The Soured Earth

by Sophie Weeks

  “Yes, ma'am.” Gene put his coat back on, and they climbed into his old truck. Margaret gave a slight sigh. She'd planned a long time ago never again to date a man who drove a truck. But that was the problem with plans.

  The parking lot at the Golden Spur was packed, and Gene didn't even try to find a spot, just parked along the road a little distance away. His arm was tight around Margaret's waist as they walked to the bar. “It can get a little rough this time of night,” he warned her.

  “I did grow up here,” Margaret reminded him. “I know what it's like.”

  But Gene shook his head. “Rougher lately. Everybody's trying to forget missed mortgage payments and the crop seed they can't buy.”

  Margaret understood what he meant as soon as they stepped inside the bar and a girl, whose face Margaret knew but dimly, stumbled in front of them and fell flat on her face. “Sorry,” the girl slurred, as Gene stooped to help her up. “Sorry.” But further in Margaret could feel the mood of the bar rising up to meet them, rebellious and angry and buzzed. They managed to find a spot at the bar finally, and Margaret ordered a whiskey sour.

  Then she realized something. “How are they staying open? The government can't be doing beer drops.”

  “Ed pays through the nose for a private drop,” Gene explained. “He sells for home consumption, too, marked way the hell up.”

  And Margaret was horrified when Ed brought their drinks and said, “Twenty-five dollars.”

  “Twenty-five dollars?” She looked down at her whiskey sour and Gene's neat whiskey.

  “The sours are the extra five,” Ed said shortly, then picked up the bills that Gene dropped on the bar.

  “That's highway robbery,” Margaret whispered.

  “Going rate right now,” Gene shrugged. “Things get rough, folks turn to liquor, and they turn to Jesus. Come Sunday morning the church'll be packed just as tight.”

  “I guess so.” As the music blared out over the crowd, Margaret felt her spirits rise to meet it, and when they finished their drinks, she made Gene come over to the dance floor with her. The jukebox was playing some country song Margaret didn't know, but she still knew how to move her boots in a two-step. Gene grinned at her, and in no time they were laughing as they moved around the floor, Gene adeptly steering her past the couples who were too liquored up to do more than clutch and sway. “Spin your partner, do-si-do, mind the drunks,” he teased.

  Margaret giggled at him, breathless and full of pleasure, and when a slow song began, it would have seemed hard to pull away. She laid her head on his shoulder then, and they began swaying in a little circle. “I do like you,” she whispered.

  “I like you too,” Gene said softly. “Don't be scared.”

  But as they drove home that night, a storm was coming on, and the prairie winds screamed louder than ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A HEAVY WINTER STORM FOLLOWED that night, and the snow seemed to bring a mantle of quiet to the house for a time, but not a peaceful quiet. It was, rather, a restless, forced confinement. Christopher pleaded the impassible roads for not coming back to take Carla to meet his father. The Italian girl become quieter and unhappier as days passed without Christopher coming back, and Margaret felt tense unhappiness every time she so much as looked at Carla. Though she spoke hopeful words about how unsafe the roads on the reserve would be until all the snow was really cleared, Margaret knew how distressed Carla was by his behavior.

  But everybody in the house seemed to have their own special brand of unhappiness. Sam was quieter and quieter as the holidays approached, creeping off to her mother and father's room to sit in their closet and look at old photo albums. Emilie was pale and miserable still. She had returned to school on Monday, and Margaret couldn't even imagine her unhappy shame. Jon spent long hours out shoveling snow, and Louise was still fasting and lighting candles and spending far too much time in her room. Only Gene seemed untouched, and Margaret drew to him like a moth to a flame in those days, letting his heat, his quiet, and his simplicity leech away her anxieties.

  After dinner was done on Friday night, Jon made some excuse about needing to go into town, and Margaret, vaguely irritated by the chatter in the kitchen, went and locked herself in the office with her sewing basket. She liked to spread out on the rug there when she was pinning, and she had a good many projects in the works. All the fabrics she'd saved over the years with the intention of doing something with them someday were shaken out and revisited and then cut and pinned decisively into new shapes.

