Now in 1946 the boys were home and America was booming, but Will was at the bottom of his barrel. All that he’d hoped for, all that he’d worked for, was over. He couldn’t make his payments, so the bank called his loans.
Will snapped the reins. “Giddyap, Fanny Too.” He’d been at the Midtown Waterin’ Hole all afternoon and it was time to go home.
Buried in his misery and bleary-eyed from drink, he didn’t notice the lone figure who strolled up the road. When Will got alongside, a voice called out, “Are you Will O’Shaughnessy?”
“What?”
“I’m looking for Will O’Shaughnessy. Might you be he?”
“I might be, young man.” Will looked around. “Don’t see anyone else. Must be me. Whoa, Fanny Too. And who be you?”
“I’m Jason McGraw. They call me Pickle.” Pickle grabbed the back of the seat and pulled himself up. “Mr. O’Shaughnessy, you look plumb tuckered out. Want me to drive you home?”
“Pickle? Aren’t you the fella who did the milking that time I was away? You live down by the slaughterhouse, don’t you? Your dad—”
“Yeah, he’s Sam McGraw.” Pickle turned red. “Suppose you know he’s in prison. My fault.”
“How’s that?”
“He didn’t like the crowd I ran with. Ben stole from Dad’s best friend. Dad beat the crap out of him. Hurt him bad, so they sent Dad up. I’m lookin’ for work.”
“I had to let my man go. I couldn’t afford him. How old are you, Pickle?”
“Almost eighteen.” Pickle dropped to the road. “Had a couple jobs. Not for long, though. Never farmed but I’d try.” He kicked at a toad that he spotted in the grass. “Git outta here horny toad. Don’t want your warts.”
“I don’t do much farming anymore. Maybe you heard. The bank’s closing me down.”
“Need some money to help my mom. Aunt Tessie’s helpin’ Ma and my little brother, Tom, while Pa’s up the river. Aunt’s a pain in the backside. Always readin’ from the Book. But she’s good to Tom.”
“Doesn’t your aunt live over near Spring Green, in the Valley of the Almighty Joneses. Tessie Wright? She spoke at our church last fall and gave a big donation to our missionary fund.”
“That’s her all right. She has land that she doesn’t farm since Uncle Ruben died—some money, too.”
“I’m allowed a little money to get ready for auction. I could use some help cleaning the machinery and buildings. I can’t pay much though.”
“Meals, too?”
“We can do that. Mary’s a good cook, even when provisions are short.” Will extended his hand. “Come on up.” Will handed the reins to Pickle and slid across the seat. “Here, you drive.”
Will sat in silence as Pickle guided Fanny Too along. “Gotta clear my head a bit. Too much drink. Not good for you, lad. Don’t you do it.”
“Dad was drunk when he pounded Ben. I like white lightning when I can get it.”
“It’s not a good idea while you’re with us, young man. Mary doesn’t like alcohol. She’ll not be happy with me today.”
“Do you have many horses?”
“Fanny Too here. Then there’s Mabel. I run her with Fanny Too. There’s Ned and Ted, as sturdy a team as you’ll find in this county. They pull my heavy loads.”
Pickle waggled the reins. “Gitup, horse. Whatta you call her?”
“Fanny Too. She’s a good horse, boy”
“That’s a funny name for a horse. Gitup, Fanny Too.”
“Her mother was Fanny, and when this one came along, my daughter, Ruby, called her Fanny Too, and the name stuck. Sometimes I forget that old Fanny is gone.”
Pickle smiled as he flicked the reins over Fanny Too, but not hard enough to slap her back.
Will could see that the boy liked horses. “I can’t forget Lyda. When my daughters were home, they rode Lyda. She’s too small for heavy work. Gotta get rid of them all now, even Fanny Too.” Will removed a flask from his shirt pocket and took a swig. He didn’t offer any to Pickle. “It’s not fair to take them all. I’ve had Fanny Too and Mabel a long time now. I haven’t told them yet. It’ll break the old girls’ hearts.”
“Lots of people lost their places, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”
“When times were bad. Rotten luck, I guess.” Will took another swig from his flask. “I bought sick cows. Wiped out my herd. Maybe others, too. That’s the bad thing, son. Hurt other people.”
“Some have the demon on their shoulder. That’s what Aunt Tessie said.”
“And some don’t have the grit for it. That’s what Granddad said.”
When they turned up the driveway toward the buildings, four horses raced across the pasture toward them. “They think they’re being neglected,” Will said. “I usually give them oats midmorning.”
“Can I feed them, Mr. O’Shaughnessy?”
“Well sure, boy. Help me stow this rig, and I’ll show you the grain shed. You can refill the bins and feed the horses. Fanny Too’s earned hers today.”
