Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

  That’s when Carl, with the clear-eyed sincerity of a vacuum cleaner salesman working on commission, stood before his unusually well-rested parents and announced that he had a request. “Not for a new video game,” he said quickly. “It’s educational. Homeschooling-related.”

  “Go on,” Brad said, amused.

  Carl proceeded to explain that he wanted their permission to take care of the vegetable garden, alone, without help or interference, and that he would even be willing to write a nature study report about it if necessary, but the main thing was that he wanted to do it by himself. Independently and unobserved. Flying solo, as it were.

  Sally sipped her coffee. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

  “Ponsiboo,” Marie declared, vouching for her brother’s readiness for such a weighty role in the family economy. Brad mistook her character reference for an invitation to play. “Peek-a-boo!’ he said, in his falsetto talking-to-Marie voice. “Peek-a-boo!”

  “And it’s a lot of work,” Sally added.

  “I know it is,” said Carl. “But the garden’s been growing pretty well so far, right? So, I just need not to mess it up. Which I won’t.”

  Done clowning for Marie, Brad tented his fingers and leaned back in his chair, earnest and solemn. “It’s not just a school thing, champ. That garden, the orchard, all the preserving and canning your mom’s doing, the sheep—”

  “The imaginary sheep, you mean,” Sally teased. Brad’s reluctance to put actual sheep in his state-of-the-art paddock had become a family joke.

  “Real sheep will come in the fullness of time. Let me finish, this is important—everything about this farm is the family business now. It’s our livelihood, our home, our way of life.”

  Carl kept every trace of sass out of his voice. “I understand, Dad. That’s why I want to do it.”

  “Okay, but that was me saying why. Put it in your own words,” Brad urged.

  It felt like a test. Marie gurgled encouragingly (to her parents it sounded like a burp), and Carl took a deep breath. “Because of—just what you said,” he fumbled, and then recovered. “It’s not some science fair project that ends up in the basement when you’re done. It’s real. It matters. It’s food. I mean, I’m a farmer now, too, right?”

  Marie burbled, very pleased. Sally had to dab at her eyes with the hem of her shirt, and Brad put a newly calloused hand on Carl’s thin shoulder.

  “Right you are, son. The garden’s all yours. Tend it well.”

  * * *

  It was a dewy-eyed morning in the farmhouse, but the cottontails’ eventual triumph over John Glenn’s tracker during the preceding night had been no miracle. On the contrary: It had taken guts, preparation, and strong teeth. After Foxy and her humans had gone back to their farm-burrow, Doggo attempted a calm introduction between the tender rabbits and the great winged predator. The eagle cooed like a fledgling dove, but it didn’t matter. Alice and Thistle couldn’t help but be terrified.

  They worked on this by sitting quietly near him for a while, until the pure survival reflex subsided and he didn’t seem quite so strange and deadly. When the last drops of fear had melted, the rabbits carefully climbed atop the eagle’s back and nibbled at the straps. He praised their lightness and gentleness the whole time, and soon the annoying gadget slipped right off.

  John Glenn spread his wings in unencumbered bliss. “Let freedom ring!” he said. “Rabbits, you are sharp-toothed indeed, and brave of heart. How can I repay you?”

  “You’ve already promised not to eat us. That’s a pretty good trade,” Thistle said gaily. Not many cottontails have climbed the back of a fox and the back of an eagle in one lifetime, but Thistle had. The straps had tasted awful (he’d never been near a synthetic polymer before, otherwise known as nylon), but on balance, he felt himself to be a lucky bunny indeed.

  “Still, I would like to help in some way. And I will never eat you,” John Glenn said earnestly. “Not unless you ask me to.”

  Both rabbits’ tails had a good shimmy over that one.

  Once her fear was gone, Alice liked John Glenn right away. She was impressed by his qualities: his size, his plumage, his noble temperament, and the fierce grandeur of his profile. He wanted to help them, and help was something they desperately needed. She wasn’t going to let him go without asking for something. But what should it be?

  “There is an item we need for the garden,” she said, after a moment. “It’s called a scarecrow. Our friend Lester told us about them. They can be in the shape of a human, or an owl, or any other creature that will frighten away the crows.”

