A Fallow Season

Chapter 1

I like morning best. I sit up next to the window in the attic and stare out over the farm and the forest as light gradually fills the dark spaces and pushes the ghosts deeper into the shadows. The house was always quiet in the morning, before my sisters and brothers were up. In those moments, I can pretend that nothing has changed.

I try not to look at my sisters’ empty beds as I descend the ladder and start my day, but it’s hard not to. Downstairs, I pull on the jacket my father forgot to take with him. The mammas were not so careless; all of their coats are gone. It must have been cold when they left. I don’t think they would have stayed too long after Jennifer… after we ran away.

When I first arrived back on the farm two winters ago, the canned food left in the cabinet wouldn’t have fed my family for more than three months. Mamma Wanda would have had it rationed out to feed us until the early summer crops came in. The smell of meat and the lack of human activity had drawn animals to the curing shed -- nothing at all remained there. The chicken coop was empty; the cows were gone. I was certain I would starve to death before spring. Then one of our cows -- Edith -- appeared near the barn with a calf in tow. I did what needed to be done and had meat and milk to nourish me through the winter.

I have new chickens now, and they cluck happily at the sound of my approach. I put down some feed and duck into the hen house to retrieve the five eggs the dozen of them have produced. The warm eggs feel good in my cold hands. I slip them into the pockets of the old coat and walk briskly back toward the house, watching for icy patches as I go. Though spring officially arrived a few weeks earlier, the ground still freezes on cold mornings like this one.

Inside, I light the fire in the stove and crack two eggs into the waiting cast-iron skillet. I cut a chunk of bread from the loaf I baked the day before and retrieve one of the last jars of strawberry jam. That flavor was never my favorite, which is why I still have one jar of Mamma Wanda’s left. As the mammas would have said, waste not, want not. I crack open the jar and spread the jam on the bread. My eggs are sizzling and the whites are no longer clear. I flip them in the pan and let them cook for another minute before sliding them onto a plate and carrying them to the much-too-large dining room. When I first came home, I ate every meal at the same position I occupied as a child -- around the middle of the long bench seat on the side furthest from the kitchen. After a few months though, I moved up to where the mommas used to sit. By summer, I had taken to Father’s seat, which is big and cushioned -- almost like a throne.

After breakfast, I wash my plate and wipe out the skillet. One thing about living alone: there are never many dishes to clean up. Mamma Wanda used to spend most of her day in the kitchen between preparing the meals and cleaning up the dishes. I never spend more than an hour or two at most -- and that’s only when I’m making bread or canning fruits or vegetables for the future.

In Father’s office, I mark through yesterday’s box on the calendar. Miss Rachel should be coming around today.

Chapter 2

After that first winter, I made the trek into town and found Miss Rachel’s store. I had tried all winter to come up with a story I thought she might believe; in the end, I told her the truth -- mostly, anyway. I told her I was Una and Rex’s daughter, and that I had run away the year before. When I got back to the farm, I found that my parents had up and left. I also told her I was eighteen. There was no point in alerting her to my real age; I knew she would have felt compelled to report me to the authorities. Realizing that I had walked into town, she insisted on driving me back to the house. When we came to the tree felled across the long dirt road leading home, she walked the rest of the way with me. I think she wanted to be sure that I was telling her the truth, though her decision to follow me into the woods was rather foolish. She didn’t know me from Adam -- I could have been a bad person.

Even though Miss Rachel had been buying produce and canned goods from my family for years, she had never been to the Rutledge farm before. I think she was shocked to discover the huge house and several buildings that comprised my parents’ homestead. She said almost nothing as I gave her a quick tour of the property. When I showed her the schoolhouse -- from the outside only, of course -- she asked why it was so big. I have some brothers and sisters, I answered.

Enough to fill that building?

I guess Father figured it was better to have too much room than not enough. I moved her along to the house. There was no hiding that my family had been large; there were too many chairs at the long table.