  The old clock had struck midnight some time before when the phone rang, shattering the quiet of the house. Margaret leapt to pick it up, not wanting the household to be awakened. “Hello?” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Margaret? Is that you? This is Cal Stanford.”

  At the sheriff's name, Margaret froze. “Sheriff? Is everything all right?”

  “Ah, well … need you to come down here, Margaret.”

  “Down to the station? What's wrong?”

  Cal cleared his throat and hemmed and hawed for a moment. “Well, y'see, your father got a little disorderly tonight. Had a few too many, and … well, he's being held for assaulting an officer.”

  “What?” Margaret couldn't believe she'd heard right.

  There was something that sounded like Jon hollering in the background, and Cal shouted, “Ah, sleep it off!”

  Margaret groaned. “I'll be right there,” she promised. As soon as she hung up the phone, she was in motion. After a moment's pause, she grabbed Jon's cash box. If she had to post bail, hopefully there was enough there to cover it. Margaret's fury rose as she looked in the box, the rubber-banded rolls significantly slimmer than they had been early in the fall. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered. “Don't we have enough problems?” Then she put the bills in her pocket, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door.

  Margaret drove to the station as fast as she safely could, her mind going a mile a minute. How could Jon have been so stupid? Assaulting an officer? And how drunk must he have been to do that? Margaret tried to calculate—he'd gone out at around seven-thirty, so he'd had about five hours to get drunk enough to land himself in jail. Fantastic.

  But things weren't quite as bad as Margaret had feared. Cal was laughing when she asked about bail. “Well, the officer in question said he hadn't had such a good scrap in years, and when I asked about charges, he said he'd let the whole thing go. So I can let him go with a fine—unless you want me to hold him overnight.”

  “How much is the fine?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  Margaret sighed and took out some of the money she'd shoved in her pockets. “All right, let him go.” She began counting out the bills.

  “Up to you,” Cal shrugged, and Margaret wondered how many annoyed wives and daughters had taken him up on the offer, letting their foolish menfolk dry out behind bars. “All right, Campbell,” he shouted. “Your daughter's here.” He went over to release Jon.

  Jon was quiet now and mostly just seemed sullen. He took his personal effects, and Margaret and Cal watched silently as Jon tried for a few moments to thread the buckle end of his belt through a belt loop. Margaret patted his shoulder finally. “Come on, Dad,” she sighed. “Let's get you home.”

  “Jon can pick up his truck in the morning—I'll keep the keys here in case he gets another attack of moron.”

  “Thanks,” Margaret sighed, and she led her father out to the truck and boosted him into it.

  “Sorry, Margaret,” Jon slurred, as he leaned back in the seat of the truck.

  “I hope so! You're just lucky that they didn't press charges.”

  “I didn't know that guy was a cop,” he protested. “I just thought he was an asshole.”

  “You're lucky he wasn't,” Margaret pointed out. She was more than angry now. “And what's going to happen to us if you drive yourself into a tree some night after one too many?”

  “I'm not stupid, Margaret.”

  “Sure looks lik
e it from here!” she returned angrily.

  “Jesus, you sound just like Lorraine!”

  “And if Mom had to put up with this shit, I don't wonder why she left!”

  There was a long silence, then, because there was nothing more to be said—they had gone straight to the worst possible cruelties. But Margaret still turned off the lights and let the truck coast into the yard in neutral so that Louise wouldn't wake up. Inside the house, Jon took one look at the stairs and groaned, “I'll sleep on the sofa.”

  “No you don't.” Margaret didn't exactly want her cousins to find him like this, or anyone else for that matter. She slipped under his arm and supported him up the stairs, though he swayed so heavily that at times she was afraid he would unbalance them both. She got him into his bedroom, though, and tipped him into bed.

  She yanked off his boots rather viciously, and she was about to turn off the light when he said, “I'm sorry, honey. Didn't … didn't mean to. I love you.”

  “I know.” Margaret paused and sighed, then leaned down to kiss his cheek with exasperated affection. “Night, Dad.”

