* * *
The Fourth of July came and went. It was fun for the Harveys, but not for Foxy; she hated the noise and hid under Carl’s bed while the family went to see the fireworks. Marie pressed her hands against her ears but squealed with joy at the brilliant, many-colored lights in the sky.
“There is nothing like a small-town fireworks display,” Brad said warmly on the drive home. Sally squeezed his hand. It had been a good night. There were maybe two hundred people in the town square, most of whom seemed to know one another. The owners of the local car dealership set up a tailgate BBQ on the back of four brand-new pickup trucks, free of charge, and there were enough hot dogs and hamburgers for everyone. Carl swore it was the best hamburger he’d ever eaten. Marie had her first taste of cotton candy and was sticky as a spiderweb from head to toe, despite the liberal and frequent application of a moist towel. Nothing but a bath would do.
A few miles away, past where farmland turned to meadow and then forest, the animals of the valley had cowered from the deafening booms and bright lights in the sky. The older creatures assured the younger ones that it was all right, just another inexplicable piece of human tomfoolery that happened once a year, at the peak of summer. It made smoke, but it wasn’t a fire; it smelled like gunpowder, but it wasn’t a shotgun; it cracked lightning across the sky, but it wasn’t a storm.
It wasn’t the Mauler, either. Lester had said so and Alice believed him, despite the noise and fright. She’d seen the farm stand in action a few times, watching from within a clump of hydrangea near the foot of the driveway. Those dry, tough slips of paper the humans handed to the boy seemed like an awfully meager trade for all the work, sun, rain, rich soil, and time it took to produce the bags full of wholesome food the customer-people received in return. How could such a modest exchange have the power to keep the Mauler away?
Yes, sir; being a farmer meant a wheelbarrow-full of worry, and that was true no matter how many legs you had. The sweet ignorance of youth provided the only exception to this rule, and of all the farmers on Prune Street, young Carl Harvey was the most carefree. After all, he had parents to do his worrying for him, while he spent his day in a pretty garden with friendly rabbits and his own faithful dog for company.
Homeschooling was proving to be a breeze, too: Running the farm stand took care of math and public speaking, and the garden provided all the nature study he could want. Helpfully, Marie had recently decided that being read to was her favorite activity and she wasn’t particular about subject matter, so that covered everything else. Currently he was reading to her about Greek and Latin roots, the life of Sir Isaac Newton (an apple orchard figured prominently in that story, which seemed fitting), and European history during the Dark Ages. For some reason the phrase “bubonic plague” made Marie laugh, so he’d read that chapter of his history book aloud several times. It gave him a healthy respect for fleas, and he finally understood why his parents were so obsessed with throwing Foxy in the tub.
As for science: He’d checked quite a few times, but the Eagle Restoration Project website was no longer being updated. “DUE TO AN INTERRUPTION IN GOVERNMENT FUNDING, OUR WORK HAS BEEN SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE,” the home page read. It was a shame, as John Glenn had begun stopping by the farm regularly, and it would have been fun to see his yellow blip coming and going. The eagle would pose in a particularly frightening manner on the roof ridge of the barn, wings ominously spread and that sharp, flesh-tearing beak half open, until the crows that were always hanging around squawked and flew off.
It was almost as if the big bird was trying to scare them away.
* * *
If Carl did have a problem—and he wouldn’t have said that he did—it would be that he needed friends. Kid friends.
Carl didn’t think so. But his parents did.
“Honey, get your shoes on. We’re leaving for the meeting in five minutes,” his mom said after dinner one night, before adding, “There will be kids there.”
He ignored that last bit and slowly located his shoes. “What kind of meeting?”
“The Valley Farmers Association. Janis told us about it, don’t you remember? We’ll learn a lot. We’ll meet new people, too. Including kids.”
“Is Farmer Janis going to be there?’
“Yes. She’s the one who told me there would be other kids.”
Kids! New kids! Other kids! Tempting or terrifying? Carl couldn’t decide which. He’d grown used to being on his own with Foxy and the rabbits and the vegetables and Marie, who was neither animal nor vegetable but had elements of both, as she still occasionally traveled on all fours and always smelled like fruit.
