Hurricane Season

by Lauren K. Denton

  “Uncle Ty?” Addie sat on the bench. “Why do your cows wear earrings?”

  “They’re not earrings, they’re ID tags.” He sat next to her and stretched his legs out in front of him. “You know how dogs wear tags on their collars?”

  Addie nodded.

  “These tags tell us the cow’s birthday and who her mother was.”

  “Does she forget who her mother was?”

  “Well, no, I don’t guess she does. But when the mothers and babies are separated, the ID tags help us keep them all straight.”

  Addie swung her legs back and forth, her shoes scraping across the wooden floor. “Why do you separate them?”

  “It’s just our process. After the moms give birth, they go back out into the pasture and the babies—we call them calves—go into a special pen so they can get stronger. We feed them and take care of them . . .”

  He could explain it away, but the truth was, the act of separating calves from their mothers was the one part of dairy farming that still, after all this time, made Ty uncomfortable. Most farms separated calves from their mothers within hours, but he often gave the calves two or three days, allowing them to drink the nutrient-rich colostrum directly from the mother and to soak up as much of her attention as possible before he moved them to another pen. The separation was necessary to get the amount of milk they needed, but whenever a calf was born, he dreaded interrupting those natural routines of early life.

  “Are the babies sad?” Addie’s eyes filled.

  “I think they’re just fine,” Ty said. After all, the calves were happy as long as they had food coming. Whether from their mom or a bottle didn’t matter. It was the mothers who had the hardest time. Some of those cows mourned for their absent babies for days, moaning and stomping in their stalls. Ty swore he could hear those moans in his sleep at night. Others went right back to eating and grazing after giving birth. When Ty moved their calves, those cows hardly noticed.

  “I bet the babies are still sad.” The tears that had welled up in the corners of her eyes spilled over. “Don’t they want their moms?” She leaned her head against Ty’s arm.

  “Addie,” Ty said quietly. “Hey, hey.” He pulled his arm around her and held her close. With her face turned in toward him, he felt her hot breath against his shirt. “Shhhh.”

  “Why isn’t Mommy coming back?” she cried, her voice muffled. “Doesn’t she want us anymore?”

  Across the walkway, Walsh turned at the sound of Addie’s cries. She dropped the brush and ran to her sister. “Addie?” She craned her head to see Addie’s face, still buried in Ty’s side.

  Ty closed his eyes and bumped his head against the wall behind him. He’d feared this moment, when his and Betsy’s breezy explanations of Jenna’s absence would fail them. And it had to happen when he was alone with them, without Betsy’s words to soothe the rough edges.

  “Your mom is . . .” How did he explain to a five-and three-year-old that at that moment, he didn’t know exactly where their mom was or why she wasn’t at home. In Nashville. With the two of them.

  “Are we going to stay here forever?” Addie looked up at him with wide, wet eyes, her nose red and running. Walsh’s little face was both cautious and curious. Alert.

  He took a deep breath and blew the air out in a thin stream, thinking fast. “I think you can stay here as long as you need to. Then your mom will be back.”

  Addie nodded, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I like it here. But I miss Mommy.”

  “I know you do. But you know what? I could use an extra helper around here. You see Mr. Carlos over there?” He pointed in Carlos’s direction. Addie nodded. “He’s not as good a helper as you are. Would it be okay if I ask for your help from time to time? Just for special projects? You too, Walsh.”

  Addie nodded again, sniffed. Offered a small smile. Walsh grinned and bobbed her head up and down.

  They heard a rustle, then one of the barn cats zipped through, chasing an unseen menace. Addie and Walsh both hopped off the bench and ran, chasing the cat and laughing. Ty exhaled. It was the grace of childhood that allowed kids to change course in a split second. He almost wished he could go back to that place where emotions and concerns only lasted until the next new thing came along. He knew the break was temporary, that the questions would come again the longer Jenna stayed away. He hoped the next time, he and Betsy would have a better idea of what to say to them. What to say to themselves.

