Under the Haystack

by P. A. Engebrecht

  “Hey, what’s with you? Are you trying to break a world record or something?” Joe asked, kneeling down beside Sandy as she worked. “What are you going to do with your money? I’ll bet you’ll spend it all on clothes.”

  “Could be.” Sandy continued picking while he talked.

  “I’m saving mine for a car.”

  “You’re too young.” Sandy grunted as she moved her carrier ahead of her.

  “I’ll be sixteen the end of next summer. It takes a while to save enough.

  “Where’ll you go in a car?”

  “I’ll be able to drive home after football practice and the games. Might even take someone to the movies down at Millstown.”

  The way he said it brought Sandy up short. She looked at him questioningly.

  “Sure, why not?”

  Sandy’s face flamed red. The thought that Joe or any boy might find her attractive had seemed so impossible that she could do nothing but gape at him. She ducked her head in embarrassment and peeked up at him though her strawberry-colored hair. Joe watched her intently. “You’d better get back to your own row,” she said. “You’re getting behind.”

  Joe rose to leave, then turned. “Hey, where are your folks?”

  Sandy straightened. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.” He shrugged. “Mom said she hadn’t seen the car around for about a week now. Wondered if they were on vacation or something.”

  “They’ll be back any day now. My aunt was sick.”

  Joe said no more, but turned and took long strides over the rows toward his own. Sandy dropped back to her half-kneeling position. So the neighbors were beginning to wonder. She would have to do something about that. But what?

  The day finally ended. The girls were tired and silent as they walked home. Sandy had picked fourteen crates, which was pretty good for the first day. June had picked three, and Marie, five. That was twenty-two crates at sixty cents a crate. They had $13.20 for the coffee can. Things were looking up.

  As they turned in the drive, the girls stopped at the mailbox. There were several letters. “Is there anything from Mommy?” June asked eagerly. She and Marie crowded close to Sandy as she sorted through the mail.

  “No, I guess not.”

  The hope in June’s face vanished like the sun behind a cloud. “They’re nothing but bills and”—Sandy turned one envelope over and looked at it closely—“the milk check!”

  Eagerly, she tore open the envelope and looked at the check—$42.50. That, with the strawberry money, the money for taking care of Amy . . . yes, things were looking better.

  The tiredness left Sandy’s step. She turned the other envelopes over and opened them as they walked up the drive to the echoing welcome of Shep, who intermittently yipped and wagged. Then Sandy stopped, her confidence draining from her. The second envelope contained a bill for $77.50 for payment on the farm. She opened the other—$10.45 for electricity. Despair swooped down on her like a hawk from the sky. She tried to shake it off, to think. She stumbled on toward the house. There was no way she could swing the payment on the farm, but then she remembered her mother had let it go before. They needed electricity, though, for the lights, refrigerator, and stove. The milk check would cover that. All Sandy had to do was endorse it and have Mr. Sam cash it as he usually did. He wouldn’t know the difference.

  Later Sandy left Marie and June sprawled on the bed and made her way to the barn, where she crawled through the hay tunnel. She welcomed the dark oblivion of the hideaway. Within its protection she cried in despair. It seemed that no matter how hard she tried, there was always something working against her.

  Sandy cried herself into an exhausted sleep, the smell of the hay and the quiet darkness of her retreat cloaking her snugly. She awoke to the sweet aroma and a silence broken by the sound of June’s worried call. “Sandy? Sandy, where are you?”

  Reluctantly, Sandy roused herself. She blinked as she crawled back into the harsh light. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she answered almost to herself.

  Sandy was preparing dinner when Marie came in and said, “The cows aren’t here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they didn’t come home . . . . they’re gone.”

  Sandy paused, pan in hand. “We’ll have to go after them.” She set the pan on the stove and turned off the burner. She paused by the door long enough to slip on her shoes.

  “Where will we look? How will we find them?” Marie asked.

  “Did you listen for their bells?”

  “Yes, not a sound.”

  “That darn Bess! She’s probably in heat again and has led them off to find a bull. I’ll go over and see if Joe can help us look for them. Maybe someone saw them. Tell June to get ready to go.” Sandy left on the run toward Joe’s house.

