Jalopy excerpt

Etta

A rooster crowed somewhere outside. Not especially loud, but it pierced the darkness with more intensity than it had a right to. A young woman stirred. Pulled from sleep’s comforting embrace, her eyes fluttered open only reluctantly. Etta Wozniak clutched her thin blanket and remained in bed for another minute. It did not feel like morning. Besides, she had just seen her sister and that could only have been a dream. Perhaps the rooster was another. Those hopes were dashed when the bastard crowed again. More than once, she had suggested – in jest – to include him in the bi-annual cull. A rooster who crowed at night must be defective, so she reasoned.

It was early, even by farmer standards, but as Etta came around, blinking away the mental cobwebs, she knew there was nothing to be done but to get started on the day. For two years she had risen before the sun without fail. It was not that she particularly wanted to be up at such an ungodly hour. There was simply too much to do.

Shivering and rubbing her eyes, Etta confronted the morning chill first with one foot, then the other. As typical of late April, the afternoons teased at the forthcoming warmth of summer, but the mornings remained firmly in winter’s thrall. Sleeping fully clothed was a necessity when the temperature dropped below freezing. Even so, she could not tolerate anything touching her feet during the night. Those first few seconds before she could pull them into a pair of thick, warm socks was perhaps the worst part of her morning ritual. Feeling around the icy darkness, Etta slipped on her work apron and an extra jacket before her teeth could start to chatter.

In the kitchen, she was not entirely surprised to find the wood-burning stove had gone cold. Springtime was a chilly, but manageable season, and so the choice between a warm morning or an uninterrupted night was often a tossup. On this morning, both Etta and her father, Jakob, had decided in favor of sleep.

Things like feeding the fire had not been such a burden when there were more people living in the Wozniaks’ home. Many hands made light work, but these days it was only Etta and her Papa.

The rooster crowed again and Etta shook her head, grumbling.

What on Earth does that chicken see?

The kitchen was dark, but it was a familiar space and she knew it well. The only clock in the house ticked loudly somewhere in the blackness. She gave the box of matches a habitual rattle, and frowned at the hollow sound it made. There were probably more fingers on her hands than there were matches within. Unsure how that had escaped her notice, Etta resolved to pick up more on the next trip to town.

Lighting the kerosene lamp, she squinted against the warm, golden light. It was 1928, and the house had been fitted with electric lights some ten years earlier. While far more convenient, they were also more expensive than burning oil. Once, the Wozniaks had been relatively well off and could afford to turn the lights on without a second thought. Those days, sadly, were long past.

Now able to see, her chores could begin.

Breathing into cupped hands did little to fight the numbness in her fingertips. A fleeting relief, it would serve to give her enough time to clean the stove and start on the fire. Had she discovered one or two hot coals hidden among the powdery, gray ashes that would have made things just a little easier. But no. At least Papa had made kindling the night before. By and large, Etta did things for herself but using the hatchet was one chore she would gladly leave to her father. Sharp metal swinging so close to her hands caused her a tremble that had nothing to do with the cold.

As the growing fire started to chase the ice from her bones she pulled a thick, woolen cap over her blonde head. Snug and warm, it had once belonged to her oldest brother Edward, and was knitted by their mother, Lena. Wearing it helped Etta to remember them, and warmed both body and soul.

Movement in the darkness caught her attention. Etta looked over to find a pair of large, green eyes staring back at her. A black and orange tortoiseshell cat approached the firelight, stopping just beyond arms’ length but close enough to be warmed. The cat regarded Etta with apparent indifference, yet cried loudly as she dropped onto her haunches. Making no move, Etta, responded with a sigh.

“Morning, Howler,” she said flippantly.

Little family that she had left, and this damn cat was one of them. She had been named by Etta’s younger, sister, Irene, and out of respect to her, Etta could not bring herself to cast the animal out. As if such a thing were possible. Every morning, Etta let Howler outside, but could seldom recall letting her back in at the end of the day. Yet, without fail, she would simply reappear.

“I’ll let you out when I’m damn well ready,” Etta muttered.

Howler cried in response.

“Don’t push me, cat.”

