Chapter 3: a
The silence in the farmhouse kitchen was a physical thing, thick as the dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun. Martha scrubbed the same spot on the countertop, her knuckles white around the sponge. The squeak of it against the laminate was the only sound, until Jeb’s boots thudded on the porch steps.
He came in smelling of diesel and dry earth, a scent that used to mean home to her. Now it just meant work without end. He didn’t look at her. He hung his hat on the peg, its brim frayed, and went to the sink, pumping the handle three times before a trickle of rust-brown water splashed into the basin. He splashed his face.
“McCready called,” Martha said, not turning. “The bank.”
Jeb’s shoulders tightened. He reached for the threadbare towel. “What’d he say?”
“What he always says. The extension’s up. The ‘asset’ isn’t producing.” She finally looked at him, at the deep lines etched around his eyes, the stoop that hadn’t been there five years ago. “They’re going to call the loan, Jeb. They’re talking about the plot for solar leases.”
“They’re not getting the land,” he said, his voice low and final. He tossed the towel on the counter. “We’ll figure something.”
“Figure what?” The words came out sharper than she intended. She saw him flinch. “The chickens are gone. The last dairy cow went to slaughter two years ago. We’re growing subsidized soy for paste. The kids talk about cities. Caleb’s application to that agricultural tech program was rejected. What is there to figure, Jebediah?”
He had no answer. He never did. Just that stubborn, silent set of his jaw. He walked past her, his hand brushing her hip, an accidental touch that made her skin tighten. She didn’t pull away. She just felt nothing.
Upstairs, their bedroom was a monument to fatigue. The quilt was the one her mother made, faded now. The sex they’d had here, for the last… she couldn’t remember… was a quiet, functional transaction. He would roll over, his hand on her breast over her nightgown, his body would cover hers for a few minutes of rhythmic motion, and then he’d finish with a soft grunt, roll off, and be snoring within sixty seconds. She would lie there, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling emptier than before. Sometimes she’d touch herself after, a quick, furtive clutch in the dark, chasing a sensation that felt like her own, but it was like trying to spark a fire with wet wood.
Later, after a dinner of soy-protein loaf and preserved greens eaten in near silence, Jeb muttered about checking the barn lights. Martha nodded, clearing plates. She knew he wasn’t going to check lights.
The barn office was a small, fetid room off the main milking parlor, still reeking of animal ammonia despite years of disuse. A single, fly-spotted bulb hung from a cord. Jeb locked the door behind him, the