Part One: First Plantings
Allan Fitzgerald’s front yard was unusually shallow for a parcel that had once been a working farm. A mere sixty feet separated his front porch from the curb of NY 231. Behind his humble little ranch, his spread extended a quarter mile further eastward, and was almost as wide as it was deep. The previous owner had once operated a moderately successful corn farm there, as had the owner before him, but the viability of so small-scale a farm had come to an end when the massive machines of Lyons-Davis Agricorp rolled into Onteora County.
That didn’t matter to Allan. He’d never been a farmer. The field stood idle. In the barn beside the ranch, the tractor and harvester gathered cobwebs. The old Bellamy farm was merely his retirement home, where he hid more or less comfortably from the world and its reminders of his failures.
Allan didn’t bother much about the field or the barn. When the mood struck him to be outside, he invariably went to sit on the front porch. Traffic on NY 231 was too sparse to annoy him, and the Compton farm across the way was as idle as his own.
That morning, he’d been sitting on his porch for about an hour, musing indifferently over a mediocre fantasy novel, when the girl ambled into view.
Foot traffic on NY 231 was unusual in the extreme. It was a truck route, a bypass for the city of Onteora. It had no sidewalks, and was flanked by no consumer-oriented stores or places of employment. It connected to US 90, forty miles to the west, but those who traveled it eastward were seldom Onteora bound.
At a distance the girl was ordinary-looking: medium height, a broad-shouldered but bosomy build, shoulder-length blonde hair. She appeared to be in her early twenties. She wore a heavy wool sweater, blue jeans, and work boots. A shabby satchel of modest size dangled from her right hand. Her walk was strong but unhurried. A surge of curiosity impelled Allan to lean forward, as he attempted to make out her face.
She noticed, stopped, and returned his gaze. Embarrassed without a clear reason, Allan smiled formally and forced his eyes back to his novel.
“Any good?”
The words startled him half out of his chair. She’d approached so quietly that he hadn’t noticed her arrival on his porch, practically in his lap. She backed away a step as he resettled himself.
“Not particularly. Just a way to pass the time. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for work.” She waved at the barn and the field beyond. “Your first planting is late. Need a hand with it? I’m good with machines.”
He grinned ruefully. “You can’t imagine how late. There hasn’t been a planting here in seven years. This isn’t a working farm any more. It’s just my retirement spread.”
The girl’s face fell. She nodded, hefted her satchel, and made to leave.
“Just a moment.”
She turned and looked at him questioningly.
She’s not dirty or unkempt, but...
“How long have you been walking?”
She shrugged. “Couple days. A trucker dropped me off at the end of 90.”
“Got a place to stay?”
She shook her head.
“Had any breakfast?”
“Granola bar.” She indicated her satchel. “They’re easy to tote around.”
“Uh, yeah.” He rose. “Look, I was about to fix some lunch. If you’re not in a big hurry to get on down the road, you’re welcome to join me.”
She stared at him in silence for several seconds.
“Okay, thanks.” She stuck out a hand. He took it, her calluses rough against his fingers. “I’m Kate.”
“Allan,” he said. “Let’s get fed.”
* * *
Kate attacked her ham sandwich with evident appetite. Allan smiled to himself, fetched bottled soda, potato salad, and a plastic container of grapes from the fridge, and loaded them onto the kitchen table.
As he laid out forks, napkins, and plastic cups, he said “Work’s pretty sparse these days.”
She nodded. “Not just here.”
“You’re not a New Yorker, are you?”
“Jayhawk.” She snapped off another bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed quickly. “The big outfits have taken over back there. They don’t have much use for local hands. They bring in their own crews. Mexicans, mostly.”
“It’s the same here.”
She nodded and shoveled up a monstrous bite of potato salad. He seated himself across from her, poured soda for them both, and steepled his hands before him.
“So how long have you been on the road?”
She swallowed, laid down her fork, and looked at him as if she were trying to gauge the sincerity of his interest.
“Been a few weeks.”
“No takers for an experienced hand in all that time?”