The Farmhouse

by Elizabeth Bromke

  “Provided for us? He’s the reason we’re here.” The girl passed her hand out across the colorless, barren property.

  Maggie sighed. “He’s half the reason, Gretchen. But I’m the other half.”

  She frowned at her mother. “What do you mean? He did this to us. He’s always been a loser.”

  “Gretchen, I didn’t stand up for myself. Or for you all. I didn’t put my foot down when I should have. I didn’t ask questions when I should have. If I had, things would be different. I take half the blame. I know it’s not my fault Travis was a drinker or didn’t really know how to be a good father. But it was my choice to marry him and have kids with him. And it was my choice to stick around. But you know what, Gretch? It wasn’t all bad. After all, some good came from it.”

  “Like what?” Gretchen asked.

  A laugh escaped Maggie’s mouth. “Like you kids, for starters.”

  Gretchen smiled and turned to hug her mom.

  The others were in the car waiting, but Maggie felt compelled to add one more thing. “I know you want to make better choices than I did, Gretchen. But don’t forget to live your life a little, too, okay? God’s grace is here. With us. All the time.”

  Her daughter nodded solemnly.

  “And one more thing, Gretch.” Maggie pulled the young girl closer to whisper into her ear, “Dating Theo wouldn’t be such a bad choice.”

  Chapter 29 — Rhett

  He was lost.

  Rhett had never been lost in his entire life. Not as a child and certainly not as an adult. But he was standing there, locked into a grid of towering skyscrapers as people whisked this way and that.

  Having no clue which way was north or even what city he was in, Rhett tried to approach a woman waiting by the broad glassy wall behind them.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he began, but she recoiled.

  Nervous now, Rhett glanced down to see he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Nothing seemed off.

  He left the woman and started walking up the street to a crosswalk only to realize it was an illusion.

  The sidewalk and the street parallel to it faded off into a massive painting of a cityscape.

  Rhett turned, and behind him, the scene played on as usual. People waving for taxi cabs and staring at their phones. People climbing into rideshares. People disappearing into the glass walled buildings. People frowning.

  A man stood texting on the corner next to him, and Rhett tried once again to make sense of it all.

  “Hey man, can you tell me—-”

  “Go home, kid,” the business-suit-clad jerk huffed dryly and turned on his heel back toward a building.

  A buzzing sound thrummed into Rhett’s brain, and he woke with a start.

  It was a dream.

  He inhaled sharply and rubbed his face with his hands. Adding to the confusion, his new dog stirred to life and hobbled over, clamping his left front paw on the mattress and panting hot milk bone breath on Rhett’s face.

  He figured that if he was going to live the bachelor life in a studio by the University of Louisville, then he ought to do it right.

  So just the day before, he went to the local rescue and picked out the oldest, saddest looking dog there.

  The pooch’s keepers said the poor guy had been wandering downtown before someone collected him and dropped him off. With no name tag or microchip, the rescue decided to call him Old Gray.

  Rhett liked that. And he sort of liked the dog’s beginnings, too.

  Old Gray probably wasn’t good for much more than companionship, but that was all Rhett needed.

  He snatched his phone from the far side of his lumpy pillow and squinted at the bright screen. A text from Greta.

  She was going to be in Corydon later and would love to meet up. Her new boyfriend was with her, too.

  Rhett groaned and eyed Old Gray who let out a wet sneeze.

  “My sentiments exactly, Boy.” But, technically, this was what Rhett had wanted. To reconnect with his sister. Have something more in life than work and a lousy girlfriend.

  After replying that he would be there, Rhett got out of bed and got dressed.

  THE INTRODUCTION HAD gone fine enough. Greta’s boyfriend, Kadan, was a nice city boy. He worked “in Tech,” which made Rhett want to chuckle, but he didn’t dare. He had a sinking feeling that anyone who worked “in Tech” took himself a little seriously.

  Even so, Greta was clearly enamored, and their relationship appeared stable. Besides, Kadan was obviously a good—albeit uptight—guy. A good person. And that was the bottom line for Rhett.

