Rotten to the Core Page 21
Things to cook in and things to eat from were bigger issues. Big pots she had, although they were of dubious cleanliness, but she could remedy that. But as for the rest . . . Her mother would no doubt have had matched sets of everything on hand in sufficient numbers for a small invading army. Meg, in contrast, had a handful of mismatched plates, glasses, and cutlery inherited from who knew how many tenants who had come and gone—and left their unwanted things behind—and the few things Meg had brought from Boston. She could go with paper plates and plastic cups, but her mother’s spirit sat on her shoulder and scolded her at the very idea. Yes, Mom, you raised me better than that. In the end she made a quick detour to the closest housewares store and picked up an inexpensive boxed set of china, and threw in a tablecloth, napkins, candles, and a few extra towels. This was her first party in her new home, and she wanted to make it nice. Meg felt the need to set the tone for her tenure in Granford, and paper plates shouted “temporary.” That was not the message she wanted to send.
The next morning’s weather looked encouraging, and Meg saw the university van approach the house and pull into her driveway. She was ready: she pulled on a warm jacket and headed outside, where she found Christopher supervising the unloading of a piece of apparatus she assumed was some sort of sprayer: a cylindrical tank on wheels.
He waved her over. “Good morning, my dear. The wind bids fair—or do I mean the opposite? We can’t spray in a wind.”
“Why are you down here, instead of up in the orchard?” Meg watched as Bree scrambled down from the back of the van, carrying a couple of reels of hoses.
Bree announced, “We have to fill the tank down here, where there’s a water supply.” She turned to Christopher. “You want me to mix?”
“If you would, my dear. You know your proportions?”
Bree snorted. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, Professor.” Bree turned away and headed toward a spigot on the side of the house that Meg hadn’t even noticed before. Bree turned the handle, and nothing happened. “Professor? Looks like it’s turned off.”
“Of course—we shut it off for the winter. Meg, if you could let me into your house, I know where the shutoff valve is located. Unless you’d like to take care of it?”
“Heavens, no! I’ve been to the basement maybe twice, and it still creeps me out. You go right ahead.” She opened the back door and let him in, and she could hear him tramping down the rickety cellar stairs. A moment later, the spigot started gushing water.
Christopher returned quickly, and Meg asked, “So what are you doing?”
“As I mentioned, today is our first spraying against apple scab. Are you familiar with that?”
“I checked it out on the Internet last night. Sounds nasty.”
“It can be, and the best approach is prophylactic spraying, so we’ll start today and return at intervals for the next few weeks, depending on how much rain we get that would wash away the spray. But you shouldn’t be concerned. You have a good number of scab-resistant trees, we’ve kept the trash and cuttings cleared out, and there is little history of scab in this orchard. This is a preventive measure.”
“What are you using?” Meg asked.
“It’s a fungicide called mancozeb, a cholinesterase inhibitor. It’s minimally toxic—low on the EPA scale. Doesn’t harm birds and dissipates quickly in the soil. We’re applying a diluted mixture, which Bree, under my supervision, will administer with the outlet gun. Yours is a small orchard, both in acreage and in tree size. We might save a little time were we to bring in the so-called heavy machinery, but we can manage easily in a few hours with what we’ve brought, and it’s much easier to transport and set up.”
Meg heard the sound of a motor starting, and Bree maneuvered the tractor into position and hitched the sprayer, its tank apparently now filled and ready, to the rear of the tractor.
“What about safety issues, Christopher? Respirators? Hazmat suits?”
“You have been doing your homework, I see. Even with the mildest chemicals, it is wise to protect oneself. I insist on chemical-resistant gloves, eye and face protection, protective headgear, and a respirator at all times. I’d far rather be safe than sorry, especially when I’m dealing with students.”
“Amen. I certainly don’t want to be responsible for any work-related injuries. Speaking of which, does the university cover insurance for this, even though it’s my land?”
“The university has made provisions for this case. But you’re right once more—we should review the documentation. Have you any more questions, or shall we begin?”
“Just one: how long will this take?”
“A couple of hours now, and again in a week or ten days. Come along and let’s get ourselves fitted out, then.”
A few minutes later, equipped with head and face protection, Meg stood at the border of the orchard and watched as Christopher guided the tractor slowly between the rows of still-bare trees while Bree wielded the spray nozzle. They worked slowly and deliberately to ensure even coverage, and Meg wondered once again if she would ever master all of the diverse tasks involved in getting a crop of apples to maturity. There was so much that could go wrong.
When Christopher and Bree finished their spraying, Bree took the tractor with its trailing sprayer back down toward the barn, while Christopher and Meg followed more slowly on foot.
“Bree seems to like the work.”
“That she does. A rare thing, I think, among our women students. She is the exception—and exceptional in more ways than one, if I may make a poor pun.”
“I’m impressed with her. And she doesn’t treat me like an idiot, although I know I must seem like one.”
“My dear Meg, there is a difference between stupidity and ignorance. The latter can be corrected, and you are well on your way to doing so. I must say I admire your perseverance in the face of adversity.”
