“You did buy a dozen tickets,” Sally observed. “That’s pretty good odds. Isn’t it, Carl? You’re good at math, I bet you can figure it out.”
“It depends”—he stopped, overcome by a yawn—“how many tickets they sold in total.” Janis’s phone call had come at eight a.m., which was late in the morning if you lived by the farmer’s rule: Never let the sun catch you in bed. But it was awfully early for a kid who’d been up until midnight penning his vision of the farm of the future.
Still, a ride in Tin Can was too fun to turn down, and he’d never been inside Phil Shirley’s showroom. Janis took a special pleasure in parking the old tractor right in front. “Gives the place some class, don’t you think?” she said to Carl.
He knew it was a joke. The showroom was sleek and modern as a new car dealership, and the farm equipment wasn’t at all what he’d expected. The tractors had touchpad computer screens on the dashboards. The irrigation systems (“what we used to call hoses and sprinklers,” Janis remarked) featured “soil moisture sensor kits, with a digital controller interface,” as Phil was proud to explain.
Was this what the future of farming looked like? If so, he’d gotten the question all wrong in his essay. Too late to change it now.
Janis walked around with her hands in her pockets, guardedly curious about the equipment on display. Phil brought out her prize and insisted on taking her picture with it, despite her objections.
The rototiller was a high-tech beauty, state-of-the-art and environmentally friendly, according to Phil. It came with a rechargeable electric battery and a solar panel mounted on the handles. It was a sweet piece of equipment, bright green and very slick. Once they’d strapped it to the back of Tin Can it looked positively futuristic, like they were machines from different centuries—but of course, that’s exactly what they were.
The tractor rumbled and sputtered, and Carl steeled himself for the bone-shaking ride home. Janis looked thoughtful.
“You know what makes this tractor go?” she called over the roar.
Carl thought. “The engine?”
“Kid, sometimes I think you just might be a genius. Yes, the engine! Without an engine, Tin Can is just, well, a tin can. It’s got an internal combustion engine that runs on diesel. That’s a kind of fuel. You know what that fuel is made of?”
Carl did not know, and shook his head.
“Dinosaurs!” Janis said.
He laughed. Janis was always pulling his leg. “Dinosaurs are extinct!” he said.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Dead dinosaurs. You know what a fossil is, right?”
“Sure.”
“Gasoline and diesel are made from oil. Crude oil is what’s left over from dead dinosaurs and other dead stuff from way long ago. That’s why they call them fossil fuels. It took millions, maybe billions of years for the earth to make all that crude oil, and we’re using it up pretty quick, thanks to the internal combustion engine.”
Carl forced his sleep-deprived brain into gear. How many times had he seen his parents put gas in the car? Multiply that by all the cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles, lawn mowers, airplanes, trains, boats … “What happens when it runs out?” he asked.
“That last tank of gas is gonna be mighty expensive, that’s for sure.” She paused. “People get attached to the past, kid. I’ve been too attached to this tractor. I’m gonna see Phil Shirley again next week. Look into something more modern. Fuel efficient, low emissions. Maybe I’ll try one of those electric models. A quiet tractor! Who’d’ve thunk?”
Carl had a whole different appreciation for riding in Tin Can now that he knew it might be the last time. The spluttering engine, the bone-rattling ride, the stink of the exhaust. Goodbye to all that, and good riddance, too. But it still felt sad, the way goodbyes can.
Janis seemed to feel similarly, and didn’t speak again until she made it up Prune Street and turned off the engine. She patted the steering wheel like it was the neck of a favorite elderly horse. “She’s a hardworking thing, this tractor. I’ll always like old ways of doing things. It’s my nature. But looking back over your shoulder is no way to drive, if you want to go forward.” She laughed. “You’re likely to crash into a tree!”
Carl thought about it. “That’s progress, I guess.”
“Yup. New doesn’t always mean better,” she agreed. “But sometimes it does.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The farm has many visitors.
At the end of the second week of September, the scientists arrived.
There were two of them, one taller, one shorter. That was the main difference between them at a glance. Sally was too busy to pay closer attention.
