Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

  John Glenn floated to the gentlest of landings not ten feet away from where the other rabbits cavorted, releasing Lester when there was no more than a hop’s distance to the earth. The old rabbit sat up on the grass and looked around, and John Glenn towered next to him, blinking and preening. He turned his incredible profile first one way, and then another.

  The lighting was, admittedly, excellent. The people watching gasped. Eyes filled with tears; hands flew to hearts; and the journalists reached for their cameras. That this highly symbolic apex predator could cradle and care for a soft-bodied rabbit, that defenseless prey from the hard rock-bottom of the carnivore food chain—well, you’d have to have a heart of stone to be unmoved by such a sight.

  “Hey hey hey; good afternoon, Brad! Hey, Sally.” Tom Rowes was nattily dressed as ever, and strode up to the Harveys like an old friend. “Doesn’t this festival of yours look sweet! And this is only the aftermath. I bet you sold a lot of apples today, didn’t you? Why, I expect you’ve got at least three hundred dollars burning a hole in your pocket right now! That’ll get you through the winter in style.” He laughed. “Sorry! I know it’s not funny. Yet. Someday maybe you’ll see it that way.”

  Sally glued her lips together and eloquently refused to speak. Brad picked up the slack. “Look, Tom: You’ve made your point. I’ll call you Monday. We need to talk.”

  “Sure, Brad. About what, pray tell?”

  Brad’s voice dropped. “We need to talk about selling the farm.”

  Rowes rocked back and forth on his heels. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. But there’s no need to drag it out. I’m here right now. You wanna talk, let’s go in the kitchen and talk.”

  “Can we just enjoy this day?” Sally said, her jaw tense. “Please?”

  “What’s not to enjoy? Oh, I know it took a while to see your way clear about things, but you and your hubby are about to make the best decision possible, given your current situation. That’s cause for celebration right there.” Rowes sounded kind, even concerned. “I’m just glad I can be of assistance in your time of need.”

  Brad’s voice was steely. “If you came here to gloat, don’t bother. We feel bad enough as it is.”

  “Now, don’t feel bad, Brad!” Rowes looked around, shielding his eyes from the late-day sun. “I never miss the Harvest Festival. I’ve been by most of the farms, except for the Fleischmans’ place. I can’t take that smell. Anyway, I saved the best for last. I mean, look at this place. It’s the prettiest little failure in town.” He gestured expansively. “I do appreciate what you folks have done. For your sake, I wish you hadn’t done it, don’t get me wrong. You wasted time and money. You swung for the fences and struck out, one two three. But you took a hard swing. I respect that.”

  “You’re so certain that we’ve failed. Why?” Sally asked pointedly. “Do you think maybe someone sabotaged our efforts?”

  Rowes spread his arms wide, a nothing-to-hide gesture. “It’s a small town. I have friends on the board of the bank. Let’s just say I know who makes their mortgage payments and who doesn’t.”

  “We’re not behind on the mortgage.” She turned to Brad. “Are we?”

  Brad hung his head. “I used the mortgage money to buy that extension ladder we need for picking fruit, and then I had to pay the guys I hired … I was going to pay it right back out of the first apple sales, but the irrigation system broke…”

  “Well, how do you like them apples? Sorry, I know I shouldn’t joke.” But Tom Rowes kept chuckling nevertheless.

  * * *

  Lester wasn’t a bit surprised to see Alice, Thistle, Marigold, and Berry here in his own personal heaven. He liked these young ’uns, so why wouldn’t they be there? Now that he was stripped of all fear, everything was just dandy. The whole world seemed arranged for his delight. He even allowed himself to be petted and coddled by the humans. The people-young ’uns fed him vegetables and stroked his ears. He posed for pictures like a practiced celebrity.

  “You’re what they call a cherub, aren’t you?” he said to Marie. “There were a bunch like you on some pretty little holiday cards I ate once. Say, did you know that I myself am named after a particularly fine strain of tomato? Lester’s Perfected! That’s me. I’m just about as perfected now as a rabbit can be.”

