The Barn Page 3

  I let it be.

  At last we fell to eating, and it was more like old times, with noise and messiness. And all the while Father sat there. Sometimes he shifted about or made his gargle sounds. Or blinked. Now and again I fed him.

  But halfway through the dinner, his head drooped forward. On the instant, our happiness fled.

  “What’s happened?” Harrison said to me, as if I could explain all things about Father.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “I think he’s asleep,” Nettie said. “Exhausted from saying yes.”

  I grinned with pleasure. Harrison nodded.

  The three of us worked to get him out of the chair and back in his bed.

  Softly, so as not to have him notice, we returned to the table.

  “This mean he’s getting better?” Harrison wondered out loud.

  “I hope ….”

  Nettie said, “Maybe he could do that blinking before, and we just didn’t notice.”

  “It took Ben to think of it,” Harrison said.

  “No,” I answered, “Nettie’s right. We’re going to have to watch and find out if he can do more.”

  But when I turned back to Father, he lay asleep, as still as a field in winter.

  Over the next few days, it became certain that Father was answering yes-or-no questions with his eyes, that he could, in his fashion, understand and be with us. During the days, he became almost a comfort to me.

  However, yes blinks and no looks only went so far. The plain truth was, there were no more improvements. And he was growing thinner all the time.

  One rainy day, three weeks after I’d come home, I was in the house alone with Father. As I recollect, the rain was not so hard as to keep Harrison and Nettie in. They and the oxen were at work felling trees. With Father abed, we used the fire more, and wood was low. I was sitting by Father’s bed, trying to read him some of Pilgrim’s Progress. Wind gusts beat down the chimney and made the house smoky. The light was dull, and it was difficult to read. Besides, I still knew nothing of what he took from my efforts.

  Our roof was thick enough, but here and there it leaked some. From time to time I stuck plugs of grass into the cracks. After a while I naturally thought of the lean-to. Knowing it leaked worse than the house, I said to Father, “I’m going to patch the roof of the lean-to. Do you understand?”

  He blinked his understanding.

  I found it was not just the roof that leaked but the walls as well. The cow and mule were standing deep in mud — which is bad for their hooves — and kept shifting about to avoid the seeping wet.

  I brought in some grass to soak up the rain under their feet and began to plug the lean-to roof. The plugging worked well enough, but I saw how poor that place had become. I suppose that’s what made me think more about a barn.

  Father had been talking about a barn before he was struck. And it was mention of a barn that allowed me to see he could understand us and give answers with his eyes. Suddenly it came to me how I might be able to stir life back into him.

  I ran to the house to sit with Father again. I was dripping wet but paid no mind. He was staring straight ahead into the gloom. Gathering up my courage, I said, “Father, we need a new barn, don’t we?”

  He shifted and after a few moments gave the yes sign with his eyes. He tried to talk, and I could see that his fingers grew uncommon agitated.

  Encouraged, I cried, “Father, that barn is very important to you, isn’t it?”

  Again, his reply was yes.

  “Can you tell me how important?” I said, trying to push him on.

  For a response he only gaped at me. But I would not give up. I fetched the lamp, lit it, and set it down so we could see each other clearly. Then, once again, I tried: “Father, how important is it to you that we have a new barn? You must find a way to tell me.”

  His eyes blinked some, but I wanted more.

  “Show me how important!” I demanded. “You’ve got to.”

  He opened his mouth and made his sounds. But that was nothing new. I shook my head and cried, “I need more!”

  He shut his eyes. His body tightened. His feet twitched. His fingers fluttered. It was like some strong man preparing to lift a huge load. In fact, what he did was jerk his right hand up. In fairness it was hardly more than an inch. But I could not have read him more plainly if he had written it out.

  From that moment on, I was certain I had found the way to bring him back to life: we would build him a barn.

  I had refueled the lamp when Harrison and Nettie came in. They were both exhausted and hungry. Even so, as he did every night, Harrison stood by Father and told him what he’d done. After Nettie changed to dry clothes, she did the same.

  When we set to dinner, I had Father brought to the table and tied into his chair. That was no longer uncommon, and Harrison and Nettie made little of it. But then, in the midst of their chatter, I said, “I have found a way to cure Father.”

  The house felt as silent as the moon.

  At last Nettie said, “What are you talking about?”

  I cleared my throat and said, “Father told me some things today.”

  “Told?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Things?” Harrison asked. “With his eyes?”

  “More than that,” I answered. “With his hand. He signaled me.”

  Nettie put down her spoon. “What did you think he was saying?”

  “He was telling me what was most important to him. I read him like a book.”

  The moment I said that, I knew it was wrong to use those words. Nettie gave a frown; then the two of them studied Father for a moment. Finally Nettie turned to me and said, “Ben, I don’t believe you.”

  So I got up, leaned over behind Father, and said, “Father, you told me what’s important to you, didn’t you?”

  He blinked his yes.

  “See!” I cried.

  “Well, what is it?” Nettie demanded sharply.

  I said, “He wants us to build a new barn.”

