More and more now she found she was going off by herself. After the evening chores were finished and Marie and June were playing or listening to the radio, she would go for a walk. Shep tagged along, sometimes whining as he sensed her melancholy. She spent a lot of time under the haystack, where the soft darkness wrapped around her and hid her from prying eyes. There she would stretch out, ignoring the scratchiness of the hay, and stare blankly at the bale above her.
One day Shep wriggled in close to her and laid his head on her stomach. Absently, she stroked his head. Then she suddenly rolled over, clutched him to her, and wept deep wrenching sobs until she was limp. What was the matter with her anyway? She was puzzled by this melancholy that engulfed her at the strangest times. She knew it wasn’t only the longing for her mother’s return, for she felt it at times when she wasn’t thinking about her mother at all. Matter of fact, she thought less and less about her mother. The only time she really thought of her was when some unwelcome decision was thrust upon her, and then it was anger that filled her and not longing.
No, this sadness was something different, and it puzzled her. Sandy groped for the optimism that usually filled her soul—the optimism that usually lifted her over the little ditches of life—but it was not there.
chapter 8
With the last of the strawberry picking came the green stalks of corn and the yellowing of the grain. Sandy had done her figuring and was confident that they could manage until bean season with the money in the coffee can. She wouldn’t look ahead any farther than that—one problem at a time, she told herself.
Four weeks had gone by since their mother had left. June watched and waited for the mailman every day. Sandy got to the point where she hated to see her sister’s forlorn gray eyes fill up with tears when there was no word. Every night June wrote a letter to her mother. Sandy had given up the pretense weeks ago and, strangely enough, so had Marie. It was as if Marie knew. She didn’t say anything, but Sandy noticed that she didn’t argue so much anymore and was more cooperative.
Sandy spent a lot of time in her garden. She hoed the ground after each rain, chopping a little deeper each time. The corn was almost up to her knees now, so warm and damp had the weather been. Knee-high by the fourth of July, she’d heard the farmers say, or it won’t ripen. It was going to ripen. She just knew it. She had thinned the carrots, and the cucumbers were sending out runners. Each new leaf thrilled Sandy, and not a day went by that she didn’t scrutinize the garden carefully.
July was an easy time for the girls. There was a lot of time for play after the chores were done, and if the weather was hot, they spent the afternoon in the creek or went walking in the woods.
The evenings were long. The crickets came out around eight thirty, when the sun went down and the air cooled, creating a chirping softness around the edges of the day. One evening Sandy walked down the log to the creek and picked her way along the stony edge. Shep followed, slipping into the water, shaking his paws, and trying to stay on top of the stones. She rounded the bend and came upon Joe fishing in a deep pool beneath some rapids.
“Hi, having any luck?” she asked, pausing by him.
“Three, so far.” He pointed to a forked stick hanging in the water, where three good-sized trout floated, speared through the gills.
“Are they hard to catch?”
“Haven’t you ever fished before?”
“No.”
“Want to try it?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Not much. Here, I’ll cast it for you. Just hang on to the pole. If you feel a little tug, you turn the reel.” He demonstrated and then handed the pole to Sandy.
“Sounds easy enough.”
Sandy held the pole stiffly in front of her and kept her eyes riveted to the place where the line disappeared in the water. All was still, save for the washing sound of the creek. Suddenly, she felt a tug on the line.
“I’ve got one! I’ve got one!” She gave the line a hard jerk, pulling it clear out of the water. It caught and tangled in the branches overhanging the creek.
“No! Not like that. You jerked the hook right out of his mouth.” Joe began to untangle the line from the tree.
“I’m sorry,” Sandy said, trying to help him with the line. “I guess I got too excited.”
Joe freed the line, rebaited the hook, and cast it out, handing her the pole again. She took it, shyly pleased that he was willing to give her another chance. They both concentrated on fishing. Sandy thought she felt a tug. She tensed. No, she must have been mistaken. Then the reel began to spin crazily, and she saw the fish leap out of the water.
“Now don’t . . .”
Too late. Sandy had forgotten all his instructions and had once more given the pole a jerk. The fish went flying through the air and caught high in the tree above them, where it flipped and wriggled trying to get free. Sandy slapped her hand over her mouth and looked at Joe sheepishly. “Oops, I did it again, didn’t I?”
He glanced at her and then at the fish. “First time I ever say anyone catch a fish like that.”
“How are we going to get it down?”
“Beats me.” Joe walked around beneath the writhing fish.
“Maybe if you lifted me up, I could reach him.”
“We can try. Take these pliers and cut the line right above him.”
Sandy took the pliers he held toward her. Joe squatted and locked his hands, making a cradle for her foot. She placed her foot in his hands and gripped his shoulders for balance as he straightened. “Can you reach it?”
“Just barely.” Sandy stretched upward, took hold of the limp fish and—just then it wriggled violently. Sandy screamed and jerked back, knocking Joe off balance. They both tumbled to the ground.
“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” he scowled as he helped her up.
“It was so cold and slimy.”
“Good Lord, what did you expect? Well, that’s that. I guess it’ll just have to stay up there.”
