Till the Cows Come Home (14 page)

“Brave man,” Marty said. “And I don’t mean because of the speeches.”

I gave him a gentle slug on the shoulder at the same time Rochelle slapped his hand that was sitting on the table.

“If you don’t have something nice to say.…”

Marty grinned at her and sat back in his chair as a server put a salad down in front of him. “Saw you talking to Pam Moyer. She around again for good?”

I spooned ranch dressing onto my salad. “Yeah, I guess. Saw her the other day for the first time in years. She’s done with school and is living at the farm, commuting down to the city a few days a week to work at Penn.”

“How come she’s here tonight?” Marty asked. “Her dad hasn’t taken up milking.”

I explained her new position on the town council, and Sonny Turner’s hopes for a retirement replacement.

“I can think of a few people who won’t be too happy about that,” Rochelle said. “Tippy Benson’s been on the council for years. And Warren Wycoff.”

“I think it’s because she went to Penn,” I said. “‘Our own Ivy Leaguer.’”

“That’s not all,” Marty said. “Turner Enterprises funded her scholarship.”

I stopped in the middle of buttering a roll. “Really?”

“Sure. Sonny’s been donating a scholarship to Penn for years, and was thrilled when he could give it to ‘one of his own.’ So it’s no wonder if he wants her active on the council.”

“Well, I hope she gets the job,” I said. “She would do some good stuff for us farmers.”

“But she’s so young,” Rochelle said. “She shouldn’t be able to just waltz right in.”

Marty patted her shoulder. “Don’t get worked up yet, hon. He can’t possibly retire now. He just bought out another company.”

“So how many does that make?” I asked.

“Well, let’s see…there’s the meat packing plant, that chain of grocery stores—”

“Don’t forget his car dealership has a new store in Quakertown to add to the ones in Souderton and Lansdale,” Rochelle said. “But maybe he wants to quit being council president because he’s too busy otherwise?” She swiveled her fork around in her salad. “It seems people should get to vote on who gets the spot next.”

“Oh, who cares how someone gets the position?” Marty said. “Politics are too disgusting to pay attention to. I have other stuff to worry about.”

“You’re right about that,” I said.

Nick glanced at me, and I knew he was thinking of the sabotage on my farm. I wasn’t sure I was ready to share that with the Hoffmans, so I changed the subject. “What do you think they’ll tell us here tonight?”

Marty’s grin faded. “About the same as last year, I guess.” Rochelle took his hand and pulled it onto her lap.

“Great,” I said.

Nick perked up and looked at us with interest. “What’s going on?”

“We’re a dying breed, son,” Marty said. “Stella here is one of the younger folks left. Our family businesses are in dire straits.”

“Maybe your town council president-elect can help,” Nick said, smiling.

“This isn’t a joke, young man,” Marty said. “Believe you me.”

I looked at Rochelle and she raised her eyebrows in a “What am I supposed to do?” gesture. We knew Marty was off and running and nothing we could do, besides dragging him away, would stop him from telling Nick everything he knew. He leaned toward Nick.

“Would you believe the average age of dairy farmers is fifty-six? What’s going to happen in ten years when we all retire? Our
kids
sure aren’t taking over the farms—not that we’d want them to around here, the way things are going. Twenty-some years ago there were three hundred thousand of us, and now there are only eighty-three thousand. The government has no idea how things are going to crash and burn if they don’t do something, and soon.”

Nick looked astonished, but I wasn’t sure if that was because of the information, or the fact that Marty was getting completely worked up. And he wasn’t finished.

“In 1977, when I started in this business, I was getting fourteen dollars and fifty cents a hundred weight for my milk.”

“Every hundred pounds,” I murmured to Nick.

“Today I get twelve-fifty for the same amount! We’ve been socked by inflation everywhere we turn, but the money we
get
has
de
flated! We work eighty hours a week and where has it gotten us? Lower on the totem pole, that’s where. The public has no idea what’s behind their plastic milk jugs. They just pick ’em up at the store like they pick up a loaf of Wonder Bread. And our bank accounts sure don’t show our hard work.”

“Isn’t there some program that pays farmers to keep their place a farm forever?” Nick asked.