Warm at last, a growing personal urgency could no longer be ignored. She resolved herself to going outside. If the first few seconds of exposing her feet to the frigid air was the worst part of her morning, leaving the relative warmth of the house to use the necessary was a close second. After years of this routine, the morning hours hardly bothered her anymore. But walking to the outhouse, no matter the temperature or season never got any easier. At least it was not snowing.

She opened the door and nearly tripped over Howler as the cat ran between her feet to escape. The glow of the lantern revealed a fog that had settled on the farm overnight. It was above freezing, but not by much and the air was heavy with moisture. Etta trudged on. With luck, the sun would burn off the mist when it eventually put in an appearance.

On the other hand, none of her family had been particularly blessed with luck.

In the first piece of good news, the stove was hot by the time she returned inside. Coffee was one of the few luxuries that even Papa would not do without. In the past month, Etta had skipped more than a handful of meals, but not one cup of coffee. The noise from grinding the beans was loud in the dark, but Papa never complained.

Fishing a chipped mug out of the cabinet, she was careful not to make too much noise. The door had worked itself loose sometime over the past year, and the motion of opening it produced all manner of bumps and squeaks as it shifted in place. It was just one of many things around the farm that suffered from neglect.

The table wobbled and moved as she leaned on it. With quick hands she managed to save the steaming contents of the mug before they sloshed out. One of the rare times she would be sitting today, Etta spared a few minutes to savor the piping hot cup. A splash of milk would have been nice, but none had been delivered this morning. It came as little surprise. At least the drink was hot, and banished some of the worse mental cobwebs.

A creak and thump called her attention to the ceiling. A moment later, Papa descended the stairs.

“Dzien dobry,” he said through a yawn while rubbing his eyes. Jakob Wozniak tended to revert to Polish when half-awake or in times of stress. Both Etta’s parents had come from a village outside of Warsaw before she was born. While her mother, Lena, was fluent in English prior to immigrating, Jakob was a slower learner. For years, the family spoke a mixture of English and Polish in the house. When Etta was still a child, she remembered it being a huge source of pride when Papa finally went a full week without leaning on his native tongue.

“And good morning to you,” Etta returned in English. She placed a gentle emphasis on “good” and “morning”, so as not to embarrass him.

She waited until Papa had poured his own cup of coffee before she said, “The water pump is leaking.” It was often the case and worse in the spring. For every one part of water that made it to the bucket, two parts typically splashed the ground at her feet. Even so, it was worse than in years past. Her wet foot could attest to that.

Jakob grunted in response. While Etta had come to embrace the early morning hours, like her mother once had, Papa and the rest of the family only accepted them grudgingly. As such, she knew that she would get little from him for the next few minutes. Still, she pressed on. “Also, there was no milk delivery today.”

“I know,” he replied, to her surprise. “The tax bill is due this month, and I had to stop the milk delivery again.” Sneaking a quick sip from his coffee, he moved the coat that had been haphazardly draped over his chair. He might have simply chosen a different seat, but old habits are hard to break. Besides, the others were taken, despite being empty.

Jakob continued, “Also, try to leave the lights off if you don’t need them.” Only after he said it did he notice that the electric lights were, in fact, already off. Regarding the kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling, he nodded with approval.

Etta frowned. “How long must we go without milk this time? Or bread for that matter?” Some heat edged into her voice.

Papa peered over the top of his cup. His half-lidded eyes grew more alert at her tone and intent expression. He smiled weakly and raised a placating hand.

“We will have bread, of course. We can get milk again in a few weeks.” He sighed. “You know, it never used to be like this. Then, one day, a man comes to the door and asks for money. ‘What for?’ I say. ‘For your civic duties,’ he says.” Papa shook his head. “The Russians made levies as well, in the old country.”

Etta made no response, having heard this all before. Jakob fell quiet.

“Are you going to lose the house, Papa?”

Etta bit her lip. That had been a mistake.

“No,” he said quickly and with assurance. He looked around the room bathed in the golden light from the lamp. “This is a good house. I will make sure that we keep it.”

This is an empty house, thought Etta. Full of ghosts and memories. She said nothing, but breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Her slip had gone unnoticed.