  “Perfect,” Marie agreed. She took his little rabbit face in her hands and kissed him on the nose. “Perfect bun-bun!”

  Meanwhile, Foxy was outraged; her keen pert ears had caught every word of the terrible conversation between the Harveys and Tom Rowes. “Can you believe this bald man! The mockery! The coldheartedness! A cat with a mouse would toy with it less than this Rowes person is toying with my poor humans.” She trotted to Marie, who now had Lester in her lap. “Marie, please alert your brother! Your parents are outmatched. We need to do something about it, quick.”

  Alas, Marie’s urgent cries of “Rowes, Rowes, Rowes!” simply made Aunt Phoebe sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” to the baby, which didn’t help at all. Fortunately, Foxy’s herding skills had developed swiftly over the course of the day. Zane, Tallulah, Chuck, and Enrique were deeply engrossed in conversation with Carl, in a tight, sheeplike formation. John Glenn’s arrival with Lester had made believers of them all, and now they wanted to hear everything again: “Are these the exact rabbits who helped with the farm? How long has the eagle been serving as a scarecrow?” and so on.

  Methodically, Foxy ran circles around them, nudging and yapping until they moved nearer and nearer still to where Tom Rowes was obnoxiously chuckling over the Harveys’ bad fortune.

  Zane leaned closer to Carl. “Hey, who’s the rich guy hassling your parents? He sounds like a real jerk.”

  Carl rolled his eyes. “His name is Tom Rowes. He wants to buy the farm, and he’s been really mean about it.”

  Tallulah’s lips curled in distaste. “Let me guess: He’s going to build himself a country home? Or maybe a shopping mall?”

  Carl shrugged. “I don’t know. But not farming. My parents said he’d tear it all down.”

  “Would your parents sell to him?” Zane asked.

  “Never!” Then he thought of his conversation with his dad. Was this what “next steps” meant? “I mean, not unless they had to,” he added, suddenly ashamed.

  “Zane, see if you can get any of this,” Tallulah whispered, and Zane took out his phone.

  * * *

  Carl’s parents were visibly unhappy. “You’ve made your point, Tom,” Brad said, sounding firm. Sally was sniffing back tears. “We’ll talk about it Monday.”

  Rowes reached inside his blazer and took out a sheaf of papers. “No offense, but I’m calling the shots now. Finish up your festival and we’ll sit in the kitchen and do business. I hope you don’t mind; I brought a few documents over to get the ball rolling. My lawyer drew ’em up. He’s a real eager beaver, that guy. Also, he knows I always get my way.”

  “Stop right there, mister!” It was Chuck, closely followed by Enrique. “It sounds like you’re pressuring these people to sell this beautiful farmland. Is that right?”

  Rowes took them in slowly. “Who are you two? And why are you sticking your noses in my business?”

  The scientists stood their ground.

  “I’m Chuck. From ERP.”

  “I’m Enrique. Also from ERP.”

  “I see.” Rowes folded his arms. “You got a digestive problem or something?”

  “I did eat a few too many apples,” said Chuck. “But that’s not the point. The point is, you should leave these people alone. Leave this farm alone. It’s of no use to you.”

  “Hey, fellas—I know you’re trying to help.” Brad stepped forward. He sounded nervous. “But this is between us and Tom—”

  “Hold on a minute, Brad,” Rowes interjected. “I want to hear what these two gentlemen have to say. Explain yourselves. Why is this land of no use to me?”

  Chuck looked very smug. “Because even if you did take possession, you could never, ever develop thi
s land.”

  Rowes cocked his head to one side. “Sorry to contradict you, but the zoning says otherwise. In fact, the zoning is what makes this delightful property so uniquely attractive to me.”

