Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

  Seeing Emmanuel had been fun but too quick, so that was also kind of heavy-feeling, and added to the tiredness for sure.

  And then there was the surprise arrival of the magazine people! Being a finalist was positive news, but now Carl had supersized anxiety about what kind of impression the farm was making on Tallulah and Zane. Would they want to talk to him again? If they did, would he say or do something to mess everything up? He could barely remember what he’d put on the application, other than that stuff Janis had said about farming being the most important profession, and his own observation that maybe if plants and people and animals could all stop underestimating one another and cooperate, things might go better for everyone.

  Anxiety was exhausting, and so was talking to strangers, so when his dad showed up with a hummus sandwich and a thermos full of cold and extremely fizzy cola after a summer of no soda in the house whatsoever, Carl was one hundred percent ready for it. Father and son retired to the farthest, most private side of the barn, where a pair of upended apple bushels provided seating, and a wooden crate that had once held plums for Sally’s prune-making experiments served as a picnic table.

  “I’ve given two farm tours an hour since ten o’clock. I think I’m losing my voice.” Brad took a slug of cola before handing it back to Carl. “Ahhh,” he said, and burped the way only a dad can. “Don’t tell your mom about the soda.”

  Carl drank and burped, too. “I thought it was bad to keep secrets.”

  “Okay, you’re right. I’ll tell her. I think she’ll support our choice on an emotional level, even thought she might not agree with it from a nutritional standpoint. But speaking of secrets—there’s something I want to ask you, champ.”

  Aha! Carl knew it was too good to be true. This sandwich break wasn’t just about sneaking soda and bonding over man-burps. There was going to be a Talk.

  Brad gave him that sensitive dad look, half smiling and gentle-voiced. “Why didn’t you tell us that you applied to this contest?”

  Carl’s face grew hot. He never should have entered that dumb, dumb contest in the first place. “Are you mad? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No! Not at all. It was a good idea, a smart idea. Thanks to you, we now have a chance at some serious media coverage in a national magazine. That’s initiative, son! I’m proud of you, and I’m grateful.” Brad smiled warmly at his boy. “You’re looking out for the family in a really grown-up way. I’m just curious why you didn’t tell us.”

  “You and Mom have been so worried lately,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t want you to have another thing to worry about.”

  Brad exhaled and rubbed his face. “You kids don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  Carl thought about this. “I miss Grandma, since she moved to Arizona. But I know we’ll see her at Christmas.”

  “It was a rhetorical question. Let me ask you a real one: Do you know why we’re worried?”

  Carl gestured around. “It’s about the farm, right? It’s not making money or something? But maybe if we got on the cover of the magazine it would be good marketing. Or is that branding? Sorry, I get those words mixed up.” He looked earnestly at his father. “If we win the contest, will that fix everything?”

  Brad exhaled hard and tugged at his beard. “Carl, you’re a farmer, too. We wouldn’t be here today without your efforts. You deserve an honest answer about where things stand. But I don’t want you to worry. Promise me you won’t, okay?”

  “I promise,” Carl said, but it was a promise no one could be expected to keep. When people tell you not to worry is when you know things are bad.

  Brad pulled his bushel closer to Carl’s. “First: You’re right. Being on the cover of the magazine would be excellent marketing for Prune Street Farm. It would help more people know about us and what we do. But that alone is not enough to ‘fix everything.’”

  Carl took a big bite of hummus sandwich, which just proved how very hungry he was. “Mmmmf?” he asked, his mouth full.

  For once, his dad understood his meaning. “I’ll tell you what would be enough. We need something to sell to all those people. Something that makes a profit.”

  Carl tried to ask more but the hummus was too smooshy in his mouth. His dad held up a hand. “Don’t choke. I know what you’re going to say. We have plenty of stuff to sell. The vegetables are practically gone. The bread sold out an hour ago. We ran out of bags for apples. Purely from a sales point of view, the day has been an incredible success.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Sales are not the whole story. What we need is a product to sell that we can charge more money for than it cost to make. That’s what I mean by ‘profit.’”