She’d been in the midst of several different projects when the doorbell rang. The abundance of apples and the bounty of the autumn garden had her preserving, drying, and simmering nonstop. At the moment, she had applesauce going into jars, compote simmering on the stove, string beans being prepped for pickling. Critical temperatures were about to be reached, and multiple timers had been set. It was a bad time to be interrupted.
Hurriedly, she ushered them into the kitchen. “Sorry, you’ll have to talk while I work,” she said. The kitchen was full of steam and Sally wore an apron and hairnet, elbow-length rubber gloves, and held a large pair of tongs. One could argue she looked more scientific than the two men in cargo shorts and polo shirts, hiking socks and cork-soled sandals who nervously stood before her.
The taller man sniffed. “Smells good in here, ma’am! I wish my wife liked to cook.”
“Do you! I wonder what she wishes.” Sally smiled flatly and brandished her tongs in a way that was not entirely friendly. “Who are you gentlemen, and how can I help you?” She glanced at one of her timers. “Quick as you can, please.”
They each handed her a business card, which she couldn’t take because of the gloves and tongs and so on. Awkwardly they dropped the cards on the table.
“We’re from ERP,” the shorter one explained.
“Go on,” Sally urged, about to lose her mind.
The tall one cleared his throat as if preparing to make a speech. “Ma’am, ERP is the Eagle Restoration Project. It’s a government-funded scientific research project based in Harriton, across the river from here. We currently have several American bald eagles under observation, generating valuable data—”
One of the timers beeped. “Sorry to cut you off,” Sally said, silencing it with one hand and turning down one of the stovetop burners with the other, “but I’m in the middle of something potentially explosive and the baby will wake up any minute. I know about your project. My son took an interest after he saw a bald eagle in the yard. I don’t know when it was. April, maybe?”
“April, yes! That was the first data point we registered.” The two men exchanged a look, and the taller one went on, “As you might have read in the newspapers, our funding was interrupted for some months while the folks in Washington sorted themselves out.” He heh-heh-hehed sheepishly, as grown-ups did when unsure of each other’s political opinions; it was a less efficient form of the sniffing that dogs did before deciding whether the other was friend or foe. “We’ve only recently been able to resume our work and sift through a summer’s worth of data. What we’ve discovered is … worrisome.”
The shorter scientist cut in. “Ma’am, have you seen any bald eagles on your property recently? Since April, I mean?”
“Nope,” she said, and turned to adjust her pressure valves.
Sally was telling the truth. She hadn’t personally seen John Glenn, but he was a frequent visitor to Prune Street Farm nevertheless; the scientists had asked the wrong question and she had no time to explain. True to his word, the noble bird continued to come by a few times a week, usually quite early. If the crows were so brazen as to be perched on the roof, the eagle would swoop over them like a strafing warplane, barely grazing their heads as he landed on top of the barn. There he’d perform his scarecrow duties until the point was well made and take to
the skies once more.
The scientists exchanged another look. The shorter one said, “The thing is, ma’am—”
“I’m Sally Harvey,” she said. “No ma’ams allowed. House rule.”
Both men seemed unsure if she was joking. The shorter one forged on anyway. “Mrs. Harvey, the data suggests that one of our birds is in trouble. We’re still getting a locator signal from his tracker, but … it’s not moving.” He looked down, chin to chest, and shook his head.
“We’re afraid something has happened to the bird,” his colleague said, very grave. “You might not know this, but it’s a federal crime to injure a bald eagle.”
“I did know that, and if you’re implying that some harm has come to the bird on purpose, you’ve got the wrong farmhouse, buddy.” Sally had gotten way more tough-talking since leaving Brooklyn. Probably some of Janis’s bluntness had rubbed off on her, but mostly it was because she was much busier and spoke to far fewer people during the day, outside the family. She’d become more used to silence than talk, and when she did speak, she liked to get to the point and preferred others did the same. Some would say this is a trait many farmers acquire, but not all farmers are alike, either, just as not all rabbits are alike, or real estate salespeople, or librarians or scientists or dogs or kids or babies, for that matter. Generalities can be made, but scientifically speaking, the actual data points are all over the map.
