Seasons: A Year in the Apocalypse Page 5

  “Understood,” I answered in a forceful tone.

  “Good,” he replied, easing away from us. “Now I got a couple other things to tell you about. So let’s get out to that garden, shall we?”

  We followed as he led, as if we had a choice.

  “Rows are fine, distance between them is good, long enough to make picking easy.” Mr. Lasky walked along the far edge of the garden in the grass, reporting aloud what we all saw—and knew.

  He stopped at the west end of the plot and turned to me. “When does the fence go up?”

  Darn it; another step I’d forgotten all about.

  “Not gonna put it up this year?” he continued in a sarcastic tone. “That’s fine with me, but I don’t think you’ll keep the deer out once they get wind of free food.” He thrust his thumb over a shoulder, back from where he’d come.

  “That’s why we got an eight-foot-high fence surrounding the entire Hulton place,” he lectured. “Any time we see a deer inside our fence, we eradicate it.” He glanced back at us, all full of himself. “But if you two think you know better…”

  “It’s really heavy,” Sunshine moaned. I don’t know how she ever thought going after his sympathy would help.

  “Life’s hard,” he said, wandering toward his horse. “In about a month, that corn will be up high enough, and those bastards will wipe it out in an hour some night.” He shook his head at us like we were the most pathetic souls for miles around. We might have been.

  “Mr. Hulton will let you starve to death if you ruin that corn,” he warned from atop his horse. “He’ll turn his back on you and won’t give a damn no more. You’d better get your shit together, ladies.”

  He rode away, and I waved as he turned one last time. “We will,” I shouted as he disappeared from sight.

  I knew the person behind me probably hated my guts right then.

  “Just how we supposed to get that fencing set up?” Sunshine groused. “That stuff weighs a ton. The only way we got it up and down last year was with Brady doing all the heavy lifting. You got a new beau lined up I don’t know about, Abby?”

  “No, I don’t,” I answered as I turned and headed back toward the garden. “And as for a plan…” I bent and lifted the last of the corn in its bag. “I don’t have one of those either, I’m afraid.”

  “Then we probably in trouble.”

  I peeked up at her as I dropped kernels in the soil and she carefully covered them.

  “Yes, we are, Sunshine. Yes, we are.”

  Chapter 14

  A week later, with the corn and other crops planted and being tended to, I asked Mr. Lasky the price of help. Just in case we needed any with, say, the fencing project. His response reminded me how alone Sunshine and I were.

  “A week per man-hour of help,” he replied stone-faced.

  “You’re kidding.” I gasped. “An extra week added to Walker’s contract for every hour we use the man? That’s ridiculous.”

  He left, leaving his usual advice behind. “Take it or leave it; that’s the price, lady.”

  No doubt he’d be using the rusted old wind-up pocket watch he carried everywhere with him. I was sure it ran fast, from past experience, though I had nothing to measure it with.

  Digging in the back of the barn, Sunshine and I found the fencing sections. Constructed out of salvaged materials, each section was about eight feet long and six feet high. If I recalled correctly, there was a certain order they needed to be assembled in. But just getting them out of the barn was enough to worry about for one day.

  I studied the tubular metal that acted as the support for the patchy wire. Why Brady had decided to use such heavy material was difficult to recall. All it meant this season was that my housemate and I were going to spend an entire day just getting them to where they needed to be constructed.

  Sunshine kicked at a pole, cussing as she flailed her thin arms above her head. “Why in the hell did Brady think these needed to be stored way back here in the barn? And who piled all this shit around them?”

  I shook my head and turned to go outside for a breath of fresh air.

  “Brady didn’t take the fencing down last fall,” I answered loud enough for her to hear in the back of the barn. “If you recall, Mr. Frederickson and his son Emmett were kind enough to help us out with Brady gone. He felt they needed storing away from the elements. Claimed we’ll get five or ten more years out of them if we did that.”

  Sunshine appeared and threw her leather gloves at me. “Five or ten more years. Like any of us are gonna live that long.” She sputtered and pointed back into the barn. “We don’t get those fences up, and we won’t be alive this time next year. Hulton will let us starve for killing off his corn.”

  I looked away, wondering how far off her logic was. We needed help, or this might all go bad before July ever came.

  It took longer than I had hoped to drag the first section from the barn to the side of the garden, probably no more than 100 yards. Exhausted, I stood with my hands on my knees, leaning forward, sucking for a decent breath.

  Sunshine lay on her back beside me, hands above her head. I watched her chest heave in time with my own respirations. There were 11 more sections, at least. How were we going to get this done before the corn started to sprout, I wondered?

  “This sucks,” Sunshine said after a while. “This major-league sucks. I think I’m moving out and on. I can’t take this anymore.”

  It was an idle threat, her leaving. From time to time, every other month or so, she threatened to do so. But I knew she never would. I hoped she wouldn’t ever leave.

  Sitting cross-legged next to her, I played with the green spring grass beneath me.

  “We need help,” I stated as if neither of us had considered it before that moment.

  She laughed. “No shit.”

  I rubbed my face, glancing back at the barn, which seemed miles away. “I wonder if Mr. Frederickson and one of his sons would come over for a couple of hours. That should be enough time.”

