Growing Season Read online

  “You’re doing the right thing for Horace, for Wilbur, too,” Melinda had told him, in tears then herself. “And I’ll take care of everything here, tell your mom not to worry. I’ll just show Hobo as much love as I can.”

  But so far, Hobo wanted no more than a quick pat on the head. He spent most of his time under the picnic table, or in his doghouse. But some of the kibble was disappearing from his bowl, and Melinda hoped it was a sign he hadn’t quite given up on life.

  She took her bathroom tote across the hall. She stacked her towels on an empty shelf in the linen closet, reserving one hand towel for the tiny bath downstairs. The clawfoot tub gleamed, and a new white shower curtain slid on the rings above. She arranged her makeup and other items on the scrubbed vanity, then placed new aqua bath mats in front of the tub and sink.

  “Upstairs, done!” She snapped her fingers as she made the turn on the stair landing and took the last steps down to the living room. She paused, admiring how perfect her beige chenille sofa looked resting at a slight angle under the picture window.

  Her bed and the couch were the only pieces of furniture she brought from her apartment. The farmhouse was furnished, and the moving trailer was small. But the sofa really made the space feel like home, and it was worth all the tugging and pulling it took to get it there. There had been more grunting and puffing to get Horace’s old rust-colored couch wedged into his bedroom while still leaving enough space to reach the tiny bathroom in the back. It was apparent that Horace’s sofa hadn’t been moved in years, based on the piles of mysterious fuzz that had to be swept away from the baseboard and floor after she and her dad carried the sagging couch into the next room.

  Horace’s worn leather chair remained just where he’d left it, aimed toward the television. Melinda reached around the recliner, opened one of the glass-paned bookcase doors, and gently slid over a few titles on a lightly populated shelf to make room for some of her own books. Her plastic bin for the living room also included her laptop and her favorite throw blanket. Surely it wouldn’t be chilly enough to need it, but the lavender knit throw would look lovely draped over her couch. Three picture frames had made the trip wrapped in the blanket, and she took a moment to enjoy the photos as she put them on the mantel.

  There was one of her with her parents and siblings, taken last summer. Another was a casual shot of Cassie and Susan from Melinda’s birthday celebration in March. And then Oreo, lounging in his favorite corner of the beige sofa, curled up on the blanket Melinda now held in her arms. Wiping away a stray tear, she draped the throw over the couch and set her laptop on the dining room table. The internet connection had been turned on late last week, the wi-fi router looking comically out of place on top of the built-in buffet. Maybe tonight she’d have a chance to use it.

  But first, lunch. They had stocked the refrigerator and a few of the cabinets with staples yesterday, trying to anticipate what she would want to eat in the coming week. During the lean years just out of college, she had become a master meal planner and coupon clipper. Those skills would serve her well this summer, as she was no longer a few blocks from a grocery store and would need to pack her lunch on the days she worked at Prosper Hardware.

  She made a hasty sandwich and popped open a bag of chips, then considered both the dining-room and kitchen tables before sitting down in the kitchen, across from the double window. It was soon obvious why Horace preferred this spot. She could look out on the side yard, see the barn and front pasture and the fields beyond. At least she didn’t have to mow the expanse of lawn surrounding the house. There was a riding lawn mower in the machine shed, and Kevin had hired a neighbor named Nathan to come by once a week.

  Some of the magenta peonies were still blooming along the south side of the house, and she had noticed a collection of white vases in the china cabinet in the dining room. A clutch of flowers would be the perfect, final touch for the fireplace mantel. A few more totes needed her attention, and then it would be time to find a pair of scissors and select some blooms.

  Melinda had cheated a bit on her one-box-per-room plan. She didn’t need to bring anything specifically for the dining room, so that tote held her everyday dishes, some silverware and cups, and a selection of plastic containers. The kitchen box held her best skillet and her smallest and largest glass pots, some dishtowels and two cookie sheets that could double as pizza pans.

