The girls did their chores mechanically. Sandy cleaned the house with more than her usual thoroughness. She straightened the wood in the woodpile, and when she was through sweeping, she hid the broom behind the door.
“Before we take our bath, let’s go for a walk up to the spring. Can we, Sandy?” asked June.
It was about eleven when they started through the pasture, Fred dogging their heels, Shep running ahead. The seedpods on the Scotch broom hung dry and empty. The tall grass shattered and seeded as they walked, ensuring a crop for next year. Two hawks circled high above them, swooping and soaring, uncaring.
The land seemed to be preparing itself for the ordeal of winter. It laid up stock like a squirrel with its cheeks puffed out. The girls saw things they had never noticed before. Hungrily, they stored these sights away, stockpiling them for the future. The sounds of crackling leaves beneath their feet, of small scurrying animals, of the light filtering in shafts through the trees and casting delicate patterns on the forest floor—all of these they observed as if for the last time.
The spring was about halfway through the woods near the path that looped through the property. The girls had discovered it about a year ago, when they had been looking for wild flowers. It had become one of their favorite retreats. The water bubbled softly along a steep embankment, caught into small pools, and then trickled down over stones that wore a deep, luxurious coat of moss. Three small cedar trees grew along one side. The air was still. It hushed at intruders like a mother over a sleeping child.
The girls sat quietly, listening to the spring’s soft music. Each took a turn drinking from the deepest pool. Each thought of happier visits to the spring.
Time passed in changing shadows, and Sandy knew they would have to return. As if in mutual agreement, they left the spring, their eyes lingering momentarily, and then they turned their backs and headed homeward. As they passed the barn, Sandy hesitated.
“You go on ahead and get the water ready for the baths, Marie. I’ll make sure that everything is okay out here in the barn.” She turned and went through the door.
The light looked smoky in the barn. Particles of dust, caught up in the sunbeams that sneaked through the cracks, rose and floated independently. The barn smell—a musky odor of aging hay mixed with dust and fresh manure—clung to Sandy’s nostrils. She picked up the pitchfork and leaned it against the wall. She checked to see if Marie had cleaned, taking the shovel and scraping along the boards behind the stanchions. She knocked the shovel along the outside door and stood it against the wall. Then she started to move through the stanchions and paused, staring at the smooth, shiny places in front of the stanchion where each cow fed. Their rough tongues, in licking up the last bit of bran, had worn the wood so smooth and shiny that it looked like a fine piece of furniture.
Sandy stepped through the feed bin, swung her leg over the board wall that enclosed it, and walked into the middle area of the barn. Irresistibly, she was pulled back to where the haystack had been. Had she really found refuge here under the hay? It seemed so long ago now that her mother had left. Since then she had had less and less time to escape into the haystack’s warm, dark domain. And now it was gone. There was no place for her to hide. Somewhere inside her a yearning swelled, threatening to engulf her. She pushed it aside firmly. Who needed it? She didn’t . . . not anymore. She turned and left the barn, not looking back.
In the house the water steamed on the stove. Sandy helped Marie pour it into the boiler, and one by one they bathed and washed their hair. They emptied the boiler into the sink and hung it on its nail.
Putting on their new clothes should have been a gay occasion. Instead it was solemn and heavy. No vision of pleats swirling in a dance with Joe came to Sandy now. She put the skirt on almost uncaring. They were ready at last. They had come face to face with it. There was nothing left to do but wait.
The three of them looked at each other. June’s lip trembled and then she silently came over to Sandy and clutched at her. They stood there, the three of them, clinging to one another. Shep whined, thumped his tail on the floor, and then pawed at them to be included. They all bent down, laughing and crying as they hugged him, smothered him with love.
“I suppose we should talk about what we’re going to do, but I guess we really won’t have much say about it. We’ll just have to wait and see.” Sandy stood staring out the small front window. Then she saw the black-and-white car moving slowly up the road, and her heart thumped. She turned away, not wanting to watch it turn into the drive.
“They’re here,” she whispered.
June looked stricken. Marie’s eyes grew enormous, and she moved to the window vacated by Sandy and watched the car turn up the drive. Moments ticked by, then Sandy heard Marie gasp and whirl from the window. She threw open the door so hard that it banged against the wall.
“Momma!” Marie screamed, “Momma!”
Her feet pounded against the gravel as she rushed toward the car. Sandy ran to the door and stopped. Relief washed over her at the sight of her mother. She watched her stoop to pay the taxi driver and then saw Marie almost bowl her over. June stood beside Sandy, hanging on to her skirt. Sandy could feel her indecision.
Marie’s scolding voice drifted in to them: “Where have you been? How come you didn’t write? We needed you!”
Their mother held on to Marie for a moment and then turned toward the house.
June clung to Sandy just a little longer. Then a sob escaped her, and she let loose and dashed toward her mother. How could she? Sandy thought. Relief, anger, resentment, and hatred churned within her. What right did their mother have to June’s affection? It was she, Sandy, who had taken care of her, had worried about her, had cried over her. Her mother had no right.
Hatred threatened to engulf Sandy. She saw June clutching her mother’s leg, not saying a thing, just hanging there.
Little Joe came in from the chicken coop . . . burying his face in my dress, not saying a word, Mrs. Baxter’s words echoed. She’ll need your love to make her whole again.
Sandy stood in the doorway. Their mother clutched Marie and June with one arm and ran the fingers of the other hand lightly through their hair. She raised her face and looked toward Sandy. There was something in her eyes besides the tears that clung to her lashes—a beseeching. Sandy hesitated. The child in her clung to the hatred and anger, yet—unwilled—another emotion began to grow. She felt an ache, a sorrow so deep that it startled her. Compassion filled her, pushing at her. She moved, slowly at first, and then she was running. “Momma!” was all she could say.
Under the Haystack Page 11