It’s satisfyingly thick. I know I have to spread out the reading to make it last, but today I’ll read two pages instead of the one I promised myself. Maybe even three pages.
The idea is as soothing as sweet hot tea.
* * *
It’s almost dark when the snow stops. From the window, I can see that a dusty moon glimmers overhead. I haven’t read three pages; I’ve read fifty-three. I have to slow down.
I kneel up to watch the field. I wonder about my old friends from school, Peggy and Mary, who moved away because of the Depression. Could they be in a strange place, the way we are?
I keep looking outside. If I see Clarence tunneling through the snow, can I even go out and help him? But what I see is almost a miracle. Snow has drifted away from the fence on the side of the field. It’s almost bare, with tan weeds showing their heads. I could walk carefully all the way to the back.
Downstairs, I find the boots Joey was talking about and head out. The wind sweeps across the field, sending veils of snow into the air. Beyond that is a blur of trees. I wade toward them, looking up at the few stars that have come out. The planet Pluto is up there, looking down at me.
In a few more steps, I’m at the barn. The door is open. Is it possible that Clarence is hidden in there somewhere? I step inside. It takes me a moment to get used to the half dark. But then I look at the stalls, which must have sheltered cows once. I reach down and pick up a bit of the hay that’s in piles, and over my head I see the loft. An old lantern hangs from a hook on the stairs to that loft.
This is a place to nestle in the hay and read, a place for a cow, for a goat, for chickens.
I spin around, my arms out, the way I did in that bedroom. I feel something in my chest, something I couldn’t have imagined a few minutes ago. It’s a bit of happiness taking over a small edge of my heart—in spite of everything.
But Clarence isn’t here. I go outside again. A rusty chicken wire fence pokes up through the snow. It bends with me as I try to climb it, so I just stand there, shivering, calling, “Clarence, please come back!”
The wind tears the words away from me, and I know he can’t hear me. How can he with half an ear torn off? Still I keep shouting for him.
“You don’t belong here,” a voice says, and I spin around. I don’t see anyone at first, just a shape in snow-shoes in the next field. “Go home where you belong!” he yells.
I squint to see better. It’s a boy wearing an old hat, hunched up in his jacket.
I take a step back, but then I open my mouth. Miss Mitzi always says manners help in a pinch. “Have you seen my cat?” I ask nicely. “He’s quite—”
I hesitate. What’s a word that will bring sympathy to that awful boy? I clear my throat. “He’s quite fragile.”
The boy begins to laugh. “I knew it. You don’t know a thing about the country. Someone saw a bear with her cub the other day, and there are mountain lions and coyotes.” He leers at me. “Do you know what they eat?”
Cats? Could he be telling the truth?
He’s still talking. “And a skinny city thing like you. Gone in a gulp.”
Suddenly I’m filled with anger so fierce I can hardly believe it. It’s the last straw. Leaving home to come to this place with no light, no heat, no school, no library.
No nothing.
“Don’t you dare!”
He laughs again, pointing at me. “What are you going to do about it?”
Never mind Miss Mitzi and her manners.
I crouch down to scoop up a clump of snow. “I come from the city,” I tell him in my fiercest voice. “And you know what they say?”
“Who cares?” He’s still laughing.
“They say we’re born wearing boxing gloves.” I crunch the snow between my freezing hands and let go. My aim is deadly from years of stickball on Colfax Street, but he steps sideways just in time. He stands there, mouth open in surprise.
I tuck my chin deep into my scarf just in case he intends to fight back, and bend over for another scoop. But he’s laughing; he turns and trudges away from me along the fence line.
“Round one!” I yell after him, but the anger is draining away. What would Miss Mitzi say?
“Clarence!” I call a few more times, and then go back to the house, remembering what Mrs. Lazarus used to tell Edward Ray: I’m mortified at your behavior.
Dear Miss Mitzi,
You can’t imagine how much snow we have. I will mail my two letters to you as soon as I can get them to the mailbox at the end of the road. It’s probably rusty, but I’ll clean it out as soon as I can.
