Jerry said, "When we go camping, I'll have my own tent and you won't be allowed in."
"Dad didn't buy any tents," I said.
"I'll make a lean-to," he said. "I won't let you in."
Clover said, "I'm going camping, too."
"You won't like camping," Jerry said. "You'll cry. So will April."
"I don't think we're going camping," I said.
"Then what's all this stuff for?" Jerry said. We were crouched in the back of the pickup with the paper bags and boxes. "Where are we going?"
"Just away from here." After I said it I believed it.
April said, "I like it here. I don't want to go away. The summer's my favorite."
"Charlie doesn't know anything," Jerry said. "He's a thicko. That's why he has poison ivy."
Clover said, "I saw him scratching it."
"It's like a disease," April said. "Get away from me — I don't want to catch your disease!"
I hated having to sit there with those silly ignorant children, and it seemed to me as if, with Father driving madly past these beautiful hills and fields and the orchards that were so new with blossoms they had not lost a single petal, we were going to smash into a brick wall. I expected something sudden and painful, because everything in these last few days had been unusual. The kids did not know that, but I had been with Father, and overheard him, and I had seen things that had not fitted with what I knew. Even familiar things, like that scarecrow — it had been upraised like a demon and struck terror into me.
I said, "Something is going to happen to us."
"That makes me feel funny." Clover said.
I did not say what had occurred to me while Father was shopping in Springfield — Father was a disappointed man. He was angry and disgusted. But if he was aiming to do something drastic, he would take care of us. We were always part of his plans.
When we got to the town of Florence, he pulled to the side of the road and called out, "Charlie, you come with me. The rest of you stay put."
We had been here a little over a month ago, buying seeds. Today we went back to the same seed store. It was dry and spidery in the store. It smelled of burlap bags. And the dust from the seeds and husks stung my rash and made it itch.
"You again." It was a voice from behind a row of fat sacks. The man came out spanking dust from his apron. He had deep creases in his face, and his gaze went straight to my poison ivy.
"Mr. Sullivan," Father said, handing the man a piece of paper, "I need fifty pounds each of these. Hybrids, the highest-yield varieties you have, and if they're treated for mildew so much the better. I want them sealed in waterproof bags, the heavy-duty kind. I need them today. I mean, right now."
"You're all business, Mr. Fox." The man took a pair of glasses out of his apron pocket, blew on the lenses, and, pulling them over his ears, examined the piece of paper. "I can manage this." He looked over the tops of his lenses at Father. "But you and Polski have some work ahead of you if you're planning to get all this seed in the ground. It's a little late, ain't it?"
Father said, "It's winter in Australia. They're harvesting pumpkins in Mozambique, and they're raking leaves in Patagonia. In China, they're just putting their pajamas on."
"I didn't realize Chinamen wore pajamas."
"They don't wear anything else," Father said. "And in Honduras they're still plowing."
"What's that?"
But Father ignored him. He was choosing envelopes from a rack of flower seeds that said burpee. "Morning-glories," he said. "They love sunshine, and they'll remind me of Dogtown."
What with the sacks of seeds and the bags and boxes of camping equipment, there was not much room for us kids in the back of the pickup truck. I dreaded all the lugging we would have to do, but when we got home, Father said, "Leave everything just where it is. I'll put a tarp over it in case it rains."
"Dad, are we going somewhere?" Clover asked.
"We sure are, Muffin."
"Camping?" Jerry asked.
"Sort of."
"Then how come we aren't packing our bags?" April asked.
"Simply because you're not packing your bags it doesn't mean you're not going anywhere. Ever hear of traveling light? Ever hear of dropping everything and clearing out?"
I was in the kitchen with Mother, listening to this. I said, "Ma, what's he talking about? Where are we going?"
She came over to me and pressed my head against the bib of her apron. She said, "Poor Charlie. When you've got something on your mind, you look like a little old man. Don't worry, everything's going to be all right."
"Where?" I asked again.
"Dad will tell us, when he's ready," she said.
She had no idea! She knew as little as we did. I felt very close to her at that moment, and there was a solution of love and sadness in my blood. But there was more, because she was perfectly calm. Her loyalty to Father gave me strength. Though it did not take away any of my sadness, her belief made me believe and helped me share her patience. And yet I pitied her, because I pitied myself for not knowing more than I did.
In the afternoon, Father seemed relaxed. He made no move to work. He spent two hours on the telephone, a very rare thing — not his heckling, but the amount of time. "I'm speaking from Hatfield, Massachusetts!" he said into the phone, as if he were calling for help. Normally, we would have been out in the truck, making the rounds of the farm, but this afternoon we were free. He told us to go play on our bicycles, and when he was finished on the phone ("We're in luck!") he went into his workshop and scooped up his tools, whistling the entire time.
Around four o'clock, he went into the house. He came out a little while later with an envelope in his hand. He was still whistling. He told me to take it over to Polski.
Polski, wearing rubber mitts, was hosing his Jeep when I arrived.
"Your vash is lookun better." he said. "What have you got for me?"
I handed him the letter. He shut off the hose and said, "I was going to give you a quarter for doing the Jeep, but I couldn't see hide nor hair of you this morning." He ripped open the envelope and held the letter at arm's length to read it. On it were the bold loops of Father's beautiful handwriting — a short message. It hurt me that by not allowing me to go to school, Father was preventing me from learning to write like this. I knew that he had learned this elegant script at school, and seeing it made me feel weak and stupid.
Polski had started to spit and sigh. He said, "I'll be goddamned" and "So that's how it is, is it?"
His face was as gray as old meat. I wanted to go away, but he said, "Charlie, come on over here. I've got something to say to you. Want a cookie? How about a nice glass of milk?"
I said fine, though I would rather have had the quarter for washing the Jeep, or just permission to go away, because Polski's friendliness, like Father's, always included a little lecture. We went up to the piazza. He sat me down in the glider and said, "Be vight back." I looked across the asparagus fields and saw in the goldy afternoon light the river and the trees. Our own house sat small and solemn on its rectangle of garden. It had a gold roof and its piazza roof was an eyebrow and its paint was as white as salt.
Polski came out with a glass of milk and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. I drank some milk and took a cookie.