by Lea Wait
The farmhouse door swung open, and a plump woman came toward them, her hair pinned up and her sleeves rolled as though she’d been washing or kneading bread.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Neal,” said Cousin Ben. “I’m Ben Webber, from over to the mill.”
“Of course. I’ve seen you in church. What can I do for you, Mr. Webber?”
“My cousin, Nathaniel Webber, and his wife and boy, Jake here, moved into the old Crocker place today.”
Mrs. Neal turned to them. “Welcome to you. Where do you folks come from?”
“Boston,” said Father.
“And will you be farming?”
“I’ll be working at the mill, like Ben,” said Father.
“How old are you, Jake? Seems my Tom might be about your age.”
“Twelve, ma’am,” said Jake. “Thirteen in early January.”
“Luck comes to a baby born close to the New Year,” she declared. “But I suspect you all came for more than saying hello. Won’t you come in? I see you’ve a basket, Jake.”
The Neals’ kitchen was large and warm, and smelled of bread baking and vegetable soup simmering on their large stove. Jake inhaled deeply.
“The Webbers being from Boston and all, they didn’t think of bringing food with them, and we wondered if you and Mr. Neal could sell them some foodstuffs to last for a couple of days,” said Cousin Ben.
“Sell! I wouldn’t think of it,” said Mrs. Neal. “You must be starved after your journey, and getting settled. Let me see what I can find.”
“We don’t want charity,” said Jake. “I could help Tom with some chores, in return.”
“You’ll fit right in, then!” said Mrs. Neal approvingly. “That’s just the way things are here. But I’d guess you have a few things to help your mother with now, especially with your father off to the mill. The food today will be a housewarming gift. No need to repay us except with friendship.”
“Yes, ma’am,” agreed Jake. The Neals’ kitchen was almost as large as his family’s whole house. Would their home ever be as clean and efficient as the one he was standing in now? “We all thank you.”
“I’ll plan to come down and welcome Mrs. Webber in person right soon,” Mrs. Neal added. “Might not be easy for a Boston lady to adjust to country living.”
“We’re not set up for company just yet,” put in Father. “You understand.”
Mrs. Neal reached over and took the basket from Jake. “I’m not company; I’m a neighbor. And it happens I baked extra bread this morning.” She put a large loaf in the basket. “Perhaps a few eggs would taste good after a long trip?” She added a dozen to the basket. “Jake, do you like corn?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Corn was a lot better than squash!
“Go on out to the barn and find Tom. He’ll show you where the corn is still good, and you pick as much as you’d like. Then come on back here and we’ll get you set.”
Jake ran out the door and over to the barn. What would Tom be like?
The barn was large and smelled of animals and hay. The Neals had cows and chickens, and an ox yoke hung on the wall. Maybe they had oxen as well. Jake dodged as a bird swooped low toward his head and then landed on a high beam.
“You never seen a barn swallow?” A brown-haired boy whose muscles and height made him look more fourteen than twelve was standing in one of the stalls. His face was dark from the sun, and his boots and trousers were splattered with muck. “Who are you anyway?” He pitched a fork-load of dung out of a stall and in Jake’s direction.
“Jake Webber. My family just moved into the old Crocker place down the road.” He looked up at the swooping birds and ducked again as one flew close. “In Boston, birds didn’t dive at me.”
“Too bad for Boston,” said Tom. “A barn’s unlucky if it doesn’t have barn swallows.”
“We didn’t have a barn. Only a stable.”
“ ‘Only a stable.’ So you’re one of those rich folks who don’t need to get their hands dirty.” Tom leaned on his pitchfork and looked at Jake. “What’re you doing in my barn disturbing my barn swallows, Boston boy?”
Jake flushed. He’d never been called rich before, and today he felt poorer than he ever had before. But he refused to let this country boy intimidate him. “Your mother said you’d show me where to pick some corn. She said I could take some for our dinner.”
“You ever picked corn before?”
“I can learn fast enough,” said Jake. “And I know other things.”
“What do you know?”