They finished their coffee in silence, as they usually did. Mama had always been the talkative one. Etta and her father had something of a complicated relationship. Instead of pulling them together, their mutual losses only caused the both of them to withdraw.

Every so often, one or the other would attempt a foray into conversation, but by and large, they hardly spoke. That is, about anything besides the farm and what work needed to be done. Even so, he was her father, and she could not shake the feeling of guilt that came with the knowledge that she would soon leave him.

What will he do when I’m gone?

The rest of the morning chores went as they usually did. By the time she made her way to the chickens, they were positively ravenous, and descended on the feed in their usual frenzy. Etta spared them little attention. Instead, she looked to the horizon. The sun had made some progress. Nearly peeking over the distant hills, it was light enough to extinguish the lantern. The clouds above were the color of hot coals and tinged with bright pink. Despite the long day ahead of her, she stopped to look.

The Wozniak’s home was perched at the top of a hill, looking across a shallow valley. At twenty years old, Etta had seen this view in every season and manner of weather since she was old enough to remember. It never ceased to be beautiful.

The valley below was home to a few other farms. Nothing was growing in the lower fields just yet, but the spring planting was underway. A distant tractor tilled lines in the soil, chewing up the winter packed earth in anticipation of a new season. Following close behind, a black and white dog ran back and forth, chasing rabbits and mice as they darted from the ground. A similar scene was, no doubt, occurring throughout town at this very moment. Except around the lake of course.

Past the fields, the railway snaked along the opposite side of the valley. This had been the source of the town’s growth, bringing out-of-towners to nearby Bott’s Lake, a popular vacation spot. The trains would come all the way from New York City, some thirty miles away. Bringing both money and visitors, it was regarded as a blessing to some, a curse for others, and, in Etta’s case, a means of escape.

Giving the changing colors one last look she carried on. As she had suspected, the coop yielded fewer eggs than would have been ideal. So few birds could only do so much. When the flock and her family were both larger, the farm was quite prosperous. Besides chickens, they had grown enough potatoes and cabbage to make a tidy profit. With no one left to do the work, those fields had long since gone to weed. Now, the little bit of money earned from selling meat and eggs was barely enough to cover the cost of chicken feed.

Etta frowned at the disappointing collection. Still, it was better than nothing. Picking out an even dozen, she set them aside to hard boil. For most of the next hour, she mucked the pen and loaded the remaining eggs into crates so she could bring them into town. By then, the sun was fully above the horizon, and cast long shadows amidst the golden yellow light.

The morning was late, and Etta grew anxious. Walking to town would take some time and she would have to hurry if there was any hope of selling even this modest take.

A sudden flash of optimism cut through her earlier disappointment. There was an alternative to walking, after all. It was a long shot, but perhaps Papa was feeling generous and this would be her lucky day.

Besides, it had been nearly four years ago.

With an egg crate in each hand, Etta found Jakob among the pieces of the disassembled well pump. He glanced up at her approach, casually at first, but did a double take when he noticed the egg crates.

“Only two? Are the birds eating enough?”

“More like a crate and a half,” Etta replied. “And I think it’s the cool nights. They like it warmer.”

“We can only do so much for that. I will cut more firewood when I am finished here.”

Etta nodded, but lingered as she considered her words carefully. Her optimism faltered, and she suspected that she already knew what the answer would be. Still, she had to try.

“May I take the truck?”

Papa stopped working. His mouth made a thin line as he turned to face her. This conversation was always delicate for both of them.

“I would prefer that you did not,” he said and quickly returned to the pump.

“It’s only to town,” Etta insisted.

“Then, please take the wagon,” Jakob replied, looking over his shoulder. “As you said, it is not even two full crates.”

She was about to say more, but it was clear the matter was closed. Etta suppressed a sigh. While Papa had long maintained that it was out of concern for her safety, she was certain that it was a form of punishment. Though, she could not be sure, as they had not spoken of the event since it happened.

It was an accident, and it was four years ago, she thought bitterly. You can’t hold it against me forever.

As she hoped, the clammy, pre-dawn chill was soon chased away. Turning her face into the new sun, she was able to remove her hat at last. About halfway to town, she removed her extra coat as well. All the while, her thoughts wandered. Driving would have been best, but at least it was a good day for a walk. Any time she could spend in fresh air, away from the ever-present miasma of chicken musk was to be savored.

