The Soured Earth

by Sophie Weeks

  After half an hour, they came back, and Jon didn't say a word, just went straight through the front door and slammed his way into his office. “What did you find?” Margaret asked.

  Rob adjusted his hat. “Everything in the bag silos was the same. Rotted through.” He looked at the stack of alfalfa. “I never saw anything rot that fast.”

  “But the stuff in the barn is okay?”

  “Yeah. No problems feeding the horses.”

  “How much wheat did we lose?”

  “The winter store your grandma makes us lay by. She'll have to buy her flour at the store like everyone else this year.”

  Margaret, who had spent many an hour grinding wheat under her grandmother's direction, wasn't exactly disappointed by this news. “Dad sold the rest of the wheat last month, right? They must have been in those silos. Were there any complaints?”

  “None. And believe me, I would have heard.”

  “Okay.” Margaret looked unhappily over the rotted hay. “Get rid of this. We don't need it sitting here all day.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Gene said, and he and Rob got to work.

  She went back inside the house. From the office, she could hear some desperate wail of steel guitar, and she wisely decided to let Jon have a little time to himself. She went into the kitchen and began marinating the steaks for dinner. Her decision to have steak night once a week was more about limiting the family beef consumption than promoting it. So far she'd been able to introduce changes into the menus without too much protest, but she was careful to tread lightly.

  When the girls and her grandmother came in, she told them what had happened. “What? The—rotted?” Louise was horrified, and she started straight for the office.

  “Bonne-maman, please, don't,” Margaret begged, getting in her way. “He's already upset.” Of all the things she liked, seeing her father dressed down by his mother was definitely at the bottom of the list. Of course, it was still Louise's ranch, but since she'd given up actively managing it, her interference had become more unreasonable.

  “Margaret, let me past,” Louise scolded.

  Margaret didn't move. “Just don't,” she said again.

  But then the door opened behind her, and Jon laid his hand on her shoulders, putting her gently to one side. “Okay, honey. Go get dinner on the table.”

  Margaret nodded miserably, and she went back into the kitchen. She could hear Louise's voice, low and angry, from the hall. She threw the steaks into the big skillet to sizzle and smoke. “Sam, take down the smoke—” Before she could even finish her sentence, the smoke detector began beeping loudly, and there was a scramble to get a chair and pull out the battery until the steaks were done. At least it distracted her from what was going on with Jon and Louise, and Margaret focused on loading plates with steak, potatoes, and green beans. They all sat down to a silent table. Rob and Gene ate as fast as they could, and then excused themselves.

  The rest of them sat around with their funereal steaks, looking unhappy. For a miracle, Sam and Emilie cleared and started doing the dishes without even having to be told. Jon went off to check the barn, and Margaret silently followed him. For several minutes, she didn't say anything, just watched him as he made sure all the stalls were ready for the night. “How bad is it?” she asked finally.

  “Pretty bad. It's not our main cash income, but it sure as hell helps. Feeding the herd this winter's not going to be fun, but we can manage it as long as the price of beef holds.”

  “Bonne-maman seemed really upset.”

  Jon tightened his jaw. “She had some strong things to say. She doesn't like seeing us have to buy supplies.” He looked down at Margaret's white, anxious face. “Honey, it's bad, but it happens. There's always something. I swear, if I could get one good year, one year when nothing goes wrong, I could get a little ahead.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS SUNDAY NIGHT when the vet called during dinner, asking if he could swing by on his way from the Andersons'. He wouldn't say why, but Margaret made up a fresh pot of tea and put some apple pie in to warm for him. “He probably wants to look in on Pokesalad,” Jon said. “She's been on stall rest for a week.”

  But when Stephen arrived with his traveling vet's bag, he refused the pie and barely even thanked Margaret for the tea. “I need to look at your herd, Jon.”

  “What for? They're doing fine …”

  “I hope so. I've had three calls on sick cattle today.”

  “From where? I mean, your route's pretty big.”

