The Only Best Place

by Carolyne Aarsen

  I wanted to jump up and accept her generous offer right away but couldn't escape the guilt over not asking Wilma or Gloria first.

  I heard the kids playing and turned toward the window. Anneke and Carlene shrieking with laughter and running across the fenced-in yard, Nicholas pouring sand over his feet in the sandbox, supervised by the cookie expert. My heart ached to see my kids playing in a yard with other kids. The one friend I had, Josie, didn't have kids. I went on play-dates with other mothers, but didn't get much advice from other women. Raising the kids was, to me, like driving a car with very, very dim headlights. I could see only the next thing I had to do. Long term, much harder to figure out.

  Ever since the kids were born, I'd felt as if Dan and I were two rank amateurs experimenting with fragile substances. My mother was who knows where and Terra, a single woman, could only cheerlead from the sidelines. Friends at work offered advice, but it never seemed applicable. Now, here was a person I barely knew but felt an inexplicable connection to, offering to help me with the crucial job of raising my kids.

  I'm not a sentimental person, but that was definitely a choked-throat moment.

  “Thanks for the offer, Kathy. I might take you up on it,” I said.

  “You do that.” She took a sip of tea. “Now, tell me all about Seattle. I've always wanted to go but never had the chance.”

  From: tfroese@hotmail.com

  To: lesismore@montana.net

  U better tell Dan pretty quick about job or UR going to be in huge doo doo. Gotta run. Big date. Keep U posted.

  Tra, la, la Terra

  Chapter Eight

  Why?”

  The simple question hung between us, edged with anger.

  “Because…” I could see him stiffen at my standard reply even as the words tractor, tractor, tractor echoed in my subconscious and buried even below that, Missssss Bilingual. Right as I might have been, I wasn't ready to play that card yet. “I tried the cows thing, Dan. But I'm not a cow person, horses give me the screaming willies, the chickens give me the creeps. The dog is the only animal I feel comfortable around. I don't know the difference between a cultivator and a combine, and frankly, I don't care. I do know ACLS, how to deal with a stroke victim, and how to assess a burn. I'm comfortable in a hospital emergency department, and there have been days since I've moved here that I wish I was back there. Where I know what I'm doing.” I clamped my lips together to stem the tide of my run-on babbling. I wanted him to understand. Needed him to understand.

  “I want to go back to work because it's the only place I feel like I belong,” I said, stumbling my way through this new situation. “I feel like I should have had my passport stamped before we came here.” I drew in a breath, juggling my words awkwardly. I considered bringing up the tractor again and the money Dan had drained out of our house account and the way his mother controlled each penny that came into this household. But that would take us nowhere. After all, technically half of our house money was his. If honesty was my new tack, then I had to lay out the rest of my reasons. “I don't feel like I belong here.”

  “We had farms in Washington, too, remember?” I could see he was trying to be patient, but he was using up his quota. Fast.

  “I never had to live on them. Nor did I have to try to fit into a place that was unfamiliar to me. And there's another thing. This Christian thing and going to church stuff you've been talking about lately. That's not us. It's not what I signed on for when we got married.” I was gaining momentum and from the faintly sheepish look on his face, I knew I was also gaining ground. And though I wasn't a farmer's wife, I remembered a few things I picked up from working with the cows. I kept my distance, off and to the side, but maintained pressure. “If you're going to be honest with yourself and me, it's new for you, too. You never went to church in Seattle.”

  His silence underlined the rightness of my cause. But I knew I couldn't claim victory yet. I gently pushed on while I still had his attention and while he was still in a good mood instead of on the run.

  “So, here I am. Pagan. City person. And everything is new and different and confusing here.” When I saw Dan fidget I caught myself. “So I walk into the hospital and I hear the clank of med carts and I get a whiff of hospital cafeteria and I hear the bleep of monitors… and for the first time since I came here, I relax. I'm in a familiar place. I'm home.”

  Dan screwed up his face, obviously trying hard to understand. “So, it's not just about the money?”

