Hurricane Season

by Lauren K. Denton

  The AC clicked on and she pulled a blanket off the back of the couch. She shivered, whether from the cold or anticipation, she wasn’t sure. She thought of Betsy and Ty’s farm, basically a five-hundred-acre playground for kids, with an assortment of animals added in for good measure. The girls would have a blast—like summer camp. Betsy and Ty would probably love the entertainment.

  Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her phone and scrolled until she found Betsy’s number.

  “She won’t mind,” she whispered.

  But she put the phone down without calling and rested her head against the back of the couch. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and closed her eyes. Mornings were a better time for favors. New mercies and all that.

  four

  Ty

  Ty Franklin’s mornings began hours before everyone else’s. Every night before bed, he set his alarm for 4:30 a.m., an hour he once thought was only for late-night bar hoppers and graveyard-shift workers. When he became a dairy man, he saw that the darkest hour before the sun rose was actually one of the most beautiful in the entire twenty-four-hour masterpiece. He now considered himself a lucky man, awake to the day’s first sighs and stretches.

  With coffee in hand he pushed open the barn door. It stuck a little, as it always did. He muttered to himself, annoyed that he’d forgotten to buy another can of WD-40. It was the hinge, just the hinge, but it made sliding the door open louder than necessary. He liked to disturb the girls as little as possible before they shuffled to their places in the milking line.

  Walker was already in the barn, attaching tubes and lines. The kid tried hard, but he was just so young. He wanted to be a dairy farmer too, and his daddy, the owner of a neighboring farm, insisted that he get a job in another barn to learn the ropes. A little arrogant, Ty thought, but he didn’t have a teenage son so he couldn’t judge another man’s parenting choices. He just tried to teach the boy all he could while keeping him from overturning milk buckets and scaring the cows.

  “Morning, Mr. Franklin.”

  Ty nodded. He leaned over Walker’s shoulder. “Rework that line. See that kink there? It’ll keep the milk from flowing. The cow will kick at it and hurt herself.”

  “Yes, sir.” Walker fumbled to untwist the cap and straighten the line.

  Every morning.

  Ty took his cap off, rubbed his forehead, and jammed it back on his head. He made his way through the barn to his small office on the side. Every day he carefully wrote out the details from each milking. The dusty file cabinet in the corner held a stack of yellow legal pads, the pages covered in his tiny, neat script. He knew what Excel was and he knew punching in numbers on a spreadsheet could take the place of him hunching over legal pads every morning. But he liked the security, the familiarity of paper. He’d rather not entrust his life’s work to an invisible cloud.

  At five o’clock he and Walker swung open the gate and stood back. The girls shuffled out of one side of the barn into the other. They knew exactly where to go, so all the men had to do was stay out of the way. As number 013 passed by, she paused and swung her head toward Ty. He reached out and rubbed the top of her soft, black-spotted nose. The cows could be as affectionate as a dog—a Labrador even. Nothing quite compared to a fifteen-hundred-pound Holstein sidling up to you, cud breath and all. It made you feel a certain something inside.

  Especially if this cow, and two hundred like it, were your ticket to a glorious retirement, as they were for Ty. He wouldn’t be purchasing any thirty-foot fishing boats or houses on Ono Island, but he wouldn’t have wanted that anyway. He imagined himself kicked back on the porch in a rocker with Betsy next to him. Iced tea at their elbows, a bucket of snap beans, or maybe pecans, at their feet.

  That was all he’d ever hoped for, ever since he first laid eyes on her their junior year at Auburn. It was as if he skipped all the in-between life and his mind went straight to the end—the two of them in rockers, hands together, enjoying life. At one point, he assumed a few towheaded kids would be there frolicking in the front yard, but the way he saw it, he had 218 cows in his barn and a handful of rowdy farmhands to corral. He had just about as much mischief as he could handle.