Her mood steadily improved with each step, and her disappointment over the truck mostly faded. Now, she had an excuse to disappear from home for a few hours. Etta valued her independence. Better still, it would give her a chance to make a particular visit that had evaded her for most of the winter.

First things first. She had to offload the eggs. At the Royal Scarlet grocery store, Dominic gave her a reasonable price for the lot, and without any haggling. It helped that she was the first seller to arrive, but it had been a near thing. A truck pulled up just as Etta was leaving.

In the back were at least twenty crates. From the cab, David and Bradley Heckel waved as she walked by. Despite being direct competitors, the farmers of the town, for the most part, saw themselves as a community. At least, compared to the lakeside Townies. And even those shiftless, pampered, blue noses were better than the visiting out-of-towners.

“Beat us again, Etta?” called the father, David. “And on foot, no less.”

“You’ll have to get up a little earlier, I suppose,” she replied with a grin.

David chuckled as he stepped down from the cab. Here was a man who had no doubts about where his next meal was coming from. Etta hoped that it was not obvious just how desperately she had needed to arrive before he did. Coming around from the far side, Bradley gave a shy wave. Too late, she turned away, pretending not to have seen. With a groan, she heard footsteps approaching and braced herself.

“Morning Etta. Nice day, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine,” she replied without looking at him.

He matched her stride for several more paces without saying anything. Hopefully, she would not have to resort to shooing him away.

“Are you busy this week?”

“I usually am,” she replied.

“Oh… Well – um – I was thinking…”

Interrupting the half-formed thought, David called his son back over to the truck.

“Better get going then,” Etta urged.

“Yeah… see you around.”

“Goodbye, Bradley.”

Shoulders sagging, he slowed and eventually turned back to his father. Etta let out a sigh and carried on before he could say anything more.

You kiss a guy a few times, and he carries a torch for two years.

Their brief fling after Etta’s mother had passed away was something she would prefer not to think about. At the time, he had caught her interest with his straw colored hair and tall build, but it was fleeting. Her mind had been all out of sorts, and she was thankful that she came to her senses before any mistakes with long-term consequences had occurred.

As she walked, she grabbed the black denim bag that rarely left her shoulder and gave her money purse a reassuring squeeze. It was heavier than when she had set out, but not by much. Just over three-dozen eggs earned them a dollar and a half. An important date was fast approaching and she would need to buy something for it. Maybe she could sneak a dime out of her earnings for the visit, but her finances weighed on her mind more than usual today. It was not their first time with an overdue tax bill. And it was certainly not the first time Papa had to put a hold on milk delivery. Even so, such decisions were never made lightly.

Etta took the shorter route back home through the summer cottages. Normally, she would avoid this area since it was popular with out-of-towners. However, the visiting season had not yet started, and few enough of them were around. Unfamiliar faces made her uncomfortable. It was even worse when she was in her work clothes and pulling the chicken cart. The combination often earned her a few disgusted looks and upturned noses.

I’m only pulling them, she would think. You’re eating them.

Instead of snooty visitors today, the cottage neighborhood was only occupied by working men. Nearly all of them she recognized by face, if not by name. Approaching a blue cottage, two boys about her age were busy sawing and hammering. The taller of the pair looked up, squinting into the early sun. Brushing sawdust from the front of his overalls, he favored her with a warm smile.

“Mornin’ Etta,” he called. “How’s my favorite cousin?”

“Hi, Robert. Just making the rounds,” she replied.

Immediately, her chest felt lighter. A dour mood could not long withstand Robert McCormick’s contagious smile. Whatever concerns she had carried from the farm were lifted for the moment. Standing in Robert’s shadow was his younger brother, Daniel who acknowledged Etta with a friendly but shy nod.

Favorite or not, Etta was in fact, their only cousin. Their mother, Alicja had been Lena’s sister and aside from Papa, the three of them were the only relations left. While there was no dispute that Etta had lost more family than they did, they had the unique misfortune of being orphans. Though, if that fact bothered Robert, his ever-present grin never let on to it.