  Sunshine rolled over on her side, propping her head on a bent hand. “I don’t think his wife will let him help you no more, do you?”

  I dismissed her negativity with a shrug. “That’s water under the bridge. I’m sure she’s forgotten all about it by now.”

  Sunshine didn’t reply, so I dared a peek. There she was, gawking at me just as I expected.

  “You exposed yourself to the man,” she said, fighting away laughter.

  “It was an accident. And there wasn’t much to see.” I saw her roll her eyes. “I was washing up. I’d begun but forgot to grab water from the back porch. It was only my top, you know.”

  She nodded, flopping on her back again. “I know, I heard all about it. But go on, I love this story.”

  “I made a quick dash and grabbed the bucket. When I turned around, there he stood. A pail of milk in one hand, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm, and a somewhat shocked expression.”

  She laughed again—her hyena cackle, I called it. “What he saw ain’t nothing. You’re built like a ten-year-old girl. He seen better than that on his Amish grandma.”

  The story always took the same twist with Sunshine. Poking fun at my lack of a body. “None of us have any fat left on our bodies, Sunshine. Breasts are mostly fat.”

  She nodded with her head, but I could tell in her eyes another zinger was headed directly at me. “I bet Mrs. Frederickson’s got fat ones. I bet they’re big old round floppy bags like GeeMah had. That’s what I bet.”

  I shot her a quick smile. “Well, that’s all water under the bridge,” I replied. “At least I hope so.”

  Sunshine rose and offered me a hand up as well. “You gonna go over there today? Or you gonna wait for him to show up in a day or two with more fresh dairy shit?”

  I looped my arm through hers as we went to see if we could battle another fence section and coax it toward the garden.

  “Let’s not go opening any healed wounds right now,” I replied, noting her grow
ing grin. “Why should we bother poor Mrs. Frederickson and her family when we know Mr. Frederickson will be by in a while?”

  I felt her pat my hand. “That’s my girl. Always being nice to others. Good old Abby.”

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Frederickson considered my request, looking as if I’d asked him to come in and give Sunshine a long French kiss—and Sunshine had the plague. Rather than push for a response, I decided to wait him out, hoping the sour look covering his face would disappear.

  He opened his mouth to reply but paused. Glancing back over his shoulder, he stared for a moment at the space between the barn and what he’d told me was once upon a time a chicken coop. Whether he thought his wife, or perhaps my missing husband, was about to walk through that space, I couldn’t tell.

  “I’m not so sure what the missus would think of that idea,” he replied, being sure to keep his voice nice and low. Never knew when the missus might wander into the devil’s playground.

  I moved a little closer; he took a half step away from me.

  “Maybe she wouldn’t need to know,” I whispered though I knew both he and Sunshine heard me.

  He pointed toward the garden. “I can see you two when you’re out there. From anywhere on my property. It’s pretty flat here, ya know.”

  Sunshine pushed between us. “Just who exactly wears the pants in your family, old man?”

  He took another half step away from us before answering. “That would be me.” Was that a hint of pride I detected in his voice? “Course, I let her believe she does most days—the missus, that is.”

  So much for this man and pride. A new plan was needed.

  Two days later, before the midday meal was served in nearby farms, we had all the remaining sections out of the barn and propped up on the far corner of the house. A good morning’s work.

  “Now you two can walk them out to the garden from here,” our helper advised. “Do me a favor, though, and wait until you see me go inside for the meal. No need in having to fess up to Mrs. Frederickson what I been up to all morning.”

  “Just what she think you been up to all morning, anyway?” Sunshine asked in a happier tone than she usually used on our neighbor.

  He looked down and kicked at the gravel beneath his worn boots. “I told her I was running over to the Stewarts’ to work on a trade for calves and pigs.”

  Sunshine’s face screwed tight with confusion. “Which ones are they, again?”

  Mr. Frederickson turned and pointed toward the road. “Oh, just south and east of here. Maybe two and a half or three miles. They’re a real nice family, and they—”

  “Moved out of the area last winter,” I added. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Frederickson?”

  For the first time since what was known as the “early-morning milk incident,” I saw the man blush.

  “Well, I know that,” he admitted, “and so do you, Mrs. Turner. But my wife isn’t aware of that just yet.”

  “And when’s she gonna find out?” Sunshine asked.

  He slapped his gloves against his dried palms and turned for his wagon. “When I get home and tell her I spent all morning searching for them, only to find out they moved.”

  He mounted his wagon as if he hadn’t done any hard labor that morning, but he had. “Good day, ladies. See you in two days, now. Mark that down, Mrs. Turner.”

  We watched him disappear out the drive to the north. When I turned, I knew Sunshine was up to something again.

  “You think he told you two days so you’d remember he was coming so you won’t go dashing out on the porch all naked again?” she asked with a smirk. “Or does that old coot think if he tells you when he’s coming back, you’ll do it again?”

  It was my turn to grin. “I’m not sure about that, Sunshine. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  Two more days were needed to get the fencing to the garden and set in place. Though they were two days of backbreaking hard work, we could be proud of what we accomplished in that time.

