Over time, they even learned to communicate with him directly, without Foxy’s help, or Marie’s. If they wanted him to reach something that was too high for them, they stood up and batted their paws in the air. If they wanted him to water the plants, they lolled their tongues and panted. Most of the garden chores they could demonstrate slowly, until he figured them out. Soon he was picking beetles off leaves as if he’d been doing it all his life. He even restaked the pea vines to his own astonishing height, which would quadruple the amount of peas the plants could produce. The rabbits were thrilled about that. He couldn’t always tell a weed from seedling, and he was no use at all at making pellets, but overall he was turning out to be a big help.
The boy even started bringing them carrots! He wasn’t digging them from the garden. It was too soon for that; the carrots Alice and Thistle had planted still had weeks of growing to do. But he’d gotten hold of carrots nevertheless, and he started to leave a few small ones out, where the rabbits could help themselves.
At first Alice and Thistle refused on principle, as eating garden-grown vegetables was the very thing they’d made the other animals swear not to do. Then Foxy explained that these were not so much carrots as they were something called crudités, and that they came not from the earth, but from the bottom drawer of the Harveys’ refrigerator, and that made it all right. They were the sweetest thing Alice had ever tasted.
Thistle loved them, too, and together they implored Foxy to carry one back to Burrow for Lester. If they’d expected gratitude from the old rabbit, they would have been awfully disappointed. Lester bemoaned the tragedy of such a magnificent vegetable being manhandled by a human farmer—the enemy!—and then slobbered with dog drool—the other enemy! The crudité argument also failed to impress. “It’s a ruined carrot, and that’s that,” he said. Stubbornly he refused to eat it.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Alice said mildly, as Thistle nibbled the tip, right in front of the cranky old flop-ears.
“Tastes awfully good to me,” said Thistle, his busily grinding teeth threatening to make short work of it.
“Ah, that carroty smell!” Lester’s nose twitched madly. It was too much for the old fool to bear, and Alice and Thistle gladly turned the rest of the carrot over to him. “Who’d believe it?” he grumbled, even as he devoured this most special of treats. “My first carrot in years; probably it’ll be my last. And I have a farmer and a dog to thank for it.”
“And us, too,” Thistle reminded him, but Lester just keep nibbling and muttering, “A farmer and a dog, a dog and a farmer! Will wonders never cease?”
* * *
Before long, the fast-growing radishes were ready to be picked. Alice was beyond excited. She dug up the first row herself, and Thistle came over to assist. Together they marveled at the bright red bulbs hiding underground, like a secret, ruby-colored treasure.
The boy-farmer noticed and tried to help. Alice slowed down, to teach him, and soon he was as excited as the rabbits were to see what their efforts had produced. They even showed him how to leave a few radish plants in the ground, to flower and make seeds for the next planting.
Carl worked quickly and filled a whole basket. Alice and Thistle followed behind him, restoring the dug-up soil to order and enriching it with fresh rabbit pellets. Later, they’d replant these rows with the seeds they had left.
“Now we’re really farmers,” Thistle said merrily. “Our first harvest!”
Alice was glad, too, but her mind raced ahead. What came next for that overflowing basket of radishes? Would the boy-farmer know how to turn them into money? Would one basket of radishes, or a hundred, be enough to make a difference?
Maybe the boy noticed her longing looks. Moving slowly as ever, he went to the basket, chose two good-sized radishes, and offered them to his hardworking fellow farmers.
The rabbits froze. Was it a trick? Crudités were one thing, but could the boy-farmer truly want them to eat vegetables fresh-picked from the garden? It flew in the face of everything they’d been taught. Farmers and rabbits! Rabbits and farmers! Sworn enemies, as old as time!
Now the boy was the one who slowed down to demonstrate. He chose a small radish, rubbed it on his pants leg to clean it, and popped it in his mouth.
“It’s good,” he pronounced, crunching away. “Try it. You’ll see.”
He rolled one toward Alice. She caught it between her paws. There was no mistaking his meaning. The boy really did want her to eat it.
Should she, despite all the promises made and extracted from others? Could she? Just this once? The other animals would get a share of the harvest in exchange for their self-control; surely she was entitled to the same. She glanced at Thistle, who’d already seized his rolled radish from the boy and was looking at her for guidance. His shining, eager eyes showed which way he’d vote, if asked. She could hardly deny him the experience, could she?
And so, her decision was made. Never again would she be a silly, naive cottontail who’d never so much as tasted a radish! She felt lighter than air and full of joy, just as she had on her very first trip to the meadow’s middle.
Now she crossed that same meadow twice a day and scarcely thought about it. Would radishes, too, come to seem ordinary in time? Perhaps they would, but at that moment, Alice would have sworn: no, never. The radish she cradled before her was too fresh-smelling, too thrillingly cherry red, too perfectly sized for a little rabbit’s paws and appetite.
And she’d grown it herself! What could be more wonderful than that?
These were her thoughts as she summoned her keen senses to the task of eating. She brought the radish to her lips and sank her incisors into the flesh.
“Yuck!” she exclaimed, spitting it out. “Too spicy! Like biting a thorn.”