  Harrison considered me with astonishment, whistled, then shook his head. Nettie stood and walked away. We watched her as she paced in agitation.

  “Why shouldn’t we?” I asked them both at once.

  Nettie said at last, “Put Father back to bed and we’ll talk.”

  “But it’s what he wants us to do,” I insisted. “It will cure him! He told me.”

  “Ben!” she said in a hard voice. “Do what I say!”

  Harrison put Father back to bed. I pulled up his coverlet and came back to the table. But no, Nettie would have us go outside, which we did.

  The earth smelled ripe. Now and again the wind blew in like the wheeze of an old horse. The rain had eased off to little more than a fog, so there were no stars. There was just the glow of yellow light from the window to give the three of us faces. Nettie, I saw, was angry.

  “Look here, Ben,” she began. “This won’t do.”

  “What won’t do?”

  “It’s what Mother once told me: ‘A gift in dead hands is water in a broken jug.’ ”

  To which I exclaimed, “He’s not dead!”

  Nettie shook her head. “It’s all very well your saying you read him like a book. We know how good you read. We know how school smart you are. That’s why Father sent you there. But Ben, there are times I think you’re the only one writing that book.”

  I said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Ben,” she cried, “you’re having him tell you things you want him to say!”

  “That’s not true!” I cried.

  Nettie took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. “Father won’t live, Ben. He won’t! Can’t you see it’s only a matter of time? He’s wasting away. Don’t you know that?”

  “He can live,” I threw back. “But he wants something to live for.”

  “It’s just your wanting, Ben — that’s all! Look here,” she said. “I’m not going to stop in this place forever. I mean to marry. I do. The
n I’ll go off. And you, you’re for school and being educated.”

  “I won’t go back!” I declared.

  “Oh, Ben, you must.”

  “What about Harrison?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Harrison said for himself. “Building a barn would be a lot of work. I mean, a barn is as much as saying we’re going to keep this claim. But if you go, and Nettie goes, there’s no saying where I’ll be. Not likely here.”

  “Father wants it,” I said again.

  “Ben, that’s forever talk,” Nettie declared. “We don’t have time for forever.”

  Harrison nodded his agreement.

  “But if Father does die,” I cried out, “he would be here forever. Like Mother.”

  Nettie turned away. “That can’t make a difference,” she said.

  “But maybe,” I pleaded, “that’s why he wants the barn. It might be something to stay with him.”

  “Ben!” Nettie faced me again. “You’re not a part of this. You were meant to go off and be different. To be somebody. Not like us.”

  On the instant, I tore into her, flailing away with my fists, crying, “I am like you. I am!” Harrison leaped and hauled me away, smothering me in his arms, though I kept crying, “I’m the same as you! The same!”

  When he let me go, I spun about, wanting to confront Nettie again, but she had marched off into the fog. I pulled Harrison back into the house. “You ask Father,” I insisted. “For yourself.”

  Harrison stood over him, the lamplight causing a shadow that made him appear even bigger than he was. Father looked smaller.

  At first Harrison just stood there, his hands working. “Father!” he finally shouted. But instead of trying more, he merely shrugged. “Ben, I’m no good at this. Not the way you are.” He climbed up to the loft and flung himself onto his mattress.

  I remained alone with Father. “I’m the same,” I said to him. “I am. Say yes with your eyes or your hand. Say it!”

  But he was asleep.

  Next morning Nettie packed a satchel, saying she needed to think some. She was gone two days, and when she came back, Tod Buckman was with her. He was twenty-two years of age and worked a claim with his family ten miles to the south. He was tall, lean, and strong.

  Nettie, her face stiff as planking, told us, “Tod Buckman and I are going to be married.”

  “When?” Harrison asked, not looking at Tod but at Nettie.

  “When we can,” she said.

  I went to her. “You’re our only sister,” I said.

  Her eyes were grave; her mouth worked. She said, “And I will always be.”

  Tod, grinning, put his arm around Nettie’s waist then, looked down at me, and said, “What’s more, Ben, I intend to be her only husband.”

  Nettie tried to hold back, but she turned all red and sputtered with laughter.

  “There, Ben,” Harrison said with a poke. “Only Tod can make her laugh like that.” Tod laughed himself.

  Nettie took Tod into the house to see Father. When he came back out, hat in hand, his smile was gone. For a moment he just stood there.

  Harrison said, “What do you think?”

  Tod looked to Nettie, then to Harrison and me. He said, “I’d say he’s lucky having you for family.”

  From then on I liked Tod. And I knew, too, that Nettie would not desert us. She was just looking to get some breath of her own. Right away I began to think about the barn again.

  But that night Nettie said to me, “Now, Ben, don’t misunderstand my staying. If there’s to be a barn, it has to be a family decision — not just yours — to build it.”

  I started to argue, but she would not hear a word. She was that set against it.

  It made me realize that if I were going to get her to change her mind — Harrison’s mind, too, perhaps — I’d have to get Father’s help.

  A few days later, at dinner, I said, “Now that the rain has let up, I think we should take Father out some.”

  “How, Ben?” Nettie asked. She was not objecting.

