The summer of 1964 was hot and dry with just enough rain. Len had rented out the two main fields to his neighbour who was set to make a killing on oats. He’d gone for the sure bet, taken on extra shifts at the feed store. He came home late, ate quickly, and collapsed on the couch watching TV with the sound turned off.
Since the departure of the hired man in January, Roger had taken over the barn chores. He was happy to be paid half of Albert Fine’s wages. It seemed like a fortune, but by the time school was out, he was fed up with the routine. He talked Marlene into feeding the pigs and collecting eggs. Every time she accomplished both tasks, he put an X on a calendar hanging beside the fuse box in the barn. If there were no gaps in the Xs by the end of the summer, she’d get five dollars. He said it was a contract, and put it in writing.
Luke wanted in on the deal, but a skinny six-year-old, half the height of a shovel, was more trouble than help. Roger swore and threatened to fire him if he didn’t smarten up and follow orders. When Marlene found him crying, she pointed out that having a job meant you could always quit, so he did.
A few days later, Luke went missing. Roger and Marlene were supposed to be watching him, but got caught up in the excitement of jumping from the top of the haymow into a pile of loose straw. When Flo came out to get them for supper, they had no idea where he was or how long he’d been gone. It was dark by the time they found him, sleeping under a wild apple tree on the edge of the woods. Roger and Marlene bore the blame. Len gave Roger a few stiff lashes of the belt and Marlene got a good talking-to from Helen. They both went to bed without supper.
The next day Luke broke out in poison ivy. A day later, his body was a mass of runny sores that itched so bad he cried. He spent a week in bed, swaddled in strips of cotton soaked with calamine lotion. Roger declared the ordeal was punishment for running away, so he shouldn’t try it again. In the deadpan voice of a boy who’d enjoyed the attention, Luke said he didn’t run. He walked.
Roger’s warning had the opposite effect: Luke got into the habit of disappearing. He developed a sixth sense for knowing when to leave, where to hide — secret spots in the barn, on the edge of the woods — and when he’d be missed. He always came back with a discovery to account for his absence: a rare butterfly, an oddly shaped collection of stones. Once, he produced a handful of coloured glass balls he claimed had been dropped into the hay field by a monstrous bird. He said a brown-haired girl rode on the bird’s back and told it where to drop the precious eggs. Perfectly round, there were seven of them, no two alike, solids and transparents, with bits of vivid colour trapped inside. Marlene recognised the story. It came from a Classics Illustrated comic Luke had brought home from school and hid under his bed. She exposed the source at the supper table, adding a detail she’d be saving up. “They’re marbles, not eggs. And they belonged to Albert Fine.”
It was the first time the hired man’s name had been mentioned since he disappeared the night Patty Kate was born. The commotion of a new baby had swept his existence away. They were told only that he’d gone back home. Something about the explanation didn’t sit well with Marlene. Albert had always been friendly, almost part of the family. Surely he would have said goodbye. When his name came up, she was tempted to comment but the look in her father’s eyes made it clear questions would not be appreciated.
Roger had no such grasp of parental mood, or he didn’t care. “You got them from Albert’s trailer, didn’t you?” he shot at Luke. “Albert left all his stuff behind, and you stole them.”
Len slammed his fist on the table. “That’s enough.” He made Luke get the bag of marbles, and threw them in the stove.
“They won’t burn,” Luke said, fighting off tears. “They’re magical.”
Roger corrected him: “They’re glass. But he’s right, Dad, glass doesn’t burn.”
Marlene gave Roger a look. He was lying: they’d all been in the trailer, except Flo. But to say more would be to fan the flames, risk a spanking and early bed.
“That trailer is filthy,” Len said. “Next Saturday it’s going to the dump.”