To her credit, Miss Rachel didn’t dig any deeper. She saw that the house and, indeed, the whole farm was abandoned, save myself alone. She nodded thoughtfully before finally announcing that she would come around to visit me every week.

You don’t need to do that!

Why else did you seek me out if not for help?

I wanted to make arrangements to sell my extra food.

Extra food? Rachel put her hands on her hips and looked at me as if I were an idiot. Where are you going to get extra food? I’m worried you won’t be able to keep yourself from starving!

I straightened my spine and said, I am more than capable of taking care of myself. And Mamma taught me how to make preserves almost as soon as I could walk.

She pursed her lips.

Really! I hoped my talent could back up my claim; otherwise, I had no idea how I would make money.

We’ll see. I’ll be back next week to check up on you. I saw some lemons that looked ripe out in your orchard. Can you make lemon marmalade?

Yes.

Have some ready for me next week and we’ll see. Can I bring you anything from town when I come out?

I need some chickens. Could you get me some?

Chickens? For meat?

No, for eggs, I clarified. Live chickens.

She glanced in the direction of her car with something approaching terror.

Never mind, I sighed. I’ll--

No, no. I can do it. I’ll borrow my husband’s truck. I’ll bring you three chickens for twenty-four jars of marmalade.

Make it four chickens, and you’ve got a deal.

She smiled. You’re going to make a good businesswoman someday. I would have gone to six, though.

Miss Rachel said my lemon marmalade sold faster than anything else she had in her shop. As my crops ripened, I made other jams and jellies for the store as well: blackberry, apricot, and peach, mostly. In exchange, she brought me items I needed to get the farm back to a more or less self-sufficient state.

Without Miss Rachel coming to see me every week, I would have had no human contact at all. That first winter -- when I was truly alone -- I nearly lost my mind. I talked to myself just so that I would hear English spoken. I spent days sitting in Barbara’s chair, reading book after book. I even managed to dig my way through Les Miserables, which has to be the longest and dullest novel I’ve ever read.

During one visit, I mentioned to Miss Rachel that I had read every book in the house. The next time she came out, she brought a set of encyclopedias published toward the end of the twentieth century. On every visit from then on, she brought me books.

Chapter 3

I keep a schedule of sorts -- mostly to prevent myself from losing whole days in my books. Reading is my reward for a day well spent.

Every day, I tend the animals before having breakfast and right after dinner. Edith prefers to be milked early -- usually around five-thirty in the morning. She moos loudly until I show up. After that, I spend some time in the attic, watching the sun come up. Then I feed the chickens, gather the eggs, and fix my breakfast.

On Mondays, I wash my clothes, most of which used to belong to my father. They are big on me, but, even so, they are less cumbersome than the pilgrim dresses my…his wives wore. For the work I do now, a dress is more than a hindrance -- it can be dangerous. The first time I chopped down a tree, I was wearing a dress. Since Father never taught me that skill, I went about it haphazardly. When the tree began to fall, I realized it was tipping toward me instead of away. As I tried to move out of its path, my skirt caught on a branch. At the last moment, I managed to jerk myself free, ripping the dress to shreds in the process. The thump of the tree behind me made me scream in fright, and I felt my heart thudding against my ribcage. After that, I raided my father’s closet, searching for pants and shirts that I could modify for my own use. I hemmed his jeans and found an old belt I could cinch tightly enough to keep the jeans on my body.

On Tuesdays, I clean the house. This used to take Una hours every day. With only me in the house, it takes a few hours a week -- mostly just dusting and sweeping. The worst part is going into each of the bedrooms -- rooms I was rarely granted access to in the past. Sometimes I swear I can feel the mammas looking over my shoulder disapprovingly as I hurriedly brush the dust from their bureaus and bed stands.

Wednesdays and Saturdays, I tend the garden, planting seeds and searching out weeds the way Sheena did, only with less nodding off. During the winter, I use Wednesdays and Saturdays to study the books Miss Rachel has provided. As a way of honoring Sheena, I stick to math and science on those days.