By contrast, his brother Daniel was a quiet type. So much so that those who did not know him assumed he was slow in the head. Even Etta could never be sure what he was thinking behind his perpetual, sullen brooding. Of course, one would first have to notice him in order to wonder about his thoughts. Robert had a habit of attracting attention, and his brother tended to disappear into the background.

They were so vastly different in both appearance and temperament that they often speculated they might only be half brothers.

“You’re not at the station today?” Etta asked.

Robert shook his head. “Not on weekends. In fact, I switched onto the evening duty all next week so I can work on cottage upkeep during the day.”

Etta frowned. As someone accustomed to long workdays that was excessive even to her. “Hope we don’t have any fires next week,” she said. “You’ll be too exhausted to hold the hose.”

“Actually, we had a call last night. Barn fire over on the Chester side of town. Took us until dawn to put it out.”

“And when were you planning to sleep?”

Robert shrugged, grinning. Behind him, Daniel at last made a foray into the conversation.

“You got any hard-boiled eggs today?” he asked.

Etta nodded. “Just half a dozen. The ladies are still too cold.”

“That’s fine,” replied Robert. “It’s only the two of us that eats them. Still a dime each?”

“Family discount. Four bits for the lot.”

They made the exchange, and Etta felt better still with the coins added to the purse. The dime she planned to sneak did not seem so much now.

Daniel nodded thanks before wordlessly returning to his work.

As Etta started to move away, Robert called to her.

“Hey. You – ah – seeing Helen later?”

“We’ll probably all walk to church tomorrow. Why?”

Robert grinned again. “Just – um – tell her I say, ‘Hello.’”

Etta narrowed her eyes, bemused. “I think you say more than ‘hello’, and probably see more of her than I do.”

“You can say that again,” he grinned.

Etta blushed at the innuendo, but laughed all the same.

With the eggs sold, and not yet midday, Papa would not miss her for a couple hours. Especially if the well pump gave him trouble. Etta deposited the empty wagon near her mailbox, out of sight from the house, and continued walking. A few minutes later, she passed the Saunders’ farm. This was the home of her best friend, and Robert’s sweetheart, Helen. She and Etta had been together since before either of them could remember.

It was common for her to stop in for an impromptu visit, but Helen was likely at her job, such as it was. The two girls had vastly different notions about what constituted work. Even with Helen away, Etta would often pay a visit to Mildred, who was reliable as sunrise for motherly comfort. Such was their closeness that Etta would often refer to her as Aunt Mildred.

From the road, Etta spotted her and her husband, Peter on the far end of the family’s twelve-acre farm. Their brown dog, Max, sniffed around the freshly turned ground looking for whatever it is dogs look for. Mildred was a stoutly woman, broad in the shoulder, and short in stature. Her naturally thick and curly hair was chestnut colored like her daughter’s, but with more streaks of gray every year. It refused to lay flat against her head, despite all attempts to control it, and served to enhance her presence, making her seem taller than she actually was.

The couple had not noticed Etta as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a large sheet of paper held between them. Before them was a square of recently broken ground in what was usually the potato field. Peter was maybe the hardest-working man Etta knew; always building things when he was not busy with the crops. The Saunders’ house had nearly doubled in size by his hand over the years. While Peter had built it, Mildred made it a home.

Helen, of course, had her own opinion of her parents, but to Etta, they were worth aspiring to. She waved as she passed the property, though neither of them saw. Just as well. They were busy at the moment, and also content. Perhaps Etta would visit later in the day. This morning, she had other plans.

Casting a furtive, but unnecessary glance over her shoulder, Etta stepped onto a footpath where the road ended and the forest began. The entrance of which was almost completely hidden from casual view. Her steps were confident and without hesitation. Etta hitched up her skirts with one hand as the trail quickly inclined to a steep grade and thorny bushes pulled at her clothing.

At last, she approached what appeared to be a wall of boulders. Traversing a nearly hidden path, Etta soon emerged into a clearing. Before her, the valley spread out in a nearly unobstructed view. On one side could be seen several farms including her own. On the other was the railway and the two main roads that connected Bott’s Lake to the rest of the world.