He dropped his shoelaces. “Can’t I just stay home?”
Brad bounded down the stairs, beard freshly trimmed, dressed in his skinny jeans and his most rustic flannel shirt, although on him it just looked like he was a bass player in a band. “That’s not an option, champ. You’re coming with us. Didn’t you hear your mom say there’d be kids there? Maybe you’ll make some friends.”
“That’s why I don’t want to go,” Carl blurted. But it was the wrong answer, as it put a concerned, “let’s talk about that, son” look on Brad’s face. He grabbed a kitchen chair, spun it around, and sat down, facing Carl.
“Let’s talk about that, son. What’s so terrible about making friends?”
Carl shrugged. “I didn’t say it was terrible. I’m just busy, and I don’t feel lonely. I mean, I talk to you and Mom and Foxy and Marie and…” He couldn’t very well say that he spent all day with two rabbits who felt like friends, could he? “And I talk to Farmer Janis, and Orin at the library, and all the customers at the farm stand. I mean, that’s a lot of talking right there.”
The truth was, Carl was not missing other kids much at all, not even Emmanuel. There was too much going on in the garden for him to ever be bored, and he wasn’t prepared to spill the unbelievable—one might even say, magic—beans about how and with whom he spent his days, anyway. It just felt right to keep to himself.
You might say Carl was discovering the rewards of solitude in nature, which, having grown up in the city, he’d hardly experienced before. He found that he liked it, a lot. Farmers and poets know all about a healthy love of solitude and being outdoors, but grown-ups don’t always recognize the need for it in children, or in themselves.
Brad grabbed his dress hat, meaning, his fedora. “Yes, there will be kids there. You might talk to them; you might not; that’s up to you. But that’s not the main reason we’re going. In the city, it’s called networking; I don’t know what it’s called here. It means we need to meet other farmers. People with experience, who I can ask for advice.”
“You have Farmer Janis.”
“Janis is a wonderful, wise, and generous friend, but her way might not always be the right way for us. I need a multiplicity of perspectives.”
“Whuuuu.”
“I need to hear more than one opinion.”
Carl nodded. “You’re in a learning curve.”
Brad looked at him, impressed and somewhat startled. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“We all are,” Sally said, hoisting Marie to her hip. “Oh, did I mention? There will be pie.”
This changed everything. “What kind?” Carl scrambled to get his shoes tied.
Brad adjusted his hat and grabbed his keys. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Pie may have lured Carl to the station wagon, but Foxy flatly refused to be left home. She jumped in the car and wouldn’t budge, until Brad grew impatient and said, “Let the dog come, it’s fine.” Sally wondered if dogs would be allowed in, but Brad pointed out that the meeting was in a barn. “There’ll probably be all kinds of animals there,” he said. To Carl he added, “Keep an eye on her, champ. Make sure she doesn’t bother anyone.”
But Carl was more worried about people bothering Foxy, and insisted on running back in the house to get her new yellow reflective vest, which he buckled onto her as they drove.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The farmers call a meeting.
Stuart Gilroy’s Bustin’ Barn of Antiques was an enormous red barn that was either packed with junk or overflowing with vintage treasures, depending on your taste. Every month or so, when the barn was “full to bustin’,” Gilroy held an auction to clear the place out, just so he could fill it up again.
“Why haven’t we been here before?” Sally murmured, both hands hovering over the old glassware and sets of dishes. There were tables full of mixing bowls in candy-bright colors, hand-cranked mixers, wooden rolling pins, old typewriters. Stacked and leaning along the walls were deep farmhouse sinks, sweetly painted furniture, potbellied woodstoves, old shop tools, you name it. Sally was in the vintage treasure camp for sure, and her eyes grew bright with longing for just about everything she saw.
“It’s all junk,” Brad said, moving away from the tables. Marie straddled his hip and grabbed at the air with her chubby digits, a disaster waiting to happen. “Let’s find some chairs before it gets too crowded.”
But Stuart Gilroy had spotted a live one. He sidled over to Sally, sporting an enormous smile.
