The Country Life 3

She looked a little over 40 when they met, and a little over 40 still. He, on the other hand, was now taller than she, a little over 40 himself, and feeling much older. He was tired, and sad once again, and he found himself glad to be back in the restful kitchen with its soft glow.

Micah the man stood up, pacing the tile floor. But it was as if Micah the boy still occupied the same chair where he’d found unexpected solace all those years ago. He was tied to this place, and tied to her, and he needed to see it clearly.

That night - his first of many in the old manor - she brought him upstairs to a small, neat, warm room with a twin bed, a nightstand, and a dresser and closet built into the wall. The oaken door to his room was taller, wider, and heavier than his old front door at home. His breath caught as he thought that thought - “at home”. She said he was home here now but he didn’t really feel it, not yet. He sat on the bed, his fingers picking uncomfortably against the soft quilt and his heels knocking against the bedframe. She chuckled.

“I gave you black tea,” she said. “I’ll do better so close to bedtime next time. It’s been quite a few years since I cared for a child, my dear. Forgive me when I’m rusty, and we’ll soon figure this out together.”

He frowned up at her. “What do you mean?”

“There was caffeine in your drink, young man. Feeling awake, are we?”

“Well… yes.” It helped to know that maybe his twitchy unease wasn’t all his own doing.

It wasn’t until years later that he realized how unlikely her statement was. Lianna didn’t make everyday mistakes. She knew how tired and uncomfortable he would be, knew how poorly he would sleep in such new surroundings. She was old enough to be wise, and she looked after his heart first.

“This is your room for as long as you want it, Micah. Can you find your way back here from downstairs?”

He smiled, snorted a little. The house wasn’t that big. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Well then, come on downstairs with me. How do you feel about checkers?”

He bounced off the bed and back into the hall. “Thank you, Miss Lianna.”

***

Later that night, she sat in her favorite rocking chair, its runners unnaturally still against the oak floor. Fire roared in the broad old woodstove set into the broader, older fireplace. Knitting and cross stitching in various stages of unfinish lay scattered among the furniture, some neatly in baskets and some tossed carelessly on a seat or armrest. A loom reclined comfortably in a corner with a mostly-finished rug worked across the weft, as if proudly displaying its utility and its beauty.

In the center of it all she sat lost among her thoughts, her knitting needles in her hands and her hands motionless in her lap. Her new houseguest - no, her new charge - snored softly on the couch, his head against the armrest and his feet dangling in the air.

Can I really do this again? The thought came to her like a muffled scream, and a panic started to rise in her belly. She took a deep breath.

***

They fell into an uneasy routine over the next weeks, slowly settling into one another. As the days shortened into fall she woke the little boy before dawn each morning to a simple farm-fresh breakfast. The aronia berries (which she called chokeberries) were still coming in, and the apples were just starting to ripen. When he stumbled downstairs in the morning, dressed for school but hair still rumpled with sleep, he would find simple delicacies waiting for him - chicken-apple sausage on a biscuit, pancakes with chokeberry syrup, fig jam and fresh brown bread just out of the oven.

She would sit with him while he ate, nursing a travel mug at the kitchen table, still wearing her flour-covered apron. Sometimes she’d bring her knitting in from the parlor and he’d eat to the sound of her needles clicking. Some mornings they sat in a sleepy, companionable silence. Sometimes they talked, and the warm kitchen would reflect the mood of the conversation back to them - echoing a peal of laughter, or the quiet sounds of silverware clinking with their conversation… and once in a while the sound of tears. He never cried more than a few, though, working hard to stay away from the flood he knew was somewhere inside him. He had to keep going, had to figure out how to take care of himself now, and he couldn’t do that sitting in a puddle of his own tears.

She won him with food and friendship, a little at a time, this lonely quiet boy who had lost so much. He began to trust her steady presence, even in the times they spent apart.

In the afternoons he would come home to find the house quiet. “I have terrible insomnia,” she told him, “so I often sleep during the day. Don’t ask me why I can sleep while the sun’s out and not in the night hours like I should, but I take my naps when I can get them.

“You won’t disturb me as long as you stay out of the basement. That’s where my bedroom is. I can’t hear much that goes on up here. Just let me sleep ‘til I wake, and the house is yours in the afternoons. Deal?”

So he would come home to find a snack laid out on the table for him. He ate in the sunny kitchen, washed and put away his dishes, and then had the afternoons to himself. He’d do his homework at the same bright kitchen table, and then spend the next few hours outdoors with the two dogs following his every move.

