“Let’s see now, that will be three ninety-five for the bran plus twenty-five cents for delivering.”
“We’ll take it with us,” corrected Sandy.
“But I thought I saw you walking.” He strained his neck looking out the door to where Shep sat waiting by the wagon. “How you gonna git it home? Why don’t you leave it here for your folks to fetch? They can’t expect young’uns like you to haul it all that way.”
“We can manage,” Sandy insisted, ignoring his protest.
He looked at her and shrugged. “If you say so.” He continued to add up her groceries on the machine.
“Can we have a cupcake, Sandy?” asked June, running her finger over the cellophane and leaving a line through the frosting on a chocolate cupcake.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Please, just one?”
Sandy hesitated. “Go see if there are any in the half-price basket.”
June came back dejected. “No, just bread and rolls.”
“Tell you what, girls, those cupcakes have been on the shelf longer’n they should . . . just haven’t gotten around to putting them in the sale basket.”
June’s eyes lit up. “Can we have one, Sandy? Huh?”
“I guess so, but just one each.” Sandy turned back to Mr. Sam. “Can I have the key to our locker?”
“Sure can.” He reached over to a big board behind him filled with keys, lifted one off, and handed it to Sandy.
“Wait here, I’ll be back,” she said. She went over to the door that sealed the lockers from the store and planted both feet in the sawdust. She had to pull with both hands to get the heavy door open. As she stepped through the doorway, the blast of cold air made her shiver. But it was the sound of that heavy door clicking shut behind her that really raised the goose bumps down her back. Had it ever gotten stuck? she wondered.
Sandy hurried down the rows of lockers until she came to number 395. It was on the top row, and she had to drag the ladder over to it, her breath making little puffs of fog. The metal of the lock was so cold that her fingers stuck to it for a moment, but she inserted the key, turned it, and pulled the lock down. She twisted it, and the door swung open. Finally, she pulled out the basket that held their food. It was almost empty.
Sandy turned over the brown paper packages and read their labels: Stew meat, hamburger, stew meat, roast. She counted and sorted. Four of hamburger, three roasts, six stew meats, and one chicken. There were eight boxes of cherries and two packages of strawberries. She took the chicken, one package of hamburger, a roast, two boxes of cherries, and one package of strawberries. Then she set the frozen packages on top of the ladder, pushed the basket into place, and relocked the door. Her fingers were numb with the cold.
She gathered up her packages and hurried along the aisle to the big door. When she unlatched it and leaned her shoulder against it, it didn’t move for a second. Fear clutched at her. Was it stuck? She pushed harder, and the door inched open.
Sandy tumbled out into the warm air and the light of the store. She gave the key back to Mr. Sam and placed the frozen food with their other groceries.
June and Marie were sitting on a stack of grain sacks licking the cellophane wrappers from the cupcakes. Bits of crumbs clung to their cheeks, and June had chocolate frosting across the end of her nose.
“I guess we have everything.” Sandy pulled out her purse. “How much does that come to, Mr. Sam?”
The gray-haired store owner and Sandy were good friends. It had started one day last year when her mother had sent her to the store with a list. Sandy had ordered everything and then paid Mr. Samuel. She was about to leave when she realized that one of the bills he had given her was a ten instead of a one. She took it back and told him about his error.
Mr. Samuel had thanked Sandy warmly, and seeing the look on his face, she had felt good about her honesty. However, when she got home and told her mother about the money, he had overheard. He had sneered at Sandy and told her she was an idiot. Mr. Samuel was probably laughing at her stupidity right now, he said. The good feeling had disappeared, but from that time on, Sandy and Mr. Sam, as she called him, were friends.
“Well, Sandy,” he said now, “that comes to just about seven dollars and five cents.”
“Counting the cupcakes?”
“Counting the cupcakes.”
Sandy took out the ten and smoothed it out on the counter.
“Oh, Sandy, you forgot,” said Marie. “We’ll need some stamps.”
“How many?” asked Mr. Sam.