  Horace’s meager supply of dishes was tucked in next to the sink, with nothing stored too high or too low, and his few pots and skillets were wedged in a cabinet to the left of the stove. She decided to store hers off to the right. Most of the shelves were dusty and empty, but one had been carefully wiped down and a pouch of food set right inside the door. A note was taped to the front.

  The bag of dog biscuits was nearly full. The scrawled, hesitant writing on the paper had to be Horace’s.

  Melinda, thank you for coming into our lives at just the right time. It means so much to know you’ll be here when I’m away with Wilbur. I’m sure you can figure out what to do with these. Two in the morning, two at night. There is another bag down in the cellar, on the canning shelves. I buy them at the hardware store. Horace

  She clutched the pouch to her chest, touched by the kindness in Horace’s note. She could imagine him sitting there at the kitchen table, carefully measuring his words.

  The last month had been a disoriented dream. Now her life had purpose again. She set the treat pouch on the counter and carefully removed the note.

  “You came along just when I needed you, too, Horace.” She slid the piece of paper under a rooster magnet on the refrigerator door so she could enjoy it several times each day.

  She couldn’t see past August, didn’t know what was coming next. “But I’m here now,” she said to the house, looking out to find the sheep grazing east of the barn. “Thank you for giving me a place to be.”

  The last tote was her laundry basket. She tucked her cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink, then headed for the basement steps. “This will be interesting,” she said as she peered into the murky darkness below. Last week’s tour, cut short by Annie’s escape, hadn’t included the cellar. There was no light switch on either side of the basement door, but she found a chain dangling from a single bulb in the stairwell ceiling. It popped on, much to her relief, as did some other lights down below.

  As she descended the wooden steps, their gray paint faded and peeling, her nostrils were hit with that musty yet somehow comforting smell unique to the cellars of old houses. It spoke of decades of hard work and memories. She always thought that the true essence of an old house lived its hidden corners, those spaces in the basements, attics and closets that were rarely disturbed, the forgotten items tossed there holding on to the past.

  Horace’s washer and dryer looked as if they’d seen many a heavy-duty cycle, but they were spotless and sturdy. And judging by the industrial cleaners lined up on the metal shelf above the washer, he knew his way around a muddy pair of overalls. A battered utility sink, slightly askew but bolted into the adjoining wall, hadn’t fared as well. She was inspecting another wire shelf, jammed with bottles and tubes that appeared to be veterinary supplies, when she was startled by a banging noise coming from upstairs.

  CHAPTER 8

  Melinda? Are you home?” An unfamiliar female voice drifted down from the kitchen.

  “I’m on my way up. Be there in a minute.”

  An elderly couple had already let themselves into the back porch and were peering in the kitchen door’s window. But they smiled and waved, and the woman was holding a pie. Melinda suddenly felt at ease.

  “We told Horace we’d come by to see how you’re getting along. I’m Mabel Bauer, and this is Ed, my husband. We’re just up the road, past the bridge.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. You have those beautiful peonies right along the drive. Come in, I’m still trying to sort out my things. That pie looks wonderful.”

  Mabel, beaming at the praise, set the pie plate on the counter. A vibrant
scarf of greens and pinks protected her white curls from the summer breeze and humidity. Melinda noticed that while Mabel was wearing a faded pair of khaki capris, her berry-colored top matched her lipstick perfectly.

  “The pie’s strawberry. I just made the first ones today from our patch. Berries are a little early this year, so hopefully that means the season runs longer. Yours are a bit behind ours, I think, it will probably be another week before they’ll be ready to pick.”

  Melinda was amazed at how Mabel could possibly know the current status of Horace’s strawberry bed, but then quickly realized her new neighbor had been peeking around the yard before knocking on the back door.

  Mabel gave Melinda an unexpected hug, and Ed grinned and clapped her on the shoulder.

  “It’ll be good to have another young person in the neighborhood,” Ed said as he adjusted his red cap, then removed it. He was all angles where Mabel was round. Ed’s iron-gray hair was cropped close, his forearms brown from hours working in the sun. “Too many of us older folks around these days. How’s Horace doing? I know Thursday was the big move.”