She made a funny face and sneezed. The boy-farmer laughed out loud. Radishes can be quite strong-tasting, and this one was fresh and pungent as they come, the earth still clinging to its roots.
“Let me try,” Thistle said. He took a bite and his eyes grew wide, but he chewed and swallowed with determined enthusiasm. “I like it,” he said. “It burns my tongue, but in a good way. I’ll finish yours, too, please!”
In time, Alice came to find radishes edible, at least, but their overall appeal remained one topic upon which she and Thistle held firmly opposing views. Thistle declared radishes his favorite; he loved the juicy crunch, the tart flavor burst of the bulb and the peppery taste of the greens, but carrots were sweet from the orange root tip to the tops of their gloriously frilly leaves, and Alice much preferred them.
* * *
Doggo and Carl only occasionally crossed paths, but they too developed a relationship of sorts. Carl had noticed that Foxy was leaving a fair proportion of her GlitterTooth Chew-Bones outside. It made him suspicious, so he’d done a little pajama-clad spying and discovered that the fox he’d seen on that first night would sometimes show up after dark and take them. From then on he always kept one in his pocket, in case the fox ever came close enough for him to offer it.
That never happened, of course. The fox looked so much like Foxy that Carl naturally longed for it to become tame, but Doggo was a wild creature, and he wouldn’t dream of letting Carl get too close or, heaven forbid, pet him.
And what of Doggo’s longings? His guard-fox services weren’t as urgently needed as before now that Foxy was free, but he still held to his side of the bargain. Whenever asked, he’d bring the rabbits across the meadow safely, even if he had to use teeth and claws to do it.
To his own surprise, the fox had begun to look forward to these trips, and he missed them when they became less frequent. A fox is not a pack animal like a dog. For genus Vulpes, species vulpes, friendship does not come naturally. Yet Doggo found he liked spending time with creatures who depended on him and trusted him, and who thought of him kindly and with gratitude, as a protector, as strange as that idea was to him. The job of keeping the rabbits safe made him feel fierce and strong and useful, and it was a good feelin
g.
Certainly, there were times he looked at Alice and Thistle and thought about how nice it would be to eat them. His mouth ran with saliva, and he’d get that twitchy, ready-to-hunt feeling in his nose, eager to lead him to his next meal.
But the more he heard the rabbits talking about the Mauler and how they hoped to keep it away, the more he began to have ideas that were new to him: like the difference between short-term satisfaction and long-term planning. Short-term, eating his new friends would provide a satisfying snack. Long-term—well, if these brave cottontails didn’t finish the job they started, there’d be no hunting grounds left at all, for foxes or anyone else.
That’s what the rabbits seemed to believe, anyway. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of the Mauler—foxes had their own stories about the earth-eating monster, just as all the animals did—but it was the first time he’d seen any creature try to do something about it. These rabbits weren’t just telling tales; they were putting their paws in the dirt about it, every day. He found he wanted to help them. He wanted to make a difference, too.
And of course, there was Foxy’s good opinion to think about. What a mysterious creature she was! They could never be mates, as foxes and dogs are different species and don’t mix that way, but Doggo’s fascination with this glamorous canine went beyond such concerns.
On the outside, they were close to identical, yet she was his opposite in nearly every way—cheerful and friendly where he was vicious, sweet-smelling where he was rank. The strangeness of their bond made him marvel at what a random thing it was, to be born a fox or a dog, a rabbit or a chipmunk, a chattering jay or a prattling baby human like the one who lived on the farm, the one who kept yelling “Doggo, Doggo!” when she actually wanted Foxy.
Each of these creatures was so different to the eye and ear and nose, and yet they were all bound together by their shared valley home. It was a good place to nest and hunt and raise one’s young. It was their common ground, he thought, from the top of the food chain all the way down to the bottom.
The GlitterTooth treats weren’t bad, either. He didn’t like them nearly as much as Foxy did, although he didn’t tell her that. Doggo was used to gnawing on real, crackling bones full of marrow and blood, not factory-made rods of rice starch and artificial spearmint flavor. But having fresh minty breath was useful. It gave him a real advantage when hunting. The overwhelming spearmint smell sowed olfactory confusion on the breeze, enough to distract his prey from the approaching fox scent until it was too late, and he was close enough to pounce.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The learning curve.
The shy tendrils of April and May had transfigured to the exuberant blossoming of June, and still Sally and Brad Harvey often asked themselves: Had they done the right thing, leaving Brooklyn behind and moving to the farm?
Judging solely from the changes in Carl, they’d have to say yes. Their firstborn’s newfound work ethic and obvious green thumb were a wonder. He was fixed on that garden in a way they’d never seen him fix on anything before, except for the Christmas when Big Robot came on the scene and he wouldn’t go anywhere without it for months.
But you couldn’t compare a child’s love for a toy to a young man’s staunch dedication to real responsibility. This was honest, moneymaking labor their son was performing, and outdoors, no less!