Our address is Waltz Road. That’s a musical name, isn’t it?
I hope you write to me soon. I want to know about Lazy, your cat from years ago. Clarence hasn’t found us yet.
Please don’t tell Charlie the Butcher that Clarence has disappeared. He’ll be heartsick at the news.
I miss you and Madden’s Blooms. I miss the smell of lilies and the cold air when you open the icebox door.
Love, Rachel
CHAPTER NINE
Pop is up early this morning, wearing his gray suit and a silky red tie with dots. He grins at us. “How do I look?”
“You could be the president,” I say.
He runs his hand over my head, then pulls on his coat and goes outside with shovels he’s found in the cellar.
The three of us go after him to help as much as we can. The snow is heavy, but once we clean the truck off, Pop will be set to go to town for his first day at the bank.
We use our mittens and sleeves to clean off the windows. “Still early.” Pop is smiling again. “Plenty of time.”
The bottoms of his trousers are soaked; his shoes must be, too. But he swings into the truck and we stand back as he starts it up. He crunches back and forth for a few minutes and we hold our breath. But then he backs out toward the road and I put my face up to the sun, which is warm on my cheeks. “It’s a new day,” I say.
“I’m going to get up there on the roof as soon as it gets a little warmer,” Joey says. “While I work on the rooster, I bet I’ll be able to see for forty miles.”
I shiver and Cassie says, “You’ll kill yourself up there. Won’t that be the last straw!”
And somehow the three of us are laughing. Joey clumps up a snowball and tosses it at her, deliberately missing, and we troop into the kitchen, where the fireplace is blazing.
The three of us sink down at the table and chew on toast that has gotten a little cold but is still delicious, with lumps of butter here and there. We sip at tea, no longer hot but still sweet.
“I always wanted a pet,” Cassie says. “Maybe we’ll have chickens, and how about a goat? Remember that sign: ‘Get Your Goat … Twenty-Five Cents’?”
I wonder at that. Cassie wants a pet, too. I think of Miss Mitzi putting an orange flower in with the pinks and purples. Strange. Cassie’s definitely that orange flower, but maybe not quite as orange as I thought.
She has to spoil it. “We’ll have to clean up in here, Rachel. I can’t stand your crumbs all over the place.”
“My crumbs? Mine?” I push back from the table and sweep the crumbs into my cupped hand. Three crumbs! Then I go upstairs to my Rebecca book. I’ll read only one page. Only one. But it’s so hard to do.
How terrible it would be not to have anything to read. I’d have to read Rebecca over and over, like someone on a desert island waiting for rescue. I pretend that I’m somewhere like that; I can bring only four things with me. What would they be? Books, for a start. So three more.
I could spend hours figuring that out. Days, even.
I guess I’d have to bring Pop, Miss Mitzi, Joey … and that’s four. I grin to myself. Too bad, Cassie, you’d have to stay home!
When I’ve read ten more pages—ten—I hear the front door open and footsteps come into the hall. I go to the top of the stairs. Pop is back. Back already?
I follow him into the kitchen as he slides into the empty chair at the end of the
table. He’s soaking wet.
“The plow came through,” he says, “but it piled snow up at the side of the road. There was no way I could get out in the truck. I tried to walk.” He spreads his hands wide and shakes his head. “It must be three miles; I just couldn’t do it.”
“They’ll understand at the bank,” Joey says. “The weather is still terrible.”
I jump in. “Don’t worry, maybe the bank isn’t even open this morning.”
Pop nods. “I’ll change into work clothes and we’ll begin to clean the bedrooms.”
And that’s what we do. We begin with mine, even sweeping in the corners, washing the insides of the windows, then look at each other. What will we do for a bed in here?
“There are two beds in my room,” Joey says. “You can have one.”
We take one of the mattresses and drag it down the stairs and out onto the porch. Not an easy trip, because Cassie is moaning the whole time that we’re leaving mouse dirt on every step.