He got to know every corner of the farm in the first few weeks. Slowly, she began asking his help with simple chores. He would walk the fences after school, checking for holes and learning to mend wires. He wandered the ponds and the woods, slowly getting to recognize each sheep in the flock and each chicken in the pen. Before long he had a steady animal round after his snack and homework - check the fences, turn on the sprinkler over the dahlia beds when the days were hot and humid, collect eggs from the chicken house, note which feeds were low, marking them for delivery on the clipboard in the barn.

His last chore before dinner was bringing a wheelbarrow load of timothy hay to the rabbits from the barn, with a few handfuls of greens from the garden beds. As he worked his way down the rows of cages and checked their water, he found he hummed to himself as the weeks went on. Having good, simple work for the hands, he found, was good for his head and his heart.

Dropping the wheelbarrow back in the shop by the forge and foundry, he’d walk through the clover and flower beds toward the backdoor of the main house. Most nights, he’d hear Lianna humming in the kitchen as he kicked his boots off inside the back door. It seemed she was happier when her hands were moving, too.

She’d be back in her apron, working on dinner - usually chicken or rabbit from the freezer and greens from the garden, along with apple sauce or chokeberry jam. There was always some kind of fresh bread on the table, covered with a cloth and waiting for him.

Their evenings were all different, but all spent together. If he’d been out in bad weather she’d have hot chocolate and a fire waiting, and the checkers board out. If it was nice outside, they’d walk the gardens, both flower and vegetable, and tend what needed tending under the stars. She always liked to feed the animals herself, so she’d refill automatic feeders and waterers in the dark, showing him how the mechanics worked and where things were stored. Bedtime was never set by the clock, but came when he began to yawn and his eyelids grew heavy - fairly early, considering his early mornings.

And so they built a rhythm to their days, the foundling boy and the woman who loved the night. But on this evening, he didn’t hear her hum in the kitchen as he walked up the back steps. Something was different. The quiet that lay over the house felt more wintry than it should have in the September air.

A man in a plaid sweater sat at the kitchen table. Micah noticed with a detached sort of interest that the man was sitting in his seat - and then with a little more interest, that he had come to think of that particular spot at the kitchen table as his. He was biting into a piece of Lianna’s sourdough bread - one of Micah’s favorites. Micah’s stomach growled. Suddenly, the boy felt a little resentful that this man was inhabiting his spot, eating bread meant for him. He began to feel wary.

The man smiled personably at Micah. His hair was dark, and his skin had a coppery-bronze tone that Micah found… pretty, actually. The man’s brown eyes connected with the boy’s and he spoke gently, but firmly.

“Hi Micah. My name is Brandon. I’m a social worker with Child Protective Services. It’s my job to check in with you and see how you’re doing from time to time.”

Lianna frowned. “I’m his godmother, and it was his parents’ wish that I look after him if anything happened to them. It was in their will. Isn’t it enough that I’m his guardian?” Micah noticed that her back was even more straight than usual, and her face was severe in a way that he had never seen before. Her expression was lined with more layers than he could translate. He wished he didn’t feel so young.

Brandon patted the seat at the table across from him, and Micah sat down in Lianna’s usual chair, looking to her uncertainly. Her expression broke with a tight smile, the layers of meaning suddenly hidden like the moon behind clouds. “It’s ok, Micah. Have a seat. I prefer to stand anyway.” She wiped her hands on her ever-present apron, though he could see that she hadn’t yet started on their dinner.

“Miz Lianna, could I talk with Micah for a few minutes alone?” Brandon asked suddenly. It was obvious he was trying to keep his voice friendly, but a note of… fear? concern? crept into his voice.

Lianna sighed. She looked at Micah. “That’s up to you my dear. If you’re comfortable talking to Brandon by yourself, I’ll be just out in the front gardens. Just call from the front door and I’ll come.”

Micah frowned, but nodded. Lianna rested a hand on his shoulder for a brief second. Brandon watched that hand shrewdly, almost hungrily. Lianna left the kitchen without looking at her guest. For a moment her face was an almost inhuman mask, old beyond measure, fierce as if making ready for battle. Only Micah saw. He shifted in his seat.

“Micah, I just need to ask you a few things. Are you happy here?

Micah considered his answer. “I miss my parents. I wish I were still at home with them. But I can’t be, I do know that. And I really like Miss Lianna. She’s funny, and she’s good at checkers, and she makes really good bread.”