“I know the streets of Boston, and a little Latin, and I’ve history.”
Tom shook his head and laughed. “Latin and streets of Boston aren’t what we consider learning in the State of Maine.”
“I can run,” said Jake. Tom might not value books, but he looked as though he’d value speed.
“Bet a city boy can’t run as fast as a Mainer,” said Tom, coming toward Jake. “Happens I’m the fastest runner in this district of Wiscasset.”
“Some day we’ll see,” said Jake. He was aching to show Tom what he could do. But now was not the time. “Where’s the corn?”
“We’ve tied most of it in sheaves already, but there’re some stalks still standing,” said Tom. “I’ll show you where. And for now I won’t tell the other boys you didn’t know how to pick it. Not until we see if you can really run.” He walked closer to Jake, and looked down at him. “How about meeting me Friday at twilight on the road north of your place? We can see just how fast you are.”
Jake didn’t hesitate. “How far north?”
“There’s a small pond. The road next to it is straight.”
“I’ll be there.”
The corn was harder to harvest than Jake had realized. His fingers were cut by the sharp dry stalks before he finished. He took twelve ears.
“Don’t you know anything?” Tom said, tearing off a thirteenth for him. “Always pick thirteen ears, for luck. When we race, I don’t want you saying I made you unlucky.”
“I see Tom’s shown you the corn,” Mrs. Neal said when they got back to the house. “Your father and cousin already left, Jake. They seemed anxious to get going. At least in September they don’t have to worry about night coming down on them. Dark afternoons will be here soon enough.”
Jake nodded. He wished Father hadn’t had to leave so quickly. But at least Mother and Father wouldn’t argue for a few days. He added his corn to the basket. Now it held not only the eggs and bread but also a jar of pickles, a pie, and a mess of fresh string beans from the Neal garden. “I thought you and your ma might enjoy a bit of sweet and a taste of sour your first day in a new home,” Mrs. Neal said. “Life is full of both. And there’s a bit of tea and a little sugar wrapped in linen at the bottom of the basket, and some cheese I made last week.”
Jake’s empty stomach ached just looking at the food. “Thank you, Mrs. Neal. This is much appreciated. Remember, I said I could come back and help out, in return.”
“You, help us!” Tom smirked. “Don’t think we need to learn any Latin.”
“Be nice, Tom,” said his mother. “Jake’ll learn Maine ways soon enough. Jake, you just take care of what needs to be done to home now. We’re neighbors, and neighbors are there for each other, so if you need anything more, you stop in. Farm’s been in my husband’s family for over a hundred years now, and we’re not going anyplace.”
Jake hesitated. “You’ve already been so generous. But I saw cows out back. Would you have . . . a little milk?”
“Milk! That’s for babies. Do city boys drink milk?” said Tom.
Jake was silent. He couldn’t tell anyone about Frankie. “Mother’s weary and her stomach’s a bit upset after the journey. A bit of custard might help her.”
“Nothing like custard to settle the stomach and the nerves,” agreed Mrs. Neal. “Tom, get a pint from the back shed. And, Jake, you tell your mother I’ll be by to visit as soon as she’s ready for company.”
“I�
��ll tell her, Mrs. Neal. But she’s real busy now.”
“Winters are long here, and she’s going to need friends. Besides, we’re your closest neighbors, and I could do with having another woman nearby. With your father at the mill most of the week, I’d guess soon your ma’ll be wanting a bit more company than you can provide.”
“What about the family who live between our houses?” Jake kept thinking of that other house and barn.
“Your ma won’t be getting much neighborliness from Mrs. McCord. You’ll find that out soon enough. In the meantime, if you’re needing anything, you come back here, Jake Webber.”
Tom came in with a tin pint measure filled with milk, and his mother placed it carefully in the basket.
“You’ve got a lot to carry,” she assessed. “Tom, why don’t you walk with Jake?”
“I’ve not finished my chores, Ma,” said Tom.
