In late fall, work
slowed for Jonathan. In the winter, it
practically stopped. Jonathan was in his
winter, he knew. A winter without
springs. Without summers to look forward
to. Without falls to gather in the
harvest and settle in. He pulled the
tractor into the barn and shut it off, wondered what this place would look like
without the barn, without the farmhouse.
Full of house after house after house full of people who wanted to
escape the city, who claimed to want the land, then did nothing with it except
call a lawn care company in to blast it with chemicals once a week. He glanced at the trailer. Where would the little silver trailer
go?
God, he loved that
child.
He loved her more than she
knew.
More, probably, than he was
entitled to.
But not more than he ought.
Lord knew she needed as much love as she
could get.
One Saturday night
in May, the story went, long after her stomach had begun to bulge, Neala
Jackson went to the midnight
drive-in with a girlfriend. She returned to the apartment she shared with her
mother and four younger brothers, each produced in quick succession, one every
year until Neala’s father skipped town.
The front door was wide open, swinging on rusted hinges. There was no furniture left behind; no sheets
or blankets or towels. Only a note,
taped to the refrigerator, written in her mother’s unsure hand: “I’m sorry, but
I’m just too tired to raise up any more babies.” Her mother had left Neala nothing but an old
Chevy truck and a bank account—probably long forgotten—with a few thousand
dollars in it. Neala slept on the floor of the apartment that night, with
nothing but her sadness to cover herself—or maybe her anger. The first thing the next day, she drove right
over to Vincent’s Vintage Vehicles and paid cash for a reconditioned trailer. She hitched it up to the back of the Chevy
and drove it right onto the farm, smack-dab in the middle of the alfalfa field.
Jonathan couldn’t
turn her away: Neala Jackson reminded him of an animal in a trap. Helpless and afraid. Rabid.
The neighbors said he was crazy, at first. Said he was too nice for his own good. Said that Neala Jackson was nothing but
trouble. Then they just stopped talking.
A shallow creek
cut the farm in half. Years ago,
Jonathan caught Ellie standing stark naked, knee deep in cold water. Ellie must’ve been no more than two.
“This where you
bathe every day?”
Shamelessly,
almost defiantly she looked him in the eye.
“Yeah.”
“Well, then.”
Jonathan had scratched at his jaw.
“Where do you go to the bathroom?”
“In a little pot. Momma tosses it in the weeds by the track.”
Jonathan shook his
head and pursed his lips and thought about what the neighbors would say
next. First thing the following day, he
plumbed in a water line and a small septic system.
In time, Jonathan
plowed around the trailer and seeded a tiny lawn. Annie planted some of her perennials in a
little flowerbed near the front door.
And, eventually,
after it looked like we were going to stay for good, Jonathan put in a gravel
driveway leading to the trailer.
Jonathan looked at
the trailer. Neala Jackson never uttered
one word of thanks. But despite her
apparent ingratitude, he wouldn’t have done it any other way. Because she had given him—and Annie—the
child.
The house smelled
of furniture oil and cinnamon and contentment.
“Annie?”
“In the
back.”
The door slammed
shut as Jonathan followed his nose down a hallway lined with discolored family photographs
in dusty frames. There was his Annie, at
her usual post in the kitchen. She’d
kept her looks, grown more beautiful, in fact, with each passing year. As thin as Jonathan and nearly as tall. He smiled at her outfit. While most women her age tended toward
flowered dresses and blue hair, Annie wore holey jeans and Jonathan’s old tee
shirts. And when her hair needed a trim,
she’d take a chair to the back porch, tie a sheet around her neck and hand the
scissors to Jonathan. Jonathan would
never get a job in a beauty parlor. But
he did a decent enough job. Enough to
keep Annie happy. And that was all he’d
ever wanted. To keep Annie happy.
She wiped her
hands on her apron and turned to him.
“Jonathan, when the Good Lord decides to take
you, he’ll have to take that old Ford as well.”
She smiled and kissed his cheek.
“Hungry?”
He took her in his
arms and rested his head against the top of her chest. He looked out the window. Beyond
Beyond the barn
and the chicken coop; past Annie’s vegetable garden and the muddy field lay a
set of railroad tracks. When he was a
kid, Jonathan spent hours on those tracks.
He’d place an ear on the rails and imagine he could hear the train
approaching. He’d jump off at the last
second and watch the train passing through the farm, chugging its heart out and
chanting progress, progress under its breath as it puffed along and disappeared
around the bend.
But it was always
a dream: The last train left town years ago, taking progress right along with
it, leaving only the tall weeds that grew between those abandoned rails; weeds
where, Johanthan knew, Ellie would hide for hours waiting for her mother to
finish up with her current boyfriend. He
smiled. Ellie found treasure in those
weeds: Endless balls of iron ore and heavy spikes that she’d lug home to
Annie. Every time Ellie brought his wife
something, Annie would stop what she was doing immediately. She’d sit down. Examine the treasure carefully and exclaim
over it like that piece of rusted out iron was the highlight of her day. Annie’d kept them, too. Kept them in a shoebox underneath her bed,
along with all the other memories she couldn’t bear to divorce herself from, no
matter how happy. No matter how painful.
“Annie?”
“Hmmm?” She pulled away. Smiled.
God, how he loved those eyes.
“Where do unshared
memories go, when someone dies?”
She closed her
eyes, thought for a moment. He loved the
way Annie took his questions seriously, ridiculous as they may sound. “Some memories, Jonathan, aren’t meant to be
shared. Those must die.” She grew thoughtful for a moment. “Depressing, isn’t it?”
“Does place have
memories? Does this place,” he gestured
around the kitchen. “…have memories?”
“Yes. It does.”
She smiled. “The people who move
in after us will feel our memories, will feel our love and our history. Our pain and, yes,” she nodded sadly. “Our loss.”
“But what if this
place—after we’re gone, I mean—is no more?”
She frowned. “A place can’t be no more.”
“What if someone tore
down the barn and the house? Would the
memory of place still be here?”
“This place will
never be torn down, Jonathan. You’d
never let that happen.”
“Humor me…”
“Memories.”
She leaned against the oven, arms crossed. “I believe that when a place is torn down, destroyed,
then the memories of that place are destroyed as well.”
“What about the
trees? The soil? The plants?”
“Jonathan, if
you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, there will be no trees left on
this farm.” She frowned. “This is hypothetical, isn’t it?”
“I’m getting a lot
of pressure to sell.”
“No one can force
you to do what you don’t want to do, Jonathan.
I ought to know that.”
“They keep telling
me that there are no heirs to the place; that sooner or later I will be gone,
and you will be gone, and there will be no one holding on.” He stared out the window. Blinked back tears.
“Ellie,” Annie
says. “Give the farm to Ellie.”
“Her mother…”
“Doesn’t need to
know. Jonathan, you love that child just as
much as you love this farm. Give the
farm to Ellie.”
Labels: Fiction, Medford