But how satisfying it is when we pound the mattress with the beaters we found in the pantry. We pound until the dust flies and we’re all coughing, but somehow I begin to sing “Happy Days Are Here Again,” and everyone joins in.
I sing as loud as I can, to attract Clarence and, just in case that mountain lion boy is around, to let the boy know he doesn’t bother me one bit.
Dear Miss Mitzi,
I have disastrous news. Pop will not be working at the bank. By the time he got there late in the afternoon, his job was taken.
I’m writing to President Roosevelt to tell him to hurry up and get this depression over with. He’s been in office since March 4, and March is almost over.
Pop leaves early every morning, driving from one town to another, to find work. He comes back after dark looking so cold. He stands in front of the fireplace in the kitchen, his hands out to catch the heat; his boots drip, leaving icy patches on the floor. But then he shakes himself and begins to get the house fixed up. One night he washed down the hall walls. Another night he got up on a ladder and plastered the ceiling. I heard him whistling a little.
But soon he won’t have any gas left in the truck. I wonder how he’ll look for work. What will he do then? What will we all do?
A million cobwebs were in the mailbox out by the road, but no spiders. Maybe they moved into the house as soon as it got cold. Can’t you see it? A line of little gray spiders—each one carrying a suitcase in a skinny feeler, holding a hat on with another—slides under the door and down the hall to the kitchen. Ah, warm!
I remind Pop that Mr. Appleby said to look forward. “If you can’t look forward, at least look up,” I say to Pop. “See the stained-glass window with the Miss Mitzi colors.”
I want to be sure Pop remembers you.
I love you, Miss Mitzi.
Rachel
P.S. I leave food for Clarence every day so he won’t starve. I hope he’s the one who is eating his dinner and not some other animal.
P.S. again. This place is really not so terrible. There’s plenty of wood, and even in this cold, Pop has dragged the old rugs outside and beaten the dust out of them the way we did with the mattresses. It’s warmer now that there aren’t so many holes in the roof. Pop and Joey have done a great job with that. Sometimes we knock icicles off the porch and crunch on them.
And again! I have to say the washing situation is not good. We have to bring pails from the stream to wash. Cold! And the laundry isn’t working very well, either. We wash our clothes in cold water and hang them on a line outside. They dry stiff as boards!
Dear Miss Mitzi,
Pop finally got a job at a grocery store. The man can’t pay him much, but instead he is giving us food, mostly turnips, potatoes, and jars and jars of green beans. Cassie held one of the jars up to the light. “Slimy,” she said. “You’d have to be starving.”
Pop says President Roosevelt has great plans for his first hundred days in office. It’s called the New Deal. Roads and forests are going to be fixed up; a huge dam will be built in Tennessee. This will put people back to work. Pop has his fingers crossed.
It’s strange living here without neighbors. Back home, someone is always walking along the street or riding the trolley. Here, everyone is far apart. We just have each other, but sometimes a little of Cassie goes a long way.
Everyone loves your letters. Pop runs his hands over the edges as he reads. He misses you, I know it. I miss you, too. You are the best. And one more thing, thank you for all the stamps. I had only one left.
Love,
Rachel
CHAPTER TEN
Pop carries a bag and a crate in the door. He’s home early from the store, because Mr. Brancato, the owner, closed at four. “No one is buying groceries,” Pop says. “Everyone is making do with what he has.”
“Food!” Joey pounces on the bag. He and Cassie open it to see what Mr. Brancato has sent home today.
Cassie sighs. “Potatoes again.”
I look over their shoulders. The potatoes have spots and dents. By the time we cut out the bad parts, they’ll be enough for only one meal. Never mind. Pop is great at adding stuff to them: a few onion slices, a little melted cheese. My mouth waters.
But I’m looking at the crate. What might it hold? Oranges and bananas? Cake with frosting? Strawberry ice cream? Ridiculous. “What is it?” I ask Pop.
“Eggs.”