  “I have seen these scarecrows,” John Glenn said. “Many farms have them.”

  “Well, we need one, too. The crows have been coming around lately, watching us. I expect they’ll be a problem once the peppers and tomatoes are fruiting.”

  The crows had been gathering for a week already. First they came singly, then in twos and threes. Most birds could be trusted to stick to an agreement, but crows weren’t like other birds. They were brilliantly clever, with long memories and complicated brains. They were fiercely loyal, but only to each other. The rest of the earth’s creatures were the Others, the Not-Crows, the Lesser Birds, the Lowly Wingless—the crows had many names for those to whom they felt superior, but they all meant the same thing.

  Crows were scavengers who ate anything they could find or steal, from insects to human garbage. They’d eat animals crushed by cars on the smooth, black roads the people built. They’d eat the eggs of other birds, and sometimes they ate the newly hatched babies, too. They loved crops they could peck at, like corn and sunflower seeds, and they ate all kinds of fruits and vegetables.

  Human farmers loathed them, for crows were destroyers. Alice was forming her own opinion about the matter. She didn’t loathe them—they were her fellow creatures, after all—but she surely didn’t want them ruining her garden.

  “Crows are interesting,” John Glenn observed. “Genus Corvus, species brachyrhynchos. What sort of scarecrow would you prefer?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It just needs to keep them away from the garden,” Alice said.

  “Anything crows hate,” Thistle added.

  “Hate is a strong word,” John Glenn said mildly. “Crows and eagles are not friends, but we respect each other, bird to bird. The crows won’t bother you if I’m here. I will be your scarecrow.”

  “You will?” Alice couldn’t believe their luck. “You’ll be here every day?”

  “Not every day. I have to be free, to hunt, and mate, and soar. I need my time in the sky, alone. That gift has been returned to me, thanks to you, my rabbit friends.” His wings twitched, eager to go. “But I will return here often, often enough that the crows will understand. They are intelligent birds. They will not trouble your garden.”

  To say the rabbits were grateful would be an understatement. They thanked John Glenn so many times the grand bird grew uncomfortable. In his view, the rabbits had more than earned this consideration, and he was only doing what was right.

  Doggo finally put an end to it. He was tired after a long night of rabbit-minding and unexpected encounters with giant raptors and human cubs. Seeing Foxy had been rewarding—he’d especially liked that nice compliment about his breath—but he longed to be back in his den, curled tail to nose, deep in the dreams of a fox. If the rabbits wanted an escort home, it was now or never.

  Alice and Thistle conceded, for they, too, were exhausted.

  John Glenn bid them all good night and took to the skies, free and unobserved for the first time since he was a fledgling seized from the nest in Wisconsin.

  Before the rabbits left with Doggo, they hid the tracker in the barn, buried deep in a pile of useless metal pieces, broken tools, and such. That seemed to be where it belonged.

  * * *

  Carl hadn’t seen his mom dressed like this since they’d moved from Brooklyn. There she stood in the kitchen, in a skirt and blouse with her hair pinned up, reddened lips, and shoes
that made her stand on her toes. She was packing up a gift box, like the kind you’d give someone full of fancy chocolates on Valentine’s Day, except this box was full of prunes and other samples of her dehydrated wares. It was a rotten trick if you were expecting chocolate, but the dried fruit seemed to be the point. Farmer Janis was there, watching and advising.

  “I keep wanting to say Shoo-bert.” Sally’s hands fluttered like anxious birds as she tied a wide ribbon around the box. “But it’s Shoo-bear, right?”

  “Chef Armando Shoo-bear. Shoo, bear! Go away, bear!” Janis acted it out. “That’s how to remember it. Though I’d bet my favorite tractor it’s not his real name.”

  Sally closed her eyes to concentrate. “Go away, bear! Shoo-bear. Got it. Ugh! I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

  “He’s a character, but they say eccentricity is common in the restaurant business.” At Janis’s prompting, Sally had scheduled a meeting with Armando Shubert, owner and head chef at Loco for Locavore, the new “farm-to-table” restaurant in the next town. Strictly speaking, all restaurants are farm to table, as where else could the food come from? At Loco for Locavore it meant that the menu changed daily and Chef Shubert only used ingredients that were grown or raised within a ten-mile radius of his kitchen.