  Enrique handed Sally a tissue so she wouldn’t have to wipe her nose with the oven mitts. “The zoning doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Is that what you think?” Rowes’s jaw started to twitch. “I’ve been developing land in this area for thirty-five years. The Fern Creek Fashion Outlet Mall? I built that. The Springdale Luxury Homes gated community? I built all of those homes. The ClutterKeepers Mini Storage, over by exit sixty? That’s mine, too. I know the zoning in this region like the back of my hand, and thanks to a quirk of the surveyor’s pen, this particular piece of land is fully zoned for commercial development with no restrictions. That’s a rare find in these parts. Land like this is practically extinct! But you two geniuses in cargo pants stand here telling me that the zoning doesn’t matter? Why the heck not?”

  “Because,” said Enrique, with a charming smile, “this land is a designated habitat for the American bald eagle.”

  Tom Rowes got a look on his face like he’d just swallowed a piece of gum. “That’s news to me. Says who?”

  “Says him.” Enrique pointed at John Glenn, who had returned to his usual spot on the roof ridge of the barn, framed by a glorious sunset. He spread his mighty wings, and the nearby crows took flight, cawing in protest. “And says the Bald Eagle and Golden Eagle Protection Act.”

  “I thought eagles weren’t endangered anymore,” Carl blurted.

  Chuck gave Carl a thumbs-up. “Correct! They’re not endangered, but they’re still protected by law. It’s a federal statute.”

  Tom Rowes was turning red. “So what if there’s a law? I’m not going to shoot the dang bird. I just want the property.”

  “According to federal law, you cannot interfere with the substantial lifestyle of a bald eagle, including his natural habitat,” Enrique recited. “Prune Street Farm is his habitat.”

  Rowes paused, then laughed meanly. “Natural habitat! There’s nothing natural about what’s going on here. Look at the bird! He’s playing with the animals he should be eating. He’s posing for pictures. He’s a scarecrow, for Pete’s sake!”

  Enrique nodded. “This particular eagle has chosen the substantial lifestyle of a scarecrow, and who are we to argue with that?”

  Rowes pointed a finger at Enrique’s chest, furious. “I don’t care who you are, but you’re going to find out who I am, I can promise you that. You’ll find out who my friends are, too. I’ve made some generous contributions to folks in pretty high places, and I get what I pay for—”

  “Hey there, Tom, we’re from the press.” Tallulah pushed forward, flashing her ID so fast he couldn’t read the name of the publication. “These scientists are eagle experts and federal employees, and we’ve got this whole conversation on video. I’m just saying.”

  Rowes looked around wildly. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Dead serious,” said Zane, waggling his phone in the air.

  “ERP is serious, too,” said Enrique. “We have months of recorded data proving that this bird uses this farm as a habitat. We have GPS readings, photographs, personal logbooks.”

  “And eyewitness testimony,” said Chuck, tapping his own temple. There was no question whose eye he meant. “You will never break ground here. ERP will tie it up in court forever or until you lose, whichever comes first.”

  Rowes held very still, like a cat does when deciding whether it’s worth the trouble to pounce. “Old Man Crenshaw told me I’d never get my hands on this land, not in a thousand years. I guess the old geezer was right. I’m outta here,” he added abruptly. “Good luck, Harveys. Looks like you’re gonna need it. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  Brad threw his hands in the air. “Tom—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve heard enough.”

  Tom Rowes strode to his car without looking back. He drove away fast, leaving rude tire marks on the grass.

  “Well,” said Chuck, beaming. “That’s settled!” He and Enrique traded high-fives.

  Carl’s parents looked at each other, frozen.

  “Dad!” Carl cried, overjoyed. “Didn’t you hear? He said he won’t bother us anymore. Now we can be farmers forever! We just need to do that thing you said. Make a profit, or whatever. Isn’t that good news?”

  Sally smiled and rubbed away a tear. “It’s great news, honey.”

  “It’s the best news I ever heard.” Brad was so stunned it came out like a robot voice, but he meant it.

  “Woof,” said Foxy, jumping up on his boy. “Woof, woof!”

  Tallulah leaned over to Zane. “I think we’ve found our Hipster Farmers of the Year, don’t you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The totting up.

  “We won, we won!” Carl did a happy dance, spinning in place with his arms in the air. He hoisted Marie onto his back and gave her a ride, with Foxy yapping at his heels. “We won, Applesauce, we won!”

