Page 20 of Grounded
“There you go. It’s looking better already.”
After the call to Janice, Annie returned Prema’s voice mail and was updated on Prema’s new roommate’s strange fascination with David Bowie.
“It is very odd, Annie,” Prema said. “She has plastered her side of the room with posters from the 1980s. Evie is disturbed by her friend’s behavior and does not know what to think, waking up to a man with spiked hair and makeup every morning.”
Annie had laughed with Prema, but when she hung up the phone, nothing seemed funny anymore. She missed her friends. She missed the bagel shop around the corner with the toasted everything bagels, rolled in seeds and spices and served with flavored cream cheese, and the rich Colombian coffee. She missed the horns honking, sirens wailing, the rumble of trucks, and the invisible pulsating energy that permeated the city. She missed the ethnic restaurants with the scent of exotic and faraway places blowing out of the exhaust fans on the sides of the buildings and the rare bookstore she could get lost in for hours.
Sitting on the back porch, Annie could hear nothing except the creak of the metal chair when she moved slightly to the left. She hadn’t noticed the silence when she first arrived nearly as much as she did now. Maybe the city noises were still swirling around in her head the first few days but now they were gone and the quiet surrounded her like a padded room.
If there was something I could do,Annie thought.A project. Something to make the time pass.
Annie looked at her surroundings with the eyes of a newcomer in search of a job. The garden was one way to keep busy. Unfortunately, it was still too wet from the rains and it would be days before the soil dried. In the meantime, the plants Woody had dropped off sat in trays next to the back door, looking like displaced refugees.
Her eyes wandered from the plants to the other side of the door where a pair of her grandfather’s old work boots sat, exactly where he used to leave them at lunch, or dinner as they called it on the farm. After his funeral, a well-meaning neighbor had suggested Beulah leave them for strangers to think there was still a man in the house. Annie had to admit it did give the impression. It made her think her grandfather might be inside sitting in his recliner, watching a silent basketball game on television and listening to the radio, taking slow puffs on his pipe.
If the house was her grandmother’s domain, the back of the house had been her grandfather’s. He had puttered back and forth between the garage, house and equipment shed, firing up tractors in the gravel drive beyond the back porch and smoking his pipe under the maple tree in an old metal chair. The familiar feeling of grief clutched at her throat and made it hard to swallow the coffee she sipped. That was the trouble with being here. Everywhere she looked was a memory of her grandfather, of her mother, of her own disrupted childhood.
Annie flung the remnants of her coffee on the grass. It was weak, likely some cheap grocery store brand her grandmother had bought by clipping coupons. She stood and put her coffee cup in the chair. She raised her arms over her head and felt the muscles stretch down the side of her body.
She eyed the run-down outbuildings that used to be painted and repaired as often as the house. Like chicks with the mother hen, the buildings were smaller than the farmhouse but made with the same clapboard. “Dependencies” she’d heard them called one hot summer in Georgia when she took a plantation tour. The smaller buildings supported the work of the farm, but now they were in disrepair from lack of use. There was certainly work to be done, but it seemed overwhelming to Annie. They needed a carpenter, a painter, maybe even someone to lay stone. Not an out-of-work flight attendant.
She stepped off the porch onto the limestone steps that lay even with the grass and led to the smokehouse. It was a perfectly square structure with a small chimney that poked out of the center of the roof. Annie could not think of a time when anything was smoked in there, but she did remember several country hams hanging by strings from the rafters to cure through the summer sweats.
With no windows to shed light, the inside was as dark as a cave. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust, but she instantly smelled the scent of animal fat that still lingered. A long wooden bowl, shaped like a bathtub, sat next to the wall on the dirt floor. It was used for rubbing the salt on the meat years ago, her grandma had told her. On hot summer afternoons, when the cool of the smokehouse offered a respite from the heat for two young children, it became a canoe for Annie and her friend Jake Wilder.
“Let’s ’tend like we have to pick up supplies, and Indians are shooting arrows at us,” Jake had said. They both hopped in the canoe and pretended to row and dodge arrows. After they tired of that, Annie offered another game. “Let’s ’tend like we are going down Cumberland Falls!” They acted that one out and on and on it went until they were called in for supper. Some adults still played pretend, she thought, never growing out of the desire to be someone else.
