Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town

by Leslie Tall Manning

  Within minutes, we were all sitting together at the table.

  “Tim, you can do the honors,” Pete said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Grace.” Pete folded his hands, closed his eyes, and waited.

  Dad bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord, for this opportunity to share such a unique experience with my family. Keep us healthy and happy, and allow us to grow. Amen.”

  And keep me from jumping on Willow’s back in the middle of the night and hightailing it out of this God-forsaken place. Amen, Hallelujah, and can I get a witness?

  I wolfed down two chunks of ham, a handful of potatoes, and even a few pieces of okra, which Pete had added spices to and didn’t taste half bad. I washed it all down with water from the creek, which tasted fresher than anything from a bottle.

  When I asked Pete to pass the platter so I could have seconds, he said, “No seconds.”

  “But I’m still hungry.”

  With the only light coming from the fireplace, I could barely make out a sly smile.

  “Well, darling,” he said. “Welcome to a popular complaint of the 1860s.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There was a vaguely familiar sound drifting in through the open window. Car alarm? Cell phone?

  Groggily, I sat up, rolled my head around in circles, and rubbed my eyes awake. In the twilight, I felt around for my end table, but of course, there was no end table, only floor boards, and I instantly remembered where I was. Exhaustion covered me. In the middle of the night, a scratching sound woke me up, and I had a hard time falling back to sleep. Now, my flat pillow smelled like sweaty socks, and tiny flecks of dust were stuck to my eyelids. My legs itched from the straw-filled mattress. I wiped my cruddy eyes again, rubbed my stiff neck, and scratched my dry legs as tiny streams of light filtered in through the window. Dad had nailed up a large piece of cheesecloth to stop the bugs from visiting, but it didn’t stop that high-pitched screech from stabbing at my eardrums.

  I shook Rebecca Lynn by the shoulder, but she didn’t budge. Her arms were wrapped tightly around Martha’s zombie-doll.

  Dad sat up in his bed. He had slept in his short one-piece underwear. Rebecca Lynn and I both slept in our slips. I had just about cried with relief when I took off that devil-loving corset.

  “What’s that noise?” I asked, licking my lips, running my tongue across my fuzzy teeth.

  “If memory serves me right,” Dad said, “it’s a rooster.”

  “Is it ours?”

  “I don’t know.” He stood up too fast and bumped his head against one of the low, slanted beams. “Damn it!” He stooped over and rubbed his head. “I’ll get dressed downstairs. Get up and help your sister.”

  “It’s still dark outside.”

  “We go to bed when the sun goes down, and we get up when the rooster crows. That’s the way it works.”

  As he went down the ladder, I shook Rebecca Lynn harder. She slowly sat up. I lifted the cheesecloth from in front of the window and wrapped it around a nail, letting in the bluish morning. Outside I spotted the outline of that ruthless rooster sitting on top of one of the fence posts. “We’re up, you stupid bird!” He ignored me and kept cock-a-doodle-doodling. I think he was laughing at me.

  It took us nearly twenty minutes to help each other dress, our eyes barely able to see in the dim morning light. In less than thirty seconds, my corset dug into my skin and the toes of my shoes rubbed against day-old blisters.

  As soon as we got downstairs, Dad said, “Let’s start with some coffee.”

  “I don’t like coffee,” Rebecca Lynn said.

  “Drink some tea,” I told her. Then I turned to Dad. “What should we have for breakfast?”

  “How about some eggs?”

  “They only laid two,” Rebecca Lynn said.

  “Go see if they laid some more,” I told her. “And feed them while you’re out there.” I handed her a basket for the eggs and the tin cup to dip into the feed bag.

  After holding my breath for three minutes in the outhouse, I washed out my rag in the bucket and went down to the creek for some fresh water. I was squatted on the bank when a twig snapping grabbed my attention. I scanned the looming forest on the other side of the wide stream.

  “Rusty? Carl?”

  No one answered.

  I filled the bucket quickly. Even if it was only a raccoon or a deer, I didn’t have any desire to meet a wild animal up close and personal.