  Even good people worked “in Tech.” Just because Rhett preferred plumbing to programming, it didn’t mean that Kadan wouldn’t take care of Greta.

  They’d left on a positive note, and Rhett was then free to head back to Louisville. Old Gray had camped out happily in the cab of his truck for the duration of the luncheon, and now, as Rhett climbed in behind the steering wheel, he felt overwhelming waves of emotion sweep through him.

  Old Gray took notice and rested his head on Rhett’s thigh, just as happy to get a scrub down as Rhett was to give it.

  “Where to now, Boy?” Rhett whispered, considering his options.

  Each of his rentals was—knock on wood—fine. No tenant complaints. No upcoming turnovers to make.

  His house search, however, was abysmal.

  Rhett had made a clear list of non-negotiables. Three bedrooms, two baths. Over an acre—he had to make up for losing the family land. And, finally, outside of the city. Even just by a mile. No way did he want to be trapped in the grid. Period.

  His price point was flexible, but that didn’t seem to help. Anyone who had a house that met his criteria was apparently happy enough to keep it.

  Rhett cut the wheel back onto County Road 40 and into Hickory Grove, making his way toward Main Street, where he would turn onto Highway 211.

  But as he pulled up to a stop at the four way, a black low-rider turned in front of him.

  Driving it: none other than Travis Engel.

  A FEELING OF UNEASE crept over Rhett and he grabbed his phone to call Maggie.

  It rang until her voicemail picked up. A cheery greeting befitting of a happy homemaking hairdresser. It didn’t quite sound like the girl he’d known in high school.

  He tried again only to meet the same result.

  A car pulled up behind him, so instead of turning left back toward Louisville, he drove forward and veered off to the right, parking in front of the bank as he kept his eye on Travis’s slow-moving vehicle.

  Rhett first expected him to turn into the garage, but when the low-rider buzzed past that, Rhett wondered if he’d turn directly onto Pine Tree Lane. Again, Travis kept driving.

  Squarely in the direction of County Road 131.

  After a failed effort of finding Becky’s or Fern’s phone numbers in his device, and realizing he had no way to get ahold of Maggie other than her own line, he made a decision.

  And followed Travis.

  RHETT HAD LEFT NO FEWER than five voicemails and the same number of texts before committing to what felt increasingly like a vigilante mission.

  Old Gray was now sitting at alert and focused in the passenger seat, and Rhett took that to mean that either the dog trusted Rhett’s decision and was equally committed, or that the dog, like Rhett, sensed something bad was going to happen.

  Either way, Rhett knew he could not live with himself if Travis wound up at the farm and something happened to Maggie or the kids.

  And while Rhett wasn’t convinced that Travis was coward enough to actually hurt a woman or a child, he still didn’t trust the guy.

  Chapter 30 — Maggie

  It was Saturday.

  Maggie usually did hair on Saturdays—all day, too. Unfortunately or fortunately, she had no clients lined up for that day. But she promised herself she would get bookings going for the following week.

  Gretchen was working the early shift at Mally’s with plans to study with a friend aft
er she got off. Her practicum was the next week, and it was crucial.

  Theo had come to town and had offered to help Maggie until Gretchen got home, but Maggie had the boys for that. Apparently, Gretchen had listened to Maggie after all. Otherwise, Theo was simply dead set on making something happen. Maggie wasn’t sure which.

  For the full morning, Becky was watching Briar.

  Theo, the day before, had brought over his tools with the goal to unstick the fridge. He, too, figured maybe the gasket had melted a little and glued the thing shut.

  In fact, Fern, who’d visited the day before as well, guessed it was a stuck latch. And she was right. The antique fridge had a latching door rather than a magnetic one, and though Maggie jimmied the handle, she hadn’t thought about the latch.

  Luckily, to his credit, Becky’s son was refreshingly handy, popping the latch out with a screwdriver. From there, she intended to soak it in vinegar to clear the rust before she brought Theo back to re-attach it. But Fern warned her otherwise, reminding her, “Those old fridges kill kids, Maggie! Upgrade NOW.”