  “The last one was at the Andersons'. Their whole herd is showing signs of sickness. Bloody diarrhea, dehydration.”

  “Whole herd?” Jon exclaimed.

  “I need to look at your cows,” was all Stephen would say.

  Margaret didn't go with them, but she waited up in the kitchen, toasting big batches of steel-cut oats for breakfast during the week. She had just put the last batch in its jar when she heard the door open. “Dad? What did he say?”

  Jon didn't answer, just slammed the door behind him and went for the refrigerator, grabbing a beer. “They're sick.”

  “What do you mean, sick? Is he going to treat them?”

  “He doesn't know how to treat them. He doesn't know what it is. But he's calling in a quarantine order to the provincial government.”

  “For the sick ones?”

  “For all of them.” Jon threw himself in a chair at the kitchen table. “Since he doesn't know what it is, son of a bitch won't give any of them a clean bill of health. He's using words like epidemic.”

  “But they have to go to market—” Margaret said blankly.

  “They can't move anywhere now without breaking the law.” Jon drank his beer, staring at the wall.

  “I don't understand,” she said wildly.

  “You don't understand?” He grew angry suddenly and stood up. “Then I want to show you something.” He strode into the office, and Margaret followed, worried about his angry mood. Jon took down a shoebox from the top of the desk. He pulled out rubber-banded bunches of bills. First he picked up a small one. “That's your Banff trip. Now it's grocery money.” Then a big one. “Your tuition money. That's the mortgage.” A third. “Emilie's rodeo money. Power and fuel. And if there's a dime left in the bank account next spring, that will go to buy seed and new stock. Now do you understand?”

  Margaret nodded, picking up the second bundle for a moment and turning it over in her hands. Her tuition money. She handed it back to Jon silently. “Easy come, easy go, right?”

  “Easy come. Yeah.” Then he started laughing as he threw the money back into the box, a little bit of his angry tension dispersed. “I need another beer.” Returning to the kitchen, he pulled two bottles out of the refrigerator and handed one to Margaret.

  Margaret took a long drink. “And we don't even know it's the worst, right? It could just be Stephen isn't experienced enough to know what it is, but once we figure it out, they can be treated.”

  “Maybe. But I can tell he's got mad-cow hysteria flashing through his head.”

  Margaret was old enough to remember the government oversight ten years ago—the new regulations, the quarantines—and there hadn't even been any reported cases in the county at that time. “Nothing's gone to market, though. Are they staggering?”

  “Nothing here,” Jon corrected her. “Other places have been passing on stock this month. Everybody's going to be eating a heap of trouble, that's for sure. We're probably looking at recall notices. It's not staggers, though, not BSE.”

  Margaret stared at him, then pulled a coin out of her pocket. “Loser gets to tell Bonne-maman?”

  Jon shook his head. “We don't … there's nothing to tell her yet. We don't need to get her worked up for nothing.” He caught Margaret's skeptical look. “Listen, as soon as I hear anything, I'll call a family meeting. Happy?”

  “Not really.” Margaret began wiping down the table. “Do Gene and Rob know?” At Jon's slight head shake, she said, “They deserve to know, Dad.
It's their jobs, after all.”

  “Yeah.” He stood up. “All right. You'd better get to bed. Try and sleep.”

  ***

  The next morning, both Margaret and Jon stayed suspiciously close to the phone. Margaret tried to mask her anxiety in baking. Biscuits, bread, coffee cake: Gene ate five of her cinnamon buns in silence at midmorning with a big cup of black coffee.

  “Where's Rob?” Margaret asked.

  “Took the day off. Not too much to do right now, anyway. I might ride the fence line after lunch.”

  “I could come with you.” When Gene looked at her quizzically, she added, “I feel like I'm waiting to hear of someone dying. I could use a break.”

  He nodded, grabbed one more cinnamon bun, and said, “I'll saddle up Whisper after lunch.”

  “Whisper's okay, right, the horses aren't getting sick?”

  Gene shook his head. “Just the cows.” He pulled on his hat. “See you later, Miss Margaret.”