Sandy hesitated. “Fifty cents’ worth,” she said at last.
“Got yourself a pen pal?”
“No, it’s our mother,” piped June, and then slapped her hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes.
Sandy turned to the old man behind the counter. “Mother’s on a short vacation, be back next week. We just thought we’d drop her a note. Come on, you kids, we’ve got to go.” Sandy paid for the stamps and loaded Marie and June down with groceries and frozen food.
“You stupid idiot!” croaked Marie as soon as they were outside. “What’d you go and say a dumb thing like that for?”
“It just popped out. I’m sorry, Sandy.” June’s lower lip trembled.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t start blubbering,” snapped Marie. “He’s watching us.”
“Leave her alone.” Sandy placed her arm around her younger sister’s shoulders. “That’s okay, June. You’ll just have to be more careful. Come on now.”
The three of them started back down the road, pulling the wagon. Shep followed slowly like the rear guard on a wagon train. The day had become hot. The air hung still and close, and the birds were silent. The only noise was the scuffle of the girls’ feet and the creak of the wagon.
“I’m thirsty,” complained June.
“Me, too. Not much we can do about it.” Marie sighed pessimistically.
“How about a cherry?” Sandy reached back to the sacks on the wagon and opened one of the packages of frozen food. The cold black cherries were sweating in the warm air. The girls reached for them eagerly. Sucking contentedly, they trudged on.
The wagon seemed heavier after a while. They took turns, one pushing, one pulling. An occasional car whizzed past, stirring the dust, moving the heavy curtain of air for a moment. Then a cloak of silence settled thickly about them again.
The Scotch broom along the road hung heavy with yellow blossoms. When they had first moved to the farm, they had been awed by the tall willowy plant with its thick, sweet-pea blossom. Now they snorted at passersby who paused to pick it. Didn’t they know it was a weed?
Marie groaned. “Let’s go swimming when we get home,” she said.
The thought of the cool water of the creek helped lighten the load as they rounded the last bend. Even Shep perked up as he sensed their journey’s end.
chapter 4
The swimming hole was across the road from their house. It was a fast-moving creek about fifty feet wide and was quite shallow in most places, except where the old mill had been. There it dropped off from a depth of about two feet to over ten feet. A large log had fallen down the steep bank, providing an easy access to the water.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” yelled June, her small, agile feet running down the log. She drew a sharp breath and splashed into the icy water.
The creek was a run-off from the surrounding mountains, and in mid-June the water still wasn’t far removed from snow. Nevertheless, June was always the first one in. She splashed around, floating with the current, while Marie and Sandy danced up and down, trying to get used to the water. “Come on, you scaredy-cats.” June splashed them generously.
“Cut that out or I’ll drown you!” shrieked Marie.
“Try it.” June turned and kicked her feet right in Marie’s face.
“Why, you . . .” Marie made a lunge for her and fell into the icy water. She came up gasping and set out after June, who was swimming as hard as she could upstream. Her frail
arms made slight progress. Marie grabbed June’s heel and pulled her under. Both girls came up gasping and laughing.
Shep stood on the bank whining and pawing at the water. “Come on in,” Sandy coaxed. The dog started in, backed off, and started again.
“Sic ’em, Shep! Sic ’em!” Marie called, and the dog’s excitement grew. Finally he lunged in, barking furiously, and started to paw at a rock, half submerging his head in an attempt to bite his quarry. The girls’ laughter rang through the shimmering leaves that overhung the creek.
Meanwhile, Sandy slid into the water with a shiver and started swimming upstream with smooth, even strokes. She had taught herself to swim, like all the other children around the neighborhood, but had mastered a smoothness they lacked. Marie and June splashed about, June still dog-paddling. Marie stroking jerkily.
“Hey, there’s something shiny down there,” said Marie, coming up from a dive.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go down and see.” June and Marie dived down for a closer look, then returned to the surface sputtering.
“A dead fish!” they echoed in unison.
“Ugh! Who wants to swim with a dead fish. Let’s get rid of it,” said Marie.