  Melinda wasn’t sure what to say. Mabel and Ed meant well, that was clear, but Melinda sensed Horace was a private man and wouldn’t want everyone in the township to know all his business. “Kevin said he’s adjusting well,” she said casually. “It’s a big change, of course, but he and Wilbur are happy to be together again, so that will help.”

  Ed nodded, seemingly deep in thought. Mabel and Ed looked to be in their seventies, not so many years’ away from the decisions Horace was having to make.

  “Well, glad to hear he’s hanging in there,” Ed said. “We’ve been doing chores since he left. Wanted to come by and meet you, see if you had any questions or needed any help. And Mabel was over here the other day helping get the place ready.”

  “Oh, yes, it needed a scrubbing, that’s for sure,” Mabel cut in. “I don’t know when those floors had been polished last. And the curtains! They were fairly stiff with dust when we pulled them down to be washed.”

  “Thank you so much for doing all of that,” Melinda said warmly. “I couldn’t believe how the house was transformed from the way it was just over a week ago. Horace was trying to keep up, but I think it was tough for him to do on his own.” Behind her smile, her mind was churning. Should she offer Ed and Mabel coffee and slice up the pie? Or was it all for her? Where was the coffee, anyway? They seemed like the sort of people who’d just make themselves at home if they planned to stay. She’d just follow their lead.

  “He’s a sweet man. Wilbur, too.” Mabel shook her head. “It’s been hard on them, leaving this farm. They lived here their whole lives. Best neighbors you could ever ask for. I grew up on our place, Ed and I took it over when my parents moved to town decades ago. I remember coming over to visit Horace and Wilbur and their family even when I was small. Ada, their youngest sister, and I have been close friends since we were girls. She’s Kevin’s mother.”

  “Now Mabel, Melinda may not have time for a neighborhood history lesson just now,” Ed jokingly rolled his eyes and Mabel playfully swatted at him. “She’s got her hands full, unpacking and getting settled, figuring out the chores. How much experience you have with sheep and chickens?”

  “None, I’m afraid.” She might as well be honest. Her lack of knowledge would be clear soon enough. “My grandparents had a farm and I loved to visit. But I grew up in Swanton. We had a dog and a cat, and that was it.”

  “Well, that’s just fine,” Ed rubbed his hands together and gave her a kind smile. He was excited to show her the ropes. “Sheep are simple, and chickens more so. Do you have time for a few quick lessons?”

  “You bet.” She reached into a bin for the floral gardening gloves she bought last week. “Let me get my things.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Mabel said gently. “Let’s not use those, they’re so lovely.”

  Ed was already rummaging through the porch closet and pulled out a dingy pair of dull-orange cotton gloves, the kind sold in a pack of ten. “These are pretty dirty, but that’s the point.”

  Melinda, trying to hide her disgust, tugged on the gloves. Ed found a pair for Mabel, then took another for himself.

  “We’ve still got a few chickens, gave up the cows a few years ago. Now that’s work, milking twice a day,” Ed said as they went down the back steps. “Haven’t planted corn and beans for a decade. I’d rather putter in the garden or play with the grandkids than spend my days on a tractor.”

  Hobo, to Melinda’s surprise and relief, came out from under the picnic table with a faint wag in his tail.

  “Hobo, my friend!” Ed reached down to gently pat the dog’s head. “How are you getting on, buddy? Let’s go to the barn and see the sheep.”

  Hobo fell in step with Ed, and Melinda felt a lump form in her throat. In the country, you counted on your neighbors as if they were family. With the support and care offered by these two, she just might be able to keep her promises to Kevin and Horace.

  “I don’t know what to do about Hobo,” she told Mabel. “He seems to like Ed. Maybe he should stay with you? I don’t mean to impose, it just hurts to see Hobo so sad.”