  With the girls distracted by the cat, he and Carlos finished the last group of cows and sent them out to pasture. Ty shooed the girls from the barn so they could clean up. On their way back to the yard, the girls spied Ty’s Gator parked under a shed. He promised them a ride when he finished his work, so that evening, once the barn was clean and the cows were fed, he piled Addie and Walsh on the seat in the back and put it in gear.

  “Can you make it go fast?” Walsh asked.

  Ty laughed. “It’ll go pretty fast, but I think we’ll keep it nice and slow.”

  They puttered around the field for a few minutes until Ty saw Betsy on the back steps of the house. She sat down and stretched her legs out in front of her, then leaned her head back against the screen door.

  Something had changed in Betsy this week. Like something tight inside her had loosened. Smiles came easier and she’d been laughing more. The change was nice, even though part of him still felt like he was walking on ice around her, afraid a wrong step would send him sinking into the chill underneath.

  Ty took his cap off his head and pushed his hair back from his forehead. They were going slow, but the light breeze was better than the hot, still air he’d worked in all day. He set the hat back on his head and pointed the Gator toward the house. As they approached, Betsy lifted her head and smiled. Ty jumped down and opened the back gate and drove the Gator right up to the steps.

  “Your carriage, ma’am.”

  The girls giggled.

  “Come on, Aunt Betsy, before it turns into a pumpkin.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Ty patted the seat next to him. “We’ll find out when we get there.”

  She climbed onto the seat and sat down. Her dark hair was pulled up at the back of her head with wisps falling around her face, and she wore a white T-shirt and cutoff blue-jean shorts. He laid his hand on her knee. She covered his hand with hers and squeezed, then stretched her arm across the seat behind him.

  A few hundred yards from their driveway, a small creek flowed under the highway. Ty pulled under a tree and stepped on the brake, then reached around and lifted the girls out of the back.

  “I’ll show you what I used to do when I was a kid and spent the night with my grandparents here at the farm,” he said to them. Betsy sat on the concrete wall overlooking one side of the creek.

  Ty took Addie and Walsh to the other side of the road and reached down and picked up a couple of small sticks. “Watch this.” He dropped the sticks into the flowing water, then took the girls’ hands and hurried them back across the empty road to where Betsy sat. He leaned over the wall and pointed down. “Wait just a second . . . There they are.” His sticks floated downstream.

  “Can I do it?”

  “Sure.”

  Back and forth they went, dropping in sticks, flowers, and leaves on one side, then running across to see them reappear on the other side. They had to pause a couple times for cars, but at this time of evening, they had the road mostly to themselves. The sun was low in the sky, but sharp rays sneaked between the pines, turning the girls’ faces pink.

  Ty sat next to Betsy while the girls searched for more items to throw. He kept one hand on Walsh’s back to keep her from launching herself over the wall, and he wrapped his other arm around Betsy’s waist. Her fingers nimbly tied clover flowers together into small bunches.

  At one point in her search for perfect objects to toss, Addie jumped up and ran to Betsy, stopping in front of her with her hand outstretched. “This is for you.” In her hand
was a small heart-shaped rock. It was dirty, little clods of dust and dirt crumbling into Betsy’s hand, but the lopsided heart shape was there.

  Betsy curled her fingers around it. “I love it. Thank you.”

  Addie nodded and ran back to Walsh. Betsy slipped the rock into her pocket.

  When it was time for dinner, Ty loaded the girls back into the Gator and pulled it up to the side of the road. He waited for an old pickup to rumble past. The man in the driver’s seat stuck his arm out the window and waved. Ty tipped his cap and pulled the Gator out onto the road behind him.

  “Wow,” the girls breathed when they saw the load of watermelons in the back of the truck.

  A little down the road, the driver slowed and pulled over to the side. He motioned for Ty to do the same. When they stopped, the old man pushed open his creaky door and lumbered to the bed of his truck. He thumped a few melons, then chose one off the top and carried it back to the Gator.

  “For your family.” He handed it to Ty.