  ***

  The next morning, Jon was still groaning over his third cup of coffee and his second dose of aspirin when Margaret heard a knock at the door. Going to answer it, she found not only Christopher, but his father as well. “Hi, Mr. Moyer,” she said, smiling. “Won't you come in?”

  “I tried to call,” Christopher apologized. “But I can't get any reception out there, and a phone line went down in that last storm. Is Carla around?”

  “She's on the phone coordinating pickups for the next fuel drop,” Margaret answered. “Why don't you come into the living room, and I'll get her.” She thought they might want a little privacy for what might be a rather tense meeting.

  Carla was just hanging up the phone as Margaret went into the office. “They're here,” Margaret said breathlessly. “Christopher and his father. Christopher said the phones have been out.”

  “Oh.” Carla clasped her hands rather theatrically for a moment, but Margaret thought you had to make some allowances for a person being Italian. “I am not dressed for his father.” Carla was wearing jeans and a rather alluring draped top. She tugged slightly at the neckline, frowning.

  “It's okay,” Margaret promised. “You look beautiful. They're in the living room.”

  “Thank you,” Carla smiled. “Wish me good fortune.”

  “Good luck,” Margaret whispered, then went back into the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee, and went into the office with Jon and shut the door. “Oh, I hope it'll be all right.”

  “Joseph's not a bad guy. The grandmother's kind of an old witch, though. I imagine that won't go easy, but Joseph wouldn't come here to tell her off. He just wouldn't come.” Jon squinted a little, then closed the wooden blinds over the window. Slumping down in the chair, he said, “How much did Cal wring out of you?”

  “Two hundred.”

  Jon grunted. “Should've left me there till morning. Now we have to go back and get the truck.”

  “That'll be easier to explain to the girls than your black eye,” Margaret said acerbically. “Your face is a mess.”

  “Can you just let it go, Margaret?”

  “No. How can I trust you aren't going to blow money we need down at the Spur?”

  “Well what would you like to do, Margaret, start giving me an allowance?” Jon was getting angry now. “Isn't it enough to have Mom riding my ass without my own daughter giving me sermons?”

  “I just want to know you can still take care of us, Dad,” Margaret pleaded. “I want to know that I don't have to take care of you.”

  Jon flinched at that. Finally, he said, “You don't have to worry, honey. I got another letter from the bank, and I just needed to get out of here. It won't happen again,” he concluded dully.

  Margaret knew that was true, but it didn't ease her worries for her father. She could see his pain and frustration growing through the days of inactivity and confinement; she wasn't sure how much longer he could stand this. She wasn't sure how much longer any of them could.

  When Christopher and Joseph were leaving, Louise came downstairs. “Joseph,” she smiled, and held out her hand to him. “It's good to see you.”

  “Good to see you too, Louise. Your family keeping well?”

  “Yes, very well,” Louise responded. “How is your family?”

  “Not so good. Everyone speaks questions, and this one doesn't have any answers,” he jerked his thumb at Christopher.

  Carla stepped forward and took Christopher's arm. “He works day and night to find your answers,” she said brusquely. Christopher didn't say anything, just looked down at Carla, then up at his father, who had subsided into grumbles. There was a dawning gratitude in his face.

  “Many of the elders say he will not find the answer,” Joseph continued finally. “They say the spirits of this land have risen up again.”

  There was a long pause, and then Carla said, “Again?”

  “Many years ago,” Joseph said, “Before our grandfathers, there was a bad year. A year worse than any other. The bitterness in the land walked abroad, and the earth was soured. But a man fought the spirits back, and corn grew again. Since then there has always been the dance—it has always been one man's task to defeat the bitterness year after year. But Thomas is too old now, and his son lives in Vancouver.” He jammed his hat onto his head. “Always good to see you folks,” he added and turned for the door.

  Christopher rolled his eyes and followed his father out. “Well,” Louise said, trying to sound light, “I suppose that's one way to think about it.”

