Under the Haystack Read online

  “Dear Girls,” she wrote. “I have gone to help Aunt Doree, who is sick in the hospital. I don’t know how long I will be gone, but you are old enough to take care of yourselves and the animals while we are gone.”

  Sandy stopped writing and went to the coffee tin, pushed way back in the corner of the cupboard. She took off the top and poured its contents onto the cracked blue tablecloth. Her quick hands trapped the coins. She counted them and stacked them. Then she counted the bills. It came to $22.87. Not very much, but they had their own milk and eggs, and there was also the locker with beef and fruit in it—not a whole lot, because it was getting into summer and time to replenish, but it would help. And there were several hams hanging from a rafter in the barn. Sandy grimaced at the thought of the strong, salty meat, but it was something.

  She scooped up the money, returned it to the can, and put the can back on the shelf. Taking up her pencil, she finished the letter. “Now, Marie and June, I want you to mind Sandy and be big girls until I get home.” Sandy signed it, “Love, Mother.”

  She put the letter on the drainboard beneath a pile of school books. Yesterday had been the last day of school, and they had had stacks of things to bring home. They could have easily set their books on top of a note without seeing it.

  Sandy went into the bedroom where her sisters slept. June lay curled up in a tight ball, her face small and vulnerable in sleep. Marie lay on her stomach, her arm flung over June as if protecting her. Sandy suddenly felt overwhelmed by the responsibility. Tears welled up. Darn, darn, darn! she thought as she swallowed hard. Darn her mother for leaving them for choosing him.

  When the tears threatened to spill over, her new resolve hardened. The streak that her mother had always called stubborn grew so strong that she straightened her thin shoulders and stood taller. They could do it. They would live here alone, together. But no one must know that they had been abandoned.

  chapter 2

  “Time to get up, you two.” Sandy leaned over and mussed June’s hair and tickled Marie. The girls protested and ducked farther under the covers, pulling them tightly around them. “That’s not going to do you any good.” Sandy pulled the covers back, leaving the two girls clinging to each other in the middle of the bed. “Come on now. We’ve lots to do.”

  All of a sudden June sat up, remembering. “Is Mommy home yet?”

  “Not yet, but she will be,” Sandy assured her. “Now you hurry and get dressed.”

  Sandy went into the kitchen. She started banging pots and pans around getting breakfast, her movements practiced and familiar. For a moment she paused, stood on her tiptoes, and peered out the dingy window above the sink. Nothing moved in the early morning light.

  Sandy turned back to breakfast. She removed the big ham from the refrigerator and set it on a drainboard, which was covered with a pale-gold linoleum that had cracked and decayed near the sink. She pushed aside a limp, green curtain that hung in front of the few shelves he had roughed in, and took out a frying pan.

  The speckled linoleum on the floor of the kitchen was cracked, dirty, and full of nail holes. In one place the bare wood had been exposed by the stove, because its base was smaller than that of its wood-burning predecessor. A table and six wooden chairs huddled in one corner across from the refrigerator.

  Sandy now took two blue enamel pans out of the refrigerator and set them on the drainboard. She found the big, flat skimming spoon and started skimming the thick yellow cream into a cream jug that was three fourths full. They’d have to churn in a day or so, she noted, as she set it back in the refrigerator. Then she got a big metal pitcher and poured the skim milk into it, spilling only a little. After that she cut a thick slice of the home-cured ham, placed it in the frying pan, covered it with cold water, and set it on the stove to boil. She remembered the first time they had tried to eat the ham without boiling it first and wrinkled her nose at the thought of the salty taste.

  Marie came from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “What are we going to do?” There was a slight edge to her voice, but the fear of the night had dimmed with the rising sun.

  “We’re going to do our chores, just like always. You and June will go out and milk right after breakfast.”

  “What are you going to do?” Marie asked, balking again at the thought of milking one more cow than usual.