  By the time I dragged the smaller bucket back to the house, the sun was heating up the day and my neck was already sweating.

  In the cabin, Dad helped me stoke the fire. Next, I started the coffee. I tried to make it the way Pete had shown me, but it boiled through the spout and into the fire, sizzling as it turned the ashes to mud on the fireplace floor.

  “Sorry.”

  Dad sighed and then turned toward the front door. “Did you hear that?”

  Shaking my head, I followed him onto the porch.

  Out on the road in front of the house stood a couple of men dressed like Dad, only way dirtier. They were talking to Pete. Rusty and Carl were filming what the men had brought with them: a skinny black cow with a bulging pink udder, an old grayish mule, and a Barbie-colored pig digging its snout in the dirt. All were loosely tied to the fence with a rope. Nearby, the rooster paced back and forth pecking at the dirt.

  “What do we have here?” Dad said as we stepped through the gate.

  Pete said, “Mule’s to help get your field plowed. Rooster’s a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. And a pet, as promised.”

  As if on cue, a small brown mutt came running up the road. He jumped onto the pig’s back, and they rolled around in the dirt. I got the feeling they knew each other. I bent down and rubbed the dog’s belly. I let him lick my face. For the first time in two days, I actually smiled.

  As I squatted next to the dog, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I stood up and walked to the edge of the road, gazing up the hill rising beyond the two long rows of pecan trees. A bunch of people stood on the porch of the blue house. I couldn’t make out whether they were men or women, young or old. Were they looking in my direction at the same time? Did they know a family had moved into the ugly shack down the hill?

  Dad asked me to go inside and try making coffee again.

  “She burned it the first time,” Dad told the men.

  “She’ll get it right,” Pete said laughing. “She’s gonna have to, especially with extra men to cook for this morning.”

  I stormed up the porch steps and slammed the front door behind me. While I concentrated on making the coffee—this time without burning it—Rebecca Lynn came through the back door carrying the egg basket in her arms, cradling it like a baby.

  “Look!” she said. “Seven eggs! And four apples!”

  “I didn’t know hens could lay apples.”

  “No. In the apple trees. Most are up too high, but there are lots of blackberries, too, if you want to help me pick them.” She placed the basket on the table. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Checking out our new animals.”

  “Oh!” she squealed. “I want to see!”

  “Wait!” I told her, grabbing her by the arm before she got away. “First, you need to set the table. We’ve got eight people to cook breakfast for.”

  I didn’t care how bitchy I sounded. I wasn’t about to have my sister playing around while I was in the hot kitchen working my ass off.

  Rusty came into the cabin just as I was putting Martha’s sweet breads on the table. While Rebecca Lynn set the table and cut up slices of apples, I cracked the eggs open, dumped them into a big ceramic bowl, and stirred them with a fork. I poured the mixture into the pan with a little bit of lard, but the fire was up too high. By the time all of the men were seated at the table, including Rusty and Carl, the scrambled eggs were more brown than yellow. Once I pulled the pan from the fire, I spotted the mud tracks leading from the front door to the table.

  “Watch it with
your dirty boots,” I told the men. “I’m not your mother.”

  One of the grubby men laughed. “Your cook’s a little spitfire.” He grabbed a cup and held it in the air. “I’m ready for some coffee.”

  The men, including my dad, left no room for Rebecca Lynn or me at the table.

  My jaw clenched as I grabbed the coffee pot with the pot holder, poured myself a cup, and put the pot on the table on a folded up towel. I dished out eggs for everyone and put the salt and pepper on the table. I sat on a stool on one side of the fireplace. My sister sat on the other.

  Rebecca Lynn said, “I want some orange juice.”

  “No orange juice,” Pete said with his mouth full.

  I put down my plate and went to the cone-shaped package on the shelf. “I can’t reach the sugar,” I said. At this rate, I was never going to eat a hot meal. I might not have a seat at the table, and I might have to serve these filthy men like I was their freaking slave, but if I was going to enjoy a cup of coffee, I at least deserved a little sugar.

  Pete stood up and grabbed the package. “You’ll have to use sugar nips to cut it.”