  The man walked back to his truck, then paused. “Sun-warmed, straight outta the ground. Best way to eat ’em. Maybe a little salt sprinkled on top, if that’s your thing.”

  Back at the farm, Ty spread newspaper across the picnic table under the big oak and split the watermelon open. Inside, the deep-red flesh was flecked with seeds, and sweet juice dripped onto the table. Betsy brought out a bowl of cold pasta salad and a pitcher of lemonade on a tray with two tall glasses and two small plastic cups. She bustled around the table, setting everything out, making sure they had everything they needed. Ty took her hand and eased her onto the wooden bench next to him.

  “We’re good,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

  The girls ignored the pasta but ate slice after slice of watermelon.

  “Ah well,” Betsy said. “Watermelon has vitamins, right?”

  Ty smiled. “There’s gotta be something good in there.”

  When their mouths and cheeks were bright red, Ty taught them how to spit the seeds. Addie couldn’t quite get the hang of it, but Walsh hit the fence post on her first try. Betsy took Addie over to the swing and pushed her under the thick canopy of dark-green leaves. Addie tipped her head back and let her hair fly behind her as she swung back and forth, higher and higher, all traces of earlier sadness long forgotten. Ty smiled when Betsy’s laughter joined Addie’s.

  Later, as the sky turned orange and the temperature dropped a couple of degrees, the four of them lay back on the grass and watched fireflies. The sky deepened in color and stars began to pop out.

  Addie held her arm straight up and pointed. “I see the first star!”

  “Actually, that one’s a planet,” Betsy said.

  Ty turned his head to her. “You sure about that?”

  She nodded. “It’s Venus,” she said, her voice quiet.

  “I think it’s a star,” Addie said. “We should all make our wish.”

  “You’re right,” Betsy said. “We should.”

  Ty turned to Addie when he heard her whispering, “Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight.” Her eyes were squeezed tight, her hands clasped in front of her.

  Ty smiled and turned to Betsy to tell her to look at Addie, but he stopped. Betsy’s eyes were closed as well, her mouth moving with her own silent wishes.

  twenty-six

  Betsy

  Elinore hosted a Summer Festival every year in late July. At one time, it was a Fourth of July celebration, complete with a potluck picnic on the grass and a fireworks display that tried, but usually failed, to compete with nearby Gulf Shores’ fireworks. That tradition ended when the fireworks went haywire six years ago and caught an empty field on fire. Smoke spread throughout the town, scared cows, sent flocks of birds to the sky, and terrorized Elsie Roberts’s schnauzer. Elsie, then-president of the Friends of Elinore, had left her windows open that night before leaving for the celebration. She said her schnauzer, Terry, was never the same.

  No one was physically hurt during the fireworks mishap, but Elsie ended the fireworks show right then and there. And since the Friends all agreed they couldn’t very well host a Fourth of July celebration without fireworks, they moved the party to later in the month and called it the Summer Festival. Same potluck picnic, but without the side of danger.

  The day of this year’s festival was hot and humid—not so different from most days, but this day was extra damp, a clear indicator of wet weather ahead. Betsy could almost sense Elsie’s panic, even though Ms. Roberts lived three miles away in downtown Elinore.

  Knowing the girls would be up later than normal with the picnic and games afterward, Betsy put them down for a late nap. Their clothes were covered in dirt and grass from the morning outside, so she peeled them off and helped the girls into clean T-shirts and pajama pants. Walsh was asleep in minutes, and Addie lay quietly in the dim room with a handful of books. Betsy tiptoed out, leaving the door open a crack.

  While the girls rested, Betsy straightened up, did a load of wash, then made potato salad for the picnic. She pulled out her favorite white mixing bowl and all her ingredients—red potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, dill pickle relish, mayo, mustard, paprika. The first year she brought it to the festival—Ty’s and her first summer on the farm—the Friends of Elinore came over and shook their hands, welcoming them to town. Elsie said they were welcome at the festival every year as long as they brought that potato salad. Betsy had brought it every year since.

