Chapter Text
The first thing I noticed about the farm was how disrupted it was. I saw the fence posts leaning before I saw the house. Some of them were listing sideways, and you could tell the whole thing in general needed some fixing. I was thinking I could fix those easy enough: give me a hammer and a steady post and I’ll make it stand straighter than it ever did before. I wasn’t even ten feet in front of the place and I could smell the dampness of it all, too—was it not common sense that your wooden posts get all mildew-y after a year or two and you’ve got to change them out? I never had any schooling and I knew that much. Maybe I’m being too nitpicky with it all. It wasn’t some beggarly old townhouse like you’d be used to around these parts, no. This was a farmhouse. A beauty, if the people in charge would take the proper care of her.
The air around this area was hot and heavy and wet, and you could taste the agedness and the dust. I was on my last few handkerchiefs or else I would wipe the sweat from my forehead. It’s allergy season and I knew all of this hay was going to give me a struggle or else I wouldn’t be so fussy. Anyways, the quietness of this area was creeping me out: you couldn’t even hear the wind or anything, the air was too heavy to bother. I haven’t seen many movies because I never really have the spare change to go to the drive-by in town, but I could imagine this being the start of some thriller film. I’ve the sense to know that it’s not, but it’s still eerie. Lousily guarding the house, a gate stood connecting the fence. One of the screws connecting it must have come loose, because it stood lopsided, leaning down. If I had no manners I would have stopped right then and fixed it, but I knew better than that. I don’t even know the folks here. I walked up to the gate and opened it—it was so swingy, it almost crashed into the fence going back.
Walking on the path to the house really wore away its beauty as you got closer. The paint was peely and the wood was chipped and old—you could probably make an imprint into it if you pressed on it hard enough. I kicked the stones in my path until I made it up to the front door, pausing for a minute before delivering a swift knock. I winced and held my breath. I didn’t know who lived here, or if they even needed any help anymore (a rather hasty-looking note on the community bulletin board had led me here), or if they were even friendly enough to invite me in. I don’t look too professional or anything. I say owning more clothes than you need is a waste, so all I’ve got is my faded red flannel shirt and some plain tee I got from the thrift when I still had the extra money to stop there. And my jeans, of course.
After a few seconds, I could hear footsteps from the inside of the house. I exhaled and straightened my posture, putting my shoulders behind my collarbone. The door creaked. Long and gusty. Quite performative for how much it opened, if you ask me. I could make out an eye peering at me through the now creaked door.
“Who’s ‘ere?”
I cleared my throat and smiled, throwing away my collywobbles.
“Greetings, sir,” I swallowed, trying not to let my voice shake. “Ain’t looking for trouble.”
He opened the door a little more. The man had a neat beard and a burly physique. The inside of the house smelled like tea and soap, it was pleasant. He didn’t blink. He stared at me. His eyes were cold and brown, set deep in his face, which looked like it was melting with years of working in the sun. I took off my hat and held it to my chest—my hair is brown, but it glows red, and it reaches my shoulders. When I can, I try to keep it trimmed, but I can’t ever see the back of my head so it always comes out uneven and choppy. My hands always look worse than the amount of work I do, too. Scarred knuckles with dirt lining the indents. Folks might see that and think fighting, but the truth is, it’s mostly from handling splintery wood and not having a proper sink to wash.
The man took a good, hard look at me before speaking again. Looking from the top of my head where my hair was pressed up from my hat, to my worn, muddy boots.
“What’s yer name, boy?” His voice was raspy, but not hoarse.
I kept my hat against my heart and looked at the ground.
Names are tricky things, see. You can’t usually choose them, and they stick to you like tar. I swallowed and made eye contact, unwavering, trying to prove myself to him, maybe.
“Sir, I ain’t got none to me, on account of my mama passin’ before I could proper remember what she called me.”
I try to explain this to everyone I come across and yet I can’t help but make a situation more awkward. I can tell the man is pitying me and before I can speak to apologize, he continues:
“Well, son,” The man nodded to me, “I really am sorry to hear that, damn sorry. Tell me, what brings you here, boy?” His voice is stern but gentler. I could tell he was pitying me. It’s a humbling experience for me, I wish people would stick to their own worries because it really doesn’t bother me none. I straightened myself again, preparing to plea my offer.
“Sir,” I started. “I may not be able to read nor even write neither, but I’ve got a mighty hand with horses an’ animals and I can mend those fence posts of yours faster than any builder in this here town, and I don’t ask for nothin’ more than maybe a hot meal an’ a warm barn, see—”
“You stop right there, son, that’s enough.” He paused long, thinking hard. I cringed, hoping I hadn’t made a fool of myself.
