His grandfather and his father had always kept oxen. Working animals, they hauled stone from the brook to be used on the driveway and in concrete foundations. In the fall, they went to fair, competing in ox pulling contests. Large blocks of concrete were tractor-loaded onto a huge sled. The team of hitched oxen then pulled for all their might to move the sled from one stake to another. These were huge animals, matched for their size and coloring. A pair of black and white Holsteins might weigh-in at three ton. They were capable of pulling two and a half to three times their weight depending on circumstances.
Sometimes oxen refused to budge, apparently judging the weight too great. Some men used whips of flexible wood and rawhide as well as shouting to encourage more from their animals. Samuel’s grandfather did not believe in either. He carried a whip in the crook of his arm. He used it lightly in training only to let the team know what his words meant. He might flick the near-ox’s left front leg as he called, “Gee,” meaning go to the right or the off-ox’s right ear as he called, “Come here, hah,” meaning go left or barely touch both on the rump, calling, “Come up,” when he wanted them to go forward. No one ever saw him move his whip during a contest. Unless you were standing very close, you couldn’t hear him speak to his animals either. He whispered commands. He was famous throughout Vermont for doing that.
Samuel’s father, Hugh, was not quite as patient as his father but he still won a fair share of contests. The blue ribbons pinned on one wall just inside the big barn doors attested to their decades of prowess with oxen. If either ever came in second or third, those red and white ribbons never made it to the wall.
The fair box held pillows, blankets, clean shirts, and overalls for the grand parade and the contest. If the oxen were going to be at the fairground overnight, one or more of the men slept with them in the ox barn. These were valuable animals and it did not pay to take a chance of some stranger, drunk, stupid, or evil messing with them or the pulling yokes.
Samuel had been to his share of fairs as a youngster. He liked all animals but didn’t share his progenitors’ skill with or love for oxen. After his grandfather died, his father’s fondness for the great beasts seemed to wane. He sold his last pair, a perfectly matched set of red Devons with long, curved horns, five years later. Another five years and he lost interest in farming, selling off all his cows, content to lease out the hayfields, only raising vegetables for the family table.
When Sara was born, Samuel’s father gave them the farm. He and Samuel’s mother, Edna, moved to a new house they had built on the other side of town. It was on a piece of pasture, part way up the hillside that had been acquired in some sort of cow-for-land swap by Henry. No one alive now remembered the details, if they ever knew them. Unlike Samuel, Henry had been a man of few words. In any event, the house was smaller, new, and would require little effort to maintain. It suited the older couple’s need. When Edna died, the house turned cold. Hugh thought that perhaps he had not situated it properly on the land. Jane knew it was the loss of fifty years of companionship and love.
At some forgotten point, Samuel acquired the fair box. It sat in the barn for years before Jane discovered it. She had the paint removed and brought it to the house. For her, it was a nice piece of furniture and a reminder of simpler times. For him, of itself it held no fond recollections. Life on a farm was all about work, one reason why he went into politics. But touching the box often sparked fleet memories of jovial, non-work related moments with his grandfather and father; each one rare, precious, and fading.
The envelope was still there. He felt its stiffness and weight. There was something inside. Confident that he didn’t need to open it to make certain it was the check and his worries needless, he closed the briefcase.
Then he tiptoed to the bathroom to relieve himself. The hallway was cold on his feet. He wished he had worn his slippers but he was in a hurry now.
Relaxed again, he rolled on his side, snuggling his back to Jane. The sheets where he had lain were cold and soaked with sweat. The fear began to rise again. He willed it into submission but sleep refused to return.
“Sam, Sam!”
Jane’s voice and the buzzing of the alarm clock penetrated his fog but not quickly enough for her. She reached across him to turn off the alarm. She had to slide his briefcase out of the way to reach the clock.
Samuel opened his eyes. Sometime between dawn and now he must have drifted off. Shafts of subdued light fell from the venetian blinds through the thin dark curtains.