“I’ll be fine,” said Jake. Tom mustn’t come! “My mother and I thank you both for everything. You’ve been very generous.” He took the basket and started toward the door. “Tom, I’ll see you Friday. At twilight.”
8
By the time Jake got home, Mother had gathered a few broken branches and piled them on the hearth. Frankie was whimpering, and she was singing softly to him. “I had a little nut tree, Nothing would it bear, Save a silver nutmeg, And a golden pear . . .”
“What wonderful neighbors we have,” she said as she sorted through the basket Jake had brought.
“Mrs. Neal seemed really nice. And Tom is about my age,” shared Jake.
“Maybe you’ve found a friend,” Mother suggested. “Maybe,” said Jake. He’d know more about Tom after their race Friday.
Mother handed him the pie. “Cut yourself a piece; I know you’re starving. I’ll soften a bit of the bread with the milk for Frankie. It’s a warm day to think of fires now, and we’ll have more strength once we’ve eaten.”
Jake cut two pieces of blueberry pie, one for himself and one for Mother. While he was away she’d unpacked pewter dishes and tableware.
Mother broke small pieces of soft bread off the loaf. Frankie couldn’t chew well, but he could swallow stewed foods, or softened bread. Mother tied a piece of muslin around his waist to hold him upright in a chair so he wouldn’t choke.
Jake tried not to stuff the pie into his mouth, but it was hard. He was so hungry, and the pastry crumbled easily. Frankie must have been hungry too. He gurgled and drooled only slightly as Mother spooned the bread and milk into his mouth.
After Frankie had eaten, Mother turned to her piece of pie. “I’d heard there were wonderful tart blueberries like this in Maine. These were dried, so I suspect we’ve missed fresh for this year. But I’ll try to make an apple pie after we get some flour. Mrs. Neal sent us some sugar, and I’ll use the apples from the orchard Cousin Ben said was here.”
“Mrs. Neal said she’d visit you, to welcome you to Wiscasset.” Jake lowered his head as he saw the expression of panic on Mother’s face. “I told her you had many things to organize, so you wouldn’t have time for company soon.”
“That was good, Jake. We must put off having visitors as long as we can. The only way to be sure no one knows about Frankie is to keep everyone away.” Mother put her hand on Jake’s. “This is a different world. I have to stay with Frankie. And with your father at the mill I’ll have to depend on you for almost everything outside the house.”
Jake’s stomach tightened. In Boston he’d been responsible for his studies, for staying out of the way, and for being polite. He was twelve! How could anyone depend on him “for almost everything”? How could Mother even expect him to know what needed to be done?
He wanted to run away; to get away from the dank crowded house and all that was needed there. If only life were the way it had been before Father’s job had disappeared.
Jake looked around. The room was still piled with crates and barrels and furniture.
“I can unpack the barrels, if you’d like. You can tell me where you’d like our things,” said Jake. “What we can’t use now can be stored in the lean-to or the loft.” If he kept himself busy, then maybe he wouldn’t have time to worry.
“First I’m going to look for curtains in those barrels so we can cover our windows. They’ll protect our privacy a little.”
Cool late afternoon breezes were beginning to blow through the open windows. The air smelled clean, and there was no one living close to them. Of what use would curtains be?
But they were important to Mother. Houses in Boston had curtained windows.
“Then I’ll look for wood,” said Jake. “We’ll need to cook the corn tomorrow, and in case of rain we’ll need dry wood on hand.” There was a crate of tools, he remembered. “I’ll find the ax.” He’d never chopped wood before, but now there was no one else to do it. He’d learn how.
“I’ll find our oil lamps,” agreed Mother. “It will be light for another hour or two, but after dark I want to be able to see, should Frankie have another fit.”
Jake stood in the doorway. “We’re going to be all right, Mother. Somehow we’re going to be all right.” Maybe if he said the words loud enough, and often enough, then he’d begin to believe them himself.
9
Jake spent most of Friday chopping wood, fixing the door of the privy, and waiting for twilight. The time he was to meet Tom for their race.