  “I’m going to clean the house and then walk down to Mr. Ferguson’s and find out when they start picking strawberries. Clean your books off the drainboard while I finish breakfast.”

  “They’re your books too.”

  “Well, take them all.”

  “I don’t see why—”

  “Just do what I say,” Sandy said, banging the dishes on the table in exasperation.

  Sullenly, Marie went to the drainboard and started picking up the books. Sandy watched her out of the corner of her eye. Marie reached for the note and put it on top the books. Then she paused, and Sandy could see her reading it.

  “Look at this, Sandy,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “It looks like a note from Mother.”

  “What does it say? What does it say?” came June’s eager voice as she rushed into the kitchen.

  “Let me see it.” Sandy held out her hand.

  “No, I found it.” Marie backed away, holding the note close.

  “Well, read it, read it!” implored June.

  “Dear Girls,” Marie read hesitantly and then paused.

  “Hurry up, what else does it say?”

  “Give me a chance! I can’t read her writing very well.”

  June snatched the letter from Marie’s hand and gave it to Sandy. “Here, you read it. She’s so slow!”

  “You didn’t give me a chance!”

  “Dear Girls,” Sandy began.

  When she had finished reading the note, the three of them stood silent, the only sound that of the ham bubbling gently on the stove.

  “How long will she be gone?” asked June in a trembly voice.

  “She doesn’t say, but probably just a week or so,” Sandy said lightly. “And just think, a week without him!” They all brightened at that thought.

  After breakfast Marie and June started for the barn. “You strain the milk good,” Sandy instructed, “and don’t save out as much for us. Leave just half a pan and put the rest in the can.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Anything else, your highness?” Marie bowed.

  “Oh, come on, Marie,” said June, pulling on the bucket.

  Sandy walked along the edge of the road with Shep at her heels. The Fergusons lived about a mile and a half from their place. She and her sisters had picked berries and beans for Mr. Ferguson for two summers now. If they worked hard, they could add quite a bit of money to the coffee can. June couldn’t pick too much, Sandy mused, but if she could keep Marie working, they should be able to make about thirty dollars a day during the peak. Sandy herself had averaged about fifteen dollars a day last year, and over twenty dollars during the peak. She walked along, figuring.

  “Hey, what’s with you, deaf or something?”

  Sandy looked up, startled. “Oh, hi, Joe. Didn’t hear you.”

  “I guess not. Where’re you headed?” Joe fell in step with her. He was a tall, gangly boy a year older than Sandy. Already his black hair was beginning to bleach red on the ends, and his face had tanned almost enough to hide the freckles across his nose. His hands were too big for his arms, and he had a habit of thrusting them deep in his pockets. The muscles across his shoulders had begun to round out his T-shirt.

  “I’m on my way up to Fergusons’ to find out when they start berry picking. Are you picking this year?”

  “I guess so. I don’t start cutting hay until about the last week of June.” They walked along in silence. “Going swimming this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know. Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “Just depends.”

  They turned down the gravel driveway that led to the Ferguson h
ouse. Joe picked up some stones and threw them at the telephone pole. “Glad school is out?”

  “I guess so. What’s high school like?”

  “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Do you like changing classes?”

  “Yeah, it’s better than getting stuck with the same teacher all day.”

  “Did you go out for football?”

  “Freshman squad.”

  “Like it?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Sandy knocked on the Fergusons’ front door.

  Back home Marie was bossing June around in Sandy’s absence. “It’s your turn to clean the barn,” she said.

  “I cleaned it last time.”

  “Yes, but I had to get the hay down, so you have to clean it again.”

  June knew Marie wasn’t being fair, but rather than make her angry, she took the flat, short-handled shovel and started scraping the boards behind the stanchions. By the time she got to the open door, the shovel was so heavy she couldn’t lift it. The manure fell out the door. June tried to scoop it up the best she could and throw it onto the pile; but her thin arms lacked the strength to throw it far enough, and it fell short.