Her town featured a number of scenic vantage points, which were popular with the out-of-towners. A few of the better ones, unfortunately, were downright lousy with them. Thankfully, many remained known only to locals. In the case of this particular one, it was a secret that only Etta was aware of. That was well, because, in her opinion, it was the best.

Etta smiled broadly as soon as she saw it. The one feature that made it entirely unique.

Right where I left you, she thought. Not that there was a chance it would suddenly move. Since she had stumbled upon it the previous summer, she feared that others would discover it as well. And then, there was a good chance she would lose it. Having lived here all her life, it amazed her that the town still had secrets to be discovered. Eyes fixed on the wondrous thing, Etta smiled dreamily as she approached.

It was a car.

An older, touring model, it was designed on the premise that it was a carriage without a horse rather than an automobile. It had no windows. The roof was more of a canopy than a proper enclosure. Driving in inclement weather would not be pleasant.

Sitting outdoors, it fell victim to rain, snow, and general exposure. All of which took their toll, especially on the upholstery. The leather of the seats was cracked and faded. Etta had once draped an old blanket across the front in an attempt to preserve it. This helped to an extent, but the winter had been a rough one, and one blanket could do only so much.

Walking in a large circle, Etta ran her hand along the exterior of the old jalopy with affection. While the seats were weathering poorly, the outside was better off. Even so, it suffered from a few errant scratches, rusty dents, and the canvas roof had torn along part of a seam. At a glance, one might be hard pressed to understand why it had been abandoned here on this lonely hilltop. A closer look would reveal that the automobile was resting at an odd angle.

One of the wheels and the connecting linkages were bent and broken, apparently smashed on the rock where it ultimately came to rest. How the former owner had managed to get to this location in the first place was another question altogether. Had Etta not found it, there was a good chance it would have simply rusted away, alone, never to be appreciated again.

Appreciate it, she certainly did. It had quickly become her favorite place, and a jealously guarded secret; not even Helen knew. Etta counted her blessings that no one else had discovered it. Then, it would just become another spot for the local kids to go and drink, or do other things. Etta could not allow that.

This was her car.

She opened the door, and sat down behind the steering wheel, pushing the damp blanket aside. The seat had, of course, seen better days, but still did its job. Gripping the steering wheel, she considered where she should go today. Maybe Boston? No. Too far. Besides, she wanted music, and New York City was the only place for that. The steering wheel was locked in place, so instead, she played with the mirrors and the knobs on the dashboard.

The pantomime only lasted for a few minutes. Perhaps it was just a bit childish, but no one was around to see. Her thoughts soon transitioned to more practical matters. She opened a box attached to the underside of the console and withdrew a folded-up piece of paper. A map. With great care, she opened it. It had survived so long, protected where it was, that it would be a shame to ruin it now through carelessness.

Discovered on one of her first visits, the map was large enough to fill the entire front seat of the jalopy, and showed the entire northern half of New Jersey. If the car was her heart’s desire, this was its soul. Her eyes immediately found a small dot, indicating the location of Bott’s Lake, and her eyes traced a path leading to a much larger dot, marked by the words “New York City.”

That’s where we’re going.

Papa’s most recent denial to let her drive the real truck was still fresh in her mind. She sighed. Since she was first introduced to cars and what they could do, Etta had been hooked. The prospect of not being limited by her own two feet teased her with possibilities. On the other hand, it had been her over-enthusiasm for driving that had resulted in tragedy. Etta’s good mood briefly faltered.

It was years ago, she thought for the second time today.

Papa would never let her drive as long as she lived here. That was the cold truth. While it was not the only reason she intended to leave, it was a major one. Looking at the map, and far away from the distractions of her daily grind, she once more considered the dot marked “New York City.”

As she had come to treasure her independence, it made sense that a car would provide the incentive for her to finally leave home. This was it, she had decided. Her last summer here. When she first came across the jalopy, it was like a sign, and through the awful winter it was never far from her thoughts. Seeing the big city on a map, just inches away, cemented her decision.

Little by little, she put money aside from what she earned selling eggs and doing odd jobs around town. It was intended to get her started wherever she ended up, and buy a one-way train ticket to get there. The jalopy, unfortunately, would have to remain behind. Despite any games she might play when no one else was watching, she never had any real hope that it would run again.

