Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

Janis didn’t seem one bit surprised to find Carl standing at her door. Then again, Janis had a pretty good poker face in general.

  “Good morning, kid,” she said, ushering him in. “Want some coffee? Never mind, you’re too young. What can I do for you?”

  Carl stood up straight, hands by his sides. “I have three reasons for coming,” he said clearly, as if he’d practiced the speech, which he had. “First, I want to apologize for being so rude yesterday.”

  Janis nodded in a thoughtful way. “No need, but I deeply appreciate the good manners. When emotions run high, the mouth runs after. I get it, believe me. I’ve lost my filter often enough myself. I accept your apology. Let’s shake on it.”

  They shook hands with gusto. Carl resumed his straight-backed position.

  “Second,” he continued, “I wanted to ask you if you could please get rid of your traps. There are a lot of animals around here who might get into them by mistake.”

  “Are you worried about your dog?”

  “Yes, but other animals, too. Like rabbits,” he said. “The harvest season is pretty much over, and rabbits are no threat to your chickens. I just think we should try to live and let live, you know? As much as seems reasonable, anyway.”

  “That’s a fair point.” It seemed like Janis was trying not to smile. “I agree to your request. I’ll take the traps in today. I’m no big fan of traps myself. I had to be pushed to my limit to set ’em. But I was pretty riled up about Florence.”

  “I know. That’s the third thing.” He cleared his throat. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to go talk to the chickens.”

  * * *

  The exact details of what was said in the chicken coop that day was a private matter, known only to birds and boy. Janis had offered to go in with him, but he said no. He wanted to do it alone.

  “I keep a clean coop, but it’s still gonna smell,” she warned.

  Carl didn’t care. He went in by himself, and he came out by himself. In between he said everything he’d planned to say, and more.

  Not that it was easy. He’d been raised to give thanks before a meal, but he’d never had to face a whole chicken coop full of potential extra-crispy drumsticks before, all looking at him the way chickens do, shifting their plumed heads first one way, then another. They reminded him of the pigeons in Brooklyn: the beady bird eyes, the comical jerky motion when they walked, the way they had wings but didn’t seem like they’d be that good at flying.

  Like many a eulogist before him, Carl stuck only partly to his prepared speech and improvised as the spirit moved him. It was too late to thank Florence for her eggs, but at least he could offer his condolences to the rest of the flock.

  Janis had given him a small pail of feed to bring as a peace offering, and that went over well. Whether the birds were as moved as Carl was by this exercise in saying grace while the meal was still alive and clucking is something only the chickens knew. But they didn’t seem to hold a grudge, even after he’d shakily confessed his best estimate of how many chicken fingers he’d eaten in his young life. He’d done the math, and it was a lot.

  * * *

  While Carl was with the chickens, Brad drove to town and bought the Sunday papers. Then he drove aimlessly, killing time and wasting gas as he waited to pick up his boy. Brad liked to drive while thinking; it calmed him somehow. Today he was thinking about how to save his family from the catastrophic victory they’d just been handed.

  Sally had a more fuel-efficient approach to managing stress: When in doubt, wash the dog. Consequently, she and Marie were in the midst of giving their returning hero the most lavender-scented bubble bath imaginable when a far less delicate aroma began to pervade the premises. Moments later, there was a knock at the door.

  Farmers are early risers, remember, and news travels lightning quick in a small town. The neighbors had already gotten wind of what had happened with Tom Rowes. None of them particularly liked Rowes. He’d long been in the business of buying farmland from struggling farmers and turning it into parking lots, shopping malls, and homes no farmer could afford. They considered Rowes a scavenger with a nose for blood, who waited until a farmer was caught in a financial trap so he could swoop in for a meal. To see the vulture Rowes get beat by a big bird and a couple of true eggheads was a source of merriment in more than one farmhouse that morning.

  Rowes’s predatory interest wasn’t the only clue the neighboring farmers had that the Harveys must be in trouble. The early years of running a farm are always a learning curve. First season harvest blues? They’d all been there. They knew that Brad and Sally probably were out of cash and out of hope.