  Could have, would have, should have. There was a lot of that in our lives. All it took was another two days, and our pride would fall.

  Chapter 16

  Several nights later, violent late-spring thunderstorms rocked the area. We had known they were coming. Sunshine noticed the storm clouds just before sunset, pointing them out to me in the southwestern sky.

  I told her I thought they’d go south of us. At the time, I knew it was wishful thinking. We were due for storms.

  All evening, before we went to bed, we watched the far-off lightning. At first, the light show was contained to the clouds—what my father had always called heat lightning. But as the night grew darker and the storms edged closer, we witnessed cloud-to-ground bolts of bright white light.

  This wasn’t going around us; this one was hitting us dead on.

  The room was alight with quick flashes. The rolling booms that followed caused Sunshine to grip me closer from behind. Feeling her shaking arms around my waist, I stroked her dry skin, hoping to calm her some.

  “I don’t wanna die tonight!” she screamed after one particularly violent eruption of light and sound. The house shook it was so bad; the loose glass in the ancient wooden windowpanes threatened to explode. I understood her concern.

  I sang softly to her, which usually worked. And it seemed to work again. Except for the times when I had to sing at the top of my lungs to come close to covering the sounds of the storm outside our home.

  After hours of bolts of light and booms and driving rain, the storm finally abated. Through the bedroom door, I could still see the clouds light up in the eastern sky. But gone was the thunder, the rain.

  Behind me, Sunshine began to snore, and I knew she was finally no longer afraid. With her arms still wrapped tightly around my waist, we fell asleep as we did many nights, holding hands.

  I would have preferred to sleep in, but my bedmate made that impossible. What I assumed was a bad dream made her toss and turn, waking me just before dawn. When she finally calmed down, never waking once during the terror, I rolled over and noted the first pinkish hues of morning in the eastern sky.

  Slightly after I fell back to sleep, the covers were torn from my body. I rolled over to grab my half back, only to find the entire set clutched tightly around her body.

  I fetched another blanket from the old hope chest at the end of the bed and managed a few more minutes of sleep. It wasn’t long before her morning ritual of lying on her back, snoring like a drunken lumberjack, finally ended my quest for sleep.

  I rose feeling exhausted. Maybe, if I was lucky, I’d managed four hours of slumber. But I doubted it had been even that much. Perhaps I’d take a nap after the midday meal – perhaps.

  Wandering into the kitchen, I checked the cookstove—completely dead. Not even a hint of an orange ember remained. Fine, I’d start anew.

  I gathered kindling from the back porch, along with the few pieces of paper we had left. Someone needed to scavenge, and by someone, I meant Mr. Frederickson or one of his sons. They could find anything a person wanted or desired. And quite honestly, the price was never as high as they could have demanded.

  Blowing on the new flames, I watched the fire take off as the small pieces of wood and bark crackled to life. With that done, I fetched a small container of water from the larger pail on the porch. I let my eyes survey the side yard and what had once been a gravel driveway many years ago.

  It was still covered in chalky brown dust and small pieces of gravel. Though there was no dust that morning, I was sure. The rains of the night before had left it rutted and soggy. A whole lot of time would be needed before it would dry out. Perhaps some sun and wind would help.

  Slowly, daylight began to filter back into the gray world. I pondered what today would bring, tomorrow, maybe next week. Was Brady moments away from returning from Rigby? Was Sasha safe; was she happy?

  I chased away the anxiety, hearing Sunshine’s voice in the back of my mind: Stay in the moment, Abby. Stay now.r />
  Chapter 17

  We were in the lull, Sunshine and I, between planting and weeding. It would take two weeks or so before we’d be able to determine what was growth and what was not.

  That was the problem, of course. When things were busy, like almost every day, it was easy to keep my mind off my worries. But this upcoming period of time always caused me trouble.

  Even when Walker and Sasha and Brady had lived under this roof, I worried during the late spring. For a number of years, the road brought trouble. Though that trouble disappeared in the short cold winter days, they came in renewed hordes when the warmer weather returned.

  But the varmints, whom the Amish referred to as road scum, didn’t last long after the ten-year mark. Populations, we were told, had diminished everywhere. Disease followed by death followed by more disease took its toll on humanity. Especially those who lived in large cities, packed so tightly together.

  By the time people figured out just how contagious everything was, death had already worked its bony tendrils around smaller pockets of population. The bottom line was less people, less road scum.

  When it wasn’t people from the road, the weather reared its ugly head. Some springs had so much rain planting was delayed a month. Others were bone dry, forcing us to borrow the Amish horses and ploughs. Then there were those few Aprils and Mays when the snows wouldn’t relent. My God, winter could be so long when people were cooped up with little to do.

  My first husband was a rotten farmer. Bradley, unlike Brady, had never gotten the hang of working the land. In our first spot, we battled people from the road too much. Two years later, we moved deeper into the country, away from the constant trouble.

  If Bradley wouldn’t have somehow taken a deer our third fall together, we would have starved. Some days, I wondered if that would have been such a bad thing. Dying would have saved me 19 more years of this hell.