  Soon the four of them were starting up the cow path that led through the woods. Shep ran ahead and then returned, agitated by the excitement he felt. There were a hundred acres of woods behind the flat land that belonged to Sandy’s folks. Most of it was second-grade timber, choked with undergrowth, but the cows had made paths through it to certain areas for grazing. The four of them followed the main path.

  “Did you hear about any strays, Joe?” asked Sandy.

  “Heard there were some over by Parsons’.”

  “Geez, I hope those aren’t ours. The last time they got out, they tromped through his orchard, and he said he’d shoot the next bunch.”

  “Why don’t your folks fix the fences so they can’t get out?”

  “They will when they get back,” said Sandy.

  “If they ever do,” muttered Marie, kicking a small stone.

  Joe looked at her quizzically and caught Sandy’s glare. He said nothing.

  The late-evening sun filtered through the trees, settling on the soft ferns underneath. An evening quiet was shrouding the woods. Periodically, they stopped to listen for the sound of bells, but nothing sounded except the whisper of the evening breeze and the scurry of a small animal now and then. Sometimes Shep started after one of the small creatures with a dash, only to return shortly to rejoin his human companions.

  The four of them followed the path until it curved and started back, and there, near the fence line, they saw where the cows had pushed their way over the wire. Two posts with rotted bases had been broken off—mute evidence of the needed repair.

  “Oh, no, they’re headed straight for the Parsons’. Come on, we’ve got to hurry.” Sandy moved ahead through the broken undergrowth, following the path the cows had made, and she was the first to see the cows. Julie and Bess mooed a greeting from the pen near the barn where Mr. Parson had put them.

  The four young people stood at the edge of the woods looking at the cows. “What are we going to do?” whispered June, fright creeping into her voice.

  “We’ll just go and let them out and drive them home, that’s what,” said Sandy with a confidence she did not feel.

  “What about Mr. Parson?” asked Marie.

  “Maybe we can get them out before he knows it,” suggested Joe. “I don’t see him around anywhere. I’ll go down and open the gate. You stay here and keep Shep quiet.”

  Joe started down the small gully that separated the edge of the woods from the barn and cows. He glided silently from one late-evening shadow to another until he reached the fence. The gate was latched from the inside. As Joe reached over the top to lift it, a voice rang out.

  “Hey, you there, what do you think you’re doing?” The large threatening shadow of Mr. Parson loomed from the barn. Before Joe could escape, the farmer had grabbed him by the neck of his shirt. Sandy let go of Shep, and the two of them bounded over the gully and up to Joe.

  “He’s helping us, Mr. Parson. Those are our cows,” she explained, gasping a little for breath.

  “As if I didn’t know whose cows they are,” snorted the big farmer. “You tell that lazy, no-good father of yours that I’m keeping these cows until that fence is fixed.”

  “You c
an’t do that!” protested Sandy. “We need the cows . . . . Besides, he’s not home.”

  “Well, when he gets home you tell him where the cows are and where they’re going to stay until I see that fence mended.”

  His belligerent attitude tensed Sandy, making her angry. “He won’t be home for a while, and we aren’t leaving those cows here,” she said in a cool, firm voice. Marie and June had edged down from the woods and stood behind Sandy, fear etched across their faces.

  The farmer squinted at Sandy in the thickening dusk. “Look who’s telling who, you mouthy kid. Those cows are staying, and that’s final. Now git!” He flung his arm out threateningly, and Sandy flinched.

  “Come on, Sandy, I’ll tell my Dad.” Joe half put his arm around her shoulders and turned her back toward home.

  Sandy moved away hesitantly, with the two younger girls backing away in fear from Mr. Parson. When they had reached the protection of the woods, Sandy shrugged off Joe’s arm and looked back toward the barn.

  “I’m not going home without those cows,” she said stubbornly.

  “What do you think you’re going to do?”

  “I’m going to wait until dark. Then I’m going to go down there and let them out.”

  Joe started to argue. Then he took one look at the set of Sandy’s wide, firm mouth and shrugged.

  “I’m scared,” whispered June.

