after two more days of downpours, she suddenly worried that everything would be washed away.
When the rain broke enough for her go out, she pulled on an old pair of boots and her trousers and walked out into the garden, though she felt her feet grow heavy with the caked mud and if she stopped for too long in one spot, she could feel herself sinking.
Most of the tomatoes were gone, and the corn stalks, little as they were, were underwater. Worried by this, she checked her watermelon hills and found them crushed and gone. She blinked back tears of frustration. What would her father have done? Planted some more, except there were no more seeds, and the prices in town were crawling higher each day. As she stood there, hopelessly looking around her field, a crow squawked and landed nearby. It was a bold move, and it told her the crows no longer feared her.
“I’ll show you,” she muttered as she reached into the mud and found a good-sized chunk of rock. Before the crow could move, she hurled the rock at it. It struck the bird on the side, and a few feathers fluttered away. The crow cackled and jutted around in a daze, as if trying to figure out what had just happened.
“You want another one?” asked Melinda. “Here!” She threw another rock at it, and another, until a barrage of stones was flying at the bird before it could process what was going on. Most of them landed wide, but when one hit, the bird would let out an angry caw, until another rock hit it square in the beak.
The crow fell over in the mud, and Melinda paused with her arm in mid-swing, about to let another rock go when the bird stopped making any sounds at all. She dropped the rock when she realized the bird was dead. It was not only dead, but she had killed it, and she had done it with a viciousness that surprised her.
She slogged through the mud back to her house and didn’t even bother taking her boots off before going inside. Trails of mud followed her throughout the house, and as she passed the letter on the table with its pitifully few lines, frustration overwhelmed her. She grabbed the letter and crumpled it. There was not enough on the paper. Not enough words to express what she really wanted to say. She flung the paper into the fireplace and watched it burn.
***
She made another trip to the Johnsons’ farm later that week. It was early May, and the peach trees had all been in full bloom for a while now. The peach blossoms fell around on the ground like soft snow, but Melinda did not see any beauty in it. She was somber, thoughtful, and the absence of her father was like a knife had carved her heart out.
With her father in prison, it might be years before he came home. She didn’t think she could make it. Deep inside, she was terrified of the thought, and when she had tried to reset the plants and find what little seed was left, she realized it was going to be a long and lonely road.
Joan Johnson was sewing a pair of trousers that had ripped along the seam when Melinda came up to the house. Joan had not seen Melinda since she and Frank had gone into Gallatin a few weeks ago, and the change in the girl was painfully apparent.
The sparkle in Melinda’s eyes was dead. It was like watching a living corpse shamble up the road. There was no lightness to her step. Now she walked like an old woman, not caring where the next step was going to take her. The hollowed out circles under the girl’s eyes were like shadows that refused to leave, no matter how much light you poured on them. She was still pretty, Joan decided, but it was a beauty ravished with deep and resounding pain.
She wasn’t even smiling. The girl managed a half-grin as she greeted Joan, but it was nothing compared to the girl who had skipped over just weeks ago.
“You have seen better days, my dear,” said Joan as the girl sat on the porch steps. “Have you been eating? You look thin as a
When the rain broke enough for her go out, she pulled on an old pair of boots and her trousers and walked out into the garden, though she felt her feet grow heavy with the caked mud and if she stopped for too long in one spot, she could feel herself sinking.
Most of the tomatoes were gone, and the corn stalks, little as they were, were underwater. Worried by this, she checked her watermelon hills and found them crushed and gone. She blinked back tears of frustration. What would her father have done? Planted some more, except there were no more seeds, and the prices in town were crawling higher each day. As she stood there, hopelessly looking around her field, a crow squawked and landed nearby. It was a bold move, and it told her the crows no longer feared her.
“I’ll show you,” she muttered as she reached into the mud and found a good-sized chunk of rock. Before the crow could move, she hurled the rock at it. It struck the bird on the side, and a few feathers fluttered away. The crow cackled and jutted around in a daze, as if trying to figure out what had just happened.
“You want another one?” asked Melinda. “Here!” She threw another rock at it, and another, until a barrage of stones was flying at the bird before it could process what was going on. Most of them landed wide, but when one hit, the bird would let out an angry caw, until another rock hit it square in the beak.
The crow fell over in the mud, and Melinda paused with her arm in mid-swing, about to let another rock go when the bird stopped making any sounds at all. She dropped the rock when she realized the bird was dead. It was not only dead, but she had killed it, and she had done it with a viciousness that surprised her.
She slogged through the mud back to her house and didn’t even bother taking her boots off before going inside. Trails of mud followed her throughout the house, and as she passed the letter on the table with its pitifully few lines, frustration overwhelmed her. She grabbed the letter and crumpled it. There was not enough on the paper. Not enough words to express what she really wanted to say. She flung the paper into the fireplace and watched it burn.
***
She made another trip to the Johnsons’ farm later that week. It was early May, and the peach trees had all been in full bloom for a while now. The peach blossoms fell around on the ground like soft snow, but Melinda did not see any beauty in it. She was somber, thoughtful, and the absence of her father was like a knife had carved her heart out.
With her father in prison, it might be years before he came home. She didn’t think she could make it. Deep inside, she was terrified of the thought, and when she had tried to reset the plants and find what little seed was left, she realized it was going to be a long and lonely road.
Joan Johnson was sewing a pair of trousers that had ripped along the seam when Melinda came up to the house. Joan had not seen Melinda since she and Frank had gone into Gallatin a few weeks ago, and the change in the girl was painfully apparent.
The sparkle in Melinda’s eyes was dead. It was like watching a living corpse shamble up the road. There was no lightness to her step. Now she walked like an old woman, not caring where the next step was going to take her. The hollowed out circles under the girl’s eyes were like shadows that refused to leave, no matter how much light you poured on them. She was still pretty, Joan decided, but it was a beauty ravished with deep and resounding pain.
She wasn’t even smiling. The girl managed a half-grin as she greeted Joan, but it was nothing compared to the girl who had skipped over just weeks ago.
“You have seen better days, my dear,” said Joan as the girl sat on the porch steps. “Have you been eating? You look thin as a
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