In the Field

by Claire Tacon

  At least at the end of a scrap, there’s the relief of being punished.

  “So when are you getting married?”

  “Honey, I want to get down the aisle fast. You know what I’m saying—run don’t walk. But I also want to do it right. We’re thinking New Year’s or next summer.”

  “Bernie’s mom must be happy.”

  “Clarence even offered to pay for a honeymoon. Bernie just wants to go up to Cape Breton for a weekend but I want to go south, one of those all-inclusive places with piña colada. Maybe your man can set us up somewhere in Trinidad.”

  “Sure.”

  “You and Richard will be back in Ontario, but you guys should come to the wedding. Bernie’s angry now, but it’ll calm down quick.” Her optimism is as overwhelming as her reasoning is flawed. “I’d like to ask your mom to come to my shower.”

  After spending all summer disliking Linda, I realize that of all of us, she’s the one with the most integrity.

  Growing up, becoming someone like her was my biggest fear. I didn’t want to end up knocked up and dependent on someone like Chuck, someone who’d be screwing around on me before the kid’s first birthday. With a kid, it didn’t seem possible that I’d finish school, that my life would be anything more than spending forty years at the co-op with my mother, scanning food through parallel cash registers.

  In some ways, Linda’s the daughter my mother would’ve had if I’d stuck around. The difference is that in the bleak picture I’d envisioned, Linda’s thriving. Right now, being Linda doesn’t seem so bad at all.

  She asks how my mother’s doing in the home.

  “She’s pretty mad at me for putting her there.”

  “She’ll come around,” Linda says. “You’ll get the house sorted out, then she can move back.”

  “They think she might need ongoing care.”

  “Like a nurse?”

  “Maybe. At least someone to help look after the housekeeping, run errands.”

  “If that’s all, she’s got Bernie and me for that.” Linda says it like it’s nothing at all.

  We sit for a minute watching the game. Stephen’s hassling his opponent, trying to crowd him out so he can’t pass.

  “Your boy sure knows sport,” Linda says.

  “Max is a great player too.”

  Linda turns to me, beaming. “That’s the other thing Bernie said—he’s putting money aside for Max’s college. Once we get back from the honeymoon, Clarence’s going to fix it up so Max’s name is on the farm too.”

  When the soccer game finishes, I don’t even know who’s ahead. Linda scoots over to give me a hug, warm and full, without malice or reservation. I sink to the back of myself, ashamed.

  Stephen’s waiting for me at the car. We don’t talk on the way home. As soon as we get in, Stephen announces, “Mom’s been smoking,” then goes off upstairs. Richard’s playing with Luke in the living room and I can’t deny it when he walks over and smells it on me.

  Irene McInnes calls my cell early Wednesday morning because Clarence is in a state. There’s a new agent at the bank who’s demanding some environmental form along with the usual line of credit paperwork. She’s got a brochure, but she’d like me to come over to see if I can make sense of it. I’d offered to help Clarence with the operation before the fight and don’t want to renege. Even if he’s there, Bernie’s not going to make a scene after his parents invited me, no matter how livid he is.

  Stephen is still giving me the silent treatment but Luke decides he’d like to go to the farm with me. In the car, he starts asking questions. Are we going to Bernie’s? Are we going home after? Are we going to soccer? He knows the answers to all of them but I can see his mind at work, trying to reconcile everything. With so much up in the air at home, he needs reassurance on the minutiae. When I tucked him in last night, he went through every member of our family, asking where they lived.

  I park out back by the old shed where Clarence worked on his cars. Luke holds my hand as we walk towards the barn. It’s an old structure, maybe a hundred and fifty years old, painted red before I was born. The paint’s peeling off quite badly now and I’m sure it’s lead based. I’m sure Clarence knows that too, so I decide against mentioning it. This barn was used mostly for farm equipment when we were growing up. They’d already built the newer barns for the chickens and livestock on the other property.

