HERE IS HOW YOU hide when there’s nowhere to hide: you work until your hands fall off. You work until you fall into bed and are asleep before your head hits the pillow. You steady your gaze on the job ahead, and you don’t look up. And at the end of the night, when everyone else has gone to bed and the world is still, you sit beside the gorgeous smoking man and ask him to give you your heart back. And he says he will never. And then you go your separate ways, he to his bed and you to yours.
But before another hard day dawns, he opens the door to your chamber, and for a few minutes before the house rises you remind each other why it can’t be any other way. In the earliest morning, you go to church. You lower your heads, you fold your hands, and with your palms up you receive communion. You kneel and say thank you and kiss the cup in your abandon.
September was a time for reaping. There was more work in September than during any other month, and all of it had to be done by the hands that held his steadfast love, held his love until the hands couldn’t close into fists.
They cut the wheat down with their nineteenth-century scythes, even though Walter didn’t want to. He said the ripe stalks looked too majestic, swaying golden in the breeze at sunset. Walter and Earl both said that next year they would sow a whole field of wheat, not just two long rows.
Finn agreed. There was never enough beauty. But sometimes if you were lucky, he said, there was just enough.
Isabelle, there are tools in this barn I’ve never seen. Come inside for a second and tell me what they are. What’s a grain cradle scythe? Is that what you’re using? Look at these serrated edges, the long fingers, the curved blades. No wonder you are so much faster than the rest of us. Look at your weapon. Put it down for a second, Isabelle. Put down the scythe and come here.
She smiled all day as she swept the heavy cutter against the base of the plants.
They stuffed the bundled stalks into large burlap sacks and threshed them against the walls of the barn and the stable and the corn crib, they flailed them until the wheat berries separated from the shafts and fell to the bottom of the bags.
They poured the berries onto clean sheets spread out on the ground and winnowed them with large pieces of cardboard until the chaff flew away. Finn and Isabelle threw the berries up in the air like confetti, like rice at a wedding, like their hearts. The children imitated them, the light husks quivering like dandelion fluff, the heavy grain falling onto the white sheets. They gathered the wheat berries into bins and brought them inside for Vanessa.
Finally, a job Vanessa was born to do. For many September days she sat at the dining table and painstakingly cleaned the wheat of debris. She sifted the berries through her fingers or ran them through a sieve. She threw out the blackened and the cracked and filled bushel after bushel with gorgeous, oval, beige-colored, perfect grain.
Up in the empty barn which smells like dry grass and hot sun and earth, there’s a loft with a ladder, and this loft has windows and a view. Isabelle, you can see past the trees to the river, to other meadows, to the very sea. Climb up on me, let me show you.
When September was over and done, the family had harvested six bushels of wheat, totaling 360 pounds of grain, equaling 360 pounds of milled flour. They were amazed. It seemed so much. Isabelle had to gently explain that two loaves of bread used a pound and a half of flour, and their large family of eleven ate two loaves of bread a day. Not including cookies, cakes, pies, pastries, the thickening of sauces, and the formation of dumplings. Six bushels wouldn’t last them until next harvest.
That was even more astonishing.
Isabelle, why do you enjoy shocking the hell out of everyone? I saw it on your face. You rejoice in their exclamations. Come inside the granary, quick.
Why, Finn, do you want to shock hell out of me?
Next spring they could plant one additional row, Isabelle said. Three rows would yield them 540 pounds of wheat, Finn said. “Meantime, it’s not as if we don’t have money to buy flour. Starfire took care of that.” He grinned.
“Starfire and Electric Boat,” said Isabelle, grinning back.
“I want to plant a whole field more, not one row more!” said Walter.
“Walter, calm yourself,” cried Lucy. “How on God’s green earth are we going to reap a field of wheat? Two lousy rows almost killed this family!”
September. Two bushels of oats, a thousand ears of corn. For days the children sat cross-legged on the ground inside the corn maze, surrounded by hills of silks and husks, eating the sugar-sweet ears raw, and singing with joy.
Are you singing with joy too, Isa?
You know it. No, ne grustna ya, ne pechalna ya, uteshitelna mne sudjba moya . . .