  They let the cows out, fed Fred, and carried the heavy milk pails to the house. Marie put filter cloths in the strainer and set it into the big milk can. Together they picked up a bucket and started pouring the milk, waiting now and then when the strainer became too full. June set out the milk pan. They poured it half full, and Marie put it into the refrigerator. They put the strainer and buckets in the sink, fastened the lid on the can and, between them, half carried, half dragged the can to the edge of the drive, where a wooden shelter was built to protect it from the weather. The milk truck would be by before noon.

  “You feed the chickens and gather the eggs while I clean the pails and the strainer,” said Marie.

  June went into the feed shed, where they kept the chicken corn in a garbage pail to keep out the rats. She scooped up the usual amount for the hens and went into the pen, throwing it as she walked. The chickens all scattered with the grain. They picked the ground clean and then began scratching in search of the elusive kernel.

  June took the basket to the nests and began to gather eggs. A big white hen sat on one nest. When June started to reach under her, she fluffed her feathers and pecked June’s fingers. June jerked her hand back in pain. Anger rose in her, and she pulled back her hand with the intention of smacking the chicken; but she changed her mind. There were twelve nests in all, and June checked each one. As she put her hand into the last nest, something warm and furry ran across her fingers and darted out at her. A shriek erupted from her. She dropped the eggs and tore out of the chicken house.

  “What’s the matter?” called Marie, running from the house.

  “A rat!” June cried. “This big!” She held her hands about two feet apart.

  “What happened to the eggs?”

  “I dropped them in there.”

  “Great! How many did you bust?”

  “I don’t know, but you’re not getting me back in there ever again!” June shuddered and began to cry.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop blubbering. You’re not hurt.” Marie went to the door of the chickenhouse, looked in cautiously, and then entered. A few minutes later she reappeared carrying the basket. “You’re pretty lucky. You broke only three. We’ll bury the shells, and Sandy won’t know the difference. Come on.”

  “You didn’t use hot water and soap to clean the strainer and buckets!” Sandy accused.

  “So what? They’re clean,” said Marie.

  “You call that clean? Look at that milk film!”

  “Oh, don’t be so fussy. You’re worse than Momma!” snapped Marie.

  “Look, the dirtier the buckets, the higher the bacteria count, and the more we get docked on the milk check.”

  “So, that’s no skin off your nose.”

  “It may be skin off all our noses. That milk check and what we can make picking berries is all the money we’ll have.”

  “What do we need money for if Momma’s coming back in a week?” asked Marie, her eyes narrowing, watching Sandy.

  “It may be longer than a week—she didn’t say. Anyway, we have to be careful, and you aren’t helping fighting me all the time!”

  As the two older girls glared at one another, their argument was interrupted by a knock on the door. They hesitated, and then Sandy went to the door. Mrs. Holdermann, their neighbor, stood before her.

  “I want to talk to your mother!” she said snappishly.

  June piped up from behind Sandy, “She’s gone.”

  Sandy added hastily, “June means she isn’t here right now. What do you want?”

  Mrs. Holdermann pulled on a leash and brought forward a small dachshund. The dog had been brown once, but now it was a yellowish brown, and Sandy caught a whiff of a sour stench radiating from the small dog as it moved.

  “Just look at Frieda. Always she is covered with milk. I have told your mother and told her. Still Frieda comes home covered with milk. The next time I call the police!” Mrs. Holdermann whirled, and Sandy could almost hear her heels click. Then she stomped off, pulling the small dog behind her.

  Sandy shut the door and turned to Marie and June. They grinned at her, but Sandy didn’t smile, even though she had played the same game herself many times. It was a game Frieda liked. She often came to the barn at milking time and sat in the corner, her narrow body propped against the wall, her long pencil snout open. The girls took turns squirting milk into her mouth. Since hitting Frieda’s mouth was impossible, the small dog always returned home covvered with milk.

  Mrs. Holdermann’s threat might have amused Sandy at any other time, but not today. She turned to June and snapped at her, “Don’t ever say that again!”