It made the elder Harveys feel pretty dang successful as parents, which was important, as they weren’t feeling that successful about anything else. Brad’s latest calculations forecast that the golden parachute bank account would be empty by Thanksgiving. Spring may have turned to summer, which would inexorably turn into fall, yet the strange alchemy that turned farming into money remained maddeningly out of reach.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Sally’s juicy hopes for becoming Loco for Locavore’s chief supplier of dehydrated delicacies had yet to pan out. She never did get to meet with Armando Shubert. When she’d arrived, the chef was having a supersized tantrum about a problem no bigger than a mustard seed. In fact, it was precisely the size of a mustard seed, one of which had mistakenly found its way into a sesame seed paste, thus “ruining” the flavor with its minuscule tang. Chef Shubert couldn’t stop yelling about it long enough to say hello, never mind taste the samples Sally had so lovingly prepared.
The restaurant’s manager had been wearily apologetic; one got the impression this happened a lot. She suggested that Sally try again in a month or so, as the current pressures of meeting his cookbook deadline and doing media appearances while running a restaurant kitchen had kept Chef Shubert at a rolling boil for months. Sally was unlikely to catch him in a tolerable mood until things simmered down a bit.
The manager softened the blow with two consolation prizes: a set of Loco for Locavore chopsticks, and a glossy magazine with Armando Shubert’s face on the cover. Sally kept the chopsticks but tossed the magazine into the wastepaper box in the corner of the kitchen as soon as she got home. Discouraged but not defeated, she changed her clothes, pulled on her apron and hairnet, and got back to chopping, drying, and preserving.
Brad worked hard on the orchards, replanting dead trees and making overdue and costly repairs to the irrigation system. There was no money there yet, either, as most of the orchard was planted with apples, a late summer and fall crop.
He’d finally acquired a few sheep, though, three ewes and two lambs. No rams for now, he’d decided. That meant no new lambs, either, but wrestling with a big-horned, bad-tempered ram seemed like a challenge best saved for future Brad, a Brad who’d acquired more sheep-wrangling experience. For now, the sheep were mostly decorative. Shearing might yield some cash, but that was next spring, ten months away. Beekeeping was also on Brad’s mind, but a decent hive would take some investment to set up and wouldn’t produce honey until the second year. At least he already owned the suit.
The farmer’s zigzag path to cash was as clear as rabbit tracks in the snow: labor and expenses now, money (maybe) later. Thankfully, the vegetable garden was starting to produce. They sold Carl’s first harvest of radishes at the cooperative farm stand the town sponsored in the library parking lot every Sunday. The radishes sold for two dollars a bunch; the co-op kept half and Prune Street Farm got the rest. It was just enough to buy gas for the round trip to town, but radishes were only the beginning. By the end of June, Carl was hauling baskets of delicious fresh peas, crisp lettuce heads, and other early crops into the house.
For a while it seemed like things were looking up. The orchard’s small harvest of stone fruits was ripening, firm dark plums and sweet yellow peaches. Sally’s inventive dehydrating (dried radish coins, anyone?) and passion for pickling, canning, and preserving were filling jar after jar. It was time to open a farm stand of their own.
They set it up in front of the house, on their own land. First they opened on Saturdays, so as not to compete with the town market, but as business picked up they opened on Wednesdays, too. They posted signs everywhere they could think of that read: “The Prune Street Farm market stand is open! Family-owned. Fruits & vegetables raised with love.” Carl struck a deal with Janis to sell that morning’s eggs at a premium, warm from the chicken’s bottom. Sally got her sourdough starter alive and bubbling again, and added fragrant loaves of fresh bread to the table.
Throw in some cute sheep to pet, and the Prune Street Farm market stand soon had a stream of regular customers. The superb vegetables were always the biggest draw. In two mornings a week, the stand sold out everything a boy and two rabbits could grow, usually by eleven o’clock.
Success! Or was it? The Harveys were working as hard as they could and selling everything they made or grew, but the numbers still didn’t add up. The money flowing in was nowhere near enough to keep the farm afloat. Sally began to panic and wanted to get a job in town (ironically, the only place hiring was one of those fast-food restaurants with the drive-thru windows), but Brad insisted it was merely a “cash-flow problem,” which was somehow different from going broke.
That’s the old farmers’ tale that Brad told, anyway. Sally dearly hoped he was right.
Ruth Shirley never did stop by for coffee, though she beamed and cooed and promised every time they ran into her in town. The Harveys saw Tom Rowes now and then, too. He was always presiding at ribbon cuttings of new businesses, speaking at town council meetings and the like. He’d nod hello before strolling on with a superior, knowing smirk on his face.
There was one time he and Brad spoke. They’d bumped into each other at the Pee Wee Softball League opening day parade. Rowes was the grand marshal, and the players’ team shirts had THE ROWES RATTLESNAKES printed on the back.
“Why rattlesnakes?” Brad had asked, to make conversation.
Rowes shrugged. “They wanted a name that started with R to go with Rowes. And ‘reticulated python’ was too long to fit on the shirt. Joke!” He slapped Brad on the back, laughing. Then he turned serious. “How’s the farming going? Are you ruing the day yet, Harvey?”
“Nope, not yet,” Brad answered, more bravely than he felt. “Not yet.”
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