  Luke is fascinated by the building, but also scared. He shifts closer towards me, as if he’s worried it’s a house out of a storybook—the kind with witches who eat small children. Clarence and Irene are inside, standing by a crude desk under the old hayloft. There’s no sign of Bernie.

  Irene makes a bit of a fuss over Luke, telling him how handsome he is, how much he looks like me. Luke relaxes enough to let go of my hand, but doesn’t speak.

  The brochure from the bank doesn’t explain much. It seems to be a free service to farmers to assess whether they are meeting current environmental regulations. There’s a few farm visits and the end result is an environmental plan for the operation. It reminds me of the stroke brochures, the colours supersaturated and the content oversimplified. I can understand why Clarence would be concerned that there’s something more sinister lurking underneath.

  Irene asks if this is something they need to be worried about.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s interference,” Clarence says. He’s leaning up against a thick, square support beam, the rafters above whitewashed with pigeon shit. “This guy at the bank’s just transferred in from Halifax, never worked with farmers before. Now he’s saying EFP this EFP that, as if Irene needs any more paperwork.”

  “It looks like they’ll take care of all that,” I say, trying to reassure him. “They’ll send a consultant out and take a tour round and talk to you about the op. You’ll get a report you can give the bank. You might not have to change anything.”

  Clarence shakes his head. “It’s like sending your car to the mechanic when it ain’t broke. Sure it don’t cost for them to take a look,” he says. “But it will. It will.”

  He swipes his hands to the side to show he thinks it’s so much hogwash. He grabs some keys from the desk drawer. It’s an overcast day but the light streams into the barn from the spaces between the slats. From outside the whole thing looks solid, but in here, it’s propped up by so many toothpicks.

  “The big thing they’ll want to know is what fertilizers and pesticides you’re using. Are they draining into open water—that kind of thing. If you’ve got an hour, we can have a quick go-over.”

  The McInneses have property spread all throughout Gaspereau, Canning and out to Grand Pré, cobbled together by family mergers, deaths and the occasional outright purchase. We decide to start at the field from the dig.

  Irene offers to take Luke back to the house for a snack but he’s too shy.

  “He can come along,” Clarence says. “Won’t be long.” He points to Luke. “You want to ride the tractor?”

  Luke wants to ride the tractor. It’s a mid-50s Massey-Ferguson, red body and blue accents, rigged with front- and back-end loaders. There’s no cab, and just one seat, which Clarence takes. He motions for me to lift my son onto his lap then asks, “You remember how to ride on the side?”

  Bernie used to take me out on this machine sometimes. There’s just enough of a grip to hook my heels in and lean back along the guard next to the wheel well.

  We back out of the barn and then head for the road, driving mostly on the shoulder. The tires are massive and it’s a bumpy ride. We can’t be going more than 40km/hr but it feels like we’re at full tilt. I hold on nervously to the few grips the frame affords. A few cars pass us and I feel momentarily ridiculous, but then I grin, despite everything. It’s a beautiful feeling, the lurches of the machine and the summer wind. When we reach the field, Clarence lets Luke take the wheel and I think of my Dad, get one of those rare flashes of his face. He once took me for a ride on a neighbour’s cow. It was just supposed to be
me riding it, but I’d been too scared, so Dad sat up on the cow too, as close to its rear end as he could stay without falling off. We walked maybe a hundred yards. I remember looking back at him, seeing him smiling at me, the two of us propelled forward on the lumbering animal. I wonder if Luke will ever remember this day thirty years from now and if it will be Clarence who he sees, or me hanging onto the side.

  We park at the crest of the field and take a walk around. The corn’s shoulder-high on me now. To Luke it’s a maze and I explain how he needs to be careful of the crop as he walks, but then set him loose to explore the rows.

  I point to the creek that divides the fields. “They’re going to want to take some samples there, check for contamination. You using the poultry litter?”

  “It goes out in the fall before we till. We spray in the spring.”

  “Still plowing after harvest, discing in spring?”

  He acts like I’ve asked him if he’s still swallowing after he chews. “Ellie, I farm the way my father farmed.”

  “You considered conservation plowing?”