  Carl swallowed, finally. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s just math. If you sell an apple for fifty cents, but it costs you sixty cents to grow each apple, selling more apples doesn’t fix the problem. Can you tell me why?”

  “Because you lose a dime on each apple—and the more apples you sell, the more money you lose.” Carl looked up. “That doesn’t make sense, though.”

  Brad nodded. “I know. It’s a challenge a lot of small farmers face, for a whole bunch of reasons. Your mom and I have been trying to figure it out. It was harder than we thought, and like I said—I want to be honest with you. We’ve just about run out of time.”

  Carl’s face quivered. He looked down and kicked at the dirt. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know about the profit part. I thought winning the contest would be enough.”

  “It’s fantastic, champ. I really hope we win,” Brad said. His voice was ragged, and not from giving tours. “You’re a great kid, you know that?”

  Carl endured the hair-ruffling that ensued. “Dad, what happens when we run out of time?”

  “Those are next steps, champ. We’ll figure it out.” Brad gazed westward, into the sun, and shielded his eyes. “Those rabbits are something, aren’t they? So friendly. I always thought wild rabbits were skittish.”

  “There’s a wide range, I guess.” Carl stood up, deeply preoccupied. “I’m gonna go play with the animals, okay? Thanks for the soda.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Brad let Carl go.

  That had not been an easy conversation; no, sir.

  On impulse, Brad walked to the end of the barn and leaned against the corner, where he could watch Carl approach the wild cottontails. There’d been two rabbits earlier, but now there were four.

  Well, that’s rabbits for you, thought Brad.

  Two of them hopped right up to the boy, almost as if they knew him, and he fed them from his pockets. The afternoon sun cut through the trees and caught them all up in a golden haze of autumn light.

  It was a perfect moment, and one that would end far too soon. All perfect moments did, of course, and the imperfect ones, too, for that matter—but it still felt deeply unfair.

  Brad didn’t know whether to cry or put his fist through the side of the barn.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Sally had given the magazine people a grand tour of the farmhouse operations. She walked them through her well-stocked shelves, the dehydration equipment in the basement, her gleaming kitchen laboratory for canning and preserving. They showed a respectful interest in the dried fruits and veggies operation, and Zane took diligent notes, but she didn’t get the feeling they were knocked out by it.

  Then Tallulah spotted a basket of vegetables in their fresh-picked, pre-dried state, waiting on the kitchen counter. That made her very interested, and she oohed and aahed over the generous size, the vivid color, the utter lack of blemishes.

  “Talk to Carl,” Sally said for what felt like the twentieth time that day, as she offered them what they each immediately declared to be the best broccoli florets they’d ever tasted. “He’ll be able to tell you all about it.”

  Tallulah and Zane tracked down the young farmer by the rain barrel, where he was filling a jug with water to bring to the animals. Being petted all day was thirsty work.

  “Okay,
Farmer Carl,” Tallulah said, with the bright-eyed energy of someone who’s ready to wrap things up and go home. “We’ve learned a ton from your mom and dad, and we’ve toured the entire farm. Which is beautiful!”

  “Does this mean we’re going to win?” he blurted. Even after what his dad had said about running out of time, he still did want to win. It would make his parents happy. Or at least, less unhappy.

  Tallulah laughed. “I promise, we’ll decide very soon. We’re going to conclude our site visit by asking you a few questions.” Zane poised his pen to take notes. Tallulah continued. “Can you share some of your farming techniques with our readers? In your application, you said you don’t use any chemical fertilizers, pesticides, or sprays. Yet the produce is flawless.”

  “Well,” said Carl, “the fertilizer is rabbit poo.”

  Zane wrote it down as Tallulah nodded. “Completely natural, excellent. Do you buy it, or gather it, or…?”

  Carl squirmed. Now that it didn’t matter, he might as well tell the truth. But how much would they be able to believe? “The rabbits come and do it,” he explained. “They make poo. In the garden. By the plants.”

  “They don’t eat your crops, though?”

  “No, never. They’re pretty helpful, actually.”