“We’re not implying anything, ma’am,” the shorter man replied, less friendly. “Mrs. Harvey, I mean. But the tracker signal is definitely here. On your farm.”
The taller scientist was consulting some sort of gadget he’d produced from the capacious pockets of his cargo shorts. “Hey, Chuck,” he said, his voice low. “The GPS locator says it’s within five hundred feet of the house.”
Now all three grown-ups looked at one another. A kitchen timer went off, and the pressure cooker valve started to squeal, rising in pitch with the urgency of a siren.
“No need to disturb your activities in the kitchen, Mrs. Harvey,” the shorter scientist, apparently named Chuck, called over the din. “The tracker is federal property; we’re just here to retrieve it. May we poke around outside for a bit? I think we’ll be able to find what we’re looking for.”
By now the other scientist was at the back door. He consulted his gadget, then pushed the curtains aside to look out the window, toward the garden and the barn.
“Thataway,” he said to his partner.
From the baby monitor, a tinny robot Marie voice began to wail. Naptime was over. Sally sighed and peeled off her gloves.
“Go ahead,” she said, already on her way upstairs. “My son, Carl, is out there. He’ll help you.”
* * *
The scientists showed no interest in Carl, in the vegetable garden, or in anything to do with the farm. They just stared at their GPS locator gadgets, checking coordinates. It was like a game the kids at Carl’s old school used to play, where you caught imaginary creatures in real places by staring at your phone. The third time a kid walked into the street without checking for traffic was the end of that game, at his school, anyway.
Carl watched them, vaguely worried. He wasn’t sure what he was worried about, but these were authority figures of some sort, and an important piece of government-owned equipment was missing, or so he’d gleaned. It was the kind of situation that made him feel like he’d done something wrong even when he hadn’t.
Also, he didn’t want them to step on the plants. The garden was at peak production and there was hardly room to walk between the rows. The rabbits had bolted behind the barn at the men’s arrival. Foxy was nearby but pretending to be asleep, an ancient Shiba strategy that allowed her enemies to underestimate her while she conserved energy for the battle ahead.
The scientists remained fixed on their gadgets. They hadn’t asked Carl much, except, “Are you the one who saw an eagle in April?” to which he said yes. He’d seen John Glenn many times since then, of course, but they didn’t ask about that, and Carl didn’t volunteer any information. Really, he just wanted them to find the thing and leave, so he and his cottontail colleagues could get back to picking string beans.
Carl’s face must have betrayed his unease. The tall scientist looked at him consolingly. “No one’s in trouble. We just want to see if the bird’s all right.”
“What bird?” Carl asked. “I thought you were looking for some equipment?”
The man tapped the patch on his backpack. “We’re from the ERP,” he said, with evident pride. “My name’s Enrique.”
“I’m Chuck,” said Chuck. He had an ERP patch on his backpack, too.
Carl hadn’t noticed the patches before; right away he felt more at ease, and excited, too. Finally, here were some real bird scientists who could answer his nature study questions! “The Eagle Restoration Project! Cool,” he said. “Hey, can I ask you a question? Do eagles have predators?”
You might remember that Carl had no idea about all the fuss regarding John Glenn’s tracker. The rabbits had been the ones to remove it and dispose of it. Of course, a metal device like that doesn’t just compost nourishingly into the soil like leaves do, or apple peels or bunny poo. Possibly the rabbits hadn’t realized this, although if they’d thought about that old wheelbarrow rusting in the woods they might have figured it out.
The scientist named Enrique shook his head. “Eagles don’t have predators. They’re apex predators themselves. Top of the food chain. Nothing messes with them.”
“So how did they almost go extinct?” Carl tried to remember what Janis had said. “Was it something to do with the water?”