There was nothing in Gran’s world that could not be cleaned. The next morning she filled two pails with water, gathered soap, bleach, vinegar, rags and brooms and headed for the trailer. Already bored by summer, Marlene and Roger offered to pitch in. Gran insisted on going in first, filling grain sacks with Albert’s belongings, which she said would await his return. Only after Roger had helped her drag the mattress out to the burn pile, along with pillows, sheets and the curtains tacked to the only window were they allowed to venture inside. The two tiny rooms with tin walls and floors still reeked of fried onions and pipe smoke, with a sticky-sweet undertow of hard candy. They scrubbed the walls with Ajax and Mr. Clean, until by late afternoon the air was fresh.
Roger said the stench of the place meant Albert was wicked. Marlene assured him everybody smells. “We all have our own,” she said. “You’re so deep in ours, you haven’t even noticed.”
By the time they’d washed hands and faces and sat down to supper, Roger’s tune had changed. He declared the trailer looked good enough to sell. Why not run an ad in the newspaper and spend the money on a trampoline? Meanwhile, he wondered if they could use the place as a clubhouse.
Not on your life, Len said. The door would remain locked until further notice.
* * *
A few days later, Roger’s scheme to delegate his barn chores collapsed. Marlene had started off well, until she missed a day and was told she wouldn’t be getting five dollars at the end of the summer. She said it was unfair, and quit. He was furious.
“But you signed up for it. Remember?” He produced a sheet of lined paper with the terms spelled out, her name in capital letters across the page, over his officiallooking scrawl. Her answer was to snatch the page away and run.
He tried to forge a new deal, but she said he couldn’t be trusted. “You’ll find some way to wiggle out.” She already had ten dollars in her piggy bank, and no idea of how to spend it. Roger retaliated by slacking off while they were weeding the garden, a task assigned by Helen with no financial incentive. Marlene pretended not to notice. She could finish a row while Roger was just getting started.
Meanwhile, the idea of a clubhouse galvanized his energy. If it couldn’t be the trailer, one could always be built. There was a pile of scrap lumber behind the barn. He spent a day dragging the best boards out, but then he noticed the rank smell of skunk. He feared they’d built a nest in the haymow, and would find his building more attractive. It was Marlene who suggested putting up a log cabin in the woods. She offered to help. “We could pretend we’re pioneers,” she said. “Luke could be our child.”
Luke agreed. Roger was thrilled, until he discovered his helpers were still stinging from the barn chore fiasco. Marlene insisted he abide by her terms, with Luke as a witness. Roger had to be Adam Cartwright, from the TV series Bonanza. She would be the wife, and go by the name of Ma. Luke as their child would stay Luke. They were on their way Out West to make a new life, and had decided to stop in the woods for the winter. Gran put together a basket of odd dishes and garden tools essential to life in the wilderness. The night before their departure, she sewed Marlene a long skirt and apron, and packed a lunch.
They set off after breakfast, Adam ahead, carrying the axe, a shovel and a roll of binder twine, Luke and Ma behind, one hand each gripping the picnic basket. Roger was peeved about not being able to bring his Kodak, since the construction of a clubhouse was surely worthy of documentation. But Marlene said you never saw cameras on Bonanza. They hadn’t been invented in the Olden Days. She could already imagine a sturdy log cabin with a peaked roof, facing the sunset. Eventually, they would sneak out a few chickens; maybe get permission to bring a horse, as long as they kept him tied up. She was sure there were plenty of berries and tasty roots in the forest, a word that began to lose its fairy-tale ring as soon as she turned her back on the real house.
By three o’clock, they were back ho
me, sweaty, exhausted, on none-too-friendly terms. Adam had taken all morning to chop down one mangy cedar. They’d forgotten to bring a watch, and had eaten the lunch too early. The creek that should have provided drinking water had dried up. The cabin site was next to a bee’s nest. The boy got stung. Ma’s arms were covered in bloody scratches from a blackberry bush. Somehow, her skirt ripped.