  Once the girls were all hooked up, happily munching oats while their milk flowed, Ty walked to the barn door to dump out a bucket of water. While shaking it to get the last drips out, he saw his wife up by the henhouse. He usually kissed her good-bye when he wrenched himself out of bed, but this morning he hadn’t. He wasn’t even sure why. She’d been curled up on her side, facing away from him, the outline of her body visible through the thin sheet. Her knees were pulled up, her hands together in front of her face like she was fending off the world.

  He traced a light finger down her spine. When her defenses were down—when she was asleep or lost in a fog of thought—that’s when he could tell the shadows were still there, tangled in her hair, grasping at her elbows, yanking on her heart.

  Sometimes he wondered if maybe Betsy would’ve been better off marrying one of those fraternity boys at Auburn. She could have had anyone, and she picked Ty. He still didn’t understand it. He told her when they started dating that he’d do anything for her. He meant it then, when they’d known each other for all of five minutes, and he still meant it now. But what if the one thing he longed to give her, he couldn’t? It went against the core of who he was—this not being able to give her what she wanted.

  Instead of disturbing her that morning, he’d just let her sleep, praying she was in the middle of a good dream—something soft and warm and easy. But seeing her up by the henhouse, staring at the swing he used to play on when he was a kid, he wished he’d taken the two seconds to kiss her. To remind her that he loved her, that they’d be okay.

  She talked so breezily about how she was looking forward to the summer, making day trips to Orange Beach, maybe booking them a night somewhere nice. But her armor wasn’t strong enough to fool him. Sometimes he wondered if his was strong enough to fool her.

  five

  Betsy

  When the rush of the morning milking was over, the men came to the house and ate her breakfast and drank her coffee like it was the last oasis before a cross-desert journey.

  Betsy pulled up a kitchen chair and sat with her knees tucked under her chin, her arms around her legs. She loved to hear Ty in the midst of friends, joking and poking fun as only a group of men-boys could.

  “Mrs. Franklin, have you heard anything from Quincy’s?” Walker asked.

  “Still working on it. I talked to the owner’s wife again yesterday. She says they’re getting close to a decision.”

  Quincy’s was a market up in Dadeville that had been hemming and hawing for months over whether they wanted to stock Franklin milk. As the one responsible for all the marketing and publicity for the farm, Betsy had long been working on the deal. Quincy’s had spread from Dadeville to six different towns, all in areas without major chain grocery stores.

  “It’d be a big step, getting Franklin milk on those shelves,” Ty said.

  “If you need me to, I can make the drive up there one afternoon,” Carlos said. “See if I can’t convince them in person.”

  “And how would you do that?” Ty asked. “Nothing but your charm?”

  “Hey, I’m great with little old ladies.”

  On the counter by the coffeepot, Betsy’s cell phone dinged, alerting her to a new e-mail from Bankston Detention Facility. The director said the group of twenty boys, aged twelve to sixteen, would arrive at ten for their tour of the milking barn.

  Another e-mail had slipped in unnoticed. This one was from Valerie, the head of the children’s program at Elinore Methodist. For years, Betsy had been a regular face on the rotating schedule of nursery volunteers, but last fall she quietly took her name off the list.

  Betsy typed out a quick reply to Valerie’s request for more help. “Sorry I can’t be there this Sunday.” With any luck Valerie would take the hint and stop asking.

  When the gu
ys finished eating, they lined up at the sink to rinse off their plates and place them in the dishwasher like dutiful schoolchildren. Betsy stood to help, but Ty put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Let them do it.” Betsy smiled and sat back down. He stood next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

  “Oh, I’m meeting Anna Beth for lunch today,” she said. “Leftovers from dinner last night are in the fridge if you want them for lunch.”

  “What’s all this?” Carlos asked. “Grown man and your wife has to make your lunch?”

  “No, I’m a man who’s lucky enough that his wife thinks of him and leaves lunch for him. Not that you’d know about that.”

  Betsy shushed Ty, but Carlos laughed. “Ay, mi hombre. You just wait. Gloria will come around. Latino women don’t like their men to get soft.” He jabbed Ty’s stomach.

