Alvin’s Farm
By Anna Scott Graham
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Anna Scott Graham
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents, and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictions manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For my mum and dad, who offered their ranching and parental recollections of the 1970s. And for my nieces T1 and T2 for introducing me to Oregon’s Willamette Valley.
In the bus, Jenny Cope kept her hands warm by sitting on them as the woman alongside her continued knitting. Knitting and talking, Sylvia Baxter chatting with Jenny since taking the seat next to her. The Greyhound cruiser wasn’t cold, but Jenny felt chilled. Was it heading north, leaving New Mexico’s sunny skies that rarely saw rain, even in winter. February viewed through steamed windows looked more familiar; bare trees, wet landscapes, a darkened evening with houses lit, stars shining. Even in the fading light, Jenny felt a misty return to something resembling a season, not the endless stretch of days governed by a strange, dry sun.
“Are you sure you don’t know anyone in Arkendale?” Sylvia asked, not looking up.
Jenny smiled. The woman, in her early sixties, had asked this question three, maybe four times. How they had begun chatting in the Las Cruces bus station, how Jenny had chosen this as her destination. Nothing like the south, east or west; Oregon was a new world. Sylvia said it was so green, stirring within Jenny a new start. She knew sun, humidity, drought, and high desert, but not the lush, wide backdrop that waited under darkness. Out there lay some panorama of America previously undiscovered. Again starting over, Jenny wondered if new scenery could be indicative of something more.
“I don’t know a soul. Except for you,” Jenny said as though the question was brand new.
Sylvia smiled. “Well, me and Keith.”
“That makes two,” Jenny grinned, rubbing her hands together.
“You cold?”
Jenny shook her head. Her fingertips were numb, the only cool part. Her heart had warmed to this woman, Sylvia a conduit to some mysterious notion Jenny couldn’t identify. “No, just don’t have anything to keep my hands busy.”
“I’ve got a crochet hook in here somewhere.” Rummaging through her bag, Sylvia produced a medium sized hook and a small, blue ball of yarn. The yarn caught Jenny’s attention, the ocean’s color in Florida. “You know how to crochet?” Sylvia asked.
Jenny caressed the fibers. “No, I never learned.”
Sylvia reached for Jenny’s hands. “Well, we still have a few hours. I’ll teach you.”
The woman’s kind gray eyes owned Jenny, and she felt strange in their grasp. No one spoke to her that way, no one since Joni, but that was years ago, miles away. Nearly as far as Jenny could be, one coast to the other, time, sun, rain, and darkness separating these women. Jenny had turned twenty-nine last week, Sylvia in her early sixties. Joni would be almost fifty, in between where Jenny was now, on a Greyhound bus, heading to Oregon. And learning to crochet as Jenny’s hands were taken by ones more knowledgeable, setting within them a hook and yarn, ocean blue yarn in another part of America.
As the bus rumbled, Jenny had completed two rows the length of a baby blanket. Running out of blue, she now worked with yellow, a loose fray where the strands met. Jenny examined her uneven work, a double stitch Sylvia explained, Jenny picking it up easily. Had her mother tried to teach her? Jenny considered that for seconds, then returned to work. As she fingered yellow yarn, hooking it through the small loop, Sylvia described their destination, a small farming community on the western edge of Oregon in the middle of the Willamette Valley, two hours from the coast. Set about halfway between Portland and Eugene, Arkendale was twenty minutes northeast of Albany and Sylvia had lived there all her life, speaking of the Smiths and Cassels, the Carmines and Harrises, names pouring over Jenny as she gathered stitches, occasionally pulling some out, her hands toasty. She was warm all through, especially after Sylvia insisted she spend the night at her house. Jenny hadn’t given it any thought; she could have bunked in the bus station. She had done it before, her bag for a pillow, her clothes, while thin for this climate, adequate.
Sylvia had shaken her head. “Oh, they’ll close it after we get in. This’ll be the last bus until tomorrow afternoon. You come home with me and Keith. I’ll not have your whereabouts keeping me from a good night’s sleep.”
Jenny hadn’t argued, happy for a bed, somewhere safe. On her own for over ten years, she had roughed it in some scary places, but hadn’t been worried about a station in the middle of Oregon. Yet, a bed in a house was infinitely better, and she’d thanked Sylvia for the hospitality.
Tucking away the yarn and hook, also a gift from her companion, Jenny saw the small town ahead. If it had been light, she would have scanned for a restaurant. Not for a place to eat, but a job. A waitress from the age of sixteen, Jenny needed one shift to prove her abilities. It was hard on her feet, not always enjoyable, but from tips she had earned enough to go from place to place, man to man, traveling to Oregon. She was now in Oregon with a crochet hook in her bag. She smiled as the bus turned off the long main street, pulling into a parking lot.
One person waited and she guessed the tall, older fellow with the exuberant face was Keith. Sylvia moved quickly and Jenny giggled.
The women were followed by one man with whom Sylvia chatted, but once off the bus, she walked straight to her husband. Jenny gripped her duffel, all her worldly possessions, allowing the couple their moment. Sylvia had been in New Mexico visiting her sister for ten days and her absence had been felt by both as Keith clung to his wife, placing small kisses along her face. They gave no notice to anyone else and Jenny smiled again. Her new friend was a modern woman, discussing en route how the Equal Rights Amendment had only gained three votes the previous year. Sylvia seemed disappointed, hoping that now in 1975, more states would ratify the proposal. Jenny wasn’t sure. She had worked all over Florida and Georgia, never noting much interest in equal rights.
But the year was young, the eighth of February. Perhaps, Jenny had said, while stitching. Observing the older couple’s embrace, she felt intrusive and watched as the bus left the lot. She hadn’t noticed any passengers pick up this connection and the Greyhound rolled away, Portland its next destination.
“Oh, I’ve been so rude,” Sylvia said. “Jenny, you must think me just awful. Come here.”
Jenny stepped toward them and Sylvia took her hand. “Now this is my husband Keith, but honey, I’ve already forgotten your last name.”
“Cope, Jenny Cope.”