“Could we try it again? I promise I won’t be such a sissy.” Joe shrugged, squatted, and once more locked his hands together. Sandy hastily retrieved the pliers and balanced herself as Joe straightened. This time she stretched higher and took hold of the line above the fish. She cut it with the pliers.
“I’ve got it,” she said, holding it out at arm’s length.
Slowly, Joe let her slip through his arms until her green eyes were looking directly into his. He held her there. Sandy grinned and then became sober. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heartbeat quickened. He brought his lips down on hers questioningly. The fish dangled forgotten from her outstretched hand. Sandy was very quiet in his arms. Her lips trembled beneath his searching. Her heart thudded against his hard young chest.
Finally, he let her slip through his arms to the ground. Sandy was still clutching the fish. The pliers slipped to the ground as she raised her fingers and touched her lips, her eyes large with wonder. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“You just shouldn’t.”
“Didn’t you like it?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I mean, I don’t know . . . .”
He took the fish, which still dangled from her limp hand, bent and retrieved the pliers, and started removing the hook. “You want the fish?”
“Huh?”
“The fish. You want to take it home?”
“Fish?” She looked at him blankly.
“This fish, dopey.” He held it up.
“Sandy, Sandy?” came June’s plaintive call. Her voice jerked Sandy back to reality. She hadn’t realized how dark it was getting. Without a word, she spun around and splashed agilely along the edge of the creek and then up the log.
“Hey! What about your fish?” Joe called.
chapter 9
“Did you strip Julie good?” asked Sandy, accusingly.
“Yes, if you don’t believe me, go out and milk her yourself!” Marie set the bucket down in disgust.r />
“Have you been feeding her the bran?”
“Yes. I don’t see what you’re so upset about. The milk always drops this time of year. The grass is all dried up, and there’s nothing for them to eat.”
“I guess we’ll have to start feeding them hay.” Sandy squinted as she concentrated on fitting the filters into the strainer.
“We can’t. We don’t have any left,” June said matter-of-factly as she set the empty pans on the drainboard.
“What do you mean, we don’t have any left?”
“Just our fort is left. All the rest is gone.”
Sandy busied herself straining the milk, then she turned to Marie. “We’ll just have to use our fort then.” She turned back and watched the milk pass through the filters.
“We can’t do that!” protested Marie hotly. “Where’ll we hide when he comes back?”
“He’ll have to buy some more; we’ll build another.”
The girls moved about the kitchen, each working independently. Shep had been lying curled up beneath the table, his snout tucked beneath his tail. Now he raised his head, his ears twitched, and he rose to his feet, growling softly. There was a knock on the door.
June pushed away the pan she held and rushed to the door, hope and anticipation speeding her step. She flung it open. Immediately, the hope that had filled the air of the kitchen and had filled their lungs to capacity escaped with a soft hissing sound, like air from a wayward balloon, leaving them deflated and silent.
“Hello. May I come in?”
June backed away from the door and moved to Sandy’s side. Mrs. Baxter stepped hesitantly into the house.
“What can we do for you, Mrs. Baxter?” Sandy asked, her skin prickling with foreboding.
Anyone could see that Joe’s freckles came naturally; his mother had enough to spare. She was a pleasant woman with sandy hair streaked with gray and hazel eyes that were soft like her voice. She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the milk pans and buckets. “You girls seem to be getting along pretty well without your mother.”
The girls stood together in silence. Shep rumbled one more growl and then settled at their feet.
“What do you hear from her? When do you expect her back?”
June and Marie turned to their older sister out of discipline from their previous encounters. Sandy hesitated. Her tongue darted out and licked her dry lips. “It’s like I told you, Mrs. Baxter. Our aunt got sick, and Mother had to go look after her.”
“That was six weeks ago. When does she plan to return?”
“We got a letter yesterday saying she’d be back in a week,” Sandy lied, squeezing June’s hand.
“I hate to be so nosy, but Walter and I are worried about you girls here all alone for so long.” Mrs. Baxter stopped helplessly. Sandy looked up and saw the pity in her eyes. Her gaze followed the older woman’s as it moved from June to Marie to herself, and she knew Mrs. Baxter was noticing their forlorn appearance. “Could I see the letter, Sandy?”
“No! I mean . . . I threw it away.” Sandy’s face felt fiery. Mrs. Baxter’s eyes held hers until Sandy dropped her gaze to the floor and studied her toes which were making nervous little circles. The heavy silence magnified the sound of breathing. The girls waited. Shep sensed the hostility. Throating his support, he rose to his feet at Sandy’s side.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to do something if your mother isn’t back in a week or so. I hate to call the authorities. I’m sorry, I really am. If I can help in any way . . .” Joe’s mother’s voice dropped helplessly.
The gentleness of her words raised a lump in Sandy’s throat. She swallowed hard, then looked up. “Thanks, Mrs. Baxter, but we’re getting along just fine.” The three girls stood together facing her.
Mrs. Baxter shrugged and let herself out.
“Old busybody!” exploded Marie.
“What are we going to do?” wailed June.
“Nothing! We’re just going to wait, that’s what.”
