Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
THE HOMESTEAD
Saturday morning broke bright. Brighter than anything we’d seen in years.
I’d prayed for a brief respite. Nothing too grand, just an hour or two’s break from the constant haze.
But now that I’d gotten my wish, the unfamiliar light forked my eyes.
I stared through the kitchen window at the bonafide sunlight and noticed with a little shock that it almost looked like April.
My first April without Momma. This was her favorite time of year when her twin apple trees blurred into soft pink clouds, sweet and buzzing with bees.
In a way, I was happy she couldn’t see the stripped bare limbs, feeble and pointing in their confusion.
A patch of blue stained the sky. Maybe it was a parting gift from Momma. Better than the moth-eaten quilt collection she’d left me. Did this mean she’d found her footing in heaven? Was she settled in with Daddy and making a nice place for the rest of us?
“Bit a blue out here,” Granma called from the kitchen steps. “Come on up this ladder,” she barked.
I dried the last breakfast bowl and turned it upside down in the cupboard to keep the grit out.
“I’m coming.” I grabbed my broom and bounced down the kitchen steps. Next to the house, Granma held the ladder steady in her knobby fingers. Her gaze was fixed on something far away.
I climbed the rungs up to the tin roof and swept a clear spot to stand on. That blue patch above Copper Creek stretched into a quilt of cornflower sky.
“I’d forgotten,” I whispered to myself.
“What’s that?” Granma called from the steps. Her broom pushed the new dust off the planks as I worked above her. If we didn’t sweep the heavy dirt off the roof every day, it might cave in like Farmer Allen’s. We’d be buried like his wife and never heard from again.
Granma’s question irked me. I’d said those words quiet enough for even the wind to miss them, but sometimes Granma rifled through my thoughts hearing things that weren’t for her ears. Some things that hadn’t even been spoken.
“I just forgot how beautiful the sky is.” I called down, letting a little bit of happiness chase my irritation away. “Maybe it’s a sign.”
Granma made a non-committal sound and kept sweeping. I did too. Hope was a wine we didn’t uncork in these parts.
But that blue…it meant something.
“Mercy Estelle MacEvoy, are you still up there?” Granma growled up from the kitchen steps. “It’s nearly lunch. Where’s the eggs?”
I startled awake just in time to see my broom slide over the edge of the roof.
I sat up and looked back at the outline I’d left in dust on the rusting tin.
The shape of laziness Granma would say if she could see it.
Luckily, the roof was not her domain. It was mine.
It was my third favorite place. From that spot I could see my second favorite place—Copper Creek cliff.
I called it a cliff but it wasn’t more than six feet in height.
Just a grassy bit of dirt and stone the jack rabbits used for their warrens.
Over the years, I’d excavated one of those dens until it was wide enough to fit my lanky form if I folded just right.
A sanctuary where I could hide away from the world. And the jacks didn’t seem to mind.
My first favorite place was, of course, in my room with my maps and globe. I studied them every day. Knowing about other places outside of the dust lifted a stone from my shoulders. One day, I’d leave and see it all for myself.
The day was so bright and clear, I could see all the way north to the flat top mesas where the whirlwinds wandered all day.
Some say that was where the hungry went to leave their bones.
I think that story was just to keep us from climbing near the rattlesnake dens.
The dust had settled there today except for a small trail of disruption following the heels of a rider.
I squinted at the tall figure sitting atop an even taller horse.
I’d seen him before, riding the empty land, searching for signs of life as the farmers did.
The rider stopped and turned my way as if he’d felt my eyes upon him.
I looked away and squinted west to the dunes where Daddy’s wheat once grew. Depending on the dust on any given day, I could see all the way to town.
“Town!” I’d slept through half the market. I had egg orders to fill.
I scrambled along the slippery metal and tossed my legs over the side. Thankfully, the ladder was still there. The wind found the hem of my dress and blew it up high enough for Granma to see I was wearing Momma’s best undies—the white ones with the little red polka dots.
“Lord and the Promised Land,” was all Granma said before the kitchen door slammed shut behind her.
I scurried down, raced to the hen house, and filled two baskets as fast as I could.
“Wash ‘em good. Nobody wants dirty eggs,” Granma hollered through the window as I leaned on the pump. If I ran, I might catch a few of my customers before they left the market.
“Run!” Granma yelled from the window. I wished she’d stay out of my thoughts.
I ran. Fast.