  Jon's face was absent as he considered it, but Margaret was more interested in pulling Carla aside. “What did he say? Are things going to be all right?”

  “Perhaps? He said Christopher was a grown man and could make his own decisions. Not the warmest of welcomes, but better, I think, than Christopher feared.” Carla shrugged. “If they will not like me, they will not. It changes nothing.”

  “Che sarà, sarà?” Margaret smiled at her.

  “Exactly,” Carla replied. Then she made a little face. “And perhaps they will like me better once I get that blanket order filled. Excuse me.”

  Margaret nodded. Carla had kept herself very busy since arriving. The volunteer position might have just been a way to get in to see Christopher, but she took to it like a duck to water, using every means she could to encourage donations and transportation of goods. It was a hard winter—drops of propane and other fuel were costly but necessary. The premier had promised relief money for Alberta, but everyone worried that the money would come too late for the impatient banks. The great fear was that the land would be not only confiscated but then used for its mineral rights, turning the hills and long plains into an industrial waste.

  Margaret knew that was the fear that drove Jon, day and night. They had resources, more than some of their neighbors, but how long would those resources last against the rising cost of feed and other supplies? The mortgage hung over their heads like the sword of Damocles, ready to fall if ever payments were missed.

  Upstairs in her room, Margaret checked her e-mail, then pulled up a web site on her laptop—it bore the particulars of a scholarship available to students of fashion design. A year ago, she would have applied for it without hesitation. But now she wondered whether, even if she could get such a thing, she would be able to go. Her family depended on her now in ways that Margaret couldn't simply deny. Still … if she didn't at least apply, it would be giving up on her independence in ways that Margaret wasn't yet ready to do. Margaret saved the application requirements—she'd have to assemble the perfect portfolio to submit and maybe add a few new designs. She didn't think it was likely she'd gain the scholarship; her work was beautiful, but certainly not avant-garde, and her designs would probably scarcely merit a second look. But if she didn't practice, if she didn't try her best, then she might as well sew up a big apron and tie it on permanently.

 
That evening, Carla insisted on making dinner for them, and Margaret joined her and Emilie down in the kitchen. Emilie was dicing celery under Carla's direction. “How was school?” Margaret asked as she sat down at the table.

  Emilie made a face and didn't answer at first. Finally, she said, “Better, I guess. Only two guys asked to see my tits today.”

  “What did you say to them?” Carla asked seriously as she browned an onion. Margaret had already confided in her about Em's misdeeds, mostly to enlist her help in distracting Louise, though her grandmother's intent focus on her faith had made that unnecessary. Louise wasn't asking as many questions as usual.

  “I told them to fuck off.”

  “Good,” Margaret replied cheerfully. “You keep that up.”

  “But I'm never, ever going to live this down,” Em moaned. “I'll be sixty and they'll still be bringing this up.”

  Margaret thought, briefly, about Kate Willis, who was living proof that you couldn't live down anything in a small town. It was a sealed ecosystem where the past was constantly recycled and relived. She gave a little sigh, wishing for a moment that she had been nicer to Kate, ten years ago. Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed Carla's reply.

  “All you have to do is be a new person,” Carla said. “Surprise them.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? I can't be a new person, I can't even be the person I was before that stupid site went up,” Emilie complained. “It's down now, but everybody in school saw it. They all know I'm a slut,” she said, mumbling the last word.

  “You're not a slut,” Margaret said sharply. “You're a dumbass.” At least, she hoped that was true.

  “You cannot relive the past differently, so you must change. Change is the most powerful weapon against the past.” Carla smiled at Emilie. “You say you cannot be a new person? You are young, you are a new person nearly every day.”

  “Change like how?” Emilie asked suspiciously.

  “They want to punish you, yes? To make you answer for your crimes again and again. They want to reduce your life to one action.” Carla spoke slowly, and thoughtfully. “That is how people are. They reduce, they make smaller. They do not accept the wholeness of personality. But what if you surprised them? What if you did something very different? What if instead of naked Emilie, you were Emilie who writes poems, or Emilie who plays guitar?”