“But what if she calls the police?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Come on, let’s finish our chores.”
The three girls moved morosely about the kitchen. Mrs. Baxter’s words raced through Sandy’s mind. She watched the dejected movements of Marie and June. “How would you like to go to Johnsons’ today?”
“Could we really?” June brightened. “Maybe the plums are ripe and the peaches. The blackberries should be ripe too. Oh, yes! Let’s take a bucket and get lots of things.” Just the thought of fresh fruit was enough to make the girls forget Mrs. Baxter.
The Johnsons’ was an old abandoned farm far back off the road. It had been a grand place once. The house was huge with a marble fireplace. There were two large barns, miscellaneous sheds, and several orchards. The trees had gone wild with neglect, but there was always plenty of fruit for scavengers. The wild blackberries had taken over the domestic berries, wrapping their long thorny canes around everything. The girls loved the big black, juicy berries that stained fingers, faces, and clothes indiscriminately.
“Oh, yes, let’s hurry!” cried Marie, her face flushed with anticipation.
The girls turned off the road about a mile past the Baxters’ and crawled over a sagging gate that had been roped to a post. The path was grassy for the first few hundred feet, then it turned stony as it followed the winding creek. The drying grass rustled as they passed, and the birds shushed their songs. The creek rushed noisily over the stones, catching foam in the back eddies along the far side. Marie threw stones, first thin, flat ones that she tried to skip, then bigger ones as she tried to dislodge the yellow-white foam.
The path followed the creek for about half a mile, and then it turned and led across the creek. The water was shallow and swift. June knelt down and put her face into it, taking long drinks. Shep lapped halfheartedly and then started across. June came up from her drink, her face pink and dripping cold water, and reached for Shep’s tail to let him guide her across. Her feet had become so tough over the summer that she flinched hardly at all as she crossed the sharp stones. Marie followed, floating the bucket along the rippling water, and Sandy came last, savoring the cooling bath on her hot feet.
The path turned away from the creek and headed south. Traces of old fence lay half rotted, and a stray cow was seen grazing in the distance. The girls became more alert, searching for evidence of the two wild bulls that roamed the pastures.
They could take the long way around, but, as usual, they decided to cut across the pasture. Before stepping out into the open field, they scanned it carefully. Nothing moved in the shimmering summer light except a killdeer and several molting robins.
They crossed the pasture and came into the yard of the Johnson house. Huge lilac bushes covered the entrance to the pump house, and several rambling roses had climbed the chimney to the steep roof, now mostly bare of shingles. The top part of the chimney had crumbled away, leaving the ragged mortar exposed. Jagged glass made gaping jaws of the windows. The door hung loose on one hinge, which squeaked when the wind pressed too hard.
Sandy stood, one foot on the sagging step.
“You’re not going in there again, are you?” asked Marie. “I don’t see what fun you get out of going in that dirty old house. It gives me the creeps just looking at it from out here.”
“Let’s go see if the plums are ripe. Come on, Marie.” June tugged impatiently at the bucket Marie carried.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” The two girls ran around the house to the orchard.
Sandy tested the step cautiously. It sagged slightly and then held. She edged around the door and into the dusty interior of the abandoned house. She paused, listening. The summer breeze whistled softly through the broken chimney down into the fireplace, which was piled with brick and debris. The creaking of the house began to speak to Sandy, to tell her its story. She ran her hand over the remains of the gold-and-white wallpaper that still curled around the fireplace, and then she gently touched a chip on the mantle, pro
bing it like a wound. It was new since their last visit. Someone had tried to chip away the elegant white marble.
Thrown in the corner were the remnants of some books, their bindings broken, their pages brown and ragged. Sandy knelt and picked up several pages of one, Paradise Lost. She read the inscription, scratched thinly in brown ink: ‘To Althea with all my love, George, 1892.” She scanned the first page:
Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, . . .
She glanced around the room and envisioned its past splendor. She wandered into the dining room, ran her finger over the leaded panes of the china closet, leaving rivers in the dust. She imagined the table set, with the family seated around it, heads bowed for grace. Would she ever have a home like this? She moved on into the kitchen. Even now, beneath the dirt and litter the years had accumulated, the heavy planking showed signs of scrubbing. The large black stove stood in the corner, oven gaping for the want of a door. The brick pit was filled with broken crocks and an old iron frying pan.
Was the story Joe had told her true? Had the entire family really died in the flu epidemic at the turn of the century? Sandy kicked at a loose board and something caught her eye. She paused, stooped, and picked up a little shoe . . . a baby shoe, all brown and scarred. Sandy gulped, trying to swallow the tears that threatened. The sorrow of the house engulfed her.
“Sandy? Sandy?” The voice broke in upon her. She dropped the shoe, brushed hastily at the tear that clung, and headed out into the summer day to Marie and June.
“Look at all the plums, and there are peaches, too, and lots of berries. Come on, you’re taller, you can reach more.” Marie handed her the bucket.
They ate until they could hold no more, and then they filled the bucket. The heat of the day warmed them and slowed their steps as they started home. “Come on, June, we’ve got to go. You’ve had enough berries.”
Under the Haystack Page 6