Brandon laughed and started to offer Micah a slice of the sourdough, pausing suddenly to take in his dirty hands and overalls. “Wash your hands, please. Does she have you working here?”

Micah got up and went to the sink, speaking over the sound of running water as he soaped his hands.

“I shouldn’t have forgotten. I usually do this as soon as I come in. You surprised me,” he said.

“I do some chores after school - only once I’m done with my homework. Easy things, but it helps me learn my way around. And I feel better when I’m doing something with my hands. I…” he dropped his voice and his eyes. “I don’t think about my mom as much.”

“I can understand that.” Brandon said. “It’s good that you’re finding ways to keep busy. But do you feel like you’re taken care of here?”

Micah pointed at the bread. “She cooks something fresh like this every day. I have a bedroom that’s warm and clean, and we have fun together. Is that what you mean?”

“That’s a lot of it, yes. There are other things, though. Do you spend a lot of time alone? Do you stay clean? I hear from your counselor at school that sometimes your hands and hair are dirty when you come in.”

Micah blushed. “I’m still learning how to get everything done with the long bus ride. The bus just comes so early! She always makes sure I sit and eat breakfast, but if I don’t have time to shower she says I can do it in the afternoon after my chores.”

“And do you?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I forget.”

“That’s ok. It can be a lot to remember at 6 years old. Doesn’t Miz Lianna remind you?”

“She has trouble sleeping at night so she’s usually asleep when I get home. She always makes sure I get dinner and we spend some time together in the evenings, but sometimes we both forget until later. And I don’t like going to bed with my hair wet. It tangles,” he said plaintively.

“She says we’re both still figuring this out. She tells me, ‘Those things will get easier with time.’”

“She’s right.” Said Brandon. I do know that you’re both going through a big change right now. But it’s my job to make sure you’re happy, safe, and cared for like a parent would care for you. That’s why I have to ask these questions.”

“Miss Lianna is a great person!” Micah said, starting to worry. Had he said something wrong? Would he have to leave? He was just starting to be comfortable here!

“I don’t doubt that, Micah,” Brandon said, with a face that made it seem like he very much doubted that.

“How often are you alone in the afternoons?”

“Well, I’m not really. I have the animals, and then Mrs. McKinnon’s phone number is on the refrigerator in case I have any problems before Miss Lianna gets up. But she doesn’t get up until sunset most days.”

He paused. Had he ever seen her before sunset? It seemed like he saw her more lately, but the days were getting shorter. Then he realized what he’d said. “But she always makes sure there’s food out for me when I get home and that I have everything I need. She helps me with my homework at night. Sometimes we even go out in the gardens or work with the animals together. I have plenty of company and I always feel safe.” He rushed through to the end, trying to fix what he’d said. To an adult, “she leaves me alone all afternoon” couldn’t sound good. But it didn’t feel wrong. It felt comfortable.

Brandon smiled. “And what do you do out in the gardens? How about when you play games at night?”

Micah hesitated. He wasn’t completely sure what he was being asked. “We play checkers a lot. And she’s teaching me how to recognize all her different flowers. Sometimes she lets me pet the baby bunnies.”

“What time to you go to bed?”

“Usually when I get tired. I don’t look at the clock every night, but it’s usually 8 or 9 or 10. One time I got to stay up and watch a meteor shower!” he said enthusiastically. Then he hestitated. “But it wasn’t that late.”

“And does Miss Lianna put you to bed?”

“Sometimes if she’s working on her cross stitch or knitting she’ll stay in her chair by the fire, but usually she walks up to my room with me. So far she says good night and leaves me at the door. She’s offered to tuck me in or ready me a story but it just reminds me too much of my mom and dad. I don’t think I’m ready yet.” He looked at Brandon with worried eyes. “It’s not her fault thought. It’s mine.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Micah.”

“She does come in sometimes if I have a bad dream, though. She’ll come up and sit on the bed and wake me up. I always feel better after she holds my hand for a minute.”

“Does she ever do anything besides hold your hand?”

“A couple times she’s given me a hug, but I always want to cry when I get hugs,” said Micah, embarrassed. “So I try not to hug too much.”

“I hope that will change with time, buddy,” said Brandon.

Micah sighed. “Everybody talks about time.”

“Sometimes it’s the only thing that really helps. But eventually, it will.”

Micah looked up. “Do you really think so?”

“I do.”

Brandon’s fingers steepled together over his bread plate.

“Does she do anything besides hug you?”