  The neighbors had problems of their own, of course. Many of them weren’t much better off than Brad and Sally when it came to totting up the numbers at the end of the season, but that didn’t matter. Farmers are a little like cottontails in that way. They’ll mind their own business out of respect, but they know when to lend a helping hand, too. Now that time had come. Larry Fleischman Junior had transported it all himself, and the truck was loaded with baskets, baskets, and more baskets.

  Sally couldn’t believe it. It was a welcome wagon deluxe. Nearly every farm found a way to pitch in. They’d all picked and washed and cooked to excess in preparation for the festival, and there was plenty left over. Some of it could be frozen, some was already put up in jars and would keep. Those who could tucked a few bills in their baskets, too, whether it was five dollars or fifty.

  The farmers shared what they had, and what the Fleischmans had was onions. Ten large bushels, to be precise, along with a big paper bag of the best deep-fried onion rings imaginable. Foxy sneezed repeatedly at the smell, or maybe it was from having been rushed out of her bath without a proper toweling-off.

  That Sally’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of this offering goes without saying.

  “I know it’s a lot of onions,” said Larry Junior sheepishly. The twins were with him, and lugged all ten bushels into the root cellar in the back of the barn. They did it gladly, as they liked to show off how strong they were. “But you folks are into all that dehydration stuff. Maybe you’ll be able to find a use for them.”

  * * *

  When twilight came, the animals of the valley gathered once more, as near to the back of the barn as the meadow reached. They were in a less argumentative frame of mind than they’d been the previous day. Every creature within a mile of the nearest blue jay’s squawk—which is to say, all of them—knew what had happened to Worm.

  They weren’t upset about it the way Carl was, or as righteously pleased as Janis, but they did feel something. A trap and a shotgun! It was not the best way to go; on that they all agreed.

  Alice sat up on her hind legs, the better to be heard. Rabbits don’t have tear ducts, but she sniffed hard, the way a person might if she were crying. “I know you’ve come for your share of the harvest,” she began. “You’ll get it, I promise. But first I want to say a few words of farewell…”

  “For the weasel?” one of the voles asked. “Why? He wouldn’t have done the same for you!” The other voles squeaked in agreement. Their eyes, too, had grown shiny. Of course, they weren’t used to being in the light. Even this dim time of day was a bit much for them.

  “I suppose it’s only fair that we include him,” Alice said quietly to Thistle, who nodded without enthusiasm. “All right. Farewell to Worm, a wild creature living according to his nature. As are we all.”

  “As are we all,” the animals repeated.

  One of the possums rubbed his eyes with his paw. A few of the chipmunks started to have sneezing fits. Alice waited for the worst of it to subside, and went on. “I would also like to express my gratitude—”

  “Hey,” said one of the raccoons. “Why does it smell like onions?” The raccoons knew all about onions. They were garbage eaters, which meant they’d tasted everything that any person had ever dumped in the trash.

  Alice and Thistle conferred again. “Better skip the speech,” Thistle
advised. “We ought to get to the main event.”

  Alice knew her brother was right, but she was disappointed, as she’d prepared a few remarks for the occasion. Sitting up tall, she addressed the crowd. “You’ve come here to get your share of the harvest. Good news! There’s more than enough for all of you. Fresh onions for everyone! Take as many as you like.”

  The discovery of this windfall could have been counted as a miracle by Alice and Thistle, if animals believed in miracles. But animals don’t tend to think of things that way. Seeds sprout, the sun rises and sets, the rain falls, new litters come. That’s just nature’s glorious business-as-usual, and if winter can change to spring, and spring to summer, and summer to fall, surely a heap of onions could show up in an unlocked root cellar just when you needed it.

  Most of the animals dug right in. Many had grazed on wild onion grass in the meadow, so this wasn’t so very different; the farmed onions were just way more flavorful and juicy. However, the chipmunks had never tasted anything like onions, and the smell was so strong they were hesitant to try. Their leader went first, as befitted his role.