  Ty laughed and slapped his hand away. “I’m not soft, man. You ready to go?”

  Carlos hopped off the stool. “Ready, Boss.”

  The phone rang before the guys made it out the door. Ty backpedaled and picked up the receiver from the kitchen wall. After a moment, his face changed and he looked over at her. He held out the phone. Your sister, he mouthed.

  She took the phone. “Jenna?”

  “Hey, Bets. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Everything okay there?”

  “Yeah, everything’s great.”

  After a last glance over his shoulder, Ty followed the men toward the barn. Betsy sat back down. “Really?” she asked. Jenna’s voice was a notch too chipper, a glaring sign that something might not actually be that great.

  “Really. Things are good.”

  “Addie and Walsh?”

  “They’re into everything, driving me crazy half the time.” Jenna laughed. “But they’re fine.”

  It had been almost a year since Betsy had seen Jenna’s daughters. Addie would turn six in December and Walsh, the baby, was three. Betsy had only seen Walsh a few times in her short life, the most recent being last summer when Betsy drove to Nashville—seven hours in Ty’s truck with a busted AC—for a visit. What she’d hoped would be a bonding weekend with her sister had turned into an unexpected babysitting gig while Jenna took on extra shifts at the coffee shop.

  “I actually . . . ,” Jenna began. “I need a favor. Do you have a minute?”

  Twenty minutes later, Betsy replaced the phone in its cradle. Two weeks with Addie and Walsh. She should have checked with Ty first, but when it came down to it, Betsy could never say no to Jenna. She thought of long-ago days, lying under the bed with her little sister, eating pudding with plastic spoons and trying to keep her from crying. She’d do anything for Jenna—then and now.

  A sigh ached to escape her lips, but she bit it back. Who was she to judge Jenna’s life choices? From what she knew of Addie and Walsh, they were happy kids, and that spoke to Jenna’s abilities as a mother. Good thing, because if Betsy had to give her any wisdom about how to be a good mother—much less try to be one herself—she wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  At ten on the nose, the battered gray school bus from Bankston Detention pulled up out front, and twenty teenage boys shuffled off, hormones and pent-up energy swirling around them like almost visible steam. Whether it was a group like this, a well-behaved homeschool co-op, or a YMCA camp group, Betsy knew from experience that the educational part of the field trip had to be as exciting and hands-on as possible. If she dared to talk about farming practices and environmental threats—vital concerns in the lives of dairy farmers but boring to anyone not making a living from farming—she risked mutiny.

  Betsy had started the farm’s educational program a couple of years ago. It had been an expensive endeavor, renovating the barn to accommodate touring facilities, but thankfully, it took off quickly. During the school year they hosted field trips from schools all across Mobile and Baldwin Counties. In the summer most were from day camps and playgroups around the area. Bankston came every week.

  As soon as the teachers had gathered the group outside the barn, Betsy positioned herself front and center and held her hand up. After a few outbursts, the boys quieted down. With that raised hand she pointed out three children who she knew needed the most attention. The first, a tall kid with linebacker shoulders and a cocky smile, sauntered to the front of the group. The other kids laughed and slapped him on the back. Catcalls echoed off the barn walls.

  “What’s your name?” Betsy asked him.

  “Whatever you want it to be,” he said with a smirk.

  Gigi, one of the Bankston staff members whom Betsy had learned not to get on the wrong side of, clapped her hands once, hard. “Jerome!”

  “Sorry, sorry. Yeah, it’s Jerome, but my boys call me the Juice.”

  “Farmer Juice.” Betsy put her hands on her hips. “I like it.”

  The other kids laughed and Jerome did a little jig, spinning around in a circle and bowing, much to the delight of the group. Gigi clapped her hands again.

  “Welcome to Franklin Dairy,” Betsy said. “I have a lot to show you. Most of the cows have already finished their first milking of the day, but there’s plenty more work to do and I’m going to need your help with something special.”

