The hay wasn’t the finest horse quality, but it would do okay for cattle. She’d sell out of her seven-hundred-pound round bales by February. The quality was good, but Harry, fussy about nutrition, only square-baled her alfalfa—orchard-grass mix for the horses. She also had twenty acres in timothy and alfalfa. Perfect hay. Naturally she’d cut and baled that first, having gotten half of it up before the hydraulic pump expired.
Susan, happy to be outside, was running the spider-wheel tedder, turning cut hay to dry while Harry mowed down the cattle hay. Susan had always loved farm work. When they were kids, she’d often begged Harry’s parents to let her help.
Harry and her friends were bound by hoops of iron. It wasn’t just the years, it was the accumulated births, passings, victories, defeats—the sheer intensity of the experiences they’d shared. They knew one another’s weaknesses and strengths. Observing the various generations, they noticed downright peculiarities popping up again and again, parent to child, and so on. Even if there was a Nobel Prize for intelligent farming and Harry had won it, it wouldn’t mean as much as what she felt for her friends and what they felt for her. Naturally, she believed that her friends had more peculiarities than she did. They felt the same way about her. Never was there a shortage of laughter.
Even with her husband. Sometimes the two of them would laugh so much they’d fall out of bed. Fair’s motto was “If you can’t laugh while making love, you aren’t making love.” Well put, Harry agreed.
“She’s methodical.” Mrs. Murphy admired Harry’s system.
Pewter observed Harry, who was now off the tractor and swinging the polo whip, the grasses bending over. Carefully, Harry covered much of the field she intended to cut. She did this in sections. Her whistle carried even to the hayloft.
“She is. Humans learned to be patient and precise from us. They watched us hunt, stay still, figure out where the quarry is. They’re alive because of us, you know.” Pewter puffed up.
“Hoo. Hoo. Hoo,” Flatface, on her nest in the cupola, called down. “Cats aren’t as important as owls. The Egyptians carved beautiful friezes of us. The Greeks put us in their myths, and I remind you, Fatty Screwloose, that we are sacred to Athena—an owl accompanied her. No cat traveled to Mount Olympus.”
Pewter, voice low, grumbled, “I hate it when she calls me Fatty Screwloose.”
Mrs. Murphy whispered, “Keep it to yourself. She’s strong enough to pick you up in her talons. Flatface is powerful and smart—very, very smart.” The tiger cat then called up to the huge owl, “You’re right, but there was a tiger cat in baby Jesus’s cradle. It was so cold we kept the baby warm.”
“Might could be. Human stories interest me. Some of them are beautiful. With others, you can tell right away they’re off their nut. Leda and the swan. Now, I tell you, why would Zeus seduce a woman as a swan?”
“Bet you’re right.” Pewter decided to humor the big girl.
“He would have come down as an owl.” Flatface issued this judgment with absolute conviction.
The owl looked through the slats in the cupola.
The cats, too, saw the doe and fawn run away from Harry.
“Good she did that,” Mrs. Murphy said.
“The fawn so often gets killed.” Flatface turned her head at that odd angle that birds can. “They hear that fearsome racket, but the mama has told the baby to stay. She runs away, thinking she might well divert the danger, and, wham, the fawn is ripped up by the equipment. If Harry had killed that fawn, she’d be a wreck for all this week.”
“She knows animals. Softhearted, so softhearted.” The tiger cat smiled. “She gives to the animal shelter. Tight as she is, she’ll give money to panhandlers even. I wish she wouldn’t.”
“Why?” Pewter asked.
“So many of those people lie. They can work. A lot of them are drunks. It’s a scam. I don’t like to see her fall for a sob story.”
“Why don’t they just die?” Pewter remarked. “Any animal that doesn’t find its food, work for it, dies except them. They keep everyone going no matter how useless. It’s sick.” Pewter watched as Harry reached the edge of the pasture, which bordered the strong-running, deep-sided creek. “Well, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know if it’s sick, but it’s wasteful.” Mrs. Murphy considered the subject.
Flatface called down, “Humans think human life is more important than any other kind of life. Ego. All ego.”
“Harry’s not like that. She treasures life. Susan, Fair, and BoomBoom do, too.” Mrs. Murphy felt a flash of pride as Harry crossed back to the tractor and waved to Susan, careful to walk in her same steps so as not to tramp down more hay.
“The exceptions prove the rule,” Flatface countered, then called down, “Someone’s coming. I don’t know who it is.”
A snoozing Tucker awakened when the car reached a quarter mile from the house. If awake, the dog would have heard the tread all the way down to the mailbox, almost a mile away.
“Intruder.”
Harry heard the bark. She called to Susan, climbed up on the tractor, and—grateful the hydraulics were working—lifted the non-rotating bush hog up off the ground, as she’d shut off the PTO. Then she drove back to the house—where she beheld the alluring WRX STI.
“Harry.” Victor Gatzembizi greeted her, stepping out of the Subaru. “You could appear in a John Deere ad. You look darned good on a tractor.”
Swinging down, she replied, “Thank you. Victor, I am so sorry for all your troubles. Come on in and let’s have a cold drink together.”
“Thank you, but I’ve got to get back to the shop.” He turned as another car approached. “Jason’s driving me back.”
“How about if I give you both cold drinks to go?” She ran into the house, returning with two cans of iced tea. “Nothing’s as good as the tea you make yourself, but these aren’t so bad.”
“Thank you.” Victor took the cans and walked back to Jason, who was driving a Nissan Altima, newly repaired and out for a test spin.
“Nice car. I see so many of those on the road,” Harry remarked.
“Nissan, Subaru, Toyota. Good cars, but I’m telling you, the Koreans are catching up fast. Really fast.” Victor reached into the shiny black WRX STI and pulled out the keys, handing them to her. “I can’t stand to look at this car right now and neither can Mrs. Ashby. You keep it, drive it until after July fourth, and then tell me what you think.”
Harry hesitated a moment, thought about the circumstances. “I really don’t see how I can afford this, but I’ll keep it until then. I can imagine that seeing Nick’s car might be difficult.”
He shook his head. “Three men, all from my shop. I can’t find any connection other than that they worked for me. Not one of them played around with drugs, stuff like that. I even had a wild thought about one of them bringing in illegal immigrants. I’ve tried to think of anything that would be high profit, against the law. What is there but drugs and workers?”
“Prostitution.”
“Harry, I know Bobby, Nick, and Walt didn’t go that route. Watching porn, well”—he shrugged his shoulders—“probably, but paying a hooker? No.”
“I meant running a high-class or even low-class hooking ring. I bet you there’d be takers in the audience at drag racing.”
An astonished look crossed his regular, pleasant features. “Uh, I never thought of that. Anyone ever tell you you have an unusual mind?”