  “That's part of it.” I looked him directly in the eye. “We were going to keep the Fund separate, but that changed, didn't it?”

  “Leslie, you know why…” Dan's lips became two white lines.

  “I know you tried to tell me about cash flow and how you access the line of credit, but really it comes down to your mother controlling the farm money, doesn't it?”

  “She's had a rough couple of months. I can't expect her to just hand it all over to me. Especially if, as you keep saying, we're only here for a year.”

  Once again I was caught between the reality of Wilma's humiliating situation and what I had to deal with on a day-to-day basis with her. Hard to feel sympathy when each comment directed my way reminded me that I wasn't really a part of this family.

  “If she's going to hand over the cropping and the managing of the farm, I think she could go one step further. And partly because she won't and because the fund is emptier than I like…” I hurried through that dreaded but necessary territory of the discussion and plowed on, “I'm going back to work. But even more important, when I came into the hospital, I wasn't reminded that I don't know the difference between hay and straw, between heifers and bulls…”

  “Steers,” Dan corrected.

  “See? That.”

  “But you're learning.”

  “I don't want to learn—” and then I clamped my mouth shut before I let myself trot down the—by now—old, tired road of “this place isn't permanent.”

  “That's the trouble. You don't even give it a chance.”

  “What are you talking about? I'm giving it a year.”

  “Give it time, Leslie,” Dan urged. “You'll come to love the animals, the wide open spaces. Don't you like being home with the kids?”

  Direct hit on the guilt zone. “I do. And I wouldn't be working full-time. But…” I dug down, searching for a word, a phrase that would connect. “I don't want my kids to grow up like I did. They're going to have the best life I can give them and if it means working, so be it.”

  “You don't think I can provide for us?” The hurt in his voice was almost my undoing. I knew what losing the business had done to his pride.

  “I think you can. And you have.” I paused, trying to find the best way to say what I needed to say. “Dan, we were in Seattle two years, before that Dallas for eighteen months. Before that it was Minneapolis. We've spent a lot of years moving from place to place. This is just another stopover.”

  Right then Anneke pushed Nicholas into the kitchen and abandoned him in the box while she climbed up on her father's lap. Nicholas let out a wail of disapproval, which I responded to in record time.

  “When do you want to start?” Dan asked, the faint tone of resignation in his voice showing me that while he had accepted it, he still didn't like it.

  Here came the next tricky part. I shifted Nicholas on my hip, holding him close to me like a chubby shield. “This Friday.” I kept my response short and fast, like a quick needle jab, hoping the speed would eradicate the pain.

  “What?” He stared at me, open-mouthed.

  Or not.

  “How did you get that so fast?” Dan asked, the anger in his voice vying with the puzzlement on his face. “Don't you have to take tests?”

  “I did that the day before. I wanted to be sure before I told you.” I could see him still puzzling this through and went on the defensive. “I'm not a stay-at-home wife. You knew that all along. I wasn't in Seattle, and I'm not so sure I can be here.” I conveniently left out th
e fact that I had come here willing to take a chance. It was the family meeting, his mother, his sister, the cows, and of course, the tractor that had chipped away at those intentions.

  “My sisters manage. My mother managed.”

  Low blow.

  He looked at me then, and I felt a chill begin deep in my being. “We moved here to help my mother out, to support her. The family needed us. That's why we came.”

  “My working won't change that.”

  “What are you going to do with the kids? Obviously you haven't asked my sisters or they would have let me know.”

  “I've got that covered already,” I said quickly. “Kathy Greidanus is going to be taking care of Anneke and Ben.”

  “Why not my mother? Or Judy? Or Gloria?”

  “Your mom has enough to deal with, and neither Judy nor Gloria are on the way to work.”

  “Did you even ask them?”

  “Kathy offered first. Plus she has young kids for Anneke and Ben to play with.”

  “Mom isn't going to be happy about this.”

  “Kathy is right on the way to work. Judy lives fifteen minutes the other way…”

  “She's going to ask me why you didn't.”

  “… And I don't want to add another three quarters of an hour of driving to the kids' day.”