  “Pungent,” he observed. Then he took a bite. His eyes filled with chipmunk tears. “And delicious!” That was all his many followers needed to hear.

  “But what about our seeds?” one of the chipmunks cried, when his belly could hold no more. “For the winter?”

  Providence seemed to have taken care of this, too. “Any seeds you find in the garden are yours to gather,” Alice said, “and Thistle will show you a special surprise, too.”

  Thistle led them to the nearby compost heap, where an abundant layer of Sally’s dehydration experiments had been tossed in a fit of pique, after that last terrible visit to Loco for Locavore. The dried fruits and vegetables were tasty and nourishing and would keep all winter long. “It’ll be a nice change from seeds,” he said, as the chipmunks ransacked this remarkable find.

  The dried apples were universally liked, while the radish coins appealed to those with spicier tastes. But the chipmunks came to love the onions best of all, so much so that Foxy donated a few of her GlitterTooth Chew-Bones for their winter stores. She was in her yellow vest again, but there was no need to keep her tied up or remind her to be careful. She’d seen firsthand what the world could be like, the best of it and the worst, and all that lay between.

  “Take these, you wee little rodents!” she said, generously nosing her gift toward them. “It’s bound to get stuffy underground. There may come a day when you might appreciate fresh minty breath.” To her delicate dog’s nose, the chipmunks’ aroma was already unbearable.

  * * *

  Many of the animals were newly deferential to Alice as they took their leave. They treated her more like an apex predator than a hardworking cottontail. She didn’t understand why until later that night, when she and Thistle were back in Burrow, full-bellied and sleepy, and smelling an awful lot like onions themselves.

  “We did it, Alice. We became farmers,” said Thistle. “We paid back all the animals, just the way we promised. And we stopped the Mauler from coming!” Foxy had assured them they’d stopped it. In fact, she’d reenacted the scientists’ magnificent takedown of Tom Rowes several times. The dog had witnessed the momentous occasion with her own eyes, nose, and ears, which made her all the more eager to tell and retell the tale, with new embellishments each time, of course.

  “Well, I think John Glenn mostly stopped it, with Foxy’s help,” Alice replied. “Foxy said those man-people with the pockets on their legs had something to do with it, too.”

  “But we helped, too, didn’t we?” Thistle snuggled close for warmth. “None of it would have happened without us!”

  “Absolutely. We were in-dis-pensable!” she said, imitating Lester. They were still feeling sentimental about the old rabbit, who’d been so utterly satisfied with his high-flying garden adventure that he’d quietly and peacefully gone dark early that morning, hunkered under his favorite tree at the wood’s edge, not too far from Split Rock. They’d found him at the morning graze, already covered by the autumn leaves. The rabbits of Burrow were deeply grateful that any of their kind could enjoy a life so full and so long and come to such a peaceful end. It was a rare thing, and if any cottontail deserved it, it was Lester.

  That’s what Alice had planned to say to the animals of the valley earlier, behind the barn, but there really was no need to say it. There hadn’t been a kit born for years who hadn’t learned the ways of cottontail life from Lester. His wisdom and his old rabbits’ tales would live on and on, until there were no more rabbits left to remember them, may that day never come.

  There was a sniffing in the dark. A tiny doe, maybe four weeks old, had crept through tunnels to the den where Alice and Thistle were resting.

  “Are you Alice, the brave cottontail that everyone talks about?” the kit asked, in her wee piping voice.

  “I am,” Alice said, amused. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Radish,” the kit said.

  This made Thistle chuckle. “Careful, young ’un!” he said. “My sister Alice doesn’t like radishes much.”

  “I can’t see your tail so I can’t be sure,” Radish answered, “but I think you might be joking.”

  “This one is well named. She has a nice bold flavor,” Thistle remarked to Alice.