As Christopher turned his attention to loading the equipment back into the van, Meg walked toward the barn, where Bree had stowed the tractor and now stood in the doorway, raking her fingers through her hair where the headgear had matted it down. “Do you think you and I will be able to handle that one of these days?”
Bree smiled. “You mean, without Christopher? No problem. A couple more lessons with the tractor and you’ll be good to go. Listen, uh, about Sunday . . .”
“You aren’t backing out on me, are you?”
“No, but I hope you don’t feel funny about my bringing Michael along. I mean, we haven’t really been too public about being together, you know, and we don’t get to spend too much time like this.”
“Don’t worry, Bree, it’s fine,” Meg said firmly. “The more, the merrier. I’m celebrating, so Michael is more than welcome. I won’t even mind if he tries to convert me to the organic side, so he won’t have to watch his tongue.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you Sunday.”
Meg watched as Bree and Christopher hoisted the largest piece of equipment, the sprayer drum, into the van. Bree certainly was stronger than she looked.
Shortly after they left, Meg saw an unfamiliar car pull into her driveway—the vet, come to check out her goats, as promised. Meg went out the back door to greet her.
“Hi, Andrea! I didn’t expect you this soon.”
“I probably should have called, but I was in the neighborhood and I took a chance. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. It seems like everybody around here just drops in on me, and I’m beginning to like it. Come on over and meet the goats.” The pair was standing side by side at the fence along the driveway, clearly intrigued by the presence of someone new.
“Introduce me, will you?” Andrea said, walking toward the fence.
“I would if they had names. Do they need names?” Meg said, catching up to her.
“Well, it’s not required, but don’t you want to call them something when you talk to them? Unless, of course, you’re planning to eat them. In that case I wouldn’t recommend naming them.”
Andrea extended a hand, and the goats butted at each other to try to greet her first. “Okay, two females—that’s good. Nice pen, good size if you don’t plan to add more animals. The shed looks sturdy enough, but keep an eye on it and keep the hay clean.”
“What do I need to feed them?”
“Not your garbage, please. They’ll keep your grass and brush down for you, but you should give them some hay and grain, and keep a salt block handy. And keep the hay off the ground—goats don’t like dirty hay. Maybe some rolled oats, barley, or corn as a treat. But not too much—they tend to overfeed on grain. And that’s about it. You planning to milk them?”
Meg laughed. “Doesn’t that take breeding them? Right now it’s about all I can handle to keep them fed.”
“Fair enough. Something to think about, though. Now, you’re going to need to keep their hooves trimmed, but otherwise they’re pretty low maintenance. Just talk to them once in a while. If they get bored, they tend to get into trouble. They’re very curious.”
“Great.” One more thing to worry about: amusing the goats.
Andrea was looking around the farm. “Your orchard’s up that way? I passed it on my way over.”
“That’s it, all fifteen acres. We were spraying this morning. Oh.” An awful thought slammed into Meg. “Should I have kept them in the shed while we were spraying? I mean, could the spray hurt them?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I think they’re fine, unless you decide to go with a helicopter and blast everything, or you spray a tree that they might chew on.”
“I guess I’m clear, then. But I feel bad that I didn’t think about it sooner.”
“Just use common sense and you’ll be okay. And don’t store your chemicals where the goats might get into them. You might think you’ve locked the door, but then you forget about that rotten board around the other side, and before you know it they’re inside and chomping away on whatever you don’t want them to. They’re smart that way, but that’s what makes them fun.”
“If you say so.”
Andrea checked her watch. “I’d better run. I’ve got the late shift at the clinic. I’m glad I could stop by, though. Great place you have here. And you’ll do fine with the goats.”
“I hope so. What do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it. I was in the neighborhood anyway.”
“Thanks! Good to see you again, Andrea.”
Meg watched the vet’s car pull out, then wandered over to lean on her fence and contemplate the goats. Hoping for a handout, they walked over and stared up at her, their alien eyes curious. “Hi, guys. How do you like it here?”
Smaller Goat cocked her head at Meg, then lost interest and wandered after an interesting wisp of hay. Larger Goat nudged Meg through the fence with her nose.
“You want to talk, goat? Nice weather we’re having. You like that last batch of hay? It looked tasty. I’d better check out the roof on your shed this summer—looks like it’s lost a few shingles.”
The goat continued to stare but in what Meg thought was an intelligent way. Suddenly Meg laughed: she was carrying on a conversation with a goat. If her Boston friends could see her now, they’d think she had lost her mind. Well, maybe she should invite them out to see for themselves. Maybe this summer, when the weather was better and she’d sorted out the bedrooms, but before the demands of the apple orchard became too hectic. She could get some nice Adirondack chairs, and they could all sit out admiring the Great Meadow, sipping fresh-squeezed lemonade with homegrown mint, and she could regale them with funny stories about “country living,” complete with goats.
The thought made her smile, and she carried the feeling back inside with her.