Jane, sitting up, shoved his shoulder. “Church.”
He looked at the clock. “8:30.” He looked to Jane for sympathy in her modest cotton-print nightgown. There was none there. His head flopped back on the pillow.
She slid out of bed. “How will it look at the supper, you don’t show up for church this morning?” Her slippers were neatly placed on the throw rug facing away from the brass bed. It had belonged to her grandmother. The bedrails were steel, painted a dark antique green; the whole bed had been at one time. Jane had the foot posts and low spindle headboard stripped and clear-coated. In the early years, the brass shined like greenish-yellow glow sticks. They had lost much of their luster over the years.
“And why is your briefcase not in your office?” she asked.
“Same reason my pants are on the floor,” he mumbled.
She snatched her soft terrycloth bathrobe from her dresser; there was no chair, the rooms were small. Her dresser resembled Samuel’s in that it was pine but it was fancier. Each of the four drawers had a lock. The key or keys had long been lost. The front sides were decorated with scroll work, likely turned on a lathe, then sawed in half, and tacked on. It, too, had been painted--black. It looked much warmer in its natural state.
Warmth was good, especially now that the weather was turning. She stepped on the throw rug at the end of bed, noting the cold, black floor register as she passed. Neither she nor Samuel wanted to turn on the furnace until absolutely necessary. It was not only that they both enjoyed Vermont fresh air, they were both frugal by blood and nurture.
Samuel took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that she was right.
“What time did you get in?” she called from the bathroom.
“Sometime after four.”
“What happened?” she asked over the sound of the shower running.
He threw back the covers. He shuffled to the bathroom doorway, seeing just Jane’s bare bottom and legs stepping into the shower. “Howard had his first lesson in winter driving.”
Steam rose from the shower condensing on the mirror.
“You didn’t tell me Sara got a job.”
“When did you see her?”
“This morning, around one.”
The water stopped. Jane, wearing a shower cap and clutching the shower curtain, reached for a towel. He handed it to her. “That’s nice.” She dried off behind the curtain.
He raised the toilet seat. “Ran into Art Lampson as well.” He peed.
She emerged, the towel wrapped around her. “God, can’t you wait until I’m finished?”
“The floor’s cold,” he responded.
“Wear your slippers,” she snapped. She pulled her robe over the towel, flinging the door closed behind her.
“Maybe it’s time to turn on the heat,” he mumbled to himself. “Any heat.”
The kitchen was comfortingly warm, the atmosphere decidedly cold. Jane set a cup of coffee in front of Samuel as he eased into a chair at the table. “Do you want eggs?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Just toast and juice.”
She set a box of orange juice and a small glass in front of him. “Did you poke me in the night?”
“Not me.” He poured a half-glass of juice. “Must have been the ghost.”
She shot him an angry scowl as she dropped two slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster. “Don’t joke,” she demanded.
The whooshing sound of the upstairs toilet flushing.
> “Is there someone else in the house?” she asked.
“Howard.”
“You might have mentioned that.”
“I just did.”
“What if I had been walking around the house half naked?”
“That would be a first.”
She dropped two yellow-tinged slices of toast on a dessert plate in front of him. “Butter your own toast.”
At 6:25 pm, townsfolk, all talking amiably and joking, were still streaming in through the side door of the austere church. Samuel stood in the basement at the bottom of the stairs saying hello to everyone and shaking as many hands as were presented. He knew most of the guests by their first names and the few others by sight. Betty sat at a small table nearby collecting ten dollars from each guest and depositing the money in a small steel box; some gave more.
Precisely at 6:30, men with long white aprons emerged from the kitchen carrying stainless steel pitchers. Samuel hurried to join Jane, Howard, and Ed. The last few guests scurried to find seats.
There were only a few empty chairs scattered among the two-dozen long tables, each with ten folding chairs. Two large roasting pans filled with packed snow, a large plate stacked with plain donuts, and a smaller plate of dill pickles sat on each table.