On Thursdays, I replenish my woodpile. After that first attempt at chopping down a tree, I stuck to trees that had fallen on their own for quite a while. That was how I cleared the driveway -- I chopped the large log blocking it into manageable chunks over the course of several weeks. I didn’t have to try my hand at chopping another tree down until this past fall. I’m getting better at it -- they usually fall away from me now.

On Fridays, I cook. Wanda did a good job of teaching me how to can and preserve the vegetables and fruits I harvest from my garden. I have also become an excellent baker, if I do say so myself. I miss the electric appliances of the outside world sometimes, but a wood-burning stove does the same job -- just with a little more effort on my part.

After gardening on Saturdays, I hunt. I taught myself how with Father’s bow and arrow. My aim is pretty good, but my heart isn’t in it. More often than not, I can’t bring myself to aim at the deer. What would I do with that much venison anyway? I’m less merciful toward the rabbits, since I have caught more than one of them in my garden. Besides, rabbit stew is one of my favorite dishes.

I rest on Sundays. A few times, Miss Rachel drove out and picked me up for church. I wore the dresses my mammas had left behind; I could feel people staring at me, though. Miss Rachel offered to take me shopping for new clothes, but I didn’t see the point in wasting money on new dresses just because what was hanging in my closets at home wasn’t stylish. I opted to stay home after that. I didn’t entirely give up on God, though. Following Miss Rachel’s advice, I began reading the New Testament, which turned out to be a lot easier going than the beginning of the Bible. I still don’t know if I believe that Jesus is my Savior, but I certainly admire his conviction. Funny thing -- even after all the time I spent with Betsy’s family in Sierra Vista and at Miss Rachel’s church, I don’t think I’ve ever met a real Christian. Miss Rachel comes closest, but even she falls short. If she really were, why would it matter what I wore to church? Seems to me everyone is a little too concerned with what everyone else is wearing and doing.

Chapter 4

I was planting corn when Miss Rachel showed up a few hours later. I waved at her as she walked toward the back door of the house. As usual, her arms were loaded down with boxes. I stood and brushed the dust from my hands before heading toward her.

Good morning! she called out cheerily.

Shading my eyes with my hand, I glanced up at the sun. Closer to noon, isn’t it?

I suppose so. I brought you some canning supplies like you asked. And I found some more books for you.

Thank you kindly. Would you like some lunch? I took the top box from her and opened the back door.

What are you having?

Potato soup. It’s already on the stove.

Sounds delicious. She set her box on the counter near the sink. How has your week been?

Quiet, as usual, I answered, smiling. I took a moment to flip through the latest collection of books. These look like schoolbooks.

They are. The high school is replacing all of their science and history textbooks before the next school year. I thought you might like these.

Thank you.

I threw a few novels in the bottom, too.

I smiled as I went to the cabinet and withdrew two bowls. Could you get the bread out of the breadbox? The knife is in the drawer.

While I ladled soup into the bowls, she cut two thick slices of bread and walked them to the table, where she sat down in what used to be Una’s spot. I followed her with the main course.

You look thinner, she said to me as I sat down at the head of the table.

I always seem to lose weight when the spring planting begins. I guess it’s the added exercise.

Maybe. Are you sure you want to spend another year out here alone? Now would be a good time to move into town, you know.

I’ve already got most of the planting done! I laughed. Talk to me next year -- before the hard work starts.

You have no idea how much I worry about you, out here, all alone.

Stop worrying. I’m perfectly safe.

You don’t know how dangerous this world is, she fretted.

Yes, I answered, I do. That’s why I’m here. This is the safest place I’ve ever known. I picked up my spoon and dipped it into the thick white soup. Having Edith made all the difference -- nothing was better than fresh cream.

Miss Rachel followed my lead and began eating. Wonderful as always, Irene.

Thank you.

We ate in silence for a few minutes before she asked, Have you seen Vince lately?

No. Vince was the boy who told me about the outside world and shattered the illusion my parents had created for my siblings and me. I had only mentioned him to Miss Rachel in passing, yet she never failed to ask me