“You know how long I’ve been on that list?” Marty said. “Six years. I applied as soon as I heard about it. But the money’s run out now—a hundred million dollars. Why don’t you take up smoking?”

Nick blinked. “What?”

“Two cents from every pack goes toward the program. That’s how they’re saving the farms now. Smokers.”

“A lot of people smoke.”

“Would you believe it brings in twenty-five million a year?”

“So why are you still waiting? That’s a lot of money.”

“There are a lot of farms, and they look at soil quality, farm size, location. And really, it’s
not
that much money. They give up to ten thousand an acre, so say I got in the program. My ninety acres would get me almost a million dollars. Twenty-five farms later, they’re out of money again, and a down-and-out farmer’s only option is to sell out to a developer, who doesn’t give a damn what happens to the land so long as his pockets get lined.”

It seemed like divine intervention when the waitress came by to take our salad plates. None of us had eaten much, having been completely overtaken by Marty’s speech, but I can’t say I had much of an appetite left. Marty was usually such a sweet, unassuming guy, so his tirade was all the more disconcerting.

Marty threw down his napkin and abruptly left the table, leaving us open-mouthed and shell-shocked.

“I’m so sorry, Nick dear,” Rochelle said.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Nick said. “I didn’t mean to start
that
.” All pink had left his cheeks, and he looked more distraught than I would’ve expected.

“It’s not your fault,” Rochelle said. “It was bound to happen at some point. Perhaps now he’ll be able to let us eat our main course in relative peace.”

“Hello, Aunt Rochelle.”

A man in a suit and tie stood beside her, looking out of place. His light gray suit was tailored and expensive-looking, and his hair was slicked into one of those styles where the short bangs stick up in the front. Classy, if you’re at a four-star restaurant. Or if you’re a teen-ager.

Rochelle put her hand on his arm. “Billy, how are you?”

“Um, I’m going by William now, Aunt Rochelle.”

“Sorry, William. I keep forgetting.”

Billy glanced at me briefly, then fixed his gaze on Nick. He turned a bit red, then looked back at Rochelle, who was trying not to laugh.

Sometime during high school I went to a church’s youth group Halloween party with Billy because Rochelle begged me to. I think she wishes now she’d left it alone, because Billy refused to ever talk about the evening. It wasn’t my fault he tried to put his hand up my shirt during the hayride. But I guess it was my fault he fell off the wagon and broke his arm.

“Hi, Billy,” I said.

“It’s—”

“William now. Right. Sorry.” I tilted my head toward Nick. “This is Nick.”

Nick got himself together enough to flash his outstanding teeth and hold out his hand. Billy took it because there was no way he couldn’t and not look like a jerk.

“Billy is the accountant at Rockefeller Dairy,” I told Nick. “He’s been there for, what, two years now?”

Billy opened his mouth, probably to remind me to say William, but closed it and sighed, instead.

“It’s two years next month, right, dear?” Rochelle said.

Billy nodded, then gave an unconvincing look at his watch. “I’d better sit down, Aunt Rochelle.”

“Nice to see you, William.”

We watched him make his way across the room to the table where Pam sat with Robert Rockefeller. It didn’t look like Pam had touched her salad, either. She looked across the room at me and I made a face at Billy’s back. She laughed silently and shook her head. She knew all about my high school adventures with Mister Billy.

“There’s a story there, I take it,” Nick said to me.

“Better left untold.”

“Oh, here’s Marty,” Rochelle said. “He looks like he’s calmed down some.”

She was right, and the rest of the evening went by without another outburst from him, but it wasn’t exactly enjoyable since we were all mulling over his words.

The representatives of the co-op got up during dessert to give us their report, and it was all pretty much as Marty had said. Nothing was getting any better, and besides the Bergeys, two other farms in our area had gone to developers, two out of the three to Hubert Purcell, himself. I could feel the restlessness in the room as we heard the news—everyone wondering who would be next. Kind of like the disciples at the Last Supper wondering which one among them would fall to the Devil.

Nick kept shooting me questioning looks, which for the life of me I couldn’t decipher. Whatever he wanted to know would have to wait till our ride home.

When the reports were done and the last of the coffee was drunk, we stood up to go.