There was only one face that Samuel didn’t recognize among the latecomers; a young, deeply tanned one. He poked Ed.
“Who’s that?” Samuel asked, pointing his head at the stranger.
“Ain’t certain,” Ed answered. “Said his name was Bruce somthin’ or other.”
“He doesn’t look like a Bruce,” Samuel mused.
“Ah huh, that’s what I thought. More like a Mike.”
“Or a Steve.”
“Hugh comin’?”
“Probably the second seating. That’s the one mother would always come to,” Samuel said.
A tall young serving man stepped to the table. He poured dabs of hot maple syrup on the pan of snow in front of them. The hot liquid formed irregular indentations the size of one or two soupspoons in the snow. Howard watched intently. He picked up a fork.
“Give it a minute,” Ed cautioned. “Needs ta freeze just a might.”
Howard waited until Ed stabbed a piece before trying it himself. Howard examined the sticky, congealed treat on the end of his fork. “It is sort of like taffy,” he asserted.
“Aye’d say more like golden brown stained glass, translucent ta the eye, pliable to the fork, and sweet on the tongue,” Ed replied. He pulled the fork slowly from his mouth, savoring every frozen morsel; then reached for a donut.
Betty slipped into the empty seat between Ed and Jane. “Why Ed,” she said flatly, “Aye had no idear you were so poetic.”
Ed beamed.
“Sara isn’t coming?” she asked Jane.
“She’ll be along,” Jane replied. “You know how long it takes some folks to get ready.” She shot a disparaging look at Samuel.
Howard imitated Ed’s ingestion. “Wow, that is sweet.”
Ed passed him the plate of donuts. “Kills the taste so’s you’re ready fur the next one.” He offered the plate of pickles to Howard.
Howard waved off the pickles. “Did they get all this snow from yesterday’s storm?” he asked.
Ed chuckled. “Nought. Takes a lot of planin’ ta have sugar-on-snow in Septemba. Stored this in the old ice house last winta.” He pulled the pan of snow close. “Ain’t quite the same as fresh snow but it’ll do.”
Howard swallowed a bite of donut. “So when is sugaring season? That is what you call it, right?”
“Ayaught. Varies somewhat dependin’ on the weather. February, maybe March. Big ta-do then. More’n fifty thousand show up fur a three-day shindig. Ya need warm days and cold nights.”
“Why is that?”
“So the sap runs during the day,” Samuel interjected, “and not at night. Once buds form the sap turns bitter.”
Howard’s face showed he didn’t fully comprehend.
“They tap the maple trees for the sap. They used to use buckets, one or two to a tree,” Samuel explained. “I can remember my father using oxen and a large gathering tank on a sled to collect and carry it back to the sugarhouse. He used slab wood for the evaporators. You have to boil the water out of the sap to get syrup, about fifty gallons to get one. These days most people use plastic pipe and propane evaporators.”
“Either way,” Howard said, “it sounds like a lot of work.”
“Wurth it,” Ed said. He stabbed another dab of frozen syrup.
“So then they just warm it up before pouring it on the snow?” Howard asked.
“Nought,” Ed answered. “There’s a real art ta makin’ it. Ya have to boil it down some but not enough to make suga. When ya think it’s bout right, ya drop a little in cold wata. If it streams like a comet, ya keep goin’. When it balls, it’s ready.”
“Think you want to try farming, Howard?” Samuel asked.
“I am not sure. How much do you get for this?”
“Depends,” Ed replies.
“How much is it going for this year?” Samuel asked Jane.
“Most folks are getting forty-two dollars a gallon,” she replied. “More by the quart or pint.”
“By the time you’re done, comes out ta bout half minimum wage,” Ed adds.
“I think I will pass,” Howard said.
“By thunder, Sam,” Ed exclaimed, “there are some smart fellas down in Washington after all.”