  “Is this guy going to give me a fine if I don’t?”

  I lead him over to the patch we dug. “You remember how thin the topsoil was up here? How much soil do you think you’re losing each year?

  He shrugs, tracing his cigarette over the slope of the field. “I get a bit of blowing, spring and fall.”

  “It wouldn’t take much to get a soil conservation plan in place.”

  Clarence just frowns. I hold his arm horizontal and pull the sleeve back on his plaid shirt. “Think of your skin as the top soil. If you’re always rubbing it, like with a plow, you’re going to lose the top layers, right? Eventually, you’ll get calluses. If you cut the callous off or start rubbing again, it’s going to get raw and start bleeding.

  “You could get a chisel plow and then you’d only be breaking smaller lines in the skin—think of it like a cat scratch—then it’s doing less damage. It leaves a lot of plant residue on the top.” I pull his sleeve over his skin. “It’s going to protect from wind and rain erosion and leaves more organic matter to decompose and fertilize.”

  When I release him, Clarence stays rigid, his arm frozen in the same angle.

  “What’s that cat scratch going to cost me?”

  “That’s one route, the other’s no-till.” I grin, cajoling. “Then you drill into the stubble and plant in one go. More herbicide, but less runoff.”

  Clarence raises his eyebrows and looks out over the field. “I’ve got a barn full of equipment that’s working fine.”

  “Think of the hours you’re spending plowing. Factor in the fuel cost. If you used a third of the fuel because you only make one pass over the field, how much would that save?”

  He unbuttons his front pocket and pulls out a cigarette. “Ask Irene.”

  “I could run through the numbers with her, build up a few scenarios. You have to do this consultation anyway, but I could help you with the other. We can look into better fertilizing and tilling practices. Put that together with the EFP—stacks of paperwork you can shove up the bank’s ass.”

  Clarence laughs, despite himself. It makes him cough and he covers his mouth with his fist, doubled up, the blue smoke rippling over his face.

  Irene is waiting by the door when we get back, nervous the delay means it didn’t go well. She watches Clarence’s approach from the barn and busies herself setting out a plate of wafers and microwaving the now-cold coffee.

  “All straightened out?”

  Clarence braces himself against the entryway, prying off one boot at a time. “Oh, she’s got plenty of ways to keep you busy. I’m just glad she’s not a doctor. Go in with a nick, come out with half a leg missing.”

  “I’ve got some ideas to streamline things.”

  Clarence hams up a grimace but Irene’s got his number. “Thank you, Ellie,” she says, pouring out some orange soda for Luke. He’s busy forcing apart the neon-pink layers of wafer between his teeth and licking off the filling.

  “So,” Irene beams. “Linda said she told you the news.”

  I grab a wafer too, just to have something in my mouth.

  “We’re over the moon.” She nips into the living room to pull out a bridal planner book. “Got this for five dollars over at the mall. Clearance.”

  “She’s in a fuss,” Clarence says, spooning volumes of sugar into his mug.

  “Don’t give me that. You just about cried when they told you.” Irene hands the planner over. “It’s just Jason never got married and I thought Bernie’d never ask Linda.”

  “Have they set a date?”

  Luke asks what we’re talking about.

  “Bernie and Linda are getting married.”

  “They are married.”

  “No. But it’s like they’re married. They’re common-law spouses.” He won’t understand the phrase, but it might steer him away from the topic.

  “Is that what you and Daddy will be?”

  Irene and Clarence look at me, confused. Irene jumps in before I can explain. “Your Mom and Dad have been married for a long time.”

  “Stephen said they’re separating.”

  “We’re not separating, honey.” Luke looks down at his glass. The pop has already gone flat; only a few tiny carbon bubbles cling to the edges. I hadn’t wanted it to come up but now there’s no choice except to elaborate. “We’re having an argument but nothing’s been decided.”

  Irene puts the bridal book away. Clarence takes his mug to the sink and leaves it noisily in the basin. He refuses to look at me. I don’t see why he, of all people, should be angry.

