came in sight, none the wiser for spying.
I went about my work as usual. When I had gathered the eggs I took them to the back porch and saw that he had set out the milk pail as usual, and also one of the water cans. The milk pail reminded me that in my concern over choosing a new route I had forgotten to bring my own pail, and also to bring anything to carry my eggs in. So I gave him all of the milk; two of the eggs I left in the hen house, thinking I would pick them up when I left and carry them back in my hand. And tomorrow, remember to bring both sack and pail.
Another small problem: a brood hen had hatched out six more chicks. That meant there were now fourteen babies coming on—and two more hens were sitting. Under such circumstances I would ordinarily feel justified in having one of the older hens for dinner—but how could I clean it? Where and with what? I could not go into the kitchen. My only knife, except my pocketknife, was in the cave.
There was an obvious solution to both problems. I took his water can and set out for the pond, carrying it in full view so that if he was watching from the window he would see I was merely going to get him some water.
At the pond, out of his sight, I put down the can and ran up the hill, staying safely in the woods on the far side of the stream. I got the knife and also, while I was there, picked up the milk pail. I was back rilling the water can in four or five minutes, somewhat out of breath. At the house I deposited his can of water on the porch beside his milk and eggs, confident that I had escaped suspicion. As it turned out, I was wrong.
I cleaned the hen in the barn on my father’s workbench, cut it up into frying-size pieces and divided it evenly into two piles, one for him, one for me. Being a rather old hen it would have been better if roasted, but I could not help that; he would find it edible if a bit tough.
Having deposited his half of the chicken with the other food, I went to the garden to hoe around the tomato plants. They were now, with the benefit of the manure, growing tall and leafy and showing hard little green tomatoes. Most of them, in fact, were ready to be staked. The stakes were in the tack-room of the barn, as was the tying-twine, so when I finished hoeing I tied them up. There were 28 in all. If I could solve the bottling problem there would be enough stewed tomatoes to last all winter. It seemed ironic, having finally got myself a stove, not to be able to use it.
I would give him half and store the other half in the cave, where it would not freeze. I thought about all this as I ate my lunch (two cornmeal cakes from my pocket); I sat leaning against the garden fence, and when I had finished I rested a while, admiring the potato plants, which looked healthy, with leaves of a lustrous dark green. Potatoes, too, would keep well in the cave. After resting, I remembered the wheat. I got up and went to the barn to get the tractor.
And then my serious trouble began, for though the tractor was in its usual place, the ignition key was gone.
I searched on the floor, my first thought being that Mr Loomis, after he had used the tractor last night, had accidentally dropped it. The floor was of wide, heavy planks, almost black in colour and unlittered, so that if the key were there it would have been instantly visible. It was not.
I remembered something. We had always left the key in the tractor, and to make sure it did not get lost my father had tied it loosely to the steering column with a piece of wire: one forgets things like that when they are always there. So Mr Loomis could not have dropped it accidentally. He must have taken it with him, and quite deliberately, since it would have required time and effort to unfasten the wire. But why? All I could think of was that in his desire to conserve petrol, he wanted me to ask him each time I used it, and let him know what for. That reason was incorrect, but I was not smart enough, or wary enough, to know it at the time.
There was another ignition key; I even knew where it was kept, but it did me no good. It was on my father’s key chain, in his pocket somewhere out in the deadness.
I thought: there was nothing for it; I would go up and ask him for they key. It was, after all, his wheat as well as mine that needed the fertilizer.
I walked to the house, round to the front, and stood in the road as before, in plain view of the windows. There was no response immediately; there was smoke coming up from the chimney, so I guessed he was in the kitchen cooking his chicken. After five minutes of waiting I gathered my nerve, stepped on to the porch, knocked on the door, and quickly retreated. Faro set up a barking inside, and a minute later Mr Loomis appeared. I suspected he had seen me go to the tractor shed, and so knew why I had come, but he pretended not to.
“Back again?” he said, very pleasant. “A surprise! I must thank you for the chicken. I was just frying it. If you would like to come in…”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve had my lunch.”
“Too bad,” he said. “Still, you have your half, don’t you? But where will you cook it?” He had been wondering where I cooked—no doubt looking for signs of smoke or fire. I ignored the question.
“I came because I couldn’t find the key to the tractor.”
“The key?” he said, mildly surprised. “Oh, yes. I have driven the tractor a few times, in the evening, just to learn how. Perhaps you know? And now I have decided to keep the key in the house. It will be safer here.”
I said: “But I need it. I was going to put fertilizer on the wheat.”
He came forward and sat down on the porch steps, as one does to chat with a passing neighbour. I noticed that although he held on to the rail he sat down without any sign of effort. His legs were getting back to normal; the stick had been abandoned.
“I have to think about that,” he said. “I have not yet made up my mind.” His pleasant manner vanished abruptly. “You see, if you are going to continue this stupidity, this staying away, there are things you are going to have to do without.”
“But the wheat—'
“For example, the stove, I suppose you should have that, too, after you worked so hard to move it. And there are other things you will miss. More and more as time goes on.” I did not yet understand all he meant by that. I do now. I said: “It was your idea to plant the wheat, and I agreed that it was right. Now surely you want it to grow.”
“I said I have not made up my mind. I will think about it, but not now. I left the chicken cooking—your cookbook says fifteen minutes on each side. It’s time to turn it over.” He stood up—again, quite easily. “Possibly I will fertilize the wheat myself.”
He walked to the door. As he was going in he said: “It was thoughtful of you to bring your knife along with the milk pail. But then, how else could you have cleaned the chicken?” He shut the door behind him.
I stood there staring after him, feeling bewildered and baffled and stupid. Baffled because I did not know what to do; bewildered because I could not understand why he would not let me use the tractor. And stupid because from what he said last I knew I had made a thoughtless mistake. After thinking I had been clever—taking his water can to the pond, running to the cave and back—I had returned visibly carrying the knife and the milk can. Of course he had watched me both going and coming, and so knew I had gone to fetch them at wherever I was staying—and that it must not be more than a few minutes from the pond. I was only lucky he could not see the pond from the house; I had not given away the whole show—only half of it.
Mainly I did not know what to do, my plans for the afternoon having been cancelled. I walked to the barn and sat a few minutes, leaning my back against the rear wall, looking out into the pasture and thinking. Why had he taken the key? Did he really intend to do the fertilizing himself? He could, of course; the spreader was simple to operate.
A new thought came to my mind; it seemed very obvious and clear. He had taken the key because he was afraid I would steal the tractor. The more I thought about that the more I believed it. It was part of a pattern, like the safe-suit, like tying up Faro. He had made plans involving the tractor; therefore it suddenly became valuable; therefore I might not have it.
I had, as it turned out, guessed correctly this time. I learned soon enough what he wanted the tractor for.
Meanwhile, having nothing to do—ordinarily, at such a time, I would have had plenty of housework, but that was cut off from me now—I collected my two eggs, my half chicken and my knife and walked slowly down the road to the store. My milk can I left at the barn; I would come back at four to milk the cow again and would fill it then.
As I walked I kept looking back to see if he was following, and when I reached the bend—a little beyond it—I stopped and waited to see if he would come back to his grove of trees again. He did not, though I was sure he had watched me out of sight through the window.