  “What?”

  Sandy took hold of June and shook her. “Don’t ever say that Momma is not here!” Her fingers dug into June’s bony shoulder.

  “Ow! You’re hurting me,” whimpered June.

  “Cut it out, Sandy!” Marie pushed at her older sister.

  Sandy let go of June and tried to smooth over the panic that had crept into her. “Look, no more milk baths for Frieda. Okay? We can’t have the police come snooping around. They wouldn’t let us stay here for even a week. They’d separate us, farm us out. We can’t let people know we’re alone.”

  The urgency in Sandy’s voice frightened Marie and June. They both nodded silently, June still rubbing the place on her shoulder where Sandy’s fingers had dug into the flesh.

  chapter 3

  The daytime routine was not so different with their mother gone. Sandy rather enjoyed running things completely, and her firm hand was felt by Marie and June.

  “She’s getting so bossy you can hardly live with her,” Marie complained to June. “Boy, will I be glad when Momma gets home.”

  The nights were a different matter. When darkness fell, insecurity and doubt moved in. The girls attempted to cloak these feelings with discussions of their mother’s return.

  “Why doesn’t she write?” asked Marie near the end of their first week alone.

  “Why don’t we write to her?” exclaimed June, getting up from the table. “Where’s the tablet, Sandy? She’s probably awful worried about us.” June sat down, tore off a sheet of paper, and started her letter: “Dear Mommy, How is Aunt Doree? When are you coming home?” She printed the letters in neat, square blocks.

  From that night on, letters to their mother became an evening ritual after all the chores were done. It was a time of silent communion, when each girl wrote of her frustrations and hopes, with the sound of pencil scratching broken only by Marie’s “How do you spell . . . ?” Marie wrote complainingly, “Sandy’s so bossy . . . makes us work . . . .” June wrote, “I miss you so, Mommy. When are you coming back?”

  At first Sandy found it hard to fake a letter. Then her anger welled up and spilled out. “Where are you? . . . Come back!” she demanded. Each evening S
andy took the letters, put them into an envelope, and sealed and addressed it.

  The letters accumulated for three days—for the lack of stamps, Sandy said.

  Then one day Sandy announced that they were going to the store. “Oh, good!” said June. “We can buy some stamps.”

  “We also need bread, flour, and sugar.” Sandy sat at the table making a list. “How much grain do we have for the chickens, June?”

  “About half a can.”

  “We don’t have much bran left for the cows, Sandy. Maybe two or three more feedings,” volunteered Marie.

  Sandy tried to remember how much a sack of bran cost. Was it three or four dollars? She took the coffee can down from the cupboard and fingered through the bills. Finally, she took out ten dollars and put it in a small purse, which she shoved, along with her list, into her jeans.

  “Get the wagon, June. We’ll need it for the bran.”

  They started out. Marie and Sandy took turns pulling June until they got tired. Then they all walked along, slowly heading toward Samuels’ Corner two and a half miles away. Mr. Samuel sold everything: groceries, stamps, grain. He also owned the freezer locker plant.

  “We’ll get something from the locker while we’re there. Maybe some steak and a roast and some hamburger.” Sandy was talking more to herself than to June or Marie.

  “Well, it’s about time we had something besides eggs and ham. If I have to eat one more slice of that awful ham, I’ll heave right at the table!” Marie snorted.

  “Why can’t we have chicken?” asked June. “I like chicken.”

  “I’ll have to see what we have in the locker.”

  Sandy placed the things she wanted on the counter next to the cash register. There were three loaves of day-old bread, ten pounds of sugar, five pounds of flour, six cans of beans, three cans of fruit cocktail, and ten pounds of potatoes. She paused by the seed rack. The pictures of tomatoes, beans, and corn were enticing. Maybe they should plant a garden. She studied the rack carefully, then selected the seeds and put them next to her groceries. “Would you total this, Mr. Sam? And please add on a sack of bran.”