Beneath the Apple Leaves(55)

And Eveline Kiser shivered to the core.





CHAPTER 28

The air bulked with the scent of the turning season. Nearly overnight, the remnants of a dying summer’s breath expired, leaving in its wake the crisp chill of autumn. The vibrant hues of dying leaves darkened and browned, and the leaves fell from gray limbs and gathered in mounds that crackled beneath boots. On days of sun, the sky held an iron light, bright without warmth; and on days of clouds, the air rubbed like steel wool against the chin and cheeks.

Through the night, the rains lashed against the old farmhouse, revealing the roof spots that still needed repair. Metal pots and kettles dotted the floor of the room where the water dripped from the heavens, worming through the shingles, and splashed upon the dishes. The endless dripping continued to morning even after the sun replaced the rain.

Wilhelm sent Will and Edgar to the chicken coop to collect eggs and clean out the feed basins. Come spring the boys would be in charge of raising all the new chicks, and so they got to work cleaning out the highest shelves where the heat could rise and warm the hatchlings. And the boys didn’t complain, happy to spend the day in the warm confines of the coop until Fritz could come over to play.

In the barn, Andrew screwed nails shallowly into the wood planks and then hammered the heads firmly to hang the chains and harnesses. Outside, Wilhelm fiddled with the crank of the car. “Ford’s not working,” he accused, hollering into the barn.

Andrew put down his hammer and peeked in the right side of the raised hood. “What’s the problem?”

“How the hell should I know,” Wilhelm cursed. “I look like a damn mechanic?”

Andrew ignored the tone. “I could ask Frank to take a look at it.”

The man grunted. “I’ll figure it out.” Wilhelm slammed the hood closed. “Help me get this wagon mended.”

The old wagon had been left by Mr. Anderson, the iron bolts and center spoke rings caked with rust. Andrew sanded down the gritty red steel, squirted oil on all the moving parts. They tested it with the horse. Wilhelm held up the shafts while Andrew backed in the horse and buckled the holdbacks. When they were satisfied, the men unhooked the horse and backed her off. Then one of the axles heaved and the front of the wagon landed against Wilhelm’s thigh and pinned him, sending him shouting in pain. Andrew did his best to shimmy his shoulder under the wood and lift so his uncle could crawl out. The man’s pants were torn and a large red gash swelled his thigh.

Wilhelm limped in a circle, stopped and fiercely kicked the wagon with his boot. He pointed at Andrew. “Told you not to leave the car outside! Now the whole goddamn engine’s waterlogged.”

“I didn’t leave the car outside,” Andrew said flatly.

“The hell you didn’t! I told you we were getting rain. Stood right here and told you to put the damn car away!”

Andrew waited inertly in the cold barn and faced his uncle, the air coming from Wilhelm’s nostrils white. “I put the car away,” Andrew insisted, his voice clear. “You moved it back out when you fixed the cobbler bench.”

Wilhelm had opened his mouth to retort when the words settled and took effect. He kicked the wagon again with a dull thud and this time he motioned to the house. “I want those damn pigs off the porch. You hear me?”

Andrew nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Sick and tired of tripping over them, hearing them squealing all hours.” He rubbed his cut leg and grimaced. “It’s a house, not a goddamn pigpen.”

Andrew let his uncle vent. Having never heard him so upset made Andrew watch the man carefully—a ball of twine unraveling.

Wilhelm’s face steadily contorted in anger, his teeth bared. “Got to do all the damn work around this place myself.” He made a gesture at Andrew’s missing arm and spit into the ground. “But nobody pitying me, are they? Nobody expects anything outta you. Nobody’s going to expect the cripple to turn this piece of shit property into something, but they expect it of me, don’t they?”

Andrew’s insides turned. The reproach burned hot in his cheeks. He walked past his uncle to the wide doors.

Wilhelm suddenly turned mournful, clutched his hair with two hands. “I didn’t mean that.” He rubbed his eyes hard as if he’d been asleep. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I didn’t mean a word of that.”

But Andrew forged ahead, went to the house to move the pigs.

*

Pieter Mueller placed a pitchfork in the pigs’ slop trough and mixed the old potatoes, apples and parsnips Andrew dumped in. “I can’t believe you saved those hogs,” Pieter confessed. “Thought they were goners.”

Andrew scooped the pig waste with the shovel, tossed each scoop into the manure pile behind the sty. The sting from his uncle’s insult still fresh and biting.

“Quadrupled your stock, just like that,” Pieter continued in disbelief. “Word gets around, you’ll be called to every farm in a hundred miles.”

Andrew stabbed his shovel into the ground and twisted his jaw. “You done?”

Pieter balked. “Excuse me?”

“Trying to pump me up.” Andrew pried the shovel back up and stepped forward in challenge. “Don’t stroke me, Pieter,” he warned. “I don’t need your pity.”

Pieter scratched his head. “Pity?” he faulted in disgust. “You hit yourself in the head with that shovel?”