Roger blamed the pioneer theme. He regaled the supper table with their misadventures. Buoyed by the attention, he asked to take the tractor and wagon next day, so they could bring along better tools. He promised to gather fallen logs in the woods and trim off the loose branches. That way, when winter came, the cabin could be dismantled and used as firewood. Len agreed it was a good idea, although he insisted Luke stay home until the construction phase was over. Marlene and Roger couldn’t be trusted to keep an eye on the wanderer while their attention was focused on building. Helen protested. Gran supported Len, pointing out that Helen and her brothers had done far wilder things when they were kids. Like hiking up to an abandoned barn on a hill overlooking their farm, staying there all weekend. She reminded Helen they’d said nothing to her father. In those days, Gran said, fathers were the heads of households, with absolute power, which meant they hardly ever knew what was going on until disaster hit. Helen relented, on the condition that Flo went along to supervise. But Flo had other plans. She promised to keep an eye and ear cocked toward the woods, which was really not that far from the barn. Anyway, voices carried over the field, she said. Finally, the powers-that-be agreed to let them go.
This time, Marlene wore jeans, took garden gloves and an alarm clock. They spent half the morning loading the wagon with a mound of junk Roger imagined could be useful. He envisioned a boys-only getaway, a place he could bring the lads from school to smoke in peace and maybe, when the creek filled up again, build a raft and float out to the lake. He did not see any girls in the picture, although Marlene made a useful helper. He intended to cut her out as soon as the clubhouse doors opened.
Finding enough straight logs was the easy part. Getting them to stay piled and in a square proved impossible. They kept falling over. It was Marlene who came up with the idea of eight upright logs resting on each other to form a cone, tied at the top with twine. In no time, they had covered it with leafy branches and by mid-afternoon were sitting inside a fat, shaded structure big enough for two, possibly three, sleeping bags. Roger called it a tepee. Marlene said they weren’t Indians, so it was a fort.
Just before they left to go back for supper, Roger pulled his Kodak out of the toolbox and snuck up on Marlene, who was sitting cross-legged in front of his clubhouse. In the black and white snapshot that survived decades and many moves, she is squinting into the sun, a pale face peeking out between cascades of dark hair, lit by a vigilant pioneer grin.
* * *
They might never have imagined sleeping out all night if opportunity hadn’t knocked. The parents were attending the wedding of Helen’s childhood friend, a two-hour trip that required them to stay overnight. By then the baby was used to formula, at least her fussiness had become routine. Flo was spending the weekend with a friend from high school.
Marlene and Roger decided to confide in Gran. Marlene thought it would be good to start on her a few days early, so she’d have time to think it over. Roger said that was too risky, she might discuss it with their father whose answer would be no. He suggested they wait till the parents were gone, then tell Gran they’d been given permission. Marlene snorted. “Do you think she’s stupid? Why don’t we just leave her a note and run away?”
For a minute, he thought she was serious.
All in good time, the perfect opening fell from the sky. They got Gran talking about things children did to amuse themselves before TV. Roger swore the Olden Days must have been a lot more fun than nowadays. “We can’t do anything any more,” he said. “We’ll have nothing to tell our ancestors.”
Gran agreed. Marlene unveiled the plan.
At first it looked as if she was going to say no. She stared at her empty cup, held it up to the kitchen light so she could read the message left by loose tea leaves, put it down and looked straight at them, as if the leaves had spoken.
“Are you sure you won’t be afraid of bears?”
“There are no bears in those woods,” Roger answered. “Dad said so.”
“Did he? Well, I guess he’d know,” Gran said. “You’re not afraid of the dark?”
“We’re taking a flashlight,” Marlene said.
“What if the batteries run out?”
“We’ll have to take spares,” Roger said. “Good idea, thanks.”
Gran nodded, as if quick thinking had reassured her. “Did you ask your father about this?”
“Well, no,” Roger said. “That’s the problem. We meant to, but we forgot.”
Marlene bit her lip. Just like Roger to blurt out a boldfaced lie. She could tell Gran didn’t believe him.
“We weren’t sure we wanted to go,” she said. “But now we do.”
“So, you are kind of afraid?”