“How? I’m sure not going to touch it.” June shivered.
“Tell you what we’ll do. You dive down and get it and hand it to me, and I’ll throw it up in the woods. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
June thought awhile, suspicious of Marie’s plan. Marie always came out of these agreements without doing her share.
“I guess so,” June agreed reluctantly. She missed the fish on the first dive, but on the second attempt came up holding the half-decayed skeleton by the tail. “Here, take it!” she yelled at Marie, swinging it under the other girl’s nose.
“Give it a fling!” yelled Marie.
June, in her excitement and hurry to get rid of the distasteful thing, flung it as hard as she could. It landed among the trees. A full minute passed before she realized that she had been tricked again. Marie twittered and then started to roar.
“You . . . you . . .!” June began beating on her until Marie had to swim hard to get away from her.
The girls returned from swimming clean and refreshed. They were just sitting down to dinner when someone knocked on the door. Sandy paused, her body half lowered to meet the chair. The girls looked questioningly at one another. Sandy straightened and moved toward the door.
“Hello, girls. Your mother home?” It was Mr. Burns, from two farms down.
“Not right now,” Sandy said evasively.
“When will she be home?”
There was a pause; then Sandy asked, “Could we help you with something, Mr. Burns?”
“Well, it’s Amy. The missus and I have planned a little vacation, and we need someone to take care of her. I’d give you five dollars for taking her for a week.”
Relief and eagerness swept over Sandy. The five dollars would help the coffee can. “We’ll be glad to help you out.”
“I hate to leave her without talking to your mother.” Mr. Burns hesitated. “I’m not sure you can handle her.”
“I’m sure Mother would agree, and we’ll take good care of her,” Sandy assured him.
“If you think it’s okay . . . We want to leave early in the morning, so I brought her over tonight. She’s out front.”
The three girls hurried through the door and stood looking at Amy. Her long, narrow face was turned inquisitively toward them. Her mouth moved back and forth, and the whiskers on her chin moved up and down. Her horns curved over the back of her head, and her short tail flicked now and then. Her bag hung very low to the ground; she had only two teats instead of four, like a cow.
“You do know how to milk a goat?”
“No,” came Marie’s flat reply.
“Of course we do!” Sandy asserted hastily, glaring at Marie. “She won’t be any trouble at all, Mr. Burns. Have a good vacation.”
As soon as he was down the drive, Marie turned on Sandy. “You don’t know how to milk a goat,” she said.
“No, but they can’t be too different from a cow. Here, go tie her to that stump over there. And tie her good.” Marie led Amy, who followed willingly enough, over to the stump and tied her for the night.
The next morning after the cows had been let out to pasture, the three girls went to check on the goat. She was standing on top of the stump, surveying the place, while she chewed complacently on her cud. Sandy led her to the barn and put her in Julie’s stanchion. She gave the goat some food and, bringing the stool and the bucket, sat down next to her. Amy’s bag was too low for the bucket to go beneath her, so Sandy locked the bucket between her knees, tipping it toward the goat. She took hold of one teat. It had swelled so much during the night that she could barely get her hand around it. When she tried both hands, Amy stopped eating, turned her head, and blinked. Shaking her head at her would-be milker, she backed out of the stanchion and walked calmly from the barn, leaving Sandy sitting there holding the bucket.
“Her head’s too narrow. The stanchion won’t hold her,” observed June. “We’ll just have to milk her outside. Come on, you two.”
They staked Amy outside, and Sandy tried again. Every time she got beside Amy with the bucket and stool, the goat moved a little farther away. Sandy kept chasing her around the stake.
“Hold her head, Marie,” she cried, and they tried again. This time only Amy’s rear end pivoted. “Somebody’s going to have to hold her feet.”
They all looked at one another. “All right, I’ll hold her feet,” said Sandy. “You hold her head, Marie. June, you milk.” Sandy moved in cautiously behind Amy and grabbed her by the hind legs, lifting them from the ground. She held on grimly, while Amy protested with a series of wild bucks. “Hang on to her head!” Sandy shouted. After a while the goat grew tired and quieted. June went around to the side with the stool and bucket and tried to milk the unwilling goat, but try as she would, June could not get her hands around Amy’s teats.
