the other had been barely touched. “Went around to check on them,” he said. “Now I have to go out again and do what should have been done before sundown.”
“Emilie, what the hell,” Margaret said, softly and unhappily.
“It's not my job to milk the stupid cow. I barely even get an allowance, let alone a wage.”
Jon's face was so red that it made Margaret anxious. “You girls have less work than anyone on this damn place, and it's all I can do to get you to do that. You don't want to work? I guess you don't want to eat either.”
“Dad—” Margaret tried to intervene uncomfortably.
“Don't stand up for her. She thinks I'm working her too hard? Then I guess she doesn't need a phone. Or a horse—she didn't even turn Blaze out today!”
Emilie burst into tears that were in no way a sign of surrender. “I hate you!”
Margaret rubbed her forehead. “I'm starting to hate you both,” she muttered. Then, more loudly, “Em, we can't sit over you every minute of the day to make sure you're doing what you should be. Things are hard right now, and we have to pull together. Blaze is your horse, and you need to look after him.”
“Why are you taking his side?” Emilie asked hysterically. “What's wrong with you, Margaret? You used to be okay …”
“And you used to not be a teenager. Emilie, I don't know what I have to say. You think we're all here to provide for you and that you have no responsibilities.”
“I'm in school. Mom always said that was my job,” Emilie sulked.
At that, Jon banged out of the house, presumably to take care of the chores. Margaret's heart hurt—it was nearly ten, and all anyone wanted now was to get to bed. “You have to stop doing this to him,” she said, more softly now.
“To him? I'm the one who's getting yelled at all day long.” The girl sniffed. In a smaller voice, she said, “It didn't used to be like this.”
Margaret gentled some more then and poured what was left in the coffeepot into two cups. “I know.” She sat down and patted a stool for Emilie.
“I'm supposed to compete in Hanna in two weeks,” Emilie said, sitting down. “And I don't even have time to train. And Edmonton's only a month away …”
“Edmonton,” Margaret teased gently. “You're riding with the big girls now.”
Emilie looked uncertain at that. “I know it's not fancy like your cross-country. But I'm good at it, Margaret.”
“I believe you. Em, I'm glad you're barrel racing. But it can't be an excuse for not doing your chores. Because between school, chores, and barrel racing, I'm pretty sure you know which one will be the first to go.”
“He hates me,” Emilie said miserably. “Margaret, you can't let him take away Blaze.”
Margaret hardened her heart. “You're lucky he's not doing worse. I just don't know what to say to you, Emilie. There's work, and you need to do it. This family can't function with dead weight. Give us a break, will you?”
“If I do, will you give me back my cell phone?” Emilie asked slyly.
“Maybe.” Margaret rinsed out her cup. “Might be worth trying.” Without another word, she climbed the stairs and fell into her cold bed, shuddering and trying to make the covers seal around her so she'd get warm faster. But her muscles, tense from the cold now, took a long time to relax, and in the meantime, all she could do was hug herself and shiver.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE REST OF THE WEEK WENT BY faster than Margaret could remember ever happening when she was sitting in classes in London. The men were busy with the alfalfa, and there was more than enough work to go around. Friday afternoon, though, Margaret called a mental halt. Just before the girls got home from school, she rode out to the fields and found her father. “I need some money,” she said. “Please.”
“What for?” Jon grumbled, but he was already pulling out his wallet.
“The girls need new boots for winter. And I want to take them to a movie.”
Jon opened his mouth hastily, then closed it and nodded. “Not a bad idea. You going in to Red Deer?” He shoved a couple of wrinkled notes into her hand.
“Yeah. You need me to pick anything up?”
“No, that's okay. You girls have fun.” Jon gave a tight smile, then turned back to his work.
“You could come with us,” Margaret said, but not with much hope.
“We're threshing, now, honey. I need to get this done while the weather holds.”
“I know,” Margaret answered, feeling her old, fierce hatred of the weather that held her father hostage. She turned away. “See you later.”
The afternoon was a welcome respite from the week's work, and Margaret felt a little more like herself as they shopped and crunched popcorn in the theater. Even Emilie managed to be a good deal less disagreeable than usual, particularly since Margaret bought her a new winter hat as well. Margaret had always felt bad for her cousins. She had gotten the clothes first, new and picked to her tastes. Then Em wore them, and then finally Sam, who between her sister and her cousin almost never got anything new.
On the way home, Sam asked, “Can Jess come to the harvest dancing with us tomorrow?”
“If her mom's okay with it. Make sure she knows I'll drive Jess home afterward”
“She won't mind,” Sam said. “She likes when Jess spends the weekend here.”
“Okay,” Margaret said neutrally. “Well, make sure you two ask anyway.”
They got in late to dinner, but Louise had kept it warm in the oven, and Margaret was cheerful over the meal that night. She went into the office to find Jon, pausing when she heard the music coming out of it. His music tended to reflect his moods, and it was often good to check before disturbing him. Tonight, though, it was Stompin' Tom Connors, indicating that he was in a relatively light-hearted mood. “Hey, Dad. What time's the dancing tomorrow? I want to make sure everyone eats first.”
“Seven.” He pointed at the bookcase. “Letter there for you.”
Margaret looked at the envelope. “It's from Gran. How did she know I'm here?”
“I e-mailed your Uncle Fraser.” Jon had never lost contact with his wife's family, keeping in touch both for Margaret's sake and for the fact that he had genuinely liked his in-laws.
Opening the letter, Margaret read in silence for a time. Then she said, “They asked me for Christmas.” She looked very uncomfortable. “I guess Mom's going to be there.”
“Oh.” Jon's voice was perfectly flat. He rubbed his face. “Well, I guess you'd have a good time there. It's a nice little place.”
“They always ask about you. Every time I go, they talk about that spring you came and helped out after the big storm.”
He r
elaxed just a little and chuckled. “Yeah. I bet you don't even remember that.”
“Yes, I do! I remember you grew a beard.”
He laughed out loud. “There's still a picture somewhere.” He dug in one of the old pigeonholes for a cigar box, which he pulled out. “Let me see …”
Margaret leaned over him, laughing at some of the photographs depicting some very poor personal fashion choices of the past. Finally he found a picture of himself, sporting a beard and a cap and swinging a tiny Margaret around in a circle. “Look at you,” she giggled. “A real bluenose.”
“That's what your grandfather said. He used to pretend he couldn't tell me and Fraser apart.” Jon looked up, then cupped Margaret's cheek in a moment of affection. “That was a good time. You learned to swim there.”
Margaret felt a hard pang then. She could only distantly remember that time before her mother had left and felt it as a kind of idyll that could never be recreated or matched. She looked down at the photo, then another that Jon had taken out. It showed Penny, maybe seventeen, on top of her big brother, smashing snow in his face while he feebly beat her with a snowy mitten. In the background was Carl, laughing heartily at his children. She touched that with her finger, then looked at the one Jon had now of her and Emilie and Sam from when she was maybe fifteen, snuggled on the old sleigh that was still stored in the barn. “I'll go next year,” she said, touching Jon on the shoulder. “I want to stay here for the holidays.”
Jon was still for a moment. “Are you sure? I know you might want a break, Margaret.”
“I will. Hell, I do. Maybe I'll go to Banff in January. We could all go.”
“Banff? That's expensive …”
“Not that expensive. We could watch some hockey, maybe go snowshoeing.”
“Ice fishing,” Jon said, then hastily added, “not that I'm promising anything.”
“We wouldn't even need new equipment, as long as Bonne-maman doesn't mind confining herself to looking swanky in après-ski.”