Roger swore he wasn’t. Marlene contradicted him. “At least, I am a little afraid. But it seems like such a great adven ture. There’s a full moon, so we’ll hardly need a flash light. I have to close my curtains on nights like this. It’s almost like daytime. Full moons only come every twentyeight days. We’ll be back at school before the next one rolls around. It’s something we’ve wanted to do forever.” Gran looked up from her cup, not exactly smiling but close to it. Marlene was tempted to ask what she saw. The messages in tea leaves were invariably exciting: trips, money, visits from strangers. Sometimes there were warnings, but never outright bad news. She could not remember Gran ever reading out advice about anything as simple as sleeping outside overnight.
Finally, when Roger had almost given up, Gran said: “All right. But on two conditions: one, don’t talk about it to Luke. He’ll be excited but he’ll get scared and you’ll have to bring him back.”
They agreed, she was so right.
“Second: take a hatchet. Do you know how to use one?”
Roger said he did.
“I’m going to give you a whistle I keep for this kind of thing. If I hear it blowing, I’ll come running to the rescue. Well, maybe not running. Luke and the baby will be with me. But I’ll be there soon. You don’t have to worry.”
When she went upstairs to get the whistle out of her suitcase, Marlene was on the verge of telling Roger she had no intention of heading out into a bear-infested wilderness where a hatchet was needed, when he murmured: “Jeez. What do you think?” His voice had the familiar tone he used when he was about to back out of a deal. The smell of fear fortified her resolve. She decided to wear long johns and take a butcher knife.
They worked most of Saturday loading the wagon and left the house at four, in time to get settled in before the mosquitoes descended. The plan was to light a campfire, cook hot dogs, play a few rounds of cards and then go to bed. They played while the wieners were cooking. Marlene was on a winning streak. Roger soon got bored. By six-thirty, they’d eaten, stamped out the fire, washed hands and faces with Thermos water. The foliage on the roof had withered since construction, letting in light. Marlene suggested adding fresh branches to keep out the bugs. Roger’s answer was to douse them both in Raid.
“We should point our feet at the moon,” she said as they rolled out their sleeping bags. It was still broad day-light and neither could remember where the moon should be.
“I guess it changes position every night,” she said.
Roger snorted. “The moon revolves around the earth. It can’t just zigzag through space.”
She turned her back, prepared to ignore his arrogance for the rest of the adventure.
Somehow, she had imagined nights in the forest would be cold. This one was stifling. As a precaution against critters, she had the sleeping bag zipped up to her neck. Roger lay on his back, nose pointed at the crux of crudely chopped logs holding their r
efuge together. By the time she found a comfortable position, his breathing was heavy, as if he’d already fallen asleep. A dog howled in the distance, a mournful sound followed by short spiky yaps.
“Did you hear that?” Roger whispered.
She let on she hadn’t. “No, what did you hear?”
“Coyotes.”
“They wouldn’t be out this time of year.”
“Are you kidding? They live in the woods. Where would they go?”
“I’m pretty sure they go south, like birds,” she said.
“Ha, ha. I doubt it. You don’t pay much attention to nature, do you?”
She had to admit, he was right. She’d read books about pioneers, knew they had lots of animals, but mainly dogs and helpful beasts that hung around the cabins. Sleeping outside had been Roger’s idea. He acted like he knew everything, but his confidence was skin-deep. Usually his fear made her bold, but this time was different. She wondered about the message in Gran’s teacup. Gran was wise, an adult. Even older than an adult, a grandmother. She’d brought up eight Daly children and none of them had died of stupid causes. Cancer, yes, but you could not catch that in the woods. People in Gran’s day had to be brave. They had come over from Ireland on ships and many of them never made it, so those who survived knew better than to take chances. They knew about danger. Gran would no more let two children do something foolish than she would do anything foolish herself. There was every good reason not to be scared, but she was. She raised the whistle to her lips and gave a gentle blow. The sound that came out was a limp squeak.
Mankind & Other Stories of Women Page 4