After Pickle helped push the buggy into the shed, Will led him to the granary. “Hoist that sack of oats and carry it to the barn. It should refill the bins.”
Pickle bent over, grabbed the sack, and planted it on his shoulder.
“Hold on there. You’ll hurt your back lifting like that. Put it down, and I’ll show you the right way.”
Pickle dropped the sack to the ground. “I said I didn’t know farmin’. I’ve been liftin’ all my life. I’m not wet behind the ears, you know.”
“Certainly not. You’re a strong boy, stronger than me, I’m sure. Yes you are. But you’ll be stooped at a young age if you lift that way. Bend your knees, son. Here, I’ll show you.”
Will dropped his butt, grabbed the sack, lifted it to his shoulder, and straightened back up. “See, I can hoist a sack now as easily as when I was young.”
Will lowered the sack. “Now, you do it.”
“If you say so, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.” Again, Pickle bent at the waist and lifted the sack to his shoulder. “Where do you want it?”
Will shook his head and sighed. “Take it to the barn. I’ll get the horses.”
Once the horses were in their stalls, Will searched for his grain scoop. “Let’s see, where did I put it? That’s another thing. Always keep your tools in one place. Try to anyway. Saves time that way.” He moved some grain sacks. “Not here.”
Pickle walked the line of horses. Each leaned across the rail, straining to receive a share. He inched his hand forward and patted one on the nose. Fanny Too stood away from the rails, acting as if she understood that her grain would arrive in due time.
Will muttered as he searched for the missing scoop.
Pickle climbed onto the bottom rail and leaned toward Fanny Too. She stood quietly, resting her back leg. He climbed to the second rail and reached out. “Mr. O’Shaughnessy, over here. Your scoop’s in Fanny Too’s stall.”
“Must have sprouted legs.” He retrieved the scoop and motioned Pickle to the feed sack. “First, empty the oats into that bin over there.” He pointed toward the side of the horse barn. “Then feed one scoop to each horse, in the end of their manger.”
Pickle grabbed the feed sack, as stiff-legged as before, dumped it, and seized the scoop. He walked past the eager horses to Fanny Too’s stall and pushed the hay aside.
“Don’t worry too much about the hay, Jason. They’ll search for that grain like we’d search for gold in a sluice.”
Pickle continued to brush the hay away.
Will wasn’t sure if he was concerned about Fanny Too or just being difficult. Give him time.
Pickle scooped grain to each horse. He stopped at Mabel’s stall and watched her longer than the others. “Isn’t she kinda heavy, Mr. O’Shaughnessy? Should we be givin’ her grain?”
“Good eye, Jason. She’s with foal. I think she’ll deliver before the auction. You may see new life on this farm. Give her a little extra.”
Pickle dropped a second scoopful into her manger.
“Not too much now.”
“I’ve never seen a newborn, not when they’re wet from their mother.”
That night before supper, Will asked Mary if she had any angel food cake left over from the night before.
“I planned to take that to the church meeting tonight.” She glared at Will. “Looks as if we could use a little piety around here.”
“Now, Mary. For the boy. He worked hard today.”
“Maybe I could spare a piece, just one, mind you. For the boy. Put him in Petr’s room. You’ll find fresh linens in the closet.”
Pickle ate like he hadn’t seen a meal for days. “That’s sure good chicken, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. Could I have another piece? Please?”
“Pickle, may I call you Jason?”
“Sure, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. Don’t much like Pickle anyhow.”
“We have little money, but we don’t go hungry, with the garden, animals, and all. Eat as much as you’d like. Don’t forget, there’s a big piece of angel food cake for dessert. Thick frosting, too.”
After Mary left for her meeting, Pickle said, “Mr. O’Shaughnessy, don’t you like angel food cake?”
“Well, yes I do. Mary wanted the cake for her meeting tonight, and I ate mine last night. Besides, I think she’s sending a message. Women do that sometimes, you know. She doesn’t like my drink.”
“I don’t know much about women.”
“You’ll learn.”
“I’d rather learn about your horses.”
“We can’t rush things. When you’re ready, I’ll make you my horseman. But there’s more pressing work now. Tomorrow, I’ll start you cleaning machinery.”
The next morning, Will called toward Pickle’s room from the bottom of the stairs. “Time to get up, son. Looks like a bright, sunny day ahead.”
No answer.
Will wasn’t surprised. He trudged up the steps. “Jason, there’s work to do.”
Still, no answer.
Will entered Pickle’s room and shook him hard as he called, “Get up, boy. We’ve got work ahead.”
Pickle rolled over and squinted. “It’s the middle of the night.” He turned away.
“If we wait much longer, it’ll be middle of the day. It’s after five already.”
Pickle stared at Will. “Five o’clock? In the mornin’?” He groaned, and then he slid a leg from under the blanket.