  “Ky!” she hollered out the front door, which the boys had left open on their way from the second floor outside to the wood stack.

  They’d just finished the third bedroom upstairs and their progress was becoming more pronounced. The biggest obstacle was having to go to the bathroom in the woods, but Maggie found it wasn’t too terrible an interruption. There was proper plumbing for a toilet but it had been removed and covered with an early model space heater. For whatever reason.

  It wasn’t the only odd remnant of the late seventies. Upon one of Maggie’s many walk-throughs, she’d encountered antiques that would make Fern drool, heirlooms that she’d never known about, and oddities that spun more questions than they answered.

  It all reminded Maggie that she and her brother had history. It was there, living in that farmhouse. She just had to uncover it.

  And maybe, just maybe, she’d discover more than a broken, old toilet hidden somewhere on the property.

  Sighing in the doorframe to the kitchen, she took it all in. The porcelain farmhouse sink with what had to be original plumbing.

  The death-trap fridge.

  The turn-of-the-century (if even that modern?) wood-burning stove, complete with a little slot for an oven.

  Whatever had become of the family who lived there? Her family? Her very own mother, the tragedy of it all. The center of it, too?

  Maggie’s eyes moved back to the sink. It would be her starting point.

  She set about filling a stock pot with water then transferred it to the stove.

  “Ky! Dakota!” she called again. “Where’s the wood for the stove?”

  When neither boy replied, Maggie draped her yellow rubber gloves over the apron of the sink and strode through the parlor to the front door, which stood open.

  A frigid wind struck her in the face, and she quickly stepped out of the door and closed it behind her before lifting her eyes to scan the property for her sons.

  But she didn’t have to. They were standing right there, at the foot of the porch steps, facing a black truck and a man leaning against it, grinning from ear to ear.

  Travis.

  “I DIDN’T KNOW YOU HAD an inheritance, Maggie. Jeez, girl, we could have used this old dump to help with the bills.” Travis pushed off from the truck with his hands in his pockets, a lazy sneer painted across his scruffy face.

  “Boys, get in the house,” Maggie directed, moving down the stairs and shuffling them up behind her.

  “Hey, those are my kids, too, you know.” He hocked a glob of phlegm, shooting it like biological warfare at the dead wildflowers to the left of the porch.

  Maggie took a deep breath. “Why’d you leave, Travis? Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t paying the mortgage?”

  “I guess,” he answered immediately, “because I got sick of everything. Paying the bills. Working full-time—back-breaking labor, mind you. That, and...”

  “Another woman?”

  Travis’s smile fell away. “I’d never cheat on you, Maggie. But temptation was there. I can admit that now.” He kept silent a moment, until the temporal shadow on his face lifted.

  His eyes were tired and sad. And, though Maggie didn’t quite see the boy she once knew—that handsome teenage bad boy with a muscle car and tattoo... the one who made her feel alive when the world around her was so decrepit... the one who promised to take her from that apartment with stifling Great Aunt Marguerite and show her what happiness could be and how much fun they could have—well, she saw something.

  That Travis was not evil. A villain, maybe. But not evil.

  “Travis,” she began, meeting his gaze at last. “Did you sign the papers?”

  He held up a finger and reached into his passenger window. “These papers? Divorce? Custody? Blah, blah, blah?”

  Maggie nodded, turning nervous again.

  Shaking his head, he dug a lighter out of his front pocket. “I’m not giving you up, Maggie. I made a mistake, sure, but I am not a quitter. You hear that?”

  She swallowed as he held a small flame at the bottom corner of that fresh white stack. The stack that had been sitting on her former kitchen table not two weeks before.

  In one sense, everything had changed since that moment. But in another, nothing had. It was all simply coming to a head. She wondered where this would go. Should she call the police? Or Becky? Would Travis leave?