  She could make the dish with her eyes closed, automatically reaching for the right ingredients, her hands doing the work on autopilot, but today she concentrated on the simple act of stirring. Mixing separate ingredients together to make something new, something whole.

  After a final stir, she covered the salad in plastic wrap and slid it into the fridge for later. She checked the pitcher to see if there was enough tea left for Ty to have a glass when he came in to get ready.

  It had been a month since he had told her he wanted to take her on a trip. When he first mentioned it, she was hesitant, but then she allowed herself to get excited about it. Lazy naps on the beach, as much fried shrimp as they could eat, fruity frozen drinks. Maybe if they pretended things were like they used to be—free, easy, unencumbered—they would be.

  But Jenna hadn’t come back, Ty never booked the vacation, and now it was as if a distance—not angry, but obvious—had crept between them while they weren’t looking. Or maybe they had been looking but hadn’t had enough energy to do anything about it. With the longer hours Ty worked to get more Franklin milk on store shelves and prepare the farm for the hurricane season—not to mention the girls’ constant needs, wishes, and curiosity—the two of them had been mostly in survival mode.

  But that happened, right? After almost nine years, no marriage could keep up the passion and excitement of those first few. That’s what the pastor had told them during their premarital counseling sessions as he sat across from them, chin in hand, nodding and squinting.

  At the time she scoffed, unable to see her passion for Ty fading in five decades, much less one. And now, approaching the end of that first decade, she still loved Ty with her whole heart. She appreciated his hard work, tried to be a good partner, slept with him, laughed with him. Looking at the big picture of their eight married years, she’d have to say things had been good. She did as well as she could, but at the edges of her mind—the far reaches of her consciousness—something told her it wasn’t enough.

  As she worked tension out of her head with her fingers, a soft noise came from the second floor. She tiptoed upstairs and peeked into the girls’ bedroom through the open inch. Addie and Walsh were sitting up in bed playing with their ponies.

  As she watched them, their soft words a balm to her tense spirit, she heard the back door open downstairs. Ty crossed the kitchen floor to the fridge. A glass on the counter, the pitcher of tea, silence. Then his feet were on the stairs.

  “I’m here. I just need a few minutes to shower, then we can head out.”

  Betsy
turned to him, but he’d already entered their bedroom and pushed the door closed behind him. She bit her lip, then knocked on the girls’ door. They both looked up.

  “Is it time to get ready for the festival?” Addie asked.

  “Yep. Let’s get you dressed.”

  When they were dressed and ready, she told them to wait there. “Let me check on Uncle Ty and I’ll be back in just a few minutes to get you. Okay?”

  Across the hall, she opened their bedroom door just as Ty slid the shower curtain open. Steam billowed out of their bathroom. Betsy made the bed and picked up a stack of folded clothes from the bench at the end of the bed. She sat and waited.

  A moment later he walked into their room, a white towel wrapped around his waist, his blond hair wet and dripping on his shoulders. He pulled on boxers and a pair of clean blue jeans and sat on the bench next to her. “Are the girls ready?” he asked, his voice end-of-the-day tired.

  “They’ve been ready since last night.”

  “Did you make the potato salad?”

  “Of course.” She smiled.

  “Good.” He rubbed the towel across his head, his face, then tossed it onto the bed. “Wouldn’t want to get on Ms. Elsie’s bad side.” He pulled on his shoes, then sat up and stretched his back. He stood and crossed the room to the chest of drawers and pulled out a collared shirt. His hair made small damp dots on the back of the shirt.

  It was just her husband getting dressed after a shower—his cheeks still red from working out in the heat, his muscles stretching and pulling under his shirt, his strength coupled with his visible fatigue. All of it chipped at Betsy’s heart and she ached with tenderness. Desire and regret.

  She walked to him, reached her arms around him, and pressed her cheek to his back. He froze. She thought he was going to pull away, but then he covered her arms with his own, turned to face her, and pressed his forehead to hers.

  “What’s all this?” he whispered.