  I reach for Luke’s hand.

  “Please, stay,” Irene says.

  “We should get back. Thanks for the coffee.” Luke and I retreat to the door. As I’m starting up the car, Irene rushes out of the house, waving for us to stop. I slip out to see what she wants.

  “Thanks for coming over, Ellie. Clarence is. . . .” Her voice trails off. “Clarence’s always been fond of you. He just didn’t want to say anything in front of your boy. We want you to come to us if you need help.” Irene grips my shoulders, pulling me to face her. “If you’ve got those boys and your mother to look after alone. Don’t be too proud.”

  “Nothing’s been decided,” I repeat. “Richard’s taking the boys home after the tournament. I’m going to stay for a bit to help my mother while we figure things out.”

  It’s clear that Irene hadn’t considered the possibility that Richard would take the boys. She releases my shoulders and hugs me tight as Luke stares at us through the gap between the front seats.

  Three a.m. and no sign of sleep, same as every night since the fight, but at least the visit’s given me something else to fixate on. I wish I’d brought my computer so I could start a spreadsheet for Irene to plug in the existing figures. Still, I start running through different variables and formulas. At Guelph, they were experimenting with ribbons of no-till corn next to strips of bare soil and I make a note to email a former colleague about her research. Corn doesn’t do well with competition early on in the growing process, so it doesn’t always respond well to no-till. Conservation tillage or an undercrop might work better.

  There’s something in the calculations beyond the simple distraction from the tension in the house. Being out in the field today, I realized that the only things I liked about being a professor were teaching and research, which is like eating only the strawberry in the Neapolitan. The job’s also committee meetings, grant proposals, administrative politics and answering a daily shitstorm of email. Until this summer, I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed agricultural land. It felt good to be out there today. For the first time since losing my job, it’s felt promising to be changing course.

  Thursday morning, before our appointment at the bank, my mother insists on wheeling herself to the car door. She’s been walking a bit with a cane, but it’s short distances—halfway across a room at most. The nurses instructed me to stand next to
her and assist her into the car, but my mother huffs and interprets it as interference. She’s forgotten to fix the brake on the chair, however, and it rolls back as she pushes up on the armrest. It means she has to sink back down, apply the brake, and try again. She stands by herself and I open the door for her, but we’ve misjudged the distance and she needs to take a few steps to reach the seat. I offer her my arm but she’s determined to do this herself. She thuds into the car, caught and righted by the bucket seat.

  Next week they’re starting exercises in the pool, which they say can help significantly with regaining muscle. We’re still deep in the land of conditional optimism. It’s impossible to make plans, never knowing if we’re still climbing towards greater rehabilitation or if this is the peak.

  “They say they can jimmy the steering wheel for people like me,” my mother says as I start the car. “Even if I don’t get the leg back. You think Jason could rig that for me, or do I have to get it done special?”

  I can’t picture her driving again, but don’t want to discourage her. “Maybe get it done special.”

  “How much do you think that would run me?”

  No idea.

  “It’s one of the things I’ll be asking at the bank.” She settles herself into the vehicle, adjusting the belt strap and moving the visor.

  We pass by the farmers’ markets and she swivels to catch the line of families loading the first bushels of apples into the trunks of their cars. The berries have all gone back up in price now that the glut of high season’s passed. It doesn’t seem possible that so much time has lapsed since we came out here.

  “You got errands to run?” my mother asks as we pull into the lot.

  “I thought we’d go in together.”

  She puffs up like a startled bird. “You’re being nosy.”

  “I’m fixing the house up and there are some things I need to know.”

  She flips the door lock on and off, unable to figure out which way’s which. She cracks the door open and pushes it with the strength of both arms, almost dinging the car next to us. Still, the effort’s not enough. The door swings back with the weight and latches closed. She tries one more time, wedging her elbow to prevent it from closing, wincing as the door pinches her against the car frame. She pauses like that for a while before pulling her arm free. Even if she gets out of the car, she’ll need me to get the wheelchair from the trunk.