  Maggie rolled her shoulders back and down and took another step toward Travis, her hands open at her waist. “Why are you here, Travis?”

  The packet had finally caught fire and once the flames had eaten half of it, Travis dropped the silly show to the frostbitten ground, leaving it to silently sizzle. Maggie stared at the half-charred rubbish and felt sad for the man standing before her.

  She took another step toward him. “Have you talked to your mom?” she pressed, trying any angle to soften the situation.

  He licked his lips and returned her gaze, his eyes narrowing. “Maggie, I won’t leave you again. I won’t leave the kids. I’ll be better. I’ll do better.” His voice shook with the promises, and as Maggie took one more step closer she could smell it on his breath.

  Putrid and familiar—the smell of stale beer. Maybe not much, but enough for the cold January wind to hurtle it into Maggie’s face, spurring a stark realization.

  If it weren’t for his driving drunk, Travis was not a danger to anyone but himself.

  She knew she needed to call the police. Because she was done exposing her children to such a mess.

  “Travis, we can talk about a custody arrangement another time. In the meantime. You need to leave. I’ll have new paperwork mailed to you; it’ll be fine, okay?” She searched his eyes for an answer, but his gaze was now on the house behind her.

  Her hand trembling, Maggie reached for her phone in her back pocket.

  But it wasn’t there. She’d left it upstairs earlier. She could picture the stupid thing, sitting on the floor in the corner of the front bedroom.

  Maggie knew that Travis wouldn’t hurt her. Or any of the kids. But he was under the influence and clearly committed to some sort of reunion.

  Helplessness consumed Maggie until she heard the engine of a vehicle humming in the distance. She wondered if it was Becky, bringing Briar back. Or Fern, conducting a welfare check just because. She wondered if it was just an errant driver en route to western Indiana.

  But Maggie also wondered when she was going to solve her own problems for once.

  "I'm going to get my phone. Stay here, Travis." The words didn't feel like her own. Sharp and firm, they marked the strength of a soldier instead of the panic of a subdued and neglected wife.

  Travis lunged half-heartedly after her and tripped on his own shoes before sliding on the heels of his palms down onto the icy dirt path.

  Maggie left him there and dashed inside, locking the door behind herself as she met the worried faces of Dakota and Ky.

  An
ger rose up in her throat at the thought of them seeing this reality. But, relief followed soon after.

  It was better they knew.

  "Dakota, run up to the front bedroom and grab my phone," she directed calmly.

  Ky, her sweet, innocent Ky, tugged on Maggie's arm. She looked down at him to see tears welling up in his eyes.

  "It's okay, sweetheart," she whispered, bending and wrapping the child in her arms. "It's okay."

  "Are you calling the police on him?" Ky squeaked through soft sobs.

  Maggie hushed her little boy gently and rocked his body in her arms. "I'm calling his mother, Ky. Mamaw will help."

  "But she's never helped us before," Dakota replied from midway down the staircase.

  Maggie peeked out the window. Travis had righted himself, but he was faced away, staring off.

  "Mothers help their children," Maggie answered her older son. "No matter what."

  Ky squeezed Maggie tighter, Dakota skipped down the few steps until he, too, wedged himself into their hug.

  Another glance outside revealed that Travis no longer stood swaying by his truck.

  Nervous, Maggie gripped the phone and scrolled for her mother-in-law's number, hitting the call icon and commanding that the boys stay inside with the door locked.

  Then, she stepped out.

  The phone to her ear, ringing. Mamaw Engel answered immediately. In hushed tones Maggie conveyed the events as succinctly as possible.

  And just as she hung up, she found him. Nearly one hundred yards off, by the main road. Through scraggly, winter-worn oaks and brush, she could barely make out who Travis was talking to.

  But then she saw.

  It was Rhett.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, and Maggie broke out into a jog.

  They saw her, and Travis's face fell into a deeper scowl.

  "Since he won't answer," her husband began, sloppily hooking a thumb back toward Maggie’s old friend, "why don't you tell me what in the world is going on?"