  Tallulah nodded slowly. “Helpful rabbits, wow. Why do you suppose that is?”

  “I have no idea,” said Carl. “My sister might know. I’m not sure.”

  “Your sister?” Zane said quickly. “Can we talk to her?”

  “You could try. She’s not that great at talking, though.” Carl glanced at the house. “She’s mostly still a baby.”

  “A baby, okay.” Zane wrote it down. Tallulah’s face was blank. It was only a matter of time before she decided he was pulling her leg. Still, he resolved to be as truthful as possible. He was too worn out with hard work and strong feelings to make anything up, anyway.

  “Let’s talk about insect damage, then,” Tallulah said. “You don’t seem to have any. How’d you manage that?”

  “The rabbits pick the bugs off the plants and eat them. I do it, too—but I don’t eat the bugs! That would be gross,” he quickly added. “When it gets to be too much work, the birds help.”

  Tallulah was looking at him strangely. He slowed down, to help her understand. “So, for example: One time the tomato plants got swarmed with beetles. A zillion of them showed up all at the same time. They’d hatched, or molted, or something, I don’t really know. Alice—she’s one of the rabbits—hopped over to that big tree over there to talk to the birds, and, like, maybe fifteen minutes later, all these blue jays came over and ate the beetles. The tomatoes were saved, yay!” he added, with a half-hearted cheer. It was a story with a happy ending, but Tallulah still didn’t seem to be getting the point.

  “So the rabbits are helpful, and the birds are helpful, too.” Her voice was calm, but a deep frown line had formed between her eyebrows.

  “That’s so Disney,” Zane joked, jotting away. “Animals and plants, working together. It’s biodynamic, dude!”

  “Only some of the birds are helpful,” Carl clarified. “The crows aren’t.”

  Tallulah leaned forward. “Cool. Tell me about the damage done by crows. That’s something our readers can relate to.”

  The water bucket was full. Carl turned off the spigot. “Well, they haven’t done any damage, but that’s only because we have a really good scarecrow.”

  “Can we see it?”

  “Um. He’s not here right now.” Carl didn’t want them to think he was nuts. Still, he’d gone this far. “You know about John Glenn, right?”

  Zane lowered his pen. “The astronaut, or the eagle?”

  Tallulah peered over her glasses. “He means the eagle, Zane.”

  Carl nodded. “Right, the eagle. The crows don’t like him. So, when he’s around…”

  “No crows. Got it.” Tallulah removed her sunglasses completely and sat back. “Do your parents know about all of your … animal helpers, I guess we could call them?”

  Carl hung his head and shook it, nope, nope, nope.

  She was trying to be nice about it, you could tell. “I’m not accusing you of lying, Carl. But what you’re describing doesn’t seem normal. It’s hard to believe.”

  “I know, but it’s all true.” Carl looked downcast. “I guess that means we won’t win the contest, huh?”

  “I’d like to see some evidence, is what I’m saying.”

  Carl thought about it. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll introduce you. But don’t make any fast moves. Rabbits get scared easily.”

  * * *

  It was the end of the afternoon, what the photographers at Brad’s old job used to call “the golden hour,” when the daylight grew soft and rosy and everything just naturally seemed to glow. The last of the visitors were boarding the very last bus. Aunt Phoebe had brought a freshly awakened Marie outside, and the child was sweet as an angel now that she’d had her nap.

  Everyone who remained was playing with the bunnies. Carl was there, and so were the people from the magazine. Marie seemed to have a special knack with the rabbits, who climbed all over her until she squealed with laughter and prattled nonstop. Zane kept snapping pictures and taking notes. Even the scientists had wandered over.

  They all seemed very interested in what Carl had to say.

  Sally and Brad stood next to each other on the steps outside the kitchen door, soaking it in. The First Annual Prune Street Farm Harvest Festival was winding to a close.

  This was the end, and they knew it. They held hands like people on a ship going down.

  “It’s beautiful, though, isn’t it?” Brad said. “Look at this place. Look at the kids. Look at Carl, talking to those magazine editors and scientists! Look at Marie eating dirt! Look at those rabbits! Look how tame they are. It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s been an adventure. I’m glad we tried,” Sally answered, a catch in her voice.