Keith nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
His voice was shy, but his smile warm. Jenny sat in the back of their four-door sedan, noting how Sylvia stayed close to her husband, eschewing her seat belt. The ride wasn’t long, but Jenny saw a sleepy town, already in bed. At nine o’clock, her hands were sore, but she was excited to practice again tomorrow once she’d been out. She needed a job, someplace to live. Sylvia had implied she could stay with them, but Jenny didn’t want to intrude. She had taken good and bad things throughout her life; Sylvia and Joni were good, the men not so much. Nearly all of them had been horrible in one way or another, from her father to her last lover. Leaving New Mexico had been necessary, Tony just another miserable situation. Jenny didn’t want her friendship with the Baxters to last any longer than one night. Possessing enough money for a deposit, she could rent a studio or small one-bedroom apartment as soon as she found a job.
As Jenny followed the couple into their house, she noticed the scent was that of her friend, warm, comforting, but lonely. Keith had missed his wife, her return adding to the level of intimacy. Jenny took the ponytail from her brown hair as Sylvia showed her to the guest room, a space for the occasional visit from a granddaughter. Jenny used the toilet before dressing for bed, then slipped under the covers. Inhaling a soothing peace, she was asleep within minutes.
After breakfast, the women chatted about the rain, falling again. Sylvia smiled. “The sun was nice in Las Cruces, but my how I missed the wet.”
Jenny had eaten toast and eggs, along with three cups of coffee. Avocado-green appliances meshed with cream cupboards, a long time since she had been in a kitchen so established. Photos covered the refrigerator; girls in swimsuits and smiles captured in sunny places, as on vacation. Sylvia’s grandchildren lived in California, near Los Angeles. “Why they’re so tan, all that sun,” she laughed.
The Baxters’ three daughters all had moved from Arkendale. To places much warmer, Sylvia snorted cheerfully. She spoke fondly of her family, admitting it had been easy inviting Jenny to stay. “Keith always tells me I’m picking up strays.”
Both women laughed as Jenny finished her coffee, taking her empty dishes to the sink. “Well, if you have a spare umbrella and point me in the right direction, I’ll be getting out of your hair.”
“Oh, I’ll drive you once Keith gets back. This rain won’t let up, not from the looks of it.”
Jenny nodded, heading to her room. She desired a bath, then wanted to look out the large windows, absorb the green, like a jungle. Like Florida, but cooler, not as sticky. Not swampy or humid, but it was February. Maybe summer would be different. Jenny gathered clothes, running water in the tub. Washing off New Mexico, like shedding a skin, she allowed small fragments to remain. Not of the man she had lived with, nor those with whom she had slept, guys already forgotten. It was white sand and brown earth against an expansive blue sky, a feel of the frontier, old times laid at her feet. Desert like Colorado, but that flitted from her head.
Leaning back in the water, she washed her hair, rinsing pointless memories. She didn’t need New Mexico or Tony, or any of the others. Men didn’t linger with Jenny Cope, her brown eyes allowing only their temporary presence. She’d never had a child, never been pregnant. A careful woman, Jenny lived a solitary existence, had since she was seventeen, even considering all those with whom she had stayed. Many men, but like Tony, dismissed with the pull of a plug.
She rinsed out the tub, careful to leave the bathroom as she found it. The crochet hook from Sylvia and eleven months of therapy courtesy of Joni were all Jenny had accumulated. Therapy was held in her head, the hook and yarn small enough to store in her satchel, neither gift from a man. What mattered came from her own gender. Only in bed did Jenny allow the opposite sex any of her time.
She spent the late morning and early afternoon trudging from place to place, the duffel switched over slender shoulders. Sylvia’s disappointment had been evident, but Jenny insisted. If she found a job, she wouldn’t need another night with the Baxters. Nothing personal, she had smiled, and Sylvia hadn’t pressed, seemed aware of Jenny’s singular nature. But nothing had emerged all day. No one needed help at Mel’s Café or Dougal’s Drugstore or even the market. Jenny would have bagged groceries, but no jobs appeared.
She didn’t know the Baxters’ phone number, but wouldn’t have called them even if she did. Her pride was slight, more of not wanting to be tied to anyone who might find within her a chink, some spot needy. Joni had done that, but they had spoken a similar language, sharing more than Jenny had imagined. As the rain lessened, she twirled the umbrella Sylvia had insisted she take. Shaking water from it, Jenny turned back, seeing a town closed, unwilling. She shook that off too, just the way it was, nothing personal. Looking ahead, an open road and the breaking sky beckoned. Jenny swung the umbrella and went for a walk.
She could return later, eat dinner at the café. The day wasn’t cold, but spring was weeks away, trees sporting empty branches, short grass along the road. As sunshine peeked, Jenny’s tempo quickened. She wore old tennis shoes and avoided the puddles, not wanting her feet any more soaked. Her clothes were suited to an arid climate; a thin windbreaker had kept her dry, but her fast pace repelled the breeze. Her long brown hair was still damp from the morning, held back by a ponytail, but legs were sturdy from years on her feet, and she moved with ease along tarmac that turned more rural with each step.
Farmland dotted the countryside, small, family-run operations. A few large barns, but mostly fields, signs advertising summer produce. Jenny was lost in this new place not at all like New Mexico. No white sand or barren landscapes, no cactus or looming blue sky. High cloud streaked past as the sun cast shadows that darted, then disappeared. She smiled, describing herself. Here and then gone and perhaps she would head north to Portland. There she could find work, a city far removed from this pastoral scene.
Unexpected tears fell. She had lived in bustling towns all her life; people, noise, boyfriends, heartache. This place, small and agricultural, was so different. She didn’t want to leave it, not until she could absorb this property alien but soothing. Jenny’s heart was durable, but like all humans, she required consolation. That never happened during sex. There she drew a line not a single lover had crossed. With women, ones like Joni and Sylvia, she had gone farther, to a point. Not far enough to spend another night with the Baxters, nor to stay in Tampa Bay. Joni had asked her to move in, get another year of therapy under her belt. Eleven months had been all Jenny could allow.