“What’ll we do?” asked Marie.
“June, you take her head. Marie, you try to milk her.” The two girls exchanged places, and Marie tried. She squeezed, but nothing came.
“She won’t let her milk down!” Marie squeezed harder.
“Keep trying,” encouraged Sandy.
Soon the zing, zing, zing of the milk hitting the empty pail echoed through the air. Exhausted, the three girls stood and watched Amy as she cropped quietly around her stake.
“What’ll we do with the milk?”
“I don’t know.” Sandy scratched her head. “We can’t mix it with the cow’s milk . . . . I hate to throw it away.”
“Throw it away?” Marie and June echoed.
“Well, what else can we do with it?”
“Why not give it to Fred?” June asked.
“That’s a good idea.” Marie carried the bucket of milk over to the pasture. Fred saw her coming and charged up, halting in a stiff-legged manner. He lowered his head into the bucket and without a pause, began to drink piggishly.
Sandy watched him with amazed satisfaction. Why, for the whole week Amy was here, they could give Fred goat’s milk and sell the cow’s milk he usually drank. That would mean a little more money for the coffee can!
chapter 5
Sandy spread the seeds she had purchased on the table. Visions of heaping mounds of fresh vegetables made her eager. “We’re going to plant a garden,” she announced, proud of her ingenuity. They had never had a garden. Their mother had always been too busy, and the girls had had no inclination to take on any new chores.
“A garden? Where? How? Who’s going to take care of it?” Marie squinched up her eyes suspiciously.
“We all are. We’ll plant it out near the watering trough.” Sandy went outside, Marie and June tagging along curiously. “This will be a good spot. We can plant it right here.”
June looked at the place Sandy had chosen. “What about all those rocks? Wha
t are you going to do with them?”
“We’ll rake them all up and clear them out.”
“Ha! Just as I thought. That will take forever. I’m not going to break my back picking up rocks for a silly old garden that probably won’t grow anything but thistles and Scotch broom.” Marie turned and started for the house.
“Then you won’t get any of the corn and tomatoes and cucumbers,” Sandy taunted.
Marie hesitated—she loved tomatoes. She turned back. “Do you really think we can grow anything?”
“I don’t see why not. Joe’s mother has a huge garden. We ought to be able to grow enough stuff for ourselves.”
They set to work clearing the rocks away. Sandy raked, while June and Marie carried. After two hours of grunts and groans from Marie and a couple of blisters for Sandy, they had cleared a small area about ten feet by ten feet. “Isn’t that enough?” groaned Marie. “I’m dead!”
“I guess we could plant a few things and see how much more space we’ll need.” Sandy put down the rake and went for the seeds. She read the directions on the packages. They were simple enough. She picked up the hoe and started to chip away at the hardpan clay. Each stroke jolted her clear down to her toes.
“Nothing’s going to grow there,” observed June. “It’s too hard.”
“It will too, if we work with it!” Sandy hacked doggedly at the cementlike soil and was rewarded with a shallow scratch along the surface. She picked up a package, tore off the corner, and poured the seeds into her palm. Then she spread the seeds along the shallow trench. She tried to pulverize the soil between her fingers, but it resisted. Finally, she covered the fine seeds with the hard lumps she had chipped out.
By the time Sandy had planted the carrots, lettuce, and cucumbers, she knew it was no good, but she went on stubbornly, chipping little holes for the corn kernels. Despair engulfed her. She could not shrug it off like Marie and June. Why was everything so hard? Why did all her ideas go wrong?
The following week Amy went home, and the girls started picking strawberries at the Fergusons’. Sandy worked as hard as she could, and each time she carried her berries in, she pushed and prodded Marie and June to pick a little faster. She took only a few minutes to gulp her lunch. While the other children talked or threw berries, Sandy carried in crate after crate.
Under the Haystack Page 3