To Olivia’s delight, the “tatums” were finally so plentiful, Isabelle feared they might need to build another root cellar to store them. When one massive root cellar wasn’t enough, you knew you had a good harvest.
The family agreed. It was a spectacular one.
It was a harvest like I’ve never ever seen.
Nor me, Finn.
It was abundant and unexpected.
Not unexpected. As we always say where I come from—you reap what you sow.
In October they picked and carved out pumpkins, decorated them into jack-o’-lanterns, and canned the puree. They turned over the fields and prepared them for the winter. The wood supports were taken down, the rows were tilled and cleared of old roots. Isabelle planted oats as cover crops in some of the beds to improve the soil’s richness. They repaired their equipment, bought new rakes and rotary tillers, fixed doors and fence gates, and chopped enough wood to last two winters.
Isabelle, are you coming into the woods with me? I brought my axe.
Always, Finn. Want to play hide-and-seek? You can be woodsman.
They insulated the windows and bought a gasoline-powered snow blower to make it easier for the truck and the newly bought car to get out. The new Ford V8 sedan was a remarkable model with an innovative flathead engine, which greatly increased the performance and power of the vehicle.
“Performance and power are key,” said Finn, who liked his cars.
Isabelle agreed.
Isa, take a drive with me to the ocean in our new spacious Ford to catch first light. Let’s climb in the back seat. We can see the sunrise better from there.
Finn, I can’t see anything at all.
Can’t you, Isabelle?
Not the sunrise!
They stored the scarecrows in the barn, in the hay under the ladder, under the loft, under the windows that faced the fields and the river, and the sea.
Isa, let me kiss the palms of your hands. Let me kiss the backs of your legs, let me fall asleep with you again, just once. Let me wake with you again, just once.
They figured out that part too. When there was no more field work, she went to Boston to spend a few days with Schumann. Finn drove her, and spent the day with Lucas. They left together and came back separately. He drove back one day and she took a train the next. And while they were there, they spent one sleepless torrential night at the Parker House Hotel on the Boston Common, in the largest bed their money could buy.
In November 1932, Franklin Roosevelt clobbered Herbert Hoover in the presidential election, winning by 479 electoral votes to Hoover’s 59. The Adams farm celebrated with the rest of America. Isabelle doled out small glasses of her awe-inspiring raspberry moonshine. She had distilled eight quarts back in September, and a quart was all that was left. She and Finn had partaken quite a bit of the fiery potion after hours.
It’s communion wine, Finn said. It’s communion time.
It was, it was.
“Isabelle, is this what you and the girls mashed together in August?” exclaimed Olivia, running her finger around the inside of the glass, scraping out the last of the red sticky liquid. “How did you make it so sweet and delicious?”
Good question, Isabelle.
“I fermented it for long time and boiled it to make it stronger.”
“I didn’t smell this being cooked inside the house,” Olivia said. “The scent is hard to hide.” She stuck her face into the empty glass and inhaled deeply. “Impossible, I’d say.”
“Nothing is impossible to hide, Mother,” said Finn. Olivia clearly thought he was referring to her. She looked wounded. And he could have said, I wasn’t talking about you, Mom, but couldn’t and didn’t.
I couldn’t apologize to her, Isa, without explaining what I really meant.
“I cooked it outside over firepit, Olivia,” Isabelle said hastily. “I didn’t want to upset anyone.”
And right on cue—Vanessa glared at Finn. “Homemade moonshine is against the law,” Vanessa said, dour as all that.
“That’s why I didn’t make it inside,” said Isabelle.
“Vanessa!” Walter said to his daughter. “What’s the point of finger wagging now? Roosevelt won!”
“But she didn’t know Roosevelt would win, Daddy.”
“You’d have to be simple-minded to think otherwise,” said Walter. “Bottle up, girl. It’s over. Prohibition is as good as dead.”
“And good riddance,” said Earl, Finn, and even Eleanor.
“Isabelle, is this all you got from those huge vats of red mash?” Olivia said. “That can’t be right.”
We got a lot from that red mash, Isa, didn’t we?