She passed the last farm along the road, the change in the pavement stopping her, concrete resembling gravel. Jenny gazed to a thin forest, then found a house and barn, what looked to be a small orchard, a few dozen trees bare and scraggly. Returning to the road, her eyes caught a sign: Alvin’s Farm.
Painted in red and orange, green, blue and yellow, it reminded Jenny of her yarn. She still had that yarn, would work on it that night. She had no idea where, but the town’s motel sported a vacancy sign. She could see if they needed housekeeping staff, the one job she hadn’t sought. Lost in her thoughts, she missed the man that approached. “Hey, you need any help?”
Jenny was startled, but he seemed harmless. She could tell on a glance, sorting the drug addicts and violent alcoholics from the ones that would only hurt slightly, ones that would use her, but not abuse. This man, appearing at least in his mid-thirties, was safe.
“Uh, I was just admiring the sign.”
“Oh yeah, Tommie painted it for me last year. It was getting faded and Tommie said it needed to be touched-up.”
His voice was simple, young, and Jenny wondered how old he was. His face, with large blue eyes, seemed older, easily thirty-five, maybe closer to forty. Not due to lines, but from his long-held grin.
“It’s really colorful,” she said, noting his dirty jeans, a long-sleeved shirt in need of mending. The pocket had a large tear along the bottom and his short blonde hair was damp, probably from the rain. “Tommie did a good job.”
“Yeah, he does,” the man smiled, brushing his hair aside, his other hand toting a hoe. “Only uses his left hand, but he’s really good with it. He had to learn everything all over again, but he’s smart.”
Jenny squinted. She had stayed alive on more than one occasion by her choice of men, fleeing those with a predatory nature, but there was no malice in this fellow. His voice was slow but sure, all he was in blue eyes and the way he gripped the hoe, fingers dirty but honest.
“Oh, I’m Alvin,” he said, reaching for her hand with his right.
“Jenny,” she said, receiving a tight shake. “Jenny Cope.”
He nodded. “Jenny Cope. That’s a pretty name.”
She smiled, against her nature, but his sunny manner demanded it. “Is this your farm?”
“Yeah,” his tone shy.
She gazed at the house, old but well maintained and as vibrant as the sign. The barn was in good repair, painted bright red and topped by a weather vane. An old truck was parked out front, but only one chair on the porch adorned the yard. No bikes or toys, nothing suggesting a family.
“You hungry?” he asked, shaking the quiet.
“Oh uh, yeah I am.”
“Well, I don’t cook, but there’s coffee from this morning. And some cake Rae made on Thursday. You want some?”
Dark clouds hovered. It would be a long walk back to town; maybe Alvin could give her a ride. As Jenny’s stomach rumbled, she giggled. “I would love some cake.”
Alvin Harris’ lively cadence told Jenny much, for he did most of the talking, names washing over her, slightly familiar from Sylvia’s chatter on the bus. Tommie Smith figured most prominently, he was Alvin’s best friend. Rae, Tommie’s wife, was also mentioned; she did most of the cooking, a task Alvin hated.
“I’m just so bad at it,” he sighed, taking another slice of lemon pound cake. “Never any good at anything here in the kitchen.”
Jenny had eaten one piece, then another half slice as it was delicious, and she was hungry. As he told of his life, for he continued speaking, never allowing a quiet moment, she took in the kitchen. Unlike the Baxters, this room was arid, spacious, not only from size. The farmhouse was large, three stories, and Alvin’s room was on the third. His mother had died five years before and he lived alone, working the land. Weathered hands showed that labor, harvesting Granny Smith apples from the trees Jenny had seen, time spent in the garden, for which he owned a small bit of pride. There were chickens too, but Jenny couldn’t recall if he mentioned other animals. She was trying to take in, via the cabinets and counters, this man’s identity.
He was challenged, retarded or some head injury. Jenny wasn’t sure which and Alvin hadn’t said. For all he did spill, that wasn’t revealed. The room was free from clutter, definitely the haunt of a bachelor, one who didn’t like to cook, probably from lack of experience. Rae supplied him with dinner, goodies too, but he was rail-thin. A new coffeemaker sat near the sink, an old toaster by the stove. Things were clean, but far and few between.
Frayed curtains hung over the window looking to the barnyard. The refrigerator had one tacked note, but the writing was faded, and Jenny couldn’t make out the words. Cupboards held dishes, cups, and mugs, nothing fancy, the glass doors spotless. He kept it neat, but there was little over which to fuss.
Jenny watched him eat a bite of cake. He didn’t speak, chewed with his mouth closed, caught her eyes. He smiled, seemed happy for company, talking interspersed with eating for the hour they’d been together. Maybe he had few visitors, other than Tommie and Rae. Jenny noticed he hadn’t mentioned the Baxters, but a Jacob Cassel came up, not as frequently as Tommie however. It was Tommie and Rae and their kids whom Alvin didn’t name, Jacob Cassel, and a Mrs. Carmine.
“So Jenny Cope, where’re you from?” Alvin emphasized her name, taking a drink of coffee.
She smiled. He had repeated her entire name several times during his conversation. “Colorado originally, but I’ve mostly lived in the south east.”
He nodded, eyed the dessert, then pushed it away. “I better not have any more. Rae’ll think all I did today was eat cake.”
“Shall I set it on the counter?”
He grinned. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Better if I can’t see it.”
Jenny placed it near the toaster, away from the coffee. Three cups remained and he might want another. She looked out the window, rain still pouring. It had begun right after he walked her through the barn and they’d had to run to the house. She would need a ride or get soaked.
“So, how’d you get here?” Alvin asked, facing her.
Jenny smiled. “Well, I was ready to move on and at the bus station in Las Cruces, I met Sylvia and she sort of twisted my arm.”
“She can do that,” he laughed. “Mrs. Baxter’s pretty chatty.”
Jenny returned to the table. “Yeah, she is. Taught me to crochet too.”
“Oh, my mama did that. There’s so much yarn upstairs, but I’ve just left it all.”
He wasn’t retarded. Slow, but not without understanding. How long had he been this way, she wondered. “Well, I just started to learn. Sylvia gave me a hook and some yarn to practice.”