Marty grabbed Nick’s wrist. “Sorry I went off like that, son.”

Nick gave him a sad smile. “Please don’t worry about it. I can see that to you—and the rest of the folks here—dairy farming is more than just a job. It’s got to rip your heart out to see what’s happening.”

Marty let go of Nick’s arm and nodded shortly. “We’ll see where we are next year. Till then we keep on going.”

Rochelle hugged me warmly, then reached for Nick. Surprise showed on his face, but he wrapped his arms around her and returned the gesture. When he stepped back, tears welled in his eyes. I looked away, not wanting to embarrass him, but wondered what the hell was going on.

A sudden reminder that I really knew nothing about the man except that he made me want to grab him and make a run for the hayloft.

When we got out to the truck, still not looking at each other, I slapped my hand on the hood. “Damn! I forgot to thank Rochelle for the pie.”

“Want to go back in?”

“Not really.”

He looked relieved. “Give her a call when you get home.”

We got in the truck and I went to start it but paused with my hand on the keys. I had had a few pleasant expectations about the ending of the evening, but too many dark emotions were overwhelming me, along with questions about the man sitting next to me. I looked over at him and saw him studying my face.

“I don’t feel like going home yet,” I said.

“What do you feel like doing?”

What I felt like doing was taking an x-ray of his brain so I’d know what was going on in there. But perhaps a planned conversation could do the same thing. I forced a grin. “Ever since Abe mentioned going out for ice cream I’ve been thinking about a banana split.” I didn’t mention the ice cream I’d had at lunch with Rochelle’s apple pie.

“After that dinner?”

“There’s always room for ice cream. Didn’t you know women have an extra compartment just for dessert?”

Nick laughed. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

Mom’s Ice Cream Stand was open and hopping when we arrived at about eight-thirty, and I had to wonder what the business would be like if it were in my town. Here, in Hatfield, we were out of the danger zone of the illness, and kids were everywhere. Not exactly the private, quiet atmosphere I’d been hoping for.

The seating was all outside, and it looked like we might have to do without a table. We decided the ground was fine, so I got my banana split, Nick got a sinful-looking brownie delight, and we found a grassy place away from the crowd.

“I’d much rather be here than in that restaurant,” I said, then corrected it. “I’d much rather be here than a lot of places.”

He reached over and wiped a smear of whipped cream from my lip. “Here is a good place to be.”

I took a breath to make my voice steady. “So where are you when you aren’t here?”

He looked down at his sundae and swirled some fudge around his spoon. Without taking a bite, he raised his head and focused across the grass. “Stella, I—” His eyes widened. “I guess Abe was serious about going out for ice cream.”

I followed his gaze and picked out Abe and Missy among the mostly teen-age mob. My heart sank. I remembered Abe’s cut-off sentence at the funeral and figured it must’ve been my day for aborted conversations. Only those that seemed important, of course. “Maybe they won’t see us.”

But Missy’s oh-so-observant eyes had already discovered us, and she poked Abe with her elbow. He saw us, too, and his face tightened. That dance club in my chest started up again, and this time it felt like something a little more active—like a polka. After the near-make-out-fiasco that afternoon, I wasn’t sure I was ready to deal with him and Nick at the same time.

Nick didn’t look too happy, either.

“I guess if we want to have an actual conversation we’ll have to do it somewhere else,” I said.

He studied his ice cream some more.

Abe and Missy got their orders, and once Missy had declared the grass dry, sat with us. Neither Nick nor I had much to say in welcome. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with my hopping nerves. I hoped it wasn’t obvious.

Missy, of course, broke the silence. “So where have you folks been?”

My mouth wouldn’t open.

“At a dairy dinner,” Nick finally said.

“Oh, what was it like?”

Nick was apparently out of words, so I scrounged one up. “Depressing.”

Missy raised her eyebrows, but I didn’t feel like expanding on the subject. I knew Abe’s eyes were on me, so I finally met them.

“Bad news again?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing good. Damn developers are probably happy, though.”

Nick made a strangled sound, but when I glanced at him, he hadn’t looked up from his food.

“Tell me,” Abe said.

So I did, and my heart sank lower and lower as I repeated all the buyout information we’d been given.