Will started down the stairs. Then he called back, “If you’re going to work here, you’ll have to get used to it. We start early. Milking won’t take long, but there’s plenty of other things to do.”
Will was pitching feed to the cows when Pickle, bleary-eyed and lethargic, caught up. “Go to the milk house and get two big cans and a pail off the rack.” Will pitched another forkful down the chute. “Put them on the aisle. But stay back from the cows. They sense strangers and they’ll kick. And if they hit you, they’ll leave a dent.”
Will was pleased to find the cans and pail in the center aisle away from the gutter, just as he had asked. “I don’t expect you to do the milking. It takes practice. Go grab a five-tined fork,” Will pointed toward the back, “and start cleaning out the horse stalls. Pitch it into the spreader, but turn the horses out first.”
“Ugh,” Pickle muttered.
“Part of farming, lad. If you want to be a horseman, you gotta do the dirty work, too.”
“Can I ride one?”
“Have you ever ridden a horse?”
“A little.”
“You’ll get your chance, Jason, but I better give you a few pointers first.” He handed a manure fork to Pickle. “I learned the hard way and made many a mistake. You can learn from my mistakes. You won’t live long enough to make them all yourself.”
“Shucks,” Pickle said as he grabbed the fork and turned toward the stalls.
“Just pitch it into the spreader. I’ll take it away when I get done here.”
Forty minutes later, Will joined Pickle at the horse stalls. “Milking doesn’t take long these days. I lost half my herd.” Will grabbed a manure fork. “When we get this done, I’d like for you to start cleaning machinery. I’m going to the south forty to repair a downed fence.”
“Will there be time for riding?”
“Don’t be in a hurry, young man. There’s enough machine cleaning to keep you busy for a while. And then we’ll clean and whitewash the buildings.” Will threw three forkfuls into the wagon while Pickle watched. “I’m lucky the bank’s paying for cleanup. It’s the only reason I can take you on, son. Remember, you’re here as a worker.”
Pickle tossed a forkful. They pitched manure for half an hour, and then Will set his fork down. “It’s getting hot. I need to work on those fences.” He motioned forward. “I’ll start you on the machines.”
Pickle hesitated.
“Hustle now, son. Help me pull the plow and cultivators from the machine shed.”
After they removed the equipment and parked it under a tree near the water tank, Will left to get a putty knife, a brush, and a hose. He sank one end of the hose into the tank and sucked through the other until water flowed freely. He showed Pickle how he wanted the machines cleaned, and then he left to hook Fanny Too and Mabel to the wagon.
Pickle dabbed at the mud on the plow shears while Will headed out to the south field.
When Will returned late that afternoon, Pickle wasn’t with the machines. Will looked in the barn, through the sheds, and behind the house, but saw no sign of his helper. He asked Mary if she had seen him. She shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since milking. I thought he’d be in for lunch. When he didn’t show up, I supposed he’d gone with you.”
“He must have decided that farm work’s too hard. Probably set out for home.”
Will went to the barn to finish the manure job they’d begun that morning. He had worked no more than half an hour when he heard horse hooves outside the building. When he went to look, he found Lyda standing at the door. Her saddle hung under her stomach, and she bled from scratches across her side and belly.
Will released the saddle and raced to the house as fast as his stiff knees would allow. “Mary, something’s wrong. Lyda’s outside, all cut up, her saddle hanging loose. That boy must have tried to ride her. Maybe he’s down and hurt. I shouldn’t have left him alone.”
“Stay calm, Will. You search the lane. I’ll get on the phone. Maybe someone’s seen him.”
Will rode Fanny Too toward the river. Why’d he ever take a chance with a strange boy anyhow, and one with Pickle McGraw’s reputation? Why did trouble find him whenever he tried to help? Maybe Grandpa was right, maybe he wasn’t wise enough to make tough decisions.
He hadn’t ridden two miles when he saw a bloody Pickle limping toward him. “Jason McGraw, I trusted you, and look what you’ve done. You could have killed yourself, and Lyda, too.” Will slid off Fanny Too and put his arm under Pickle’s shoulder. “Are you okay, son?”
“It’s that old saddle. It slipped and threw me into the barbed wire. Darn horse. Darn saddle.”
“Jason, you’ve got to learn how to fit a saddle. First, you need a blanket under it, and then you have to tighten the cinch properly. Lyda sucks air when you tighten down. That leaves the saddle loose.” Will boosted Pickle onto Fanny Too’s back. “You’ve got to pull it tight when she exhales. I told you to wait until I could teach you. It’s not the saddle, lad, it’s your impatience. I can’t keep someone who won’t listen. It’s far too dangerous.”
Pickle winced as he turned away, and Will saw the pain in his face
He probably shouldn’t keep him. The boy had lots to learn, but, despite his rashness, he was beginning to like this Pickle McGraw.