“You going back there tonight?”
Jenny fumbled with her cup, then smashed a few crumbs along the back of her fork. She put it in her mouth, chewing slowly. “No, into town. Gonna stay at the motel, next to the café.”
Alvin frowned. “You don’t wanna stay there. They have mice.”
“Really?” she smiled. “Looked okay.”
“Didn’t Mrs. Baxter want you to stay another night?”
“She did, but I didn’t wanna wear out my welcome.”
Jenny said it deliberately, gathering the remaining bits of cake along her fork. Looking up, she saw Alvin trying to reason something.
“So, are you here for good or just passing through?”
Jenny finished the coffee. “I dunno. No jobs in town, so I might be heading out. Maybe up to Portland.”
She saw this didn’t please him. “Portland’s a pretty big place.”
“Yeah, it is. I’ve lived in some big cities, guess ’cause there’s work there.”
He sighed, nodding. “So, whatdya do?”
“I’m a waitress by trade.”
He was quiet, going for more coffee. Jenny watched as he scanned the counters. Then he turned back to her. “Hey, you put it all the way over there.”
She smiled. “Well, you said you didn’t want Rae to think all you’d eaten was cake.”
“You’re pretty smart, Jenny Cope.” Alvin poured the coffee, taking his seat again. “Too smart to be a waitress.”
“It’s what I know.”
He took a drink, running a hand through his hair. “Well, I bet you can do others things.”
His loneliness was plain, like his faculties. Nothing complicated with this man, but he wasn’t ignorant. Maybe he’d been injured as a child. Obviously he had been this way for a long time, no wife or girlfriend. Siblings were mentioned, but they hadn’t rated more than a nod. His world was this place, his friends, nothing more.
“I can cook,” Jenny smiled. “Can’t be a waitress without picking up a few culinary tips.”
He lit with her words. “Oh well, that’s it then. You can stay here and cook for me!”
Jenny’s heart felt pinched, but his clever grin eased the skipped beat. “Oh I can, can I?”
He shrank back, then moved his hands to the middle of the table. “Yeah, I mean, until you find a job. Then you won’t have to go to Portland.”
His obvious disdain for that idea made her giggle. “What’s so bad about Portland?”
“Well, nothing. I mean, Sam lives there and it’s fine for him, I guess.” Alvin drank his coffee. “I mean, yeah, it’s a lot bigger than Arkendale.”
He was lonely, wouldn’t bother her, wouldn’t want any more than someone to listen to him. The rain continued and the idea of staying at a motel, mice or no, didn’t appeal. Not used to a man wanting anything other than sex, Jenny’s reserves melted; Alvin was like Sylvia Baxter or Joni, but not that deep. She listened to his proposal, sizing up the situation. She could cook, sleep in the extra room, on the second floor, he emphasized, just until she found a job. Or, he said, disappointment all through, she decided to go to Portland. He drawled that word, not looking at her.
Surprising them both, Jenny took his hand. “Show me what’s in the freezer.”
Two weeks had passed and Jenny felt roots settling. Spring arrived early, a few sunny days sprinkled within the rain, Alvin noting the apple trees were blossoming. He took her out, showing off small flowers that would lead to fruit, and with each step Jenny felt more firmly planted. Wearing his mother’s old boots, Jenny absorbed not only the garden and chickens, but a sense of place. Not home, which she fought daily, but a peace so long unknown, tugging like shoes stuck in the mud. Her skills in the kitchen were greatly appreciated and while she hadn’t yet seen Rae, Jenny had been hastily introduced to Tommie Smith a few days back, given a once-over that hadn’t bothered her in the least.
Yet, Alvin was charming. He’d explained a fall off the monkey bars when he was nine accounted for his slowness. Told her in detail how he had woke in the hospital, his parents Betsy and Alfred over his bed, so worried. He’d felt fine until the doctor appeared, asking questions Alvin had found difficult. Suddenly his head ached and tears had fallen. He’d hurt part of his brain, would never be the same.
“Like Tommie’s hand,” Alvin had said. “Tommie got his hand all torn up when he was sixteen, seventeen, I don’t remember. He used to play baseball real good, but then he got hurt and had to learn to use his left hand for everything.”
They had been collecting eggs in the barn when Alvin spoke of his friend. His best friend, the men almost the same age. Alvin was thirty-eight, but Tommie had a month on him. Both with injuries, but sometimes that was how life was.
Jenny carried six brown eggs in her skirt apron, worn specifically for this task. “How’d it happen?”
“Oh, he was in a car accident. So lucky it was only his hand, but then he couldn’t play ball anymore. He was so sad, but you know, I told him at least he still had all his marbles.”
Alvin’s smile was infectious and Jenny gave one in return.
“And he laughed and said yeah, weren’t we a pair. Me with a bad head and him with a bad hand.” Alvin had set the last egg in the apron, then gazed into the barn, tidy and sparse like the house. “Just the way things happen.”
Jenny returned to that moment seeing Alvin and Tommie through the kitchen window. They were close, slapping backs and laughing, Tommie’s right hand in his pocket or tucked under his left armpit. She hadn’t spoken to him when introduced, but in the fortnight of her stay, she’d heard of him daily, his wife Rae, and their four kids, who Alvin still hadn’t named. Tommie raised cows, why Alvin’s freezer was full of beef. The occasional hog explained the sausage and bacon and with ample ingredients at her disposal, Jenny had enjoyed cooking.
“Jenny Cope?” Alvin called through the back door and she turned, seeing Tommie at his side.
“I just wanted to tell you I’m gonna help Tommie for about an hour. But I’ll be back for dinner.”
She nodded, meeting Tommie Smith’s gaze undaunted. His brown eyes were like hers, with dark hair in need of a trim, his right hand concealed in the pocket of his jeans.
Tommie grinned. “I won’t keep him long, I promise.”
“Oh, take your time. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.” Jenny’s tone was cordial.
“Boy, let me tell you Tommie, but don’t tell Rae, ’cause no offense, but Jenny here’s a great cook.” As the men left, Jenny received one last glance from Tommie, a smile accompanying. Hearing the door slam, she returned to the sink, watching them leave in Tommie’s old Ford truck.