  She put her hand on Jerome’s shoulder and led him into one of the pens, then motioned for the rest of the group to follow. Jerome’s friend punched him on the shoulder. “Boy, get ready! You gonna be pulling on some . . .” He cut his eyes to Betsy. A sly grin crossed his face.

  Betsy willed herself not to smile. “Teats. They’re called teats.”

  “No, sir, I’m not.” Jerome turned to Betsy. “I’m not putting my hands on those . . . things.” He peered into the barn where a pregnant Holstein was undergoing a routine checkup. “That’s just dirty. And wrong.”

  “They’re not dirty. That’s how the milk comes out. You like cold milk with your cookies?”

  Jerome and his friend nodded.

  “Cheese?”

  Nodded again.

  “Yogurt? Ice cream? Cake? None of that can be made without milk. Or if it is, it’s not very good.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But don’t tell the anti-milk crusaders I said that.”

  The kids looked confused, but it squeezed a laugh out of Gigi.

  “But no, Farmer Juice, that’s not what I need your help with. I need help with this.”

  In the side pen was a calf, only six weeks old and cute as a puppy.

  “I need you to feed her.” Betsy handed Jerome a bottle Ty had already prepared. It looked like a regular baby bottle, only bigger.

  Bankston often sent the hardest-to-crack kids to the farm because of the bottle feeding. In some mysterious way, the gentle, nurturing act did something to the kids. Sure, they walked through the viewing room and learned how dairy farming contributed to their daily life, but it was the bottle feeding they loved. Anytime Ty had a new calf on the farm, Bankston was the first group Betsy called. They always scheduled a trip and brought the roughest and toughest of their kids.

  These kids—Jerome, his friend, and the others—passed the bottle back and forth between them, wiping the calf’s chin when milk bubbled out and smoothing the hair on her back and head. It seemed the act of taking care of another small life calmed them, soothed their agitation and restlessness. By the time they piled on the bus an hour later, all the kids high-fived her, and a few gave her hugs.

  “Can we come see her again?” Jerome asked, one hand on the bus door. “Maybe when she’s a little bigger. Or if another baby cow comes along.”

  “I’m sure there will be more calves, but you know what? I hope the next time I call Bankston, they tell me Farmer Juice has moved out and is living his life, working hard at school, and doing well.”

  Jerome smiled and pulled himself up the steps of the bus. Gigi was the last to step onto the bus. “You have kids?” she asked.

  Betsy raised her eyebrows and shook her head no. They’d never talked about anything more personal than what percentage of
fat they liked in their milk—Gigi skim, Betsy 2 percent.

  “You planning on it?”

  Betsy let out a laugh, awkward and too loud. “That’s getting a little personal, don’t you think?”

  “All I’m sayin’ is, you should. Women like you are who we need raising kids in this world. Raise them up to be respectful and hardworking.” The woman nodded. “Farm kids are what you need.”

  Betsy knocked on the glass door and waved at the driver. “I do have farm kids, Gigi, a bunch of them. You bring them to me every Friday morning.”

  Gigi grunted and heaved herself up onto the bus. The engine roared to life, and the bus pulled out of the small grass parking lot, arms sticking out of windows on both sides of the bus, waving to her.

  She waved until the bus disappeared around the curve in the driveway. The sounds of children’s laughter and conversation died away as quiet fell on the farm again.

  six

  Betsy

  “Anna Beth?” Betsy checked the clock on the oven and cringed: 11:58. She was supposed to meet her friend for lunch at noon.

  “Girl, where are you?” Through the phone, Betsy heard the murmur of lunchtime conversation. “I’m halfway through my first mimosa, and before you ask, yes, I did say ‘first.’”

  “I didn’t say anything. Although it is a tad early, even for you.”

  “School is out, the little monsters are gone, and I have a three-week break before I have to woman the front office. I’m enjoying my time off. Now, where are you?”

  Betsy grabbed a damp rag from the sink. She squeezed the water out and wiped breakfast crumbs from the counter as she spoke. “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to miss lunch. My sister called this morning. She’s driving down tomorrow and dropping the kids off with us for a little while.”