“Loss of habitat was a factor, but pesticides were the main culprit. One called DDT, in particular.” Enrique smiled ruefully. “The disadvantage of being at the top of the food chain is that when you eat other animals, you get a dose of everything they’ve eaten, too. In the case of the eagles, the rivers and waterways got contaminated with DDT runoff. The fish were full of it, and the eagles ate the fish.”
“And—it killed them?” That was sad to think about, even though Carl knew the story didn’t end there.
“Indirectly, yes. It messed up their eggs. The shells were too thin to survive. No eggs, no baby eagles, and that’s how you go from a hundred thousand birds to—what was it, Chuck?”
Chuck answered without looking up from his gadget. “Eight hundred and change. By the early 1960s, there were four hundred and some-odd nesting pairs left in the whole United States, not counting Alaska and Hawaii.”
Carl’s eyes grew wide. Only eight hundred eagles left! There’d been more kids than that at his old school.
“It’s better now, of course,” said Enrique. “Laws were passed protecting the wild birds, and in 1972 they banned the use of DDT. That was the main thing. Last count, I think we’re up to ten thousand eagles in the lower forty-eight.”
Enrique rocked back on his heels. No doubt he’d given this talk many times. “Nowadays, a dead eagle usually means the bird got into some poison somebody set out for vermin.”
“Or was shot by mistake,” Chuck added. He was at the barn door.
“Or on purpose, but illegally. You’d be amazed what some people will do.” Enrique tapped his gadget. “Carl—it’s Carl, right?—is it okay with you if we look in the barn?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Carl waited, more curious than anxious. When the scientists came out of the barn, they looked grim.
“Found the tracker, but no bird. The straps look—nibbled.” Chuck looked like he might cry. “By rats, maybe? Most barns get rats, or field mice. Do you ever see rats back here?”
Carl shook his head. “I haven’t seen any rats since I lived in Brooklyn.”
Referring to Foxy, Enrique said, “Well, you’ve got a dog. Maybe they stay away when she’s around.”
“Woof.” Foxy barked with her eyes half-closed. Rats, indeed! As if she would waste her time chasing rats!
Chuck looked mournfully at the tracker�
�s remains. “If rats took this off John Glenn—well, they wouldn’t have been able to do it while he was alive.” He paused, overcome with feeling, and looked pleadingly at Carl. “Is there any chance—I mean, have you seen any eagles more recently? Since April, I mean?”
“Woof, woof.” Foxy stood and panted at Carl, her brown eyes full of meaning. The more time Carl spent with animals, the more his intuition about what they were thinking had improved. He felt quite sure Foxy was telling him something. What was it, exactly?
Stalling, he scratched his head. “I mean, there are a lot of birds who come by. Black ones, and blue ones, and red ones…”
Chuck looked impatient. “He’s an American bald eagle. Genus Haliaeetus, species leucocephalus. Seven-foot wingspan, sharp yellow beak, white head?”
Tik tik tik tik tik!
“You mean, like that?” Carl pointed. John Glenn was perched in splendor on the roof ridge of the barn, backlit by the sun. The great bird spread his wings wide, then turned his head in profile for maximum iconic effect.
Tik tik tik tik tik! John Glenn chirped again. His whistling, high-pitched squeaks were what you’d expect from a baby seagull. Nothing was wrong with him; that’s just what bald eagles sound like. Their voices are not nearly as intimidating as their looks, which is but one example of why you shouldn’t go making assumptions based on appearances.
“Well, I’ll be. There he is!” Chuck exclaimed, dumbfounded. “He’s alive! But how on earth…”
Enrique was already unbuttoning the cargo pockets of his shorts. “Wait, I have a dart with me—everybody just hold still—”
“Grrrr, woof!” Foxy leapt at the scientist, quivering with rage. Her very sharp, very white teeth were fully bared and hovered about an inch from his leg. She growled and drooled as if it took every fiber of self-control not to tear into the meat of Enrique’s exposed calf.
Carl got the message, finally. He spoke in a calm voice, so as not to frighten the scientists any more than they already were. “You know,” he said, “now that I’m thinking about it, I’d prefer that you left the bird alone.”
Alice's Farm Page 22