“Well, I just don’t like her,” Rae said, removing her nightgown.
“You haven’t even met her.” Tommie answered as she snuggled against him. Then Rae snorted, running fingers along his body.
In the darkness, Tommie Smith set his useless right hand along her side, could feel his wife’s skin with digits shriveled, but that was all. Those fingers hadn’t moved on their own for over twenty years, but he was used to it. Comfortable with that, but none of them were anywhere at ease with Alvin’s roommate. He thought back to Alvin’s words as they had left the house, Jenny’s cooking superior to Rae’s. No, Tommie wouldn’t say a thing to his wife.
“Honey, she’s harmless. I talked to Keith Baxter about her, Sylvia too. Just a girl, nothing more than that. She’s got one bag of stuff, nothing else.”
Rae kept her head tucked into his body. “That’s what I mean. Going from place to place, shacking up with God knows who.”
“I don’t think she’s looking to take over the farm.”
“Tommie, you know what I mean.”
“Listen, you even gone over there yet, said boo to her?”
Rae was quiet, pressed against her husband.
“That’s what I thought. She doesn’t look permanent, although she was wearing one of Betsy’s aprons.”
Rae sat up. “See, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Tommie laughed. “Oh God! If she steals some aprons, good lord. Could be a lot worse.”
There was silence, then Tommie pulled her close again. “Honey, he’s got someone to talk to. All she’s waiting on is a job, that’s what he said. Then she’ll move to town. Although…”
“What?”
Tommie considered Alvin’s words about the women’s cooking. “Nothing. Why don’t you go down there tomorrow, take some pound cake? I didn’t see any desserts lying around. She can cook, but maybe she’s not big on baking.”
Rae’s hands moved along Tommie’s skin. “Hmmm. Maybe. Maybe I’ll do that.”
Tommie closed his eyes, setting his left hand on her breast. “Yeah, maybe you should just do that.”
Sun shone and Jenny was glad. If the rain held off, she could finish the laundry. Alvin had a washer, but the dryer was broken, and Jenny had one load in as he left to check the trees.
The farm wasn’t what she expected, only busy work. Nothing for cash, as he told of the apples coming in sporadically, the trees thirty years old. The garden was to pay Rae back for all the cooking. Then he had smiled; maybe those days were over.
Jenny hadn’t said anything to the contrary, roots growing deeper, but she couldn’t give an adequate reason for it. Alvin was polite, still chatty, but didn’t approach her for anything more than a thank you or to put eggs in her apron. She giggled, a funny euphemism, yet utterly harmless. He wouldn’t be setting anything within her.
Not that he wasn’t good looking. His blue eyes were deep, was that why she hadn’t left? Still no openings anywhere in town; on nice days Jenny walked along that road, noting the Smith cow sign set near the mailbox. She’d seen who she believed was Tommie’s wife, but Rae Smith hadn’t given Jenny the time of day. Jenny wasn’t bothered, judgments never weighing on her mind.
But Alvin’s opinion mattered; he liked her chicken and dumplings, beef stew, Swiss steak with noodles. He did the shopping, following her list, and she provided dinner, a sandwich at lunch, oatmeal for breakfast and a filled cookie jar. She did bake, but refrained from making lemon pound cake, not wanting to offend if Rae ever managed to come round.
Jenny set laundry on the line; her own items along with Alvin’s jeans and work shirts, socks and underwear. She had washed previous boyfriends’ clothes, but Alvin didn’t fall under that category. Living with him was mutually convenient, but Jenny found her seclusion challenged by his optimistic nature. He’d been alone for five years since his mother’s death in 1970. A sister lived one county east, but Lorraine Harris Stapleton never visited. Alvin had the Smiths, Jacob Cassel and the chickens to keep him amused.
With the laundry hung, Jenny walked to the edge of the yard, finding Alvin in the trees. He spent his time there, or in the barn, or to the left, a huge garden plot all brown-turned earth. So much green around, the grass short but velvety, bordered by bright buildings; a red barn, white house with primary trim. Blue and yellow splashes along the window sills and doorframes; Jenny had trouble taking it all in. Her eyes, and with each day that passed, her heart.
As the washer churned in the small shed, she left her usual confines, heading to the orchard. Halfway there, she looked back, all neat as a pin, as though a museum piece. Who was there to mess it up? Alvin’s time was spent rotating between the garden, trees, barn, house, and back again, and it was this way due to his hands. Present, needy; this place was all he had. And he was all it had.
“Jenny, Jenny Cope!” His voice carried through the stillness. Other trees, beech, walnut, and oak, were also bare, nothing catching his words.
“Yeah?” she called.
Alvin’s smile could be seen from a distance and Jenny felt tendrils sinking into the soft ground. This day was sunny, but it had rained for the last three, since Tommie had visited. She hadn’t seen him since, but the phone rang at nine every morning, the men sharing a short chat. Jenny tried to move toward Alvin, but her boots were stuck.
“Jenny Cope, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Was it raining? Only then did she find her tears.
She wiped her face as he approached, lifting her boots from the dirt, losing one in the process. Taking her hand, Alvin pulled the shoe free, helping to set her foot back inside.
“You okay?” voiced in his usual tone; slow, unsure, kind.
Jenny nodded, felt pulled from more than the ground. “Dinner’ll be sausage and potatoes, that okay?”
“Sure.” He took her hand. “Why’re you crying?”
Jenny gazed up, blue sky framed with white clouds. So much color as she looked to the emerald lawn. There was no green in New Mexico, only blue skies and white sand and reddish-brown dirt. “I don’t know,” she said, wiping the last of her tears.
After dinner, Jenny folded laundry while Alvin watched TV. He was anxious for baseball season, a fan of the San Francisco Giants. He mentioned often how on Monday nights he’d be busy watching the game and hoped she wouldn’t mind.
Jenny had fought tears the rest of the day, but with those words, she couldn’t help it. Men never made her cry, only Joni, pleading for Jenny to stay in Tampa Bay. Jenny hadn’t wanted to let anyone, not even Joni, under her skin, and this with Alvin was temporary, just until she could find a job. Maybe there were no jobs here. Maybe a bus ticket to Portland was necessary.