29
Saturday Meg went to the grocery store to shop for the ingredients she had managed to forget the first time around, and then came home and cleaned. She started with the ancient pots she had unearthed in the kitchen cupboards, knowing she would need them for cooking. No way could she handle them all in the sink, so she carried them upstairs and dumped them into the claw-foot tub in the bathroom, along with a lot of dish soap, and turned on the hot water. After a half hour of effort, here and there clean metal gleamed, but it was far outweighed by the black grease, and now there was a slimy ring around the tub. Still, they would probably do to boil water in, and if she was going to feed more than one person, and likely hungry ones, her own modest saucepans wouldn’t do. With a sigh she rinsed them one last time and drained the water out of the tub.
Then she moved on to the rest of the house. As she dusted and swept and polished the second- and thirdhand discards of tenants past, and worked to remove the construction debris she had added, she wondered what she was trying to prove. Everyone who was coming to dinner Sunday night knew her situation and couldn’t exactly fault her for the inevitable dust and grime that any construction site produced. But still . . . she kept on scrubbing. This was the formal opening of her new home, the first time she had prepared a serious sit-down meal for her new friends, and she wanted the place to look nice. Or as nice as it could. At least it would be dark for most of their time there, and candlelight would be flattering, wouldn’t it?
She stopped only long enough to direct the delivery people who arrived with the large cardboard boxes bearing her new refrigerator and stove. She pointed them to the open shed outside the kitchen. She allowed them to haul away the battle-scarred old stove, but she still needed the refrigerator, chugging along in her dining room, and she thought she could probably find a place for it later. One issue at a time.
Sunday morning she was more than a little fidgety, running over to-do lists in her head. Seth arrived at the front door early, as if anticipating her anxiety. “Ready to test the floor?”
She nodded. “I guess. I don’t know what I’m going to do if it’s not dry. I don’t have a Plan B.”
“It should be fine—the humidity’s been low. You want to do the honors?”
She led the way to the door that separated the dining room and the kitchen, and opened it cautiously. Everything looked fine. Before Meg could bend down to touch the floor, Lolly streaked between her legs and skidded to a stop at the far side of the room, disoriented. Meg tilted her head to catch the light reflecting off the floor: no sign of paw prints. She ran a cautious finger over the surface, and it felt hard and smooth—and definitely dry. She straightened up and turned to Seth. “Feels dry to me. You want to check?”
“Sure.” He too knelt down and ran a hand over the surface. Lolly, recovering quickly, ran over to him and pounced on his hand. He laughed. “Feels fine. I think we’re good to go. They delivered the appliances yesterday?”
“They did. I had them put out back. I figured that was as close as we’d get to the kitchen door.”
“Smart thinking. Let me strip off the boxes, and we can use the cardboard to protect the floor when we move them. Give me a couple of minutes, okay?”
It hadn’t occurred to Meg that Seth would need her help to move the appliances. Right, Meg—he’s not Superman, and he can’t lift a refrigerator all by himself. She hoped she was up to it, though she had certainly added a few muscles since moving in.
Luckily their combined strength proved adequate to the task at hand, and within the hour her softly gleaming stainless steel appliances had been jockeyed into their respective niches in the kitchen. Seth plugged them in before pushing them into their final places, fiddled with a few controls, and stood back. “You want to give them a try?”
Meg felt like a child on Christmas morning, only now the toys were bigger than she was. She opened and closed the refrigerator door a few times and marveled at the cool air flowing out. She spun all the dials on the stove, turned on the oven and peered into it until she could feel warmth, then turned everything off again. “It’s great. They work!”
“Madame, you insult
my honor. Of course they work. I plugged them in, didn’t I?”
“Seth, I don’t know what I would have done without you. Doesn’t it look great in here? And once I get the cabinets cleaned up, and maybe some new countertops, and I could use another light fixture over the sink . . . But this is so much better than it was. Thank you!” Without thinking she gave him a quick hug, which startled him nearly as much as her. She found she was curiously reluctant to let go, but she still had a lot to accomplish before dinner. She looked at his face, which gave away nothing.
He finally spoke. “My pleasure. What do you want to do with the old fridge?”
“Oh, that’s right—I need to get it out of the dining room. Should I keep it around?”
“If you don’t want it, I can put it in my office.”
“Of course. Shall we haul it out there now?”
That last task accomplished, Seth made his farewells on the back stoop. Meg stood in the middle of her new-old kitchen and marveled again. Lolly, who had wisely chosen to avoid the heavy-labor phase, advanced tentatively into the room. She prowled the perimeter, then jumped onto the countertop and from there to the top of the refrigerator. From her elevated vantage point she surveyed the scene and apparently satisfied, washed her face with one paw, then settled herself into a sphinx pose, paws tucked under, and shut her eyes.
At least she won’t be underfoot if that’s her new favorite place, Meg thought. She turned to the remaining smaller chores, like transferring the microwave from the dining room to the kitchen counter, followed by the china and glassware she had acquired, which she stowed in the cabinets. At last the dining room was cleared for its original purpose—dining—and Meg declared it was time to start cooking.