  He squeezed her oven-mitted hand. “Me too.”

  Neither one mentioned the Brooklyn apartment they’d impulsively left behind and to which they could never return. Nor did they mention the vast sum of money they’d plowed into the farm, like so much compost dissolving into the dirt.

  Sally even chose not to mention how she’d already checked eBay to see what, if any, resale value there was on all the fancy kitchen equipment she’d purchased, and which it was now too late to return.

  There was no need to say any of it. They both knew what had to happen next. Brad would call Tom Rowes’s office Monday morning and eat as much humble pie as he could stomach. Now that they were desperate, they’d be lucky to get half of what Rowes had offered in the spring, but it was better than letting the bank foreclose.

  Neither of them talked about looking for jobs, finding daycare for Marie, and sending Carl back to regular school. They didn’t say a word about what it would feel like to work indoors all day under fluorescent lights and head home as the sun was going down, during that dim, crepuscular time when the day problems (traffic, deadlines, bosses) are changing shifts with the night problems (dinner, homework, cranky kids vying for attention, and tired parents longing for sleep).

  They were both being very brave.

  The last departing bus of the day honked, and honked again, but the honking was in harmony this time, high-pitched and low-pitched, as if a choir of geese had burst into song.

  It wasn’t birds, though. It was an argument between a cherry-red sports car that was heading up the street toward the farm, and the crayon-yellow school bus that was trying to leave.

  Honk! HONK!

  Hoonnnnnnk!

  “Tom Rowes!” Sally blurted. Inside her oven mitts, her hands curled into fists. That was his cherry-red sports car. He left insolent tire marks on the front lawn as he swerved around the Harveys’ station wagon and stopped in a careless diagonal across the driveway.

  The yellow bus lurched downhill. The departing onion-scented passengers craned their necks out
the windows and pointed. Some pointed at the sports car. Most pointed upward, toward the sky.

  A series of squeaky baby seagull chirps pierced the air—

  Tik tik tik tik tik!

  —followed by an awestruck cottontail exclamation that only the animals and Marie could understand.

  “Hey there, young ’uns! Look at me, whee!”

  Alice dropped the crudité that the tall red woman with yellow-rimmed bug eyes had given her, and looked up. “It’s John Glenn!” she cried. “And Lester!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  May a hawk take you!

  Now everybody looked up. The great bird was descending, with something small and ecstatic clutched to his chest.

  It was Lester, and the old cottontail was full of joy.

  “Well, isn’t this something!” the airborne rabbit cried. There was no fear in him at all. Why should there be? As far as he knew, he’d finally gone dark; a supersized hawk had swooped him up and carried him skyward, on a short and scenic journey to paradise. “It’s just as I dreamed it would be. A garden overflowing with vegetables! May a hawk take you, in good time, ha ha! And they say those old proverbs are just words. In my case, it seems like an eagle took me, but close enough. And look where I’ve landed. My, my!”

  “Should we tell him he’s still alive?” Thistle asked Alice. His tail wriggled so hard it took his hind end with it.

  “You can try, but I don’t think he’ll believe you.” Alice’s tail was wriggling, too. This was what she’d been hoping for ever since Lester made his wish to visit the garden, but she knew the odds were against it happening. Not because of John Glenn—when she’d privately asked him to offer Lester a ride, the mighty bird agreed at once—but because of Lester himself. That stubborn old rabbit-brain! Would he have the patience and sense to hear the eagle’s offer without fear or suspicion? Would he find it in himself to trust a creature so strange and forbidding, with the scent of a flesh-eater rising from his feathers? If Alice had suggested it outright, she knew Lester would have rejected the idea with a “No, sir; no, ma’am; there’ll be no eagle’s claws on me!” Instead, she’d decided to let nature take its course, so to speak. But she never imagined that Lester would interpret the big bird’s arrival as his ride to cottontail heaven! That was a pure delight, the merriest rabbit prank imaginable.