Matching socks, she used her own to wipe her face. Looking up, she met Alvin’s blue eyes.
“Jenny, you didn’t tell me earlier what was wrong.” He knelt down, then sat on the backs of his legs. He looked like a little boy and she couldn’t face him.
“Maybe it’s time I should be leaving.”
He said nothing and she began folding shirts, setting his in one pile, hers in another. Washing the laundry by color, now she sorted their clothes separately.
“Did I do something wrong?”
His tone wasn’t rough, demanding, or brutal. Or sexual, which shook her. “N-No,” she mumbled.
Jenny expected him to take her hands, rub them within his own. Some of her boyfriends had done that, wanting her to stay. Wanting her and after a little consolation, slight and unpracticed, she would spend a few more nights. A few more that had stretched into weeks or months, but then it would end. She would always end it, moving to a new place, another man.
Alvin stayed still due to ignorance. He probably didn’t know what to do, Jenny considered. Then she gazed into his face. It was bereft.
“Jenny Cope, I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” Careful not to disturb the piles of clothes, he took the end of the couch. “That’s what I always do, something wrong.”
“Oh no Alvin, it’s not you. I just, oh god, I just need to find a job. I can’t rely on the kindness of strangers forever.”
Her small smile gave him some comfort, Jenny noting how he relaxed, then giggled.
“Maybe it’s me who’s gotten the kindness. I haven’t eaten this well since Mama died.”
Jenny felt tears again. She stood, picking up a pair of faded jeans, smoothing out wrinkles. “Well, that’s nice of you to say.”
Alvin stood too. “Jenny, do you really need to leave?”
She set the pants on the back of the couch. “Alvin, I don’t stay in one place for very long.”
He didn’t move toward her. “Why not?”
“Just not my way.”
“People change. Look at me and Tommie.”
He offered that contagious grin and she couldn’t help her own. “You’re pretty smart.”
He looked down, then came her way, still keeping distance between them. “Jenny, I’m not gonna lie. I like having you here. I don’t like living alone, I hate it. But if you need to go, well…” He met her eyes. “I know I’m not that interesting, just how I am. I wish I…” He paused again.
“Oh Alvin, it’s not that at all.” Jenny’s tears continued and reaching for his hand, she gripped it. “I’m not what you think and maybe it’s better if I just head north.”
“Portland?” he whispered.
Jenny nodded, but couldn’t speak. Leaving a half basket of clothes unfolded, she fled upstairs.
Alvin turned off the television. Once it was quiet, he could hear Jenny’s cries. Locking the house, he collected his folded clothes, passing by the second floor, still hearing her tears.
He walked up slowly, trying not to squeak boards he’d known all his life. His entire life had been spent in one house, one place, someone like Jenny so alien to Alvin, her gender, her travels, those tears. As an adult, he’d only seen his mother cry a few times; when his brother Adam died in Vietnam, when his other brother Randy fled home shortly afterwards. When Lorraine got married, and on none of those occasions did Alvin cry too.
Reaching his room, he put away the laundry, a large chest of drawers along the wall by the door. His room was as simple as he was, with a double bed, night stand, and closet for the few nice slacks he owned. He’d worn navy trousers to Lorraine’s wedding, then black pants to his mother’s funeral. Rae had helped him choose a new shirt for that and a black tie that she picked as well. Those items hung in the closet too.
Alvin wasn’t tired, only sad. Jenny’s words about leaving stewed in his head, that and her crying, but he wasn’t sure if that sound was now only a memory. He stepped to the landing and listened. She was quiet, the occasional sniffle coming from her door. Alvin wanted to see her again, wanted to make sure she was okay, but felt odd. He’d lived with his mother, but that was different. Jenny was a woman.
He stepped down halfway, missing all the noisy boards, could detect her moving about. Hearing the door knob turn, he scurried back up, but didn’t go into his room. Concealed on the landing, Alvin listened as Jenny went into the bathroom. He moved inside his doorway, closing the door until only a crack remained.
Waiting ten minutes, Alvin went downstairs. If he saw her, he would say he just wanted to make sure he’d locked the house. He knew he had, but if she asked, he didn’t want to appear to be spying. Passing Jenny’s door, a small strip of light leaked from under it. Alvin went down with force, rattling the front door knob, then turned to go back up.
Taking each step with care, he paused outside her room. She was crying again and he nearly knocked. Alvin looked at where he stood; this had been Lorraine’s room, his mother’s bedroom, now vacant, across the hall. Alvin and his brothers had the third floor, Alvin in his own room, Adam and Randy sharing the other. Alvin then recalled the only time he cried when his mother had, when his father died. When Alfred Harris didn’t come back after one last look at the farm, Betsy had gone searching for him. Her hysterical return, when Alvin was eleven years old, had brought him to tears. Then and only then did Alvin cry.
In the morning he woke first and when Jenny joined him, Alvin saw her face, red and tired. He’d made coffee, eaten toast, what he had for breakfast before Jenny came, what he could easily manage when he didn’t want cereal. He missed the oatmeal she made, but didn’t say anything about it as she entered the room.
“Hey Jenny Cope. Good morning.”
She nodded, taking a seat.
Alvin got up, poured her some coffee. “You hungry?”
Jenny shook her head.
He set the cup in front of her, then returned to his chair. Her head was down, but he studied her, afraid it might be one of the last times he would see her.
To Alvin, Jenny Cope was beautiful. She didn’t look like Rae, Jacob’s wife Debbie, or Lorraine, the only ones of a similar age with whom to compare. Jenny wasn’t tall, but she wasn’t short either, and Alvin liked her body. Her breasts weren’t tiny like his sister’s, but they weren’t huge like Rae’s. Jenny had short legs, small feet and hands, and long brown hair that Alvin loved. It was either back in a ponytail, as it was that morning, or up in a bun, sometimes with a pencil pushed through to keep it in place. She didn’t wear perfume that he could tell, not like Debbie Cassel, no makeup either like Rae, who wore lipstick all the time. Stuff on her eyes too, which was fine on Tommie’s wife, but Jenny didn’t need all that.