  “Miss Who?” she laughed at him.

  A little flush crept up the back of his neck. “Sorry. Miss Campbell.”

  “Try Margaret. I'm not some oil princess. I'm not even a cow princess.” Margaret began washing up. “See you.”

  After that, Margaret found her attention evenly divided between when the phone would ring and wondering whether she had been stupid to make plans with Gene. If the call came in, she should be there. But she hated waiting for bad news, and she didn't have much hope right now that the news would be good.

  And so as soon as the dishes were washed, she headed out to the barn, smiling when she saw Whisper already saddled for her. “You're faster than I am,” she called to Gene, who was holding the horses.

  “I reckon two saddles is easier than a tableful of dirty dishes. Need a leg up?”

  “Thanks.” She climbed into the saddle with his strong hand gripping her calf. “Kind of funny to be checking the fencing with the cattle in this condition.”

  “Has to be done. If a sick cow gets out, it could infect others.” Gene swung into the saddle, and together they rode out towards the fence line.

  “What's Rob doing?” Margaret asked. “Looking for a new job?”

  “Dunno. He's a man to land on his feet, though.”

  “What about you?”

  Gene shrugged. “When a man's young, he works hard. I work hard; I don't have much trouble finding work to do.”

  “Dad said you worked in the oil fields.”

  He nodded. “Construction, fisheries, oil fields, and now horses.”

  “Are you from Alberta?”

  “Calgary. My dad has an auto shop down there.”

  “How come you move around so much?” Margaret asked.

  “Because I can. Rich people travel; me, I try out different jobs.”

  “How do you know when it's time to go?” Margaret's breath made ghosts in the air.

  Gene thought about that for a moment. “Usually in the morning. Before work. When I start thinking about just lighting out instead of working. That's when it's time.”

  They rode in silence then, with thin sunshine warming them. The snow still lay on the ground, but it would probably melt once before the ground froze for the winter. The fences were all secure; none of the infected cattle would be going anywhere.

  When they led the horses back into the barn, Jon was waiting there. “Margaret, get your butt in the house. We're having a family meeting.”

  “I have to—” Margaret began, but Gene took the reins, nodding for her to go. “Thanks,” she muttered, pretty sure she'd rather have been tending the horses than hearing whatever she was about to hear.

  She went into the house and pulled off her coat. Everyone was waiting in the sitting room, and Margaret sat down silently on the piano bench while her father stood in front of the fireplace. He rubbed his face, then said clearly, “I've had a call from the Food Inspection Agency. Over the next two days, their men will be examining and testing cattle in the area. Pending their conclusions, we'll be facing a destruction order for the entire herd.”

  “Mad cow.” Louise said immediately. “They've found more mad cow.”

  “No,” Jon said quickly. “It's not—it doesn't look anything like it. Fact is, we won't know what it is until the government sends in their men. I haven't seen anything like it before, and neither has Stephen. Nor has anyone else—I've been on the phone talking to the neighbors for the last hour. No one is quite sure what we're facing.”

  “But the market,” Louise said urgently.

  Jon tightened his jaw. “There won't be any market this year, Mom. You can't sell sick beef cows.”

  “And how did they get sick, Jon?”

  “I don't know. It's hit every ranch for thirty miles around, from what I can tell. Dairy cows as well. Stephen's examining other livestock too.”

  “Do we have to move?” Sam piped up. Louise silently rose and left the room. They heard her tread a moment later on the stairs, heavy and slow.

  “We're not moving,” Jon said curtly. As Margaret rose to go after her grandmother, he said, “Just give her a minute, Margaret.”

  Margaret nodded and stayed by the piano. “Sam, this happened before, when you were a baby. There were a few cases of BSE, and we had to destroy a lot of cows for testing. But they compensated everyone for the losses.”

  “Mostly,” Jon grumbled but nodded. “We got through this before. But we're going to have to be very careful with money this winter. Emilie, that means no more rodeo fees.”