A nervous cough escaped my throat as he prepared to speak again. The door shifted again as he adjusted. I didn’t look past his shoulder. Didn’t feel right to. The yard where I stood smelled like hay and old wood and grass. He studied me another long second. I’ve always hated that, being looked at like a hungry stray dog. I kept my face open, honest as I knew how to make it. I remembered a friend from some time ago, he used to say my eyes gave me away anyway. I found myself wishing for a stronger build, or a sterner look, or perhaps something that would make me look more appealing in the moment. Maybe even just cologne.
“Well,” he said finally, his voice even, “we’ll see about that.”
He stepped aside, revealing the inside of his house to me, but not really beckoning me in. It really was a nice house, even if it was a little dusty and worn. There was a dinner table (presumably for dinner, at least) set up a few feet and to the left of the entrance, a cute set of plates and bowls presented on it. The skull of a buck glared at me on a mantle, a worn couch sitting in front of it. The whole house was painted in earthy colors, with wooden walls and floors, brown and green furniture, potted plants, and wooden children’s toys on the floor. I wondered to myself about the family, but said none.
“Come on, follow me.” He gestured, and I stomped my boots some and stepped inside. The wood floor now beneath me creaked under my weight and I shuffled, embarrassed, but the man kept walking. I followed. The house was comfortable. And warm, but in a different way than it was warm outside. Outside, it was humid and heavy and sweaty, but in here it was like standing beside a fire. A little frame with a black-and-white photo inside caught my attention, a very pretty lady and presumably a young version of the man. I couldn’t help but ask about it, even if it was rude to.
“Is that your wife?” The question came out a bit quieter than I had meant it, and I cleared my throat.
“Oh,” he turned and looked at the photo—“Yeah, my Susan,” He smiled a little, before walking ahead. “She works at the textile mill late on the weekends. I work our farm, and I work part-time carpentry, so’m outside often. You’re lucky to catch me inside.”
“uh—Have you any other family?” I couldn’t help but ask more. Manners must have been the last thing on my mind, and I think back at it and cringe.
“Yeah,” He answered, “I‘ve got a son ‘round yer age and my daughter. She’s a young’n, ‘round two years old come next week,”
I nodded in acknowledgement, as we reached the back door into the farm.
“By the way, son, you call for John if y’need anything. That’s me, got it?”
“Yes sir.” John. John the farmer-carpenter. And his wife, Susan, and his son and daughter. I looked at him, repeating his name in my head to memorize it.
As we approached the barn, John picked up a lantern from beside the door and tossed it to me. It hit my chest and I caught it, almost falling back before catching myself and standing up straighter, and I flushed sheepishly. As the door opened, hay caught wind and threw itself at my face. I sneezed practically on cue.
“You allergic, son?” John mused as he stepped inside. I shifted, self-conscious. “er- Yes, sir. Hurts my nose a little, But it’s nothing, really—”
John laughed and I flinched.
“It’s too bad, son, we haven’t a spare room in our house, or else I would offer,” He sighed, shaking his head and smiling as I rubbed my nose.
I said nothing, as nix came to my head to say. John smiled: “I’m just pullin’ yer leg. I know you’ve none to worry about,”
And so he left it at that. After all, I had nothing to worry about. I would start my work as soon as I got up. John instructed that I start by feeding the horses, and allowing them to roam, besides the brown one with the spots, because she’s got a sore leg and needs to rest. He continued, telling me there’s nails and some tools hanging in the shed by the chicken coops and fencewood behind the barn, if I needed it. If the horse’s hay supply is empty, take one from the barn to replace it. The chickens need to be fed in the late morning and in the afternoon, and if any eggs are laid, collect them and put them in the egg cartons to be put in the freezer. He said his son would come to check and collect them, and I didn’t need to worry about keeping them cool or storing them. I understood this all quite well, as I’ve worked on people’s farms before. I couldn’t wait to get up and see the horses. I love horses. Maybe that’s girly or something, but I really do. I feel like I understand them. And they understand me.
It was late, as it had been already probably 4 or 5 PM at the time I had arrived at the farmhouse in the first place. The moon was a sliver, and almost no light came through the windows of the barn, but the weather was perfect for sleeping. I found myself a comfortable spot in the hay and settled, even if my nose was puffy and irritated. John came in a little later with a bowl of stew for me and a spare blanket. He claimed that even if it was warm enough to do just fine without one, it’s good to keep the mosquitos off of your body. I bid my thanks and fell asleep soon after.
That stew was delicious.