Alvin liked her face most. She had brown eyes like his mother, but they weren’t wrinkly. Jenny’s smile had been slow in coming, but Alvin saw it more often, except for that morning. Looking past her sorrow, he recalled cheeks that puffed when she giggled, which came after time. Not quickly, Jenny Cope wasn’t a bubbly type. Yet, he’d heard her laughter, had been the cause for some of it, but not the usual source. People laughed at Alvin because he wasn’t right in the head. Not everyone, but some did, yet not Jenny. She laughed with him.
“Jenny, you sure you’re not hungry? I can make you some toast.”
She looked up, those brown eyes now red, tears falling down her pretty face.
“Oh Jenny!” He handed her a napkin. “It’s okay, really.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t down to make breakfast,” she whispered.
Alvin scooted his chair next to hers. “It’s okay. I like toast. Haven’t had it in a while, not since you came.”
His voice was light; he wanted to make her feel better. When Robert and Jasper were rude, Tommie spoke to him in that tone and Alvin felt grateful to get to use it with someone. No one ever needed his comfort.
Jenny looked toward him and Alvin reached for her hand. Rae had taken his hand right here at this table when his mother died. He had woke and made himself toast, his mother still in bed. Not until Tommie’s call did Alvin notice he was alone. Tommie and Rae had come over and Rae sat with Alvin as Tommie went up, finding Betsy Harris had died in her sleep. Alvin hadn’t cried then either. She was old and while Lorraine visited every few months, it was only the two of them. Alvin missed his mother’s presence, but hadn’t mourned her person.
Jenny’s hand felt cool and Alvin squeezed it as Rae had done. He remembered that morning so clearly, hearing Tommie’s footsteps, slow and heavy. Tommie had no tears either, only said Mrs. Harris was with Alfred. Alvin understood, getting another grip from Rae. Then he left to witness that he was alone. Two brothers gone, his sister might as well be, now his mother. Alvin had needed proof, unsure if Randy was dead. He might still be up in Canada somewhere, but Betsy was truly gone.
“Jenny listen, you really should eat.”
Her eyes caught his and Alvin saw something he hadn’t known in ages, how Tommie looked when Alvin saw him in the hospital, Tommie’s hand in a cast. His face was broken too, his heart lost. All Tommie had wanted was to play ball, maybe even for a pro team. Then that dream was gone and Alvin had joked about their bad parts, hoping to get that horrible look from his friend’s face. It had helped, laughter coming from Tommie. They had laughed, but with Jenny, things were different.
“I’ll make some toast. You like butter or jam?” He stepped toward the counter, then turned to her, staring until she spoke.
“Butter’s fine.”
Alvin made the toast, setting two slices in front of her. Then he poured orange juice, placing it near her coffee cup. Seeing it was empty, he filled it again, returning to his seat.
She ate a few bites, but kept her body closed. How Lorraine was around him, once they were older, a few years after he fell and she hadn’t wanted to be his sister anymore. Alvin had never said anything to her about it, but had talked to Tommie, especially once Tommie was out of the cast and they knew his hand wasn’t going to be any good. He had to learn to write left-handed; as Tommie practiced letters in an old primer, there was time for Alvin to talk. He’d always liked to talk and Tommie had a good set of ears. He never shushed Alvin, some things easier to say than others.
Alvin’s heart was sore, how he’d felt when his sister hardly spoke to him at their mother’s funeral. She had arrived with her husband and two children whose names Alvin didn’t remember any better than the Smith kids. In a black dress, Lorraine sat in the front row, but hadn’t looked his way, just a few seats down. He had felt so alone and if not for Tommie and Rae behind him, Jacob and Sam to their right, Alvin would have wondered if he should have even been there. Afterwards at the Smiths’, Lorraine had chatted with everyone, all but him. Only at the end did she approach with a gruff face and an angry voice. She told him except for the Christmas nativity, he could do what he wanted with their mother’s things. She didn’t want any of them.
Later Alvin learned why she was so mad; the farm was left to him. All but one thousand dollars, which Alvin assumed Mrs. Carmine took care of. Bonnie Carmine had been his mother’s best friend and now dealt with the business side of the farm. Tommie had told Alvin all this and once he understood, Lorraine’s nastiness was clear.
Jenny wasn’t anything like Alvin’s sister, except they both had brown eyes. Jenny wasn’t mean, didn’t ignore him, but the pain he felt was the same. Jenny would probably leave like Lorraine and his mother had. He would be alone again and that idea made Alvin take back his hand.
He set both hands in his lap, heard the rain falling, but there wasn’t much work that day. Too early to plant, the trees were fine, and he had gathered eggs yesterday. Not much to do but sit in the house with Jenny, which would be fine except she wasn’t happy. She had eaten all the toast, drank half the juice. Had used the napkin to blow her nose and Alvin stood, getting her another.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Jenny, are you really gonna go?” With all he’d been thinking, the words slipped.
She stood, taking the bottle of aspirin from the windowsill. She set tablets in her mouth, washing them down with coffee. Placing the cup back on the table, she leaned against the sink, looking at her feet. “Alvin, oh god.”
In the silence Alvin felt dumb, that if he had all his marbles, his way of putting it, he’d know the right words. He liked her, not as a girlfriend, but as his friend. She was a good cook, better than Rae, but mostly she was someone close, the house not quiet, alone. He didn’t have a better vocabulary, but if so, her absence would have been explained as a light gone from his heart.
Alvin wasn’t poetic, hadn’t even graduated high school. Ninth grade was as far as he got, then his time and energy went to the farm. His talents too, which Tommie was always pointing out; this farm was where Alvin’s gifts lie, but if Jenny left, what was the point?
Those words slipped too. Why he said them, he wasn’t sure. “That’s what Tommie tells me. I mean, not the part about you, but why I’m here, why I’ve stayed the whole time.”