Samuel smirked.
Ed leaned in, whispered. “Talks kinda peculiar though.”
After half an hour, some people scraped back their chairs and began leaving. A few patted Samuel on the shoulder as they passed by. Ed stood.
“Are we all done here?” Howard asked.
“Got to make way for the next seatin’.” Ed answered. “The most folks’ll come for the seven-thurty seatin’. Latecomas at eight-thurty.”
“Stretch your legs?” Samuel asked Ed.
Howard started to rise.
“Why don’t you stay and entertain the ladies?” Samuel said.
After Samuel and Ed had walked away, Howard turned to Betty. “So are we making much off this? I mean, do people really turn out for,” he gestured at the snow, pickles, and donuts, “this?”
She studied him a moment before responding. “You don’t know much ‘bout Vermonters, do ya?” Without waiting, she added, “Ya give people what they like, they turn out. Sugar-on-snow and Samuel? You bet. Makin’ money for his campaign? It’s one hundred percent profit. The maple syrup, the donuts, pickles, donated. Their time, donated.” She lifted the pan of snow, then dropped it on table with a bang. “Folks packed this last March, knowing this night’d come. You need ta git it straight once and fur all, folks up here respect Samuel Winters.” She stood. “And they like him. Scuse me.” She walked away.
Properly rebuked, Howard tried his best to make his grin at Jane not seem fake.
Behind the church, away from the exiting crowd, Samuel pulled the envelope with the check from his inside jacket pocket. He passed it to Ed, who stared at it silently.
After a long pause, Samuel asked, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Aye’d say that’s up to you.”
“Come on, Ed. You’re my campaign manager. How do we handle this, legally?”
“Is that what ya want ta do? Put it towards the campaign?”
“Of course. What else would I do with it?”
“Dunno. Ain’t no name filled in. Somethin’ maybe.” He paused. “Everythin’ all right at home, Sam?”
“As right as ever. Why? Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nuthin’. Jane come by the office after she dropped you off. Seemed a bit agitated, that’s all.”
“That’s normal. You know she hates driving into Burlington. She just did it…”
Crack! A rifle shot pierced the evening calm. A woman screamed!
“What in ta
rnation?” Ed exclaimed.
They ran toward the sounds.
At the entrance to an ally eerily lit by the last rays of the sun poking between clouds and streetlights that cast long shadows down it, Sara leaned against a brick building. Half in shock, she ran her hand and eyes down her brown car coat. They stopped at torn threads and a reddish color around a small hole on her waist. She cautiously unbuttoned her coat and looked at her side. Nothing. She felt the coat hole from inside and out. There was something. She removed a small chip of brick. Relief. She sunk to a sitting position, dazed. For a split second, her eye caught a moving shadow on the other side of the alley slip behind the building.
People were pouring from the church basement not many steps behind Samuel and Ed. George, rifle in hand, was the first to reach her.
“My Gawd, Sara, you all right?” he exclaimed.
She looked at the rifle.
“Why’d you shoot me?” she demanded.
“Coyotes.” He pointed with the rifle down the alleyway. Three, maybe four gray shadows, it was impossible to distinguish clearly in the fading light, made swiftly across the light snow for the tall grass beyond a barbed wire fence.
Samuel and Ed ran up; more people pressing close behind.
“Sara!” Samuel’s voice was high and stressed.
“I’m okay.” She struggled to stand. Samuel grabbed her in a bear hug, half helping, half hindering her efforts. Ed pulled on her arm, hoisting her to her feet.
Samuel turned on George. “What the hell were you thinking?”
George sank to the sidewalk on his knees, his whole body shaking, leaning on the rifle.
Ed gently extracted the weapon from George’s grip. “I think it’s time.”
George nodded, unable to look up at anyone’s face.
A voice from the crowd shouted, “Where’s the sheriff?”
Another replied less loudly, “Where he usually is on Sunday nights.”
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 6