  “I could take care of the kids once in a while.”

  “You'll be busy with the field work.”

  Dan waited a beat, then ran his fingers through his hair. “And what about our marriage? Wasn't coming to the farm about that, too?”

  The chill spread to my hands and feet. Since that one major blowup back home when I had come back from work early and Dan had shown up late smelling like perfume, Miss Bilingual remained She Who Must Not Be Named. To give her a name would be to give her a place in our life. I wasn't going to cede one second of my time to her. When Dan started confessing, I cut him off. I didn't want details. I didn't want my imagination creating pictures that would forever waver between us. So we referred to her only obliquely.

  “What about our marriage, Dan? What about sticking up for each other and putting each other first? When you used the money from our fund for the tractor, you showed me pretty clearly where what I wanted stood in your life.” I clung to Nicholas and thankfully, for once, he didn't protest. I needed an ally and wasn't fussy as to shape, size, or mental ability.

  “Leslie, I need that tractor for the farm…”

  “If that was the case, you should have asked your mother for the money.”

  Dan's angry glance cut away and I knew I had scored a direct hit.

  But I didn't want to be keeping score, to be shown I was right. But I had to keep the vision or it was going to blur and once again I was going to lose myself.

  “You chose the farm over me, Dan.”

  His gaze swung back to me. “No. It's not always about you, Leslie. It's not always about choosing one over the other. Sometimes it's about doing the very next thing that's right in front of you. Sometimes it's about making the best of where you are right now instead of always looking ten years into the future.”

  Our gazes locked. I turned away first. Maybe I was too caught up in what lay ahead, but if people didn't have goals, didn't have plans, they were vulnerable. You had to take care of your life. No one else was going to do that for you.

  “Okay. I'm not going to say anything more about your job,” Dan said, conceding that point. “But could you do me a favor? Could you at least try to make the best of being here?”

  Considering I had ruined one of my favorite jackets “making the best of it,” his request seemed a tad unfair. But I wanted peace in our home. I didn't want Dan and I to be carping and fighting.

  This skirmish was over, and though nothing concrete had been resolved, at least he was resigned to my working.

  “I came here with the intention of making the best of it, Dan. This is part of how I intend to do it.”

  Dan sighed, got up. “Let's go outside, honey.” Dan said to Anneke holding out his hand to her. Obviously this conversation's shelf life had expired.

  Anneke hopped alongside him, chattering about the dog and the chickens, each word, each step carrying them both farther away from me.

  Nicholas saw them go and spun around, twisting away from me toward his father and sister. His deafening wails exploded when the screen door slapped shut behind them.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” I muttered as I tried to console him.

  But he wasn't having any of me, either. I finally resorted to bribing him with some forbidden chocolate chips and set him in the high chair, freeing myself to get lost in the soothing motions of folding laundry.

  “It will be fine,” I said to the empty house. “He'll get used to it. His sisters will get used to it. His mother…” That one was a stumper. I doubted Wilma would get used to it. But that didn't matter. It would all work out.

  From: lesismore@montana.net

  To: tfroese@hotmail.com

  I got rhythm. In my life that is. Dan is busy in the fields. We don't talk about my work though he doesn't seem to mind the extra money in the account. He's still upset with me, but I'm busy enough in the house and at work that I can ignore it. And I have a wonderful babysitter. She loves my kids and she's one of those casual mothers who makes raising kids look as effortless as riding a bicycle. Something I never quite got a handle on, either. Remember how many times I skinned my knees?

  Loopy Leslie Loving Her Life

  From: tfroese@hotmail.com

  To: lesismore@montana.net

  That church thing Dan goes to. That's not some kind of cult is it? U won't have to pledge UR kids to it or wear funny hats? Can't go with the flow if U are going to join a cult.

  Terra

  It was time. I had found all kinds of excuses to put it off, but I had run out. The windows sparkled, the counters gleamed. The beds were made, and the floors were tidied. My immaculate house was a small penance for working the day before and enjoying it so much.