  “Sugar nips? That sounds like a country band.” I started to lay the package on its side.

  “Keep it standing, like a Christmas tree,” Pete said, pulling off the wrapper, exposing the stiff white cone. He grabbed one of the strange tools hanging on the wall. They looked like pliers, only way sharper. “Use these nips to cut off how much you need. It’s a ten-pounder. Should last you a while if you’re frugal.”

  I cut the sugar into weirdly shaped chunks, plopped a lump into my own cup, and put the rest on a plate in the middle of the table. The men emptied the dish in an instant.

  I sat on the stool again and ate my cold burned eggs.

  “Daddy,” Rebecca Lynn said, “what animals did we get?”

  “We got a cow—”

  “A super skinny one,” I said.

  “And a pig—”

  “Totally obese,” I added.

  “And a dog.”

  “A dog!” Rebecca Lynn left her half-eaten plate of eggs on her stool as she ran out the door.

  Without thanking me for breakfast, and without cleaning up their places, the two helpers went out the front door, followed by Carl and Dad. Rusty stayed at the table and kept the camera rolling as Pete downed the last of his coffee.

  My tongue was getting sore trying to dig out pieces of egg from between my molars.

  I said to Pete, “Please tell me people brushed their teeth in the 1800s.”

  He went to a shelf, grabbed three plain brown boxes stacked one on top of another, and placed them on the table. “This one’s your father’s.” He opened the lid. The camera zoomed in on the contents: a straight razor with a bone handle, a comb, a beastly toothbrush intended for dinosaur teeth, a jar with the words “D.R. Harris and Co. Ltd.” scrolled across the top, and a small round shaving brush.

  “This one is for you girls,” he said, handing me the box.

  I lifted the lid and peeked inside: a soft bristle hair brush, a small hand mirror, two more of those prickly toothbrushes, a plain porcelain jar, and the two sanitary pads, a gift from Martha.

  “Tooth powder,” Pete said, pulling out the jar.

  I unscrewed the lid, dipped a finger into the powder, and tasted it. “Gross! It tastes like chalk.”

  “The better tasting stuff won’t be around for thirty years. But this will do the trick.”

  Inside the third box I found white and black thread, a few needles, a thimble, and a collection of mismatched buttons.

  As Pete left me to play with my new toys and headed toward the door, I asked, “What are we supposed to do all day while my dad’s plowing? Stare at the walls?”

  Pete stopped in the middle of the room and turned to me. In a very clear, very monotone voice, he said, “Fetch more water to bring out to the field. Your father and the men are gonna need it. Then come back and wash them dishes. After that, you’ll tend to the outside chores before the day gets too hot: milking your cow, brushing the horse, checking her hooves. You’ll feed your dog. Introduce your pig to her pen and feed her. Then you will make sure they all have fresh water.”

  Rusty’s camera zoomed in on my stone face.

  “Next, you will collect berries and apples for preserving, and once you grow your vegetables you will preserve those, too. You’ll bake bread. If you all want butter or cream or cheese, you’ll have to make it yourself. We put a crock of raw milk out in your springhouse to get you started. You’re gonna have to decide what to make for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert each day. Planning meals will be a big part of your life out here. You’re gonna sweep the house. Including the fireplace. You need to start a trash heap since there won’t be any garbage men to haul it away. Be careful where you put it. Too close to the house, you’ll attract all kinds of bugs and animals. Bears included. Now, back inside the house, you need to reshape your beds. If you don’t, they’ll get mighty uncomfortable. You’ll spend some time mending whatever rips you get in your clothes. If your clothing gets soiled, you’ll do some washing. If you have any time or energy left after the sun goes down, you can make pretty things for your home: curtains, table centerpieces, and the like. The next day it starts all over again. You’ll tend to the animals, make the coffee, prepare breakfast for your family…”

  Pete’s voice droned on and on like my tenth grade math instructor, who should have been a hypnotist instead of a teacher. When he finished rambling, he walked out the front door, leaving me standing in the cabin, the heat from the fire causing sweat to drip between my shoulder blades, the camera marking my every move. My eyes took in the dirty dishes on the table, the greasy pans in the fireplace, the mud tracks all over the floorboards, and the heavy pot near the hearth that already needed refilling. The tears were rolling down my face before I was aware I was crying.