  I said, “If Harrison could put a higher back to the barrow, we could ride him about.”

  “That’s easy,” Harrison said. By the next day, it was done. He fixed a slab of wood upright on the front of the barrow. Nettie laid out some straw on the bottom. Then Harrison pulled on Father’s boots, carried him outside, and set him down in the barrow with his back propped against the slab. Father was so thin now, the task was not hard. I tied him in.

  “Do you want to see what we’ve done?” I shouted.

  He blinked yes.

  “Where to?” Harrison asked.

  “We can show him how the fields look,” I suggested.

  Harrison took up the handles, and we started off, with Nettie and me running on either side to make sure Father did not tip out.

  First we wheeled him to the section where he’d had his fit. We had put in wheat there. Our work looked like snake trails more than decent furrows, but the crop was up, looking Irish green and tasting sweet.

  Harrison turned the barrow around so Father could see what we’d done.

  “Planted!” Harrison shouted. “We’ve planted it!”

  The muscles in Father’s face twitched, and he made small sounds. There were a few blinks, too.

  “He likes it,” Harrison exclaimed. I could see he was proud.

  “Show him the rest that you did,” I suggested. “I’m going back to the house.” They were surprised. I drew them both aside. “When I’m gone,” I told them, “I want you to ask him about the barn, so I’m not part of it.” Before they could object, I went off.

  They returned two hours later. Harrison got Father back into bed. He had fallen asleep.

  I was hoping Nettie would say something, but she did not. Unable to stop myself, I burst out, “Did you ask him?”

  Harrison looked to Nettie.

  “Did you?” I asked again.

  “Yes,” Nettie said.

  “What happened?”

  Harrison answered, “We took him around like you said and showed him the fields. Then when we came back, we went by the lean-to. He started fussing up, all on his own, so we stopped. That’s when I asked him if he thought we should build that barn he’d been talking about.”

  “What did he say?”

  Harrison said, “He got to moving about … as if he were excited.”

  Nettie, looking more weary than anything, said, “He said yes.”

  “How?”

  “He lifted his hand. This much.”

  My heart was pounding. “Well?” I demanded.

  “I’m willing,” Harrison replied.

  I turned to Nettie. “What about you?”

  At first she didn’t answer. She went to the fire, kneeled before it, and poked it, stirring the embers till a lick of flame spurted. Then she said, “Father said he wants it.”

  “And?”

  She sighed, stood up, and faced me. “I’ll go along.”

  I could not help myself. I went up to her and gave her a hug. It was Father himself who had convinced them.

  You really think it should be made of pine logs?” Harrison asked.

  “It’ll last that way,” I told him.

  Nettie said, “But it will take a lot more time to do.”

  “We can work harder,” I said.

  “We do work hard,” Harrison let me know.

  “But this is different,” I insisted. “It’s going to make Father better. You saw how just the talk of the barn helped him.”

  “Oh, Ben,” Nettie pleaded, “don’t your eyes ever see what you don’t want to see? He’s getting down to nothing!”

  No one spoke. Then Harrison said, “I suppose we could build another lean-to. That would go up fast.”

  I said, “It’ll be the same coming down.”

  “Ben,” Nettie cried in exasperation, “you have an answer for everything!”

  I appealed to Harrison. “You’re the boss builder,” I said. “What do you think?”

&nb
sp; He said, “Depends on how big it gets to be. And where it is.”

  The following day the three of us went out to decide where we should build the barn. There was not much disagreement. We found a pretty place near enough to our house. It was on somewhat higher ground, too, so the rain would run off.

  “Could set one corner right here,” Harrison said, jamming down a heel.

  I ran to get a stick and stuck it in; then Nettie tapped it down with our ax.

  “Should be foursquare,” Harrison said. “That’s the only way.”

  “Father lost his compass,” Nettie reminded us.

  “We can line it up proper at night,” I said.

  They looked at me, puzzled.

  “It’s something Schoolmaster Dortmeister taught me.”

  When night came — after checking Father to see that he was comfortable — I fetched a long rope, the ax, and another stick. Then the three of us went out to the stake. It was a clear night, with countless stars as though a big hand had sowed light instead of wheat.

  I tied the rope to the stake. “We need the North Star,” I said.

  The three of us stood there then, gazing up and around to what we knew was north.

  Nettie caught it first. “There!” It was about midpoint between the ground and the top of the sky.

  Then I moved off from the stake, hauling back on the attached rope but always keeping it in line with the North Star. When I reached the end of the line, I laid the rope down.

  “There,” I said, as I marked the southern end with the other stick. “That’s our north-south line. We’ll do the rest tomorrow.”

  Next day, we did more of what I had been taught in geometry. I took that rope and tied twelve knots as close to one foot apart as I could.

  Then I fastened the rope to the south stake and drew it out a distance of four knots along the north-south line. At that fourth knot I changed direction, heading somewhat southeast, measuring out a five-knot length.

  Holding the rope taut, I stretched it on the ground and bent the final three-knot piece so it came back to the stake.

  At the stake, then, was a perfect right angle for the first corner of the barn.