  Marie hugged her younger sister close. “Me too.”

  They settled down to wait for darkness. It enveloped them softly, settling over them protectively like a mother hen over her chicks. Sandy stirred. “I guess it’s time.”

  Joe pushed her back. “You stay put. I’ll let them out.” He crept forward, then turned back. “Which cow is the leader?”

  “Bess . . . . Be careful, Joe,” Sandy whispered as Joe disappeared in the darkness.

  She strained forward, listening, anticipating with dread the gruff voice of Mr. Parson or, worse still, the explosive sound of a shotgun. Tension hovered in and around the girls like a thick fog. Sandy held on to Shep, shushing him as he whimpered, and strained to follow Joe. It seemed as though hours had crept by before they at last heard the sound of heavy footsteps and the soft ringing of bells. Then there was the musky odor of cows’ breath, and Sandy made out Joe’s form leading Bess.

  “You did it! Oh, thank you, Joe.” Sandy let go of Shep and threw her arms around the startled boy, planting a kiss on the only place she could reach, his chin.

  “We’re not home free yet,” he warned. “I’ll lead them until we get back across the fence.”

  The girls waited until Bess, Julie, Daisy, and at last Fred had filed past. Then they fell in behind them, still half expecting to hear a cry of “halt!” from the barnyard.

  Once the cows were over the fence, they headed home on their own. The darkness bore no obstacle for them, for their feet knew the path. Their rescuers were forced to move more slowly, stumbling now and then over a stone or log. They walked silently among the shadows cast by the moon. Fatigue, caused more by tension and fear than by physical effort, lay on them so heavily that they could not push it away to talk.

  When they came within sight of the barn, Sandy finally said, “Marie, you take June in. Make her a sandwich and put her to bed. I’ll take care of the cows.”

  “I’ll help.” Joe turned with Sandy toward the barn.

  “You’ve done enough, Joe. I can manage.”

  “You manage quite well, don’t you?” He held the gate open for her.

  Sandy ignored his remark. They filled the water trough and waited while the cows drank thirstily. “What are you going to do tomorrow if Mr. Parson comes?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know, just wait and see, I guess.”

  Then he asked quietly, “What are you going to do if they don’t come back?”

  Sandy turned to him. The moon threw shadows over his streaked hair, highlighting momentarily his soft brown eyes and gentle lips. Something seemed to brim over in Sandy. She wanted to spill forth all her troubles and worries, but she bit her lip and turned away. “I told you, my aunt is sick. They’ll be back as soon as she’s better.”

  “Does she need them more than you do?”

  The quiet truth of his words pricked at her. She whirled on him. “Thank you very much for your help, Joe, but you’d better go now.” She turned and walked into the barn, closing the door behind her.

  chapter 6

  The three girls rose early, stirring to the gossamer threads of light sifting through the window and to the awakening sounds of the birds. The rooster’s crowing was the final nudge that tumbled Sandy out of bed. She groaned and massaged the low place in her back—that strawberry ache. A weariness settled over her, deepening the physical ache. If only . . . . She brushed away her hopes and turned to the more pressing needs of the day.

  “Come on, you two, rise and shine,” she called, as she slipped into her dirty jeans with the mud caked on the knees. “Come on, we’ve got to be in the field by six thirty.”

  A low groan came from the bed. “I’m sick!” moaned Marie.

  “What do you mean, you’re sick?” asked Sandy, a tinge of alarm coloring her voice.

  “I ache all over! I’m sick of working, that’s what,” retorted Marie, coming fully awake and feeling the tenderness of her body. June was still curled in a tight ball, hugging the sheet up to her chin.

  “Come on, June,” Sandy called. She went into the kitchen.

  A while later she was spreading peanut butter on the bread for their lunches, when June burst into the kitchen. “Come quick! Marie hurt herself.”

  The alarm in June’s voice made Sandy drop the knife and hurry outside ahead of her. “What happened? How bad is she hurt?” Sandy questioned as she ran toward the barn.

  Marie sat on a bale of hay. She was holding her leg and staring in disbelief at a pitchfork that stuck into her thigh.