  Radish may have been young, but all rabbits are born to joke and tease, and she understood that Thistle meant to be funny. Her tail shimmied politely, and she went on, “Alice, the kits in my litter want to know: Is it true that you had one of your humans kill the weasel?”

  “Silly kits! Of course not,” Alice exclaimed. “In the first place, I don’t have humans of my own. Only tame animals keep humans. But even if I were tame, I would never have done what you just said. The weasel met his own fate, in his own time, as we all must. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Skeptical, Radish flicked her whiskers. “Some of the kits are saying that you did, though.”

  “It’s not true, and you oughtn’t go repeating it. Now, it’s late and getting cold. Come in here and cuddle up. We’re tired and ready to sleep.”

  The little kit did as Alice said and fell asleep at once, as babies do.

  “And that’s how old rabbits’ tales get started,” Thistle murmured drowsily.

  “Don’t you go repeating it, either,” she whispered, so as not to wake up Radish.

  It was only a few more breaths before Thistle and Alice were asleep as well. They were warm and safe and their work was done. They slept the deep, restful sleep of farmers in the off-season.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A plum idea.

  A few days later, as his family was sitting down to dinner, Carl announced that he would henceforth be a vegetarian.

  “No more chicken fingers for you, huh?” If Brad was amused, he was doing a good job of hiding it. “What prompted this decision?”

  Carl unfolded his napkin and put it in his lap. “I like vegetables now,” he said. “More than I used to. Now that I’ve gotten to know them better, I mean.”

  His mother delivered a platter of baked butternut squash to the table and took her seat. The roast chicken was already there; it had always been one of Carl’s favorite dishes. “So, this has nothing at all to do with visiting Janis’s chickens?” she gently asked.

  “It sort of does. They had more … personality than I was expecting. But I don’t think I was wrong to eat them, before.” Carl had given the matter quite a bit of rumination since his visit to the chicken coop. “Like Janis said: The food chain is no picnic. But I could have thought about it more. About the birds, and what their lives were like. I guess I could have been more grateful.”

  “Now that’s what I call saying grace,” Brad said, picking up his fork. “Let’s eat.”

  It was a lovely dinner, all things considered. Now that selling the farm to Tom Rowes wasn’t an option, the Harveys were taking a moment to breathe and give thanks for having made it this far. Mostly, th
ey had to figure out what to do next. Winning the Hipster Farmer contest felt like an opportunity, if they could only find a way to take advantage of it. The golden parachute was gone, the bank account nearly empty, but there was food in the house and the mortgage had been brought up to date, thanks to the neighborly gifts of moolah found in all those baskets.

  Sally and Brad had called and thanked every one of the folks who’d sent over a contribution. In typical farmer style, their benefactors all said the same thing: No thanks necessary, any neighbor would do the same. As Dorothy the pie lady told Sally, “Don’t worry about it, honey! No one gets a ticker-tape parade for bringing a pie to a potluck; it’s just the right thing to do. Now, tend to your family’s business, and you’ll be able to help the next person who needs it.”

  Dorothy’s friend Phyllis had long ago corrected her mistaken assumption about Carl’s vision. When she realized her error, she laughed so hard she nearly dropped her rolling pin. Her farm was little more than a big backyard, but she grew cut flowers year-round in a greenhouse. She’d sent the Harveys a beautiful wildflower bouquet with a ten-dollar bill stuck in it—and, to Carl’s great satisfaction, a homemade apple pie.

  * * *

  Like Alice, Carl was being treated a little differently these days. Tallulah and Zane had privately assured the Harvey parents that their article about Prune Street Farm was not going to mention Carl’s wild tale about his secret animal helpers. Instead, they’d focus on the photogenic John Glenn. Zane had snapped some great pictures of the bird, and the “cover concept” was coming right along. “We know you’re gonna love it,” Tallulah assured them. “Carl’s an imaginative kid, and a talented young farmer. His way with those wild rabbits was nothing short of miraculous! But we like to offer our readers stories that inspire. Tips and tricks they can put into practice. We want to help them find their own way to be better farmers.”