Carolyn stepped onto the front porch, sliding her bare feet over the painted boards and trying to breathe quietly. They were talking, and she thought she heard her name in their conversation. She sat on the floor, pressed her ear against the screen door, and listened to Grandma and Frieda inside the house.
“Can’t keep her busy enough.”
“Have her clean out cupboards,” Frieda said.
“I tried that. She told me that cupboard cleaning is a winter job for when you’re cooped up inside.”
“Oh, my.”
“And yesterday when I gave her a list of chores, she took a pencil and crossed off the ones she didn’t want to do,” Grandma said.
“She did that, huh?”
“Yes, and when I’m in the middle of kneading the dough she wants me to play cards.”
“Teach her how to make bread,” Frieda said.
“Tried that. She lost her ring in the dough. Then she told me she didn’t like the feel of the mushy dough on her hands so she wasn’t going to do this anymore. She walked out the door.”
“You’ve got yourself a live wire.”
“She’s wearing me out,” Grandma sighed. “I can see why her mom can’t handle her and wants to send her away in the fall.”
“Where would she send her?” asked Frieda.
“To a boarding school in Wisconsin. The Franciscans run it.”
“Oh, I hate to see a child leave home so early.”
“But Marceline can’t control her anymore. You know, she got in trouble with the law. Stole a watch and camera from Walgreen’s. And it wasn’t the first time she was caught shoplifting. And her mom caught her and a friend drinking. Can you imagine an 11 year old doing that?”
Carolyn couldn’t stand it any longer. She hadn’t known her mom was thinking of sending her away to boarding school. She jumped up and took off, flying over the three wooden front steps and landing on the sidewalk with a thud, knocking over a pot of geraniums. Grandma would be mad, but Carolyn didn’t give a rat’s behind.
She slammed the gate and took off across the yard toward the barn. The gravel was hard on her bare feet but she kept on running, past the flatbed wagon Delbert left there and past the wheelbarrow of manure and in through the barn door, climbing over a gate, stepping on the straw and over the cow pies until she reached the ladder.
While she climbed up into the hay loft, the dust floated in the air and she could hardly breathe. She didn’t stop at the landing but kept on climbing until she reached the rafters and on hands and knees crawled across the plank that took her to the ladder in the center of the barn. It led to the cupola–her hideaway. Grandma told her not to go there but she did anyway. She pulled herself up, hand over hand on the dusty rungs, scaring the pigeons from their roost on the window sills. When she reached the top where it was bright from the sunlight, she swung her leg over to the platform.
She found the red bandanna she’d left there and wiped a spot clean on the wooden ledge. She wasn’t going to sit in pigeon crap. Then she plunked herself down on the ledge, surrounded by four dirty windows that were propped open with blocks of wood. She felt air on her face, but it didn’t cool her. She looked out onto the fields. The corn and beans were only a few inches high and the breeze ruffled their fragile leaves. To the west she saw Silver Lake circled by thick cottonwoods and oaks. This was the highest spot on the farm and she felt important being above everything. No one could touch her or get to her.
– T.C., The Secret of Sister Jerome – Novella Submission
Reader: OK, so we have a restless, unhappy (?) 11-year old, on a farm, possibly lonely, definitely not having a good time with Grandma. “Now what?” this reader asks. I definitely recognize the scene although not the restless, nothing is worth doing attitude. When I spent time on a farm, the entire experience was one long set of exclamations: “Geeze, I didn’t know cows made so much manure,” as I swept out that part of the barn. And I definitely didn’t know how to handle the hen who refused to give up her eggs. I thought I would lose my hand to her pecking. I knew there must be a better way, but in desperation, I finally grabbed her with both hands and flung her out and aside. She flew to the hen house door which was shut and bounced, flapping, and hit me on the head. So, what’s with this girl? How come she isn’t as willing to lend a hand? Making bread with Grandma? Great idea, although it was my Aunts who made this possible. In short, I like the scene, I hope to get to know this 11-year old girl who is sitting in the cupola of the barn. This may turn out to be fun.