“I mean, she puts a hand on my shoulder or her arm around me sometimes, especially if we’re outside after dark.”

It came to him uncomfortably what Brandon might really be asking. Did he mean things like kissing???. “But she’s just looking after me. She doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable,” he said, uncertain how to put his worry into words.

Brandon nodded. “Good to hear.”

They stared at each other across the table for what seemed like minutes. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” Brandon finally said.

Micah wasn’t sure what would help or what would hurt, so he just said “No.” Then he filled his mouth with fresh sourdough.

“Ok,” Brandon answered with a smile. “You can go get Miz Lianna.”

Micah scampered out the front door and into the gardens as quickly as his legs could carry him. He didn’t really like being alone with Brandon. It felt like a test at school, and he didn’t know the answers.

“Miss Lianna?” he called into the darkness.

“Here!” she replied. He found her sitting on a wooden bench inspecting a bed of dahlias. In the dark, he couldn’t tell whether her eyes were wet from tears or just catching the light from the front porch lamp. He put his small hand on top of hers.

“He asked me some questions and I tried to answer right,” he said simply.

“As long as you were honest and told the truth I’m sure you did just fine,” she told him. “Brandon just wants to make sure you’re safe and cared for. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Do you feel safe and cared for?”

“Yes.” He said it stoutly, wanting her to know how much it meant to him but not really able to put it into words. She smiled. “Good. That’s all that matters to me. Come along.”

She took his hand and they walked up the brick walk and into the brightly lit farmhouse together.

They found Brandon with his hand on the door to the basement. “Excuse me,” said Lianna sharply, “but this is my home. You’re about to enter my bedroom, and I’d rather you didn’t.

Brandon took his hand off the doorknob. “My apologies. I do understand. Just checking the house for dangers.”

“Well, it is a working farm. There’s a foundry and a forge, and a shop where we butcher our own animals.” She said all this with an edge to her voice. “But I keep the tools neatly in the outbuildings and Micah knows the rules. He stays away from anything with an edge on it, don’t you Micah?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said keenly, thinking with some fear about the time he’d spent in the butchery looking eagerly at the big blades hung on the walls and the hooks suspended from the ceiling. He wondered if his worry showed on his face, and tried to keep it blank. Brandon raised an eyebrow. “Alright,” he said simply. Then, to Micah, “You know those places are dangerous, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you were to be injured we might have to find another… situation… for you. Please listen to Miz Lianna’s rules, ok?”

“Yes, sir,” Micah said again, meaning it sincerely.

When Lianna asked if Brandon wanted to stay for dinner, even Micah could hear that it was an insincere offer. But Brandon accepted blandly, so Micah found himself sitting awkwardly at the kitchen table with this strange man while Lianna served them both.

“Don’t you want to join us?” Brandon’s glance at Lianna was almost suspicious.

“No thank you,” she said tightly. “As you can see it would be pretty crowded, and I prefer to eat later in the evening anyway.” Micah watched Brandon raise that eyebrow again. He was learning to dislike the gesture, and maybe the man.

Micah hesitated internally. Had he ever seen her eat? She had never eaten dinner with him, but he hadn’t seen her eat later, either - just the ever-present wine glass that sat at her elbow as she worked on her needlepoint or sat across from him at dinner. He noticed that it wasn’t out tonight. Maybe she liked to eat later to take up some of the quiet night hours when she couldn’t sleep? He shrugged internally and turned his attention to her herbed roast chicken.

Brandon smacked his lips after the first bite. “Well, you’re certainly feeding him well,” he said. “This is delicious.”

Her smile was a little more believable this time. “Thank you. It’s an old family recipe.”

He was just as appreciative of her brussels sprouts, and the apple-pear muffin she served each of them for dessert with aronia jam. Before Micah knew it, Brandon was at the door, thanking Lianna as she closed it a little too abruptly behind him.

“Well, that could have been worse,” she said as she entered the kitchen again, lifting her apron from its hook by the door and placing it back around her neck. “I’m sure he’ll come back to check on you again - and if he doesn’t, someone else will. Just answer their questions honestly, dear. It’s not every single old broad who wants to take in a child without having some ulterior motive. But all we’re doing is working together to making sure you’re cared for and help you be your best self, ok? No one can fault us for that.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” He said it simply, and paused as tears threatened to spill over again. She put her hand on his head and kissed his hair quickly, before he could protest.

He found himself leaning his head against her stomach, ignoring the flour on her apron. For the first time since he’d come to Flaxen Farm, he let the tears flow.