  Mabel gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Horace and that dog were inseparable, that’s for sure. But don’t worry, Hobo will come around. He’s happier here at home than he’d be anywhere else. Besides, our Sammy wouldn’t want another dog on her farm. She’s territorial that way. Do you know how Hobo got his name? It’s a great story.”

  Melinda was starting to see that Mabel was full of information. “I’d love to hear it.”

  Ed was already to the barn, lifting the door’s iron latch and standing aside to let Hobo run ahead. Mabel lingered in the grass just off the gravel drive.

  “Three years ago, it was early spring … a warm spell but still March, patches of snow on the ground, when the weather can’t decide what season it wants to be. So, Horace and Wilbur came out one evening to do chores and they thought they heard a dog whimpering down in the lilac trees by the road. They hadn’t had a dog for over a year at that time, Marty had died of old age. Anyway, they went down to see what the deal was and there was Hobo, maybe three months old. Someone must have dumped him out, there’s no way such a little dog could walk far on his own. They called all around, no one was missing a pup. Or at least, they wouldn’t admit it.”

  Mabel pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. If she had any theories about who in the township might have let Hobo out at the Schermann farm, she was keeping those to herself.

  “They made him a small hut out of a cardboard box and brought him in on the back porch, fed him scraps and milk as they didn’t have any dog food around. About the second day, when they couldn’t find out where the pup came from, Wilbur came up with that name. And Hobo’s been here ever since.”

  “What a perfect name for a stray dog.” Melinda smiled, imagining Horace and Wilbur discovering the puppy and scrambling to care for him.

  They walked toward the open barn door, through which they could see Hobo happily accepting chin scratches from Ed.

  “We came over the first day Hobo was here,” Mabel went on. “Brought over some kibble. Horace and Wilbur said they were going to keep looking around for the pup’s owner, but I could tell right off they were already hooked. Hobo came along at the right time. Wilbur and Horace were both devastated when they lost Marty.”

  Ed’s appearance in the barn brought the ewes in from the pasture. The sheep nudged up to the feed bunks that lined their side of the aisle fence and let out a series of “baaaas” as they watched Ed play with Hobo and wondered when supper would be served. As Mabel and Melinda came near, some of the ewes backed up, hesitant. Melinda could see it would take several rounds of chores before she would be able to gain the flock’s trust.

  “Those must be the grain barrels over there?” She caught up to Ed and gestured to two fifty-gallon drums wedged along the aisle side of the fence. “Horace’s got the tops weighed down with those bricks,
I’m not sure why. Must be a pretty strong airflow coming in through the sheep’s door to push the lids off.”

  For a moment Ed looked as if he was about to laugh. Then he realized she wasn’t making a joke. “I’d bet Horace has those on there to keep the critters out of the oats and corn,” he said kindly. “Raccoons, probably, maybe an opossum or rats.”

  “Rats?” She froze in the alley and glanced around. She didn’t want to meet an opossum out here, or a raccoon either, but she could probably scare one of those off with a scrap of wood or a pitchfork. But the thought of rats, their whip-like tails slithering through the grain as they stuffed their creepy, toothy faces … well, that was too much. Good thing the days were long in the summer, and she would be doing both morning and evening chores in the daylight.

  “Oh, anytime you’ve got grain around, expect to have rats.” Ed lifted the lid on one of the barrels and tunneled the scoop down into the oats, a sound that brought a chorus of excited bleats from the sheep. “Just keep the weights on and you’ll be fine. The rats won’t want to see you, either, so if they’re around, they’ll take off running when they hear you come in the barn.”

  As Ed shook the oats into the feed bunks, she gazed down the center aisle of the barn and wondered where the rats might hide.

  The feeding area west of the main aisle was unused, with only a thin layer of stale straw covering the concrete floor. Too open, too visible. A solid wall divided the barn in half. From what she could see through the open doorway, the back part of the barn had two rows of stalls down its center, each with a trough toward the middle. The open space that made a U-shape around the pens included two closed pasture doors, one facing south and one west. The stairway up to the haymow was just on the other side of the supporting wall.