“Hey there, neighbor! I’m Stuart Gilroy, and the barn is full to bustin’! Next auction is a week from Thursday, but if you see something you like, we’ll strike a deal right now.” He had long gray hair that tumbled loosely to his shoulders, and a thick mustache that nearly hid his mouth. “Make me an offer, ma’am! I can practically promise I’ll say yes.”
“I’m just looking,” Sally said, charmed. “We’re here for the meeting.”
Stuart’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “You are? Funny, I wouldn’t have taken you for farmers. Thinking about getting into it, are you? A lot of folks are, these days. Well, it’s good to do your research. Farming’s harder than it looks. I wouldn’t last a week at it, personally!” He picked up a teacup Sally had been admiring and held it to the light. “Ever thought about getting into the antiques business? I can see you have excellent taste.”
Brad scowled in irritation, but maybe it was from Marie’s vigorous squirming to get down. Luckily, Janis had already made her way over. “You’ve lost your eye for value, Gilroy,” she interjected, slurping the last pie crumbs off a paper plate. “These aren’t future farmers, these are here-and-now farmers. Meet my friends, the Harveys. They bought the old Crenshaw place. They’re doing well with it, too. This is Brad, this is Sally, and this wiggly person is Applesauce.”
Stuart tugged at his mustache. “The old Crenshaw place; well, well! Nice to meet you all. Hey, Applesauce! Aren’t you a cutie.”
Marie went brrrrrrrr with her lips and spit flew everywhere. Janis offered Brad her paper napkin, which he used to wipe the baby’s face and his own. To Stuart, he said, “We call it Prune Street Farm now.”
“Prune Street Farm, sure, that’s the name. I’ve heard good things about it. Got your own farm stand, selling quality goods. My apologies. Please, grab some coffee and a slice of pie and take your seat. We’ll get started in a few minutes.” He winked at Sally. “Farmers always get ten percent off at the Bustin’ Barn of Antiques! If you see something you like—and you will!—don’t be shy.”
Carl had missed this exchange, as he and Foxy were hunting pie. Together they’d sniffed their way to the back of the barn. What a spread! Two long tables full of homemade heaven. He got in line and held Foxy’s leash short and tight, so she stayed right at his feet.
There were kids milling about near the food. He counted about a half dozen, all gorging themselves and teasing each other like they’d known each other all their lives. Two boys, very alike and about his own age, approached him as he inched forward in the line.
“Hey. Who are you?” one of the boys asked. He wasn’t rude, exactly, but he did seem to think he was entitled to an answer.
“Is that a dog or a fox?” The other boy dropped to the ground. “Is it friendly? Can I pet it?”
“She’s not that friendly,” Carl said. Foxy looked unhappy, trapped in a sea of legs with a strange boy trying to pet her. Her tail drooped until the line moved again. The two boys stuck close, wanting to know more. Where did he go to school? Why hadn’t they seen him around before? Why was his dog wearing a yellow coat?
Carl answered their questions as best he could until he reached the front of the line. The pie lady wore a hairnet; she looked pleasant but frazzled. “You want pumpkin, apple, or a little of both?” she said, breathless. “It’s a dollar either way.”
Carl dug in his pocket for a dollar. “Both, please.”
She put two good-sized slices on a paper plate, then frowned when she saw Foxy. “You can’t bring your dog back here by the food; it’s a board of health rule.” Then she noticed Foxy’s yellow vest. “Oh, I’m so sorry, honey! I didn’t realize he was a guide dog.” Carefully she seized Carl’s hand and guided it to the paper plate. “You got that? Here, I’m putting a fork on the plate for you, too.”
Carl looked at her with intensity, so she could see he didn’t need that kind of help. “I’m good, thanks. Thanks for the pie. Here’s my dollar.”
She nodded and smiled, overflowing with kindness. “No charge, sweetheart. Your dog is so cute! He looks just like a fox.” But then she gasped and her hands flew to her throat at the heart-tugging irony of a boy not being able to see how cute and foxlike his own dog was. Life was truly a mystery, wasn’t it? Bitter and sweet by turns.