  “Won, won!” she echoed, her arms around his neck. “Bun, bun!”

  Marie was right. The cottontails deserved to be part of this celebration, for hadn’t they done the lion’s—that is to say, the rabbits’—share of the work?

  Leaving his parents to sort out the administrative details of victory—already Tallulah and Zane were talking about photo releases, a video crew, media appearances on local news and even public radio if they could swing it (and Brad was already throwing in a few marketing suggestions of his own)—Carl hightailed it with Marie on his back to the grassy plot by the sheep pen, where they’d been feeding and coddling all five rabbits just a short while earlier, before Foxy had herded all the humans away.

  “Alice! Little Guy!” he said, breathless. Little Guy is what he called Thistle, whose real name he didn’t know. (Marie had done her best to tell him, but Thistle was not a word she could pronounce; it just sprayed spit everywhere and Carl had gotten tired of getting wet.) “We won the contest! We did it! Hey! Where are you?”

  A few crudité remnants were scattered on the grass, which the sheep were quickly cleaning up.

  “Where’d they all go?” Carl said to the sheep. By now it just seemed normal to ask them.

  “Baaaaaaaaaa,” the big ewe said, tossing her head.

  “Woof,” said Foxy with urgency, and bolted toward the meadow.

  “Hey, Foxy, wait up! Hey! You don’t have your vest on!” Someone had taken it off during all the photos, as Foxy was just so much more attractively foxlike without it.

  “Foxy! Foxy! Come back!” Carl yelled, but he couldn’t chase her very well because of Marie on his back.

  “Ja Glenn!” the baby said, pointing.

  He looked up at the barn.

  John Glenn was gone, too.

  * * *

  Alice had known this moment would come. All spring she’d known, as the days grew longer. All summer she’d known, as the days contracted again, and into the fall, when the nights spread like pools of darkness, stealing daylight at both ends.

  And so it had, at twilight, on a day the humans called the second Saturday of October. The animals knew it in their bones. The growing season had come to an end. It was time for winter burrows to be dug and winter larders filled. Bears went to find their winter dens, geese began their migrations, and dappled summer coats were exchanged for winter whites.

  It was dusk, and Alice was summoned, as she knew she would be, to the middle of the meadow, a place out in the open and with room to gather, to make good on the promises she had made to so many. The chipmunks, the deer, the raccoons, the possums, the voles, the birds, and so many more—all of them waited for her to take her place on the low stump, so she could be seen and heard.

  She found herself wishing Doggo were here, or even John Glenn. But Doggo was long gone, and John Glenn had disappeared after carrying Lester to the meadow. The time for fierce bodyguards
was over. Alice would have to settle this business herself.

  “We’ve come for our share,” the chipmunks said.

  “And we for ours,” the voles said.

  “And we, and we, and we!” All the animals chimed in, even the other cottontails of Burrow. They wanted their share. Everyone had sacrificed; everyone had agreed to wait, and now they expected to be paid.

  “And don’t tell us there’s none left!” the impatient creatures said. “We can smell carrots on your breath.”

  “Not carrots,” Thistle protested. “Crudités!”

  There was a general outcry at that, for the animals were not so simpleminded as to believe that a carrot stick was so vastly different from a carrot.

  Marigold was the first of the rabbits to make herself heard over the din. “Who cares about a carrot or two, or a celery stick?” she cried, for she had been stuffed all day with them, and although they were tasty and made for a change, she thought them no better than the sweet grass and clover that grew wild. “That’s nothing to be upset about. I want to hear Alice tell us what really matters.” Her whiskers flared. “Did you do it, sister? Did you do what you said? Did you stop the Mauler?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alice, and it was the truth. “The Harvest Festival was today, and I think it went well. But you’ll have to come back to find out about the Mauler, and to collect your share. I simply don’t know yet.” She tried to remember what Carl had once said. “The farmer-people have to add it all up first. I don’t think it will take long. Let’s meet again tomorrow, behind the barn. That’s where your shares will be.”