  Sandy froze, horror rising up in her and escaping in a short gasp. Her stomach knotted, and she thought she was going to be sick. One word rose in her mind in a softly pleading cry, “Mother!”

  Marie’s large brown eyes, looking even larger with fear, beseeched Sandy for help as she whimpered quietly. June had come in behind Sandy and clung to her hand, her small body trembling.

  Sandy swallowed hard as she pushed herself forward to Marie’s side. “How did you do a stupid thing like that?”

  Fear had made her voice angry. The unexpected sound of the anger cut through Marie’s terror. Not getting the sympathy she had expected brought forth a defiant retort. “It’s all Bess’s fault. She wouldn’t get into the right stanchion.” Her defiance faded to a gasp.

  “What’s that got to do with the pitchfork?” The impatience in Sandy’s voice fanned the fading defiance.

  “I was just going to tap her over the nose with the handle, but she threw her head up and caught it with her horns.”

  Sandy made herself take hold of the dirty, rusty fork. Again the nausea threatened. “Don’t hurt me,” whimpered Marie, staring at the fork embedded in her leg. Sandy mustered up all her courage and gave a quick, hard pull. Marie cried out. The pitchfork came free in Sandy’s hand, leaving an inconspicuous hole in Marie’s jeans.

  “Take down your pants so we can see how bad it is,” Sandy ordered, and she stuck the fork into a nearby bale. Obediently, Marie took down her jeans and stared at the big purplish puncture in her thigh. The wound did not bleed. Instead, the skin was pulled inward, almost sealing it.

  June came forward, a look of relief brightening her gray eyes. “It doesn’t look so bad. Heck, I thought it would gush blood all over the place. Look, it isn’t even bleeding.”

  Sandy’s mind was still numb with the effort of removing the fork, but she stared at the purplish wound. There was something ominous about its not bleeding. It was as if some evil thing had been locked away and lay threatening beneath the surface.

  Sandy’s mind sloughed off its numbness and flipped rapidly through a lesson she had l
earned—what was it?—something about the danger of a puncture wound. Tetanus! She tried to push down the mounting horror as she remembered the details of lockjaw and the death caused by just such accidents. Oh, God, where was their mother? Why wasn’t she here where she was needed? Hate spread like warm wax through Sandy. It thickened with each burden that was thrust upon her. What were they to do?

  Marie stood and tested her leg gingerly. A weak smile spread across her face. “Hey, it doesn’t hurt too bad.”

  “You’d better wash it off and put some iodine on it,” cautioned June.

  “I don’t want any iodine on it; it’ll burn.”

  Sandy’s mind raced ahead. They’d have to get Marie to a doctor. The doctor was in town, and that was five miles away. They’d have to walk. Could Marie make it on her hurt leg? That was a chance they would have to take. She leaned down and picked up the bucket of milk. “Come on, let’s finish our chores. Then we’ll change our clothes and go to town.”

  “What do we have to go to town for? How are we going to get there?” questioned Marie.

  “We have to get you a tetanus shot, that’s what. You and your stupidity. Honestly, Marie, why can’t you use your head?” Frustration and anger sloshed around in Sandy like the milk in the bucket she carried. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about!

  Marie limped along behind her. “You think you’re so perfect! What about the time you killed the goose when you dropped the wood on him? And how about the time you forgot to lock the gate, and we spent two days chasing the cows? How are we supposed to get to town anyway?”

  “Walk, like we always do.”

  “Walk? How do you expect me to walk all that way? My leg hurts.”

  “It’ll hurt a lot more if the doctor doesn’t fix it up.”

  The sun rose unusually hot for a June day, holding the promise of a scorching afternoon. Already it was beating on the blacktop and sending up heat waves around the girls. Cars sped by and disappeared, raising a film of dust that settled on them and on the drooping leaves of the trees along the road. They sweated, ached, and groaned in unison. June walked in silence, a sigh escaping now and then as she leaned forward. Her eyes rarely left the blacktop that snaked out ahead of them. Marie whined loudly and complained. Sandy uttered a secret cry, one filled with longing. “Please,” she prayed silently, “please let her be all right.”