* * *
Eager to dig into his pie, Carl took a seat against the wall, near the other kids. Finally, the two boys introduced themselves. They were the Fleischman twins, Billy and Greg, eleven years old, not identical but a great deal alike. They struck Carl as rough and tumble but not necessarily mean, just blunt and lacking all shyness. They weren’t homeschooled but didn’t blink when Carl said he was.
Mostly they thought it was hilarious that the pie lady thought Carl was blind. Their laughter made Carl uneasy, as the pie lady was just mistaken and trying to be nice. Nor did he think it would be funny to be blind, although bringing your dog everywhere would be pretty great.
“Is your dog even smart enough to be a guide dog?” Billy asked, scratching Foxy’s head. “She doesn’t look that smart.”
“Woof,” said Foxy.
“She’s very smart,” Carl said. “But she’s not, you know. Trained.”
“Can she herd sheep?”
Carl shrugged. “I don’t know. Our herd is kind of small.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
Greg laughed. “That’s not a herd. A herd is, like, five hundred. That’s what my aunt and uncle have.”
Billy started issuing commands to the dog. “Sit! Fetch! Roll over!” Foxy gazed implacably into space, ignoring him. To Carl, Billy said, “You’re not blind, but I think your dog is deaf!”
Billy and his brother guffawed until Greg looked up. “Oh man, look at the dude with the hat! What a hipster. I bet there’s a man bun underneath.”
It was Brad, looking for Carl. He grinned when he spotted him. “There you are, champ! Should have guessed you’d find the food. Come on. Mom’s saving our seats. Hey, who are your friends?”
The Fleischman boys jumped up and introduced themselves. They had a whole different way of talking to grown-ups: they stood up straight, offered firm handshakes, and said sir a lot. Brad seemed very taken with them. Carl felt a little sick. Maybe he’d eaten his pie too fast.
“Our dad is Larry Fleischman. He’s the biggest farmer in the county,” Greg explained.
“We grow onions,” said Billy proudly. “Just onions.”
“Well, he’s lucky to have two kids like you to help him out,” Brad said. “Carl is a huge help on our farm.”
The boys snickered. “Our dad hires people to do the work,” said Greg.
Still smiling, Brad steered Carl away. “Bye, champ!” Greg teased as they left, and Billy repeated it. “So long, champ!” They were doubled over in laughter, and Carl was glad to leave them behind.
M
eanwhile, on the other side of the barn, Sally had draped her sweater and Brad’s jacket over four folding chairs, to save them, and was walking a fussy Marie up and down the aisle.
“No, she’s my youngest,” she was saying to an older couple with kind, weather-beaten faces. “My son Carl is nearly eleven. He’s here, too, someplace.”
The man chuckled. “Interested in farming, is he? A lot of the young ’uns aren’t.”
“He is interested, very much. He does a fantastic job caring for our vegetable garden.”
“Does he, now.” The woman leaned forward. “I’ve heard your produce is nice and early. Where’d you get your seeds?”
“Bun bun seed,” Marie confessed, irresistibly.
Sally smiled as she and Marie pivoted for another lap. “The plants in our vegetable garden came up by themselves. I guess we have Mr. Crenshaw to thank for that.”
The woman’s expression stayed blank. “The plants came up by themselves?”
“Sure. Why? Is that unusual?” Sally asked, all innocence.
“Oh, no,” the woman replied, deadpan. “It happens all the time. They’re called weeds!”
Everybody within earshot laughed, and Sally wondered if she’d been made the butt of a joke she didn’t understand. Janis came to the rescue by throwing her own coat down on a chair next to the Harveys’. Then she spirited Sally and Marie off to look at a vintage gas engine she had her eye on.
Janis whistled. “What a beauty. That’s an Emerson-Brantingham Type H, from 1918 or so. One and a half horsepower. Sweet.”
“It’s adorable.” Marie’s grabby hands headed for the engine, but Sally stopped her. “Hey, what was that all about? What that woman said, about the weeds?”
Janis waved it off. “They’re just jealous because your vegetables are bigger and earlier and tastier than everyone else’s.”
“Are they really?” Sally was dumbfounded. “Why do you think that is?”
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