Her little nest egg had taken a long while to accumulate. To Etta it was a huge sum, and represented months of skipped meals, and extra miles walked in order to sell a few more hard-boiled eggs. In the back of her mind, she doubted whether it was enough for anything at all. She tended to dismiss these nagging feelings.

This would be her last summer on the farm, and that was that.

The bigger problem was how to tell Papa. Simply walking away one day without warning was not something Etta was prepared to do. True, they had not been as close lately, especially since Mama died, but he was still her father and the farm was a lot of work.

Every so often, she asked about hiring extra hands. After all, the place had been profitable when her brothers and sisters were alive to work it. Perhaps with help, Papa could return it to some of its former prominence. Etta frowned with the thought. Papa denied such requests without exception. Every time he did, her reluctance to leave him diminished.

Leaning back, she let her thoughts wander. There would be plenty of work waiting for her when she returned home, and there was no sense in rushing back.

It was not long before she spotted a lone vehicle driving among the farms. Cars, on this side of town were unusual, and she frowned, not recognizing it. It was not often that they received visitors, but neither was it unheard of for the occasional out-of-towner to get lost and ask for directions.

Other times, it was someone bringing bad news, like when Mama died. That had been a police car, though, and this was not. Her frown deepened as the strange visitor turned up the drive to her house.

Leaning forward in the jalopy, Etta squinted for a better look. While she could see the house and the car, any details beyond that were too small to make out. A man walked to her front door then returned to the car again. If he had come to speak with Papa, he had not waited nearly long enough, or even knocked for that matter. Watching him leave, Etta found her nerves strangely unsettled. Distracted, she sighed with the realization that her borrowed time had come to an end.

Until next time, she thought, placing an affectionate hand on the door as she stepped to the ground.

The walk back to the house did not take long, and her thoughts were never far from the mysterious visitor. Going all the way down to the bottom of the valley and back uphill again, she was breathing heavily by the time she was back on her road. Remembering to grab the cart, she started up the driveway.

Papa was standing on the front porch, reading a piece of paper when she reached him. With his back toward her, she grew nervous when he did not turn at the sound of her approach. He remained starting intently at what was in his hand. Concerned, she moved next to him.

“Are you having trouble with a word?” Etta asked, but she could immediately tell that it was not the case.

Papa read English better than he spoke it. Confirming this, he shook his head without taking his eyes off the paper. Still curious, but with increasing trepidation, Etta did the same. It took her a full minute to read it twice.

“What’s a ‘lien’?” she asked.

“I think it’s what they call it when the town takes your home,” he said, voice heavy with emotion.

Etta’s stomach was tied in a sudden knot. True, she fully intended to leave, but losing her family’s home to the town was another matter. Papa’s shaken tone was just as upsetting.

“I thought you said we weren’t going to lose the house,” she said.

Papa sighed. “And we are not… according to this, we have until the end of September to pay what is owed.”

Etta swallowed, thinking about her hoarded purse. “How much are we short by?”

“A great deal,” Papa responded. “More than what two people can make by selling eggs around town.”

Etta started to fidget, preparing herself to offer up what meager amount she had socked away. Thankfully, Papa spoke first.

“We have time,” he said abruptly. “We will let the flock grow and I will start to sell some of our eggs in Morristown. David Heckel has told me they go for a better price there.”

Etta had been there once before and could also remember its place on the map. She frowned at what her father was suggesting.

“That’s almost an hour’s drive,” Etta replied.

“It is,” he agreed. “But it will mean more money. Just a few times each week.”

“The new hens won’t start laying until the end of summer,” Etta replied, shaking her head. “Maybe even later.”

“We can sell the pullets,” he replied. “A young hen will get a good price.”

Etta remained skeptical. Selling off new hens before they could start producing was risky, and spoke of desperation. They could easily find themselves without any egg-laying birds at all. Papa noticed her disquiet, and tried to appear confident.

“It is all we can do,” he said evenly. “Now, I must finish with the water pump.”

As Papa walked away, Etta’s guilt intensified. After all, she had every intention of leaving him to work a farm by himself. Only now she knew that it was a failing one.