It had been three days since they’d arrived in Wiscasset. Jake’s hands were blistered from the ax, and his head ached from trying to think of what else needed to be done to help Mother. But he knew what he had to do that night.
He’d prove city boys could run as fast as Mainers. Maybe faster. Tom was taller than he was, so he had longer legs, but lightness could be an advantage too. Between chores Jake stretched to keep his muscles loose for the race.
“I’m going to meet Tom Neal. We’re going to run a bit,” he explained to Mother after dinner.
“Boys are amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “I would think you’d be exhausted. You’ve been working hard all day. But I’m glad you’ve found a friend so quickly. Try to be home before dark, though. Maybe you should take a lantern.”
Jake sensed that carrying a lantern would mark him as a coward who was afraid of the dark. “I’ll be fine, Mother. I won’t be late.”
The pond wasn’t far. Jake got there before Tom did, and looked carefully at the stretch of road they were to run. It was smoother and straighter than where he’d run earlier in the week. Wheel ruts were shallow. And there weren’t as many rocks here.
Crickets were beginning to chirp, and bats flew low over the pond in search of flying insects. Jake paced and stretched.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“You didn’t chicken out,” said Tom as he came up the road. “I thought maybe you’d decided to stay to home with your ma. Not many boys want to race me.”
“I’m here.”
“We start at this point.” Tom picked up a stick and drew a line across the dirt road. “See the tall spruce a way’s down?”
Jake looked in the direction Tom was pointing. “The one on the left, whose shadow crosses the road?” It looked about a quarter mile away.
“That’s it. We race to the near side of the shadow and then back to this line. Understood?”
Jake nodded. “Understood.”
“I’ll be waiting for you, when you get back here,” said Tom.
“Fair is fair. I’ll wait for you likewise,” Jake replied.
They stood at the starting line. “I’ll count. We’ll go on three,” said Tom.
Jake got into position.
“One . . . two . . . three!” Both boys lunged forward, down the road. Jake felt the familiar stretch in his leg muscles and leaned forward as he ran. Tom was slightly ahead, but Jake didn’t want to use all his speed at the beginning. As long as he stayed close enough to Tom so he could catch him, he’d be all right, and if he could push Tom to use most of his energy in the first half of the race
, he’d be in a good position to win.
Jake watched the road, carefully avoiding stones and holes and a few fallen branches. Tom remained ahead, but not far.
They were about halfway to the turning point. Jake was still running at a comfortable pace, but Tom was now a few feet farther ahead. Jake saved his strength and paced his breath to his strides. He’d speed up after they’d reached the halfway mark.
Tom reached the spruce shadow first, and grinned triumphantly at Jake as he headed back to the finish line.
Jake made his turn and picked up the pace. There was still a quarter mile to go, but he wouldn’t let Tom get so far ahead that he couldn’t be caught. Gradually Jake increased the length of his strides, and his legs and arms fell into a comfortable rhythm.
Tom was fifteen feet ahead of him. Then fourteen feet. Tom wasn’t speeding up; he was running at the same pace he had from the start.
Jake pushed himself further. Thirteen feet apart. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.
Tom heard Jake and lost a few seconds looking back to see how close he was.
Nine feet. Eight feet.
Jake could see the finish line ahead. They were both breathing heavily. Tom had picked up his pace but clearly had reached his limit. Jake forced himself to go faster.
Seven feet. Six. Five. Now only a little over an arm’s length separated them.
Jake slipped slightly on a stone he hadn’t seen in the dimming light, and fell back a foot. Then he summoned every part of his body to perform, and sprinted ahead.
As they passed the finish line, Jake was only inches ahead of Tom. But he was ahead.
They both continued a few paces and then Tom collapsed on the road. Jake bent over, hands on his hips, breathing loudly. They were both sweating and struggling for breath.
Jake spoke first. “You’re a fine runner, Tom. I only beat you by a step or two.” He had done it. He’d proved to Tom that he had some worth, even if he didn’t know about barn swallows and picking corn. He waited confidently for Tom to congratulate him.