  Rebecca Lynn came back in, skipping across the cabin floor. I wished she’d skip right into the creek.

  “Daddy says I have to help you—” She stopped in the middle of the room when she saw my face. I turned toward the dying fire and jabbed at the cinders with the poker.

  “Don’t cry, Brooke,” Rebecca Lynn said. “We just got a dog.”

  I didn’t respond as I threw down the poker, grabbed the water bucket, stormed out the back door, and made my way to the springhouse, even though it smelled like the pool house at the country club. And if that creepy dead girl from The Ring was out there, who cared? I may as well have been dead too, thrown into a well and left there for seven days until my body rotted and my fingernails fell off and my soul escaped, because this place was no different than hell.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Getting water was less scary with Dad and the other men nearby in the field and Rusty trailing behind me. Still, I kept the door open while dipping the bucket into the dark pool. Back at the cabin, Rusty sat at the table filming as I tore up a rag and used it to wash dishes, but it hardly did the job. While Rebecca Lynn dried and put the semi-clean dishes back on the shelves, I noticed that fireplace ashes had made their way to the middle of the room.

  “How the hell am I supposed to sweep this place without a broom?”

  “You’re not allowed to cuss.”

  As if I give a rat’s ass, my brain replied.

  “Go see if there’s a broom in the barn,” I ordered my sister.

  She ran off like I’d just asked her to hunt for Easter eggs, and this time Rusty chose to follow her.

  With the two of them out of my hair for a bit, I went upstairs to reshape the beds, but even the smaller mattress was too heavy to move. Underneath the mattress was a rope net instead of a normal box spring, so the mattress kept bouncing around as I tried to maneuver it. Finally, I lay across it like I was making a snow angel, matting down the straw inside and doing my best to smooth it out. As I bent over to pick up the quilt from the floor, my corset jabbed me in the ribs, taking my breath away. Within minutes I was holding that awful fash
ion mistake in my hands. I shoved it through the netted rope under my mattress and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Back downstairs, I tried sweeping the fireplace ashes into a pile with a wet rag, but the rag turned black with soot and made things worse by creating a pattern of black swirls.

  Rebecca Lynn came in through the back door, Rusty still behind her like a stray dog.

  “No broom,” she said.

  I couldn’t imagine what the already dingy cabin would be like after a few weeks of mud and fireplace soot devouring everything in sight. If someone had told me that one day I’d miss my vacuum cleaner, I’d have called them nucking futso.

  “Come to the barn with me,” Rebecca Lynn said. “I named our cow Gretchen.”

  I didn’t care if she named her Queen Elizabeth.

  In the barn, I slid an old stool over to Gretchen while Rebecca Lynn played with Sully the dog. Rusty stood in the corner of the barn filming as I pulled on the warm teats like Martha had shown me. Sully came over and stuck his head underneath the cow and swooshed his tongue against her udder.

  “Gross,” I said, shooing him away. “Rebecca Lynn, you need to feed your dog.”

  “Feed him what?”

  “Whatever you can find that a dog would like.”

  Pete popped his head into the barn just after Rebecca Lynn left.

  “Be sure to put that milk in the springhouse to keep it cool,” he said. “Use a crock and seal it good. Don’t forget to grab the crock that’s already out there. Should be enough to get ya’ll started on your butter.”

  I finished milking Gretchen and let her loose in the corral to hang out with Willow the horse. They seemed to get along well, eating from the same pile of green hay. With black flies swarming around the milk buckets, I took two trips from the barn to the house where Rebecca Lynn was rationing dried ham to Sully in exchange for doing tricks. I split the cream between two large crocks, and my sister and I carried them to the springhouse together.

  Out in the middle of the field, Dad and Pete and the two helpers tilled, the mule grunting in front of the old-fashioned plow. Sweat poured down Dad’s face and neck, but as spent as he already seemed, he looked like he belonged out there, stumbling through the muddy earth.