  As luck would have it, Janis’s farm was nine miles from the restaurant, and Prune Street Farm was nine and one-half miles exactly. All the neighboring farmers were wooing Shubert as a customer. Janis felt Sally should do the same. Loco for Locavore had already become one of her main egg buyers, and the place seemed on a path for success. There’d been several magazine articles written about Shubert already. Folks were saying he’d be publishing a cookbook that would make the town famous. Could a TV show be far behind? That’s what Janis had heard, anyway.

  “You know about the no-fork rule, right?” Janis asked. This was the place she’d been talking about when she was practicing with chopsticks.

  Sally stood tall to recite: “‘No mere fork may pierce these ‘bespoke culinary preparations.’ Only teeth! Thus, every molecule of flavor is released within the mouth.’ I saw it on the website.” She put both hands on her heart and took a breath. “I think I’m ready. Janis, thanks so much for taking care of Marie.”

  Carl hadn’t realized Janis was here to babysit. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

  “He has jury duty, remember? I won’t be long. Wish me luck.”

  “You’ll do great, Sal. Knock ’em dead! Not literally,” she added, making her crazed murderer face for Carl’s amusement.

  Carl rolled his eyes. “Good luck, Mom,” he said, and gave the old gal a hug for good measure. She always liked that.

  “Thank you, honey,” she said, hugging him back tightly. “Now I’m not nervous anymore.” Purse over one shoulder, box of rubberized fruit under her arm, car keys dangling from her hand, Sally made her exit. She looked scared but also excited, like she was off to have an adventure of her own.

  Carl liked seeing his mother that way, plus he was relieved she was going out so he could pretend-garden in peace. But now there was Janis to contend with. She yawned and stretched. “Okeydokes, kid. Technically I’m the babysitter, but you’re no baby and I’ve got stuff to do. I’m taking Applesauce with me to price rototillers. I don’t need one; I just like to drive Phil Shirley crazy by looking and not buying. Come or don’t come, it’s up to you.”

  “Can’t. Too many chores.” Carl scuffed his feet and gave Janis a sidelong look of remorse. “Farmer Janis, I owe you an apology.”

  “You do?” Janis pulled up a chair, eager to hear.

  He put a quiver of emotion in his voice, for effect. “What I said to you about the vegetable garden a while back … well, it wasn’t exactly true. I have been taking care of it. I mean, you were right. I planted it and everything. It was me.”

  Farmer Janis smacked her own thigh and grinned. “You rascal! And here you had me doubting my own sanity. Why did you lie?”

  That he was lying now about lying then was ironic, but the tractor of truth had already left the barn, so to speak. “For the reasons you said,” he confessed. “I wasn’t ready to admit I was a farmer. It felt weird. But after we talked … it doesn’t feel weird anymore.”

  Janis looked smug. “And your parents know?”

  “They know now. But they don’t know I’ve been doing it all along. I didn’t want to embarrass them for not noticing,” he added.

  Farmer Janis nodded. “Gotcha. I’ll back you up on that. Your parents are on a learning curve; mistakes will be made and we don’t have to rub it in. Now, let’s you and me talk business, farmer to farmer: Any chance you’ll give me a tour of your handiwork? There’s stuff I can learn from you, and I’m not proud. I take my schooling where I can get it.”

  Carl stammered, “Eh—maybe? Soon? But not today. I really have a lot to do.”

  She looked at him appraisingly. “Holding on to your competitive advantage, huh? Fine. All’s fair in love, war, and farming. You owe me your anti-critter secrets at least. I’m serious.” Janis stood and began to unbuckle Marie from her seat.

  “I will, I promise. It’s complicated to explain, I guess.”

  “Whenever you’re ready, Farmer Kid. But remember: There’s a regular chipmunk invasion going on at my place, and if it doesn’t stop soon I’m declaring war. If you’re too squeamish to feed a chicken just because it’s fated for the rotisserie, I don’t think you’d want the chipmunk apocalypse on your conscience, either.” Janis grabbed the diaper bag and slung the baby under her arm like she was a bag of topsoil. “Come on, Applesauce. We’re going to go look at farm machinery. Fun, right?”