She walked outside and behind the smokehouse to the tool shed. A riding lawn mower and push mower were parked under the shelter next to a weed eater, rakes and snow shovels. Various gardening tools hung from the wall. The rototiller was in the front, next to various cans of oil, gas and diesel.
Next to the smokehouse was the chicken house, empty now for how long she couldn’t remember. On the far wall sat the rows of nesting boxes where the hens laid their treasured eggs. Gathering eggs had become one of her chores even before she moved in with her grandparents.
Annie felt a shiver run up her spine at the memory of the flogging she got one time from an old rooster. She could still feel the talons scratch at her arms and the wings so close to her head she thought it would eat her alive. Soon after, they feasted on rooster for supper. The meat was tough, but Annie ate her share, if only to spite the old thing. A younger rooster more scared of Annie replaced him, but the fear rose up when hens protested with cackles and squawks. Sometimes she left the eggs under the hens who gave her trouble, figuring it wasn’t worth the fight. This worked until one day when her grandmother broke an egg and found a half-formed chick inside, and she had gotten a good switching. The only time she could get out of her egg duties was when Jake came over. He would reach into the nesting box without flinching and gather eggs from under a hen even as she pecked furiously at his hand. The Wilders only had dairy cows, so chickens were a novelty for him. The Campbells traded eggs and frying chickens to the Wilders for fresh milk, an arrangement that went on for years.
“Don’t they hurt?” Annie used to ask Jake when a chicken would peck his hand.
“Nah. It’s a lot better than getting stepped on by a Jersey,” Jake would say, grinning and pulling out eggs as fast as her grandfather.
Behind the outbuildings and the garage, a plank fence separated the backyard from the barn lot. In the lot, the stock barn stood with its angled roof, setting it apart from the larger tobacco barn, just down the lane. Annie climbed the white plank fence, paint slipping off in paperlike sheets, and sat facing the back of the house. It was so familiar to her, yet in years past her visits never provided the time, or maybe she never took the time, to really look at this place with new eyes.
What she saw was work. There were many needed repairs on the outbuildings and the barn, certainly paint on everything, and who knew about the roofs? As her grandparents had aged, so had their ability to tend to the many aspects of a farm. The aesthetic qualities were secondary to the economics of running a farm, especially as human energy was a gradually diminishing commodity.
“The farm is paid for. I’ll be all right,” her grandmother had said to Evelyn after her grandfather died; but it was obvious there was little extra money to do any fixing up. Annie tried to persuade her to move to town after her grandfather had died, but Beulah would have none of it.
“I was born on this farm, and I plan to die on this farm,” was exactly how she put it to Annie. And now, two years later, it sounded as if she hadn’t changed her mind. Her grandmother was stubborn, but so was she. It might take time, but Annie made it her goal to persuade her grandmother to sell.
With a sense of resolution on at least one issue, Annie breathed deep the scent of honeysuckle and locust blooms wafting from the pasture.Fresh air,Janice had said, and Annie took another deep breath and then another.
Annie hopped down from the fence and carefully picked her way across the barn lot, trying to keep her good tennis shoes clean. The mystery of the hayloft was irresistible to her as a child, even though she had countless warnings about being careful not to fall from the loft. Placing her foot carefully on each ladder rung, she climbed to the top, not sure what she would find. But when she arrived, it was the essence of summer, rolled into square bales of hay, drawing her to it with the promise of comfort.
It had been years since she had hidden out here in the secret fort under the hay bales where no one could find her. She was glad to see this one thing still continued from the working farm she remembered. Annie stretched out and lay back on the bales, feeling the gentle pricks all over her body from the haystalks. Putting her hands behind her head, she stared at the open rafters above.
It was here she had prayed over and over, “Please God, heal my mother. Help her to feel better.” He had not answered her prayer. Or maybe he hadn’t heard it. Either way, her mother had died.
Other times, she had come here in the midst of the angst of growing up and over her frustration at how strict her grandmother was.
“All the other girls are going to the dance with a boy. Why can’t I?” she had asked when the eighth-grade dance was announced at school.
“Because you are too young.” Her grandmother had continued to peel the potatoes in the kitchen, her back to Annie.