Without guile, Alvin wasn’t easily embarrassed. When younger, he was tongue-tied around girls, around those who only saw the outside. As the years passed, he had grown comfortable in his skin, aware of his limits as well as his passions. The farm was the latter, friendship with Tommie and Rae as well. Alvin’s life wasn’t destined for big plans or wild schemes. He knew himself, for, as he said, there wasn’t much to know. “Jenny, if you go, then I’m alone again. That’s not a good reason for you to stay, but it’s the truth. Since you’ve been here, oh wow, it’s like there’s a reason to get up in the morning. It’s not just me here by myself. I mean, it was like that when my mom was alive.”
His voice grew wistful, five years a long time to be alone.
Alvin stood, moving toward her. “Jenny Cope, I know it’s boring here. I mean, I’m not the greatest company. And if that’s why you wanna go, you can say so, it won’t bother me. I get along great with Tommie and Jacob, Rae and the kids too, but not everyone. I know you like the Baxters and I’m not saying they’re bad folks, but Keith’s just not my sort. He’s pretty smart and they just move in a different circle. Sylvia’s always traveling off somewhere, down to California to see her family or like where you met her. You’re like that, always going off somewhere new. But me, I’m here, this’s my home. It’s not exciting or anything. Pretty dull, if you think about it. The same thing, all the time. Rain and trees and eggs and the garden. But that’s fine for me. I’m simple too.”
“Oh Alvin, you’re not. Not at all!”
Her sudden speech shocked him, also how she reached for his hands.
“You’re not simple,” she repeated, more slowly.
Alvin smiled. “Jenny, I’m no astronaut.”
She took back her hands, giggling. “Neither am I.”
He laughed. “No, but you’re always on the go like they are, heading off somewhere so different, never staying put. And that’s fine. It really is. Not everyone’s meant to stay in one place their whole lives.” He inhaled as her arms moved to her sides.
“So if you need to go to Portland, well, I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you and your cooking, and I won’t forget you. But people leave all the time and I did learn there’s nothing you can do about it.” His voice grew sad. He didn’t want her to go, but pining wouldn’t help the situation.
Alvin looked up, seeing her tears again. Another surprise, for he lost some too. His words came easily, but once said, his heart accepted those sentiments.
“So I guess, well, whatever you need to do,” he sniffed, wiping his face with his hand.
Turning from her, Alvin went to leave the kitchen. As he stepped through the doorway, he noticed the basket of clothes. He’d be back to doing laundry again, another task he didn’t like. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Alvin, did you mean what you said?”
She wore a pink robe, old yellow slippers on her feet. He hadn’t seen that in the kitchen, just her broken face.
“What Jenny?”
“About if I go, there’s no point.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s been, what, three weeks? And all that time it’s been so nice. Even with all the rain, ’cause I come in, and there’s someone here. Someone who doesn’t mind all my gabbing.”
He smiled, seeing how she responded. She’d been so afraid, that was plain. Now she looked hopeful, how Tommie had been after he met Rae.
Jenny looked to the floor, scuffing her covered toes along the smooth wood grain.
“Jenny Cope, you and I are really different. I mean, I know there’re things about us that will never be the same. But I think you like it here, I mean, I think so.”
She nodded. “I do.”
“Well, can you just let that be enough? I mean, Portland’s big and exciting, and if you really wanna go there, well then you should. You should, ’cause Arkendale’s not like that at all. If something like Portland’ll make you happy, you probably shouldn’t stay here.”
That sentence was spoken with great hesitation. Then he continued.
“But if you wanna go ’cause something’s scaring you, something that’s made you go all over, it’ll probably be up there too. I mean, astronauts go to the moon ’cause they’re wanting to discover something new. They’re not running away from anything. And if,” he said, again slowly. “If you’re only thinking of leaving ’cause you’re trying to get away from something, you’ll never find any peace. You just won’t.”
Alvin wanted to take her hand. “That’s what Tommie told me when Randy left. Randy, my youngest brother, he left for Canada after Adam died. Tommie said that Randy was just gonna keep running, never stop. He was scared to go to Vietnam and I bet Jenny, I bet he’s still running now. He’ll never come back here, just running from what he was scared of.”
Jenny nodded. Feeling brave, Alvin reached for her fingers as Rae had done with him before she and Tommie left the morning of Betsy Harris’ death. Using no words, Alvin squeezed Jenny’s digits, then kissed the back of her left hand.
For two days Alvin’s words sat with Jenny: no point. During those days it rained the first, was cloudy the second. And on the second day, Jenny met Rae.
The knock stirred Jenny from her crocheting. She had finished the yarn from Sylvia and on Alvin’s insistence had rummaged through the bagged skeins in what had been Betsy and Alfred’s room. An aged bed remained, the closet full of women’s clothes, a dresser also stuffed. Two straight-backed chairs rested along the wall next to a large window that looked over the front yard, a chest on the window’s other side. Alvin said it used to sit at the end of the bed, but he and Tommie moved it after Tommie hit his foot.
“He and I were up there getting the bed cleared after they took her out, and Tommie hit his toe and swore a blue streak.” Alvin smiled. “We both started laughing ’cause my mama would’ve boxed his ears.”
Jenny hadn’t gone into the room alone, Alvin accompanying her, staying as she poked through the colors and types of yarn. All acrylic, for which Jenny was pleased, not wanting to deal with wool. Alvin noted his mother felt the same and other than small differences in thread sizes, there was plenty from which to choose.
Taking three small balls, Jenny continued practicing. Her stitches were improving, but she didn’t feel competent to embark on a large project. There was enough yarn if she wished to do so and Alvin hadn’t shied from encouraging her.
“You need a new blanket?” she had asked.
“Oh well, if you get bored, sure.” His smile had again caught her off guard and she’d nodded, then left with her supplies.
Sitting in the rocker, Jenny tied coral red to yellow, working three rows out of it, ready to add the grey. The knock made her drop the hook and she scrambled to collect it. “Just a minute,” she called, sticking the hook in the back of her bun.
Opening the door to a woman holding a wrapped cake, Jenny guessed this probably wasn’t Mrs. Carmine who Alvin occasionally mentioned. “Hi,” Jenny said, her hands full of yarn.
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