  It was time. I looked outside. Sunshine. Warm, friendly sunshine.

  I didn't need to put bulky coats and boots on the kids, which meant Nicholas could walk on his own. I slipped a light coat on, picked up the pail of burnt cookies that didn't make the grade, and braced myself to face my nemesis.

  The warmth of the sun surrounded us as I closed the door of the porch behind us. I released a lungful of stale air welcoming the change in scenery. I automatically glanced around, wondering who saw us, then caught myself midsilliness. There were no neighbors twitching aside curtains to see what I was doing. No one watching us.

  Though we'd already been on the farm four weeks, (twenty-eight chocolates' worth), I still had to get used to the fact that, if I so desired, I could run outside naked and no one would be the wiser. That was unless Uncle Orest stopped by or Wilma made a sudden stop on her way to town or Bradley VandeKamp, the neighbor, decided to borrow Dan's harrows.

  Today, stillness reigned over the yard. Dan was at his mother's house fixing a clogged drain and partly as penance for our fight the other day and partly because Dan had to leave so early this morning, I had volunteered our services to do “chores.”

  Nicholas didn't want to go in the wagon, so I left it behind, and as we started walking down the sidewalk, Sasha came bounding up, her mouth open, tongue hanging out, a doggy grin on her fuzzy face.

  “Oh, Sasha, I love you.” Anneke grabbed the dog by the neck and buried her face in the matted fur. Nicholas leaned toward Sasha, but I kept his hand in mine. One swipe of Sasha's tail would knock Nicholas on his padded bottom. Usually, Nicholas was in his wagon and Sasha's puzzling canine brain saw the plastic conveyance as a peril and walked wide, suspicious circles around it.

  My worries were groundless. Sasha sat quietly while Nicholas petted her head, her tail slowly making a half circle in the dirt of the driveway. Anneke urged her brother on. “Pet the doggy, Nicholas. Nice doggy.”

  “Doggy,” Nicholas said, his hand ba
tting Sasha on the head. “Doggy.”

  My mouth fell open. He was talking. Speaking. Articulating. My amazement was replaced with laughter. His first word was doggy? Not Mommy or Daddy?

  “Mommy, Nicholas said doggy,” Anneke exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Oh, good Nicholas. Good boy,” she said, full of maternal pride.

  “Hey, little boy,” I said, bending down to pet Sasha as well. “This is a doggy, isn't it?” I pointed to myself. “And I am a mommy.”

  Nicholas gave me a blank stare, turned back to Sasha. “Doggy,” he squealed, grabbing Sasha's ear and tugging it, knocking over my pail.

  I gathered up the cookies, then herded the kids toward the chicken barn. “Hey, kids, let's go. We have work to do.”

  Sasha sniffed the ground where the cookies had spilled and snorfed up the crumbs I had missed.

  I held Nicholas's hand to give him some stability as we slowly made our way toward the barn. A light spring breeze sifted through the cottonwood trees, rustling the leaves that were now full green. A crow mocked us from the branches, then flew away. Overhead an eagle circled lazily. I watched its progress, pointing it out to the kids.

  In Seattle the sky often hung low—either cloudy or rainy or foggy. Often I was so focused on the car in front of me as I lurched through rush-hour traffic, wipers slapping time, I didn't spend much time contemplating the bits and pieces of nature I could see.

  This was educational for my children, I thought, looking around the yard that had slowly morphed from dull brown to soft emerald. I hoped they would remember this.

  A few cows lined the fence behind the barn, studying our slow progress, their bovine features benign and dumb-looking. I couldn't understand why cattle ranching seemed such a romantic pursuit. Cows were big, large, and, well, dumb. They took up a lot of space and ate a lot of food. Dan was still feeding them while he waited for the pasture to grow up enough to put them out.

  And if cows were lacking in the intelligence department, the chickens we were going to feed rated well below them.

  I understood why cigarette companies didn't film commercials about chicken farmers. No pictures of manly men striding through a chicken barn while rugged music played in the background. Chickens were flighty, smelly, and their stupidity had no romantic overtones.