“Eggs!” the three of us say together. It’s a bitter disappointment; I feel like the girl of the Limberlost in that book I read last winter.
Cassie looks as if she could burst into tears.
“Don’t be so … orange,” I tell her, trying to act as if I don’t care.
“You’re always talking like an idiot,” she says.
Pop puts the crate on the table. “Not ordinary eggs,” he says.
“Golden eggs,” I say, “laid in the land of King Midas.”
“I told you,” Cassie tells the ceiling. “She’s lost her mind.”
Pop throws up his hands. “Will you two stop so I can tell you—”
Joey is taking the top off the crate carefully. “I bet I know,” he says. “Eggs that will become chickens.”
“Exactly,” Pop says.
We crowd around him now and look at the twelve eggs nestled in straw pockets. Pop smiles at us as he moves the crate close to the fireplace. “We’ll have to keep them warm and turn them five times every day. They’ll crack open in three weeks.”
He runs his hands over them. “Later they’ll all go into the barn.”
I reach out to touch one of the smooth white tops. Inside are the beginnings of tiny chicks.
Pop looks really happy; I feel happy.
He begins to cut the potatoes. “Water?”
We’re supposed to take turns. We look at each other. It’s the worst job on the farm. Cold and wet, lugging the full pots back from the stream …
Whose turn is it?
“Not mine,” Joey says. He’s right; he’s done it all week to give Cassie and me a break.
Cassie and I point at each other. She narrows her eyes. “I remember doing it last.”
“So do I.”
“You’re always trying to get away with things, Rachel. You don’t do the dishes, you don’t sweep up. You’re lazy.”
I feel a little guilty, but I won’t let her know she’s right. “You’re a pain in the neck.”
“Girls,” Pop says.
I pull on my coat and grab the pots by the handles. “Just remember, Cassie,” I say over my shoulder, “you owe me.”
“I owe you nothing,” she says.
I slam the door behind me. Outside, there’s still some light. It’s not getting dark as early as it did even a week ago. Birds fly overhead in a V formation.
I walk along the fence, breathing in air that smells like spring and remembering the snowy night with that mean boy. Where is he now? Halfway to the stream, I hear the door open behind me. It’s Pop.
“Cassie said she’ll finish th
e potatoes,” he says. “I’ll walk with you.”
He takes one of the pots and I put my free hand in his large pocket. Miss Mitzi comes into my head. “I think of her a lot.” I touch the locket around my neck.
He knows who I’m talking about. “I do, too,” he says without asking.
“I know she’d come in a minute.”
We reach the stream. Fringes of green are beginning to show themselves along the muddy edges. I wait for Pop to answer as we dip the pots into the shallow freezing water so they’ll fill.
“Pop?”
“We’ll catch trout here soon,” he says.
“We’ll have hens,” I remind him. “And I have enough money from my birthday for a goat. It’s the beginning of a real farm.”
“You’re a nice girl,” he says out of the blue.
Smiling, pleased to be a nice girl even though I’m a little lazy, I pull up the pot, the icy water sloshing onto my hands.
“Someday …” His voice trails off. Is he thinking about Miss Mitzi? He begins again. “We’ll need more than eggs and hens and a goat.”
“We’ll have a garden, right? We’ll grow our own potatoes. We’ll have vegetables … carrots and pole beans.” I try to think of something else. “Steak,” I say, and we both laugh.
“I wish I could work at a bank. It’s work I know.” He spreads his hands. “But I have to do something, anything, so that money comes in. This grocery store job is a joke. I worked all day for a bag of potatoes and a dozen laying eggs.”
We start back to the house. It’s almost dark now. Cassie has lighted the gas lamp in the kitchen and there’s a glow from the window. We can’t see the peeling paint from here, and the house is much bigger than our old apartment. I’m surprised at the sudden warmth I feel. “Miss Mitzi would say it’s inviting. If President Roosevelt gets rid of this depression, maybe we could ask her …”
Pop turns to me. “Oh, Rachel.”