  Emilie looked horrified. “But I've been practicing—”

  “I know. And I'm sorry. But there's money for the mortgage and the bills, and that's all. I'm going to have to turn off Rob and Gene. We all have to make sacrifices.”

  Emilie burst into tears and ran upstairs. “Are you going to sell the horses?” Sam asked.

  “I can't make you any promises right now, Sam,” Jon replied honestly. “But I'm going to try very hard to avoid that.” Sam gave a tiny nod and slumped down.

  “What can I do?” Margaret said.

  “I'll need your help in the office. We're going to need every record that exists on these cows: feed, vaccinations, everything. I'll be in once I talk with the men.”

  “Okay.” Margaret leaned down to give Sam a quick hug before she went to the office and started going through the filing cabinet. Before long, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by files, sorting feed bills and vet's reports.

  Jon came back nearly half an hour later. “I paid off Rob through the end of the week. Guess he already had one foot out the door.”

  “Good,” Margaret said under her breath. That was one less thing to worry about—now she wouldn't have to monitor his contact with Emilie. “What about Gene?”

  “Asked if he could work on for his board for a while. I don't know why, but it'll be a help, God knows.” Jon grabbed a big handful of papers out of a pigeonhole in the desk and began leafing through them. “I'll have to go into town and copy all these tomorrow. Goddamn government will want to look at everything but my undershorts.”

  “Good thing,” Margaret deadpanned. “I saw them in the laundry—I wasn't sure if that was a lace pattern, or if they really had that many holes.”

  “They're comfortable!”

  “At least I know what to get you for Christmas.” Margaret looked down at the invoice in her hand—it was the never paid, never sent invoice for the alfalfa that had rotted. “Dad, you don't think the rot in the silos and the cows …”

  “Those cows haven't had anything but grass since spring came,” Jon said, furrowing his forehead. Then he shook his head. “Can't be any connection except bad luck and a bad year.”

  “What if there was a parasite? In the groundwater? Something that got into the crops and the grass both?” Margaret persisted.

  Jon closed his eyes. “Don't say that.”

  “Why not? Couldn't it be?”

  “Margaret, I've still got a crop of winter wheat in the fields. The
harvest and sale of that wheat is the only money I see coming in for a good year.”

  Margaret didn't say anything after that. It was no use guessing anyway. Until the cattle were tested, there was no way to know what was wrong. “I should make dinner,” she said finally, when everything was ordered neatly and ready to be photocopied. “But I don't know that anyone will have much of an appetite.”

  “Just heat up some of that soup we had the other night,” Jon advised, standing up and stretching his lanky frame with a slight wince. “I'll go talk to Mom. No sense putting it off.”

  Margaret had a pretty good idea how that was going to go, and she was, in fact, selfishly pleased that at least she wouldn't have to witness it this time. “It's not your fault,” she said as she went into the kitchen.

  Jon didn't answer, just climbed the stairs with his shoulders squared like he was going to face a firing squad. Margaret took the leftover vegetable barley soup out of the refrigerator and put it on the stove to simmer while she began cutting bread and butter to go with it. At the last minute, she decided to add some of Bonne-maman's pickled onions to the table.

  Emilie and Sam came in just in time to hastily bang the plates on the table, and Gene came in and took off his hat. He went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “Hey,” Margaret said softly. “How come you aren't going off to be a … merchant marine or a bricklayer?” Her tone was light, but her eyes asked the question in earnest.

  “Didn't seem like time to go quite yet,” he answered. “And I guessed your dad could use some help.”

  “Yeah,” was all Margaret could think of to say as she handed him a towel, and she sat down, berating herself. Was that the best she could think of to say to someone who was going to stay on and help without wages?

  “Can we eat?” Sam whined.

  Margaret glanced at the stairs, then said, “We may as well. Dad and Bonne-maman … they might be a while.” She served out the soup and watched as Emilie made a face silently. To be fair, it had been served just two nights before and hadn't been a big hit on its first appearance. Margaret still needed to work on that recipe.