“Some of it was lost in the distilling process, Mother,” Finn said smoothly. “Don’t worry. We have plenty.” He smiled.
“Then perhaps there’s a tiny bit more for your mother, darling?” said Olivia, sliding her glass to him.
Isabelle poured everyone seconds except herself, because she was conserving it, and Vanessa, because she was Vanessa.
In December, when it snowed and they were snowed in, they had daily debriefings about their failures and successes. Tomatoes, eggplant, and wheat were their superstars. Did they plant too many potatoes and not enough cabbage? They definitely sowed too many carrots. Never again. Should they buy some chickens to have fresh eggs, or were chickens more trouble than they were worth? Was a cow? What was the most profitable crop to sell and should they plant more of it? Should they plant other crops they hadn’t yet considered? Finn and Walter, ever the number crunchers, spent joyful days figuring out what and how much they needed to grow to yield the best return, both on the field and in the pocket.
The next harvest would be even better, they all agreed. The apple trees would produce fruit. The blueberries would bloom, the strawberry patch would grow berries for Mae and June. And the raspberry bushes would allow Isabelle to make moonshine practically on tap.
Honestly nothing sounds better to me than moonshine on tap, Isa.
It’s already on tap, Finn. Anytime you want.
“My dear, never tell anyone your secret,” said Olivia.
“As if I would,” said Isabelle.
“The secret of the moonshine.”
“Ah—that. Yes.”
“Or you’ll have a line down Lovering Road, begging you for more.”
“And we wouldn’t want that, would we, Mother?” said Finn, his arm around Olivia’s shoulder, looking back at Isabelle and smiling.
“I must say, though, had the girl made it during Prohibition, we might not have fallen on the hard times we did.”
“Oh I know, Olivia,” said Isabelle. “Believe me, I tried. Alas, it was like casting pearls before swine.”
“Look at you,” said Olivia with an approving chuckle, not seeing Finn’s long, adoring glance at Isabelle.
“Finn, are you enjoying my English idiots?” She almost beamed at him.
“Idioms.”
“That’s what I said.”
Never tell anyone the secret of your shine, Isabelle.
Beg me for more, miy kohanyi.
There was radio in the snowed-in days and nights, there was light. They bought some games—chess and Parcheesi and backgammon and a new game on the market called Monopoly. They played Monopoly all winter. Finn always won, but Walter gave him a run for his money.
In December, Electric Boat sent Finn a dividend check for $2000 and a bonus of $500. Mickey Winslow sent Isabelle a basket of fresh fruit and flowers, cashmere blankets, and a check for $1000. They had a lavish, generous Christmas, almost like days of yore. As a gift to themselves, they bought the largest refrigerator they could afford. It was pretty damn large.
They went sledding down to the frozen riverbanks. They rolled in the snow.
Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own, Miss Eyre . . .
All my heart is yours, Mr. Rochester. It belongs to you, and with you it will remain.
To ring in 1933, they raised a glass and sang a song. Schumann and Lucas shared in the common pot of good wishes, no longer needing to hide their own bottles. But Lucas did not get blotto! He was Schumann’s driver now, he said, and he had to keep his head. Schumann looked pleased, but no one looked prouder than Earl.
With Olivia’s new camera, Isabelle snapped a picture of Finn, Lucas, and Earl together, Earl’s arms around the younger men—one of them his son, one of them his son’s brother—and Lucas was just tipsy enough to tear up.
So was Earl.
The grandiose toasts poured in, one after another. To life, to health, to happiness, to prosperity, to Ukraine—Budmo!—to Isabelle’s husband and children returning to her, to Eleanor’s husband never returning to her, to another fruitful harvest, to Nate and his tempest-tossed refugees finding calm seas and safe harbors. They sang “Auld Lang Syne,” and when the clock struck midnight, they hugged and kissed.
Everyone kissed except Finn and Isabelle.
The two of them rang in the New Year alone, hours later at dawn, with Bengal lights, the balalaika, an open silk robe, and the very last of the moonshine, together lustily singing, And here’s a hand, my trusty friend, and give a hand of thine, we’ll take a right good-willie waught for the sake of auld lang syne . . .
The bells rang late, but loudly. They did, they did.