  “Whee! Bye-bye.” Marie waved to Carl. “Bye-bye!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A taste of radish.

  Carl got that this chipmunk situation was serious, but the brain has a mind of its own, you might say. His first reaction to the words chipmunk apocalypse was to imagine a new video game, in which an army of zombie chipmunks confront an opposing force of, say, robot squirrels. The squirrels would be armed with tiny explosive acorns made of Rodentium, the only substance in the universe able to demolish zombie chipmunk armies while still being stable enough to store in your cheeks.

  But Janis wasn’t playing games, and traps meant bloodshed. Carl didn’t know why the chipmunks plagued Janis’s garden and not his, but he was a clever boy, as Foxy liked to say. Alice and her bunny friend had to be behind it. If he could warn them of Janis’s ire, perhaps the animals would be able to settle the matter among themselves before it was too late.

  He wasn’t sure how much of what he said the rabbits understood, but Foxy was a different story. So was Marie. To do this right, he’d need their help.

  First, Carl asked Brad to add a doggy door in the kitchen, so the dog could go outside at will. Brad nixed the idea, as he thought a doggy door made it too easy for critters like raccoons and skunks to get in the house. Instead, after watching a morning’s worth of YouTube videos and making two separate trips to the hardware store, Brad rigged the back door with a new latch that Foxy could operate herself, simply by hitting it with her paw.

  “Now you have to train her how to use it. Good luck with that!” Brad joked when he was done. He was still thinking of Foxy as a dumb dog. Carl knew better. He only had to show the dog once, no treats required (although he gave her one anyway, because she was so good and so cute). Foxy had her own strong motivations for knowing how to work the latch, and that makes learning anything easy.

  Let freedom ring! Finally, Foxy was a true farm dog, able to come and go as needed and ready to be put to work.

  With phase one of his plan accomplished, Carl sat down privately with the dog and Marie. He explained that the chipmunks had gone too far at Farmer Janis’s place, that consequently she was planning to set traps, and that someone needed to let the chipmunks know they ought to lay off, and that they should also be careful, as Janis was pretty riled up.

  Foxy held still and listened, spor
ting her usual sleepy, regal stare. Marie threw in her two cents by chortling “munks, twaps, boo-boo, bad!” An answering woo-woo-woo from the dog seemed to conclude the negotiation between them. Carl didn’t know what would happen next, but he fervently hoped nobody got hurt.

  There was only one more angle to cover. The next time Carl saw Janis, he confessed that his anti-critter “secret” was Shiba Inu pee, a little-known but powerful chipmunk repellent. If she’d like, he could bring Foxy over now and then to anoint her property, just as the dog had done to such good effect at Prune Street Farm.

  Janis still had her doubts about Foxy, but anything was worth a try. Imagine her amazement when, within a week or so of Foxy’s first ceremonial tinkling, her chipmunk problem seemed to have vanished!

  * * *

  Foxy’s freedom meant more freedom for the rabbits, who could now come to the garden whenever they liked. During the day, Foxy served as their bunny-guard; at night, Doggo remained on duty. Any last-minute requests or schedule changes were arranged by blue jay. Those chattering jays were always glad to have other creatures’ business to stick their beaks into, but it was the birds’ way of helping, too. They hadn’t forgotten why the rabbits were working so hard. Nor had the other animals in the valley. Every rumble of summer thunder reminded them of the Mauler, and made them appreciate their days in the meadow even more than they already did.

  Alice and Thistle never forgot about the Mauler, either, and often worked until they were tired to the bone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t having fun. The switch to farming in the daylight hours was a pure sunlit pleasure, and they no longer had to worry about being seen by the farmer-people, since Foxy’s boy was the only human who ever came to the garden. Bit by bit they got used to the huge, clumsy, two-legged creature, until they were hardly afraid of him at all.

  A boy-farmer, imagine! He didn’t do any of the things they’d been raised to think farmers did. He didn’t yell and chase after them, or set traps, or raise a shotgun to his shoulder and point it in their direction. It was just the opposite. He never made any fast moves in their direction and always seemed pleased when they arrived. Foxy assured them that Carl was a good boy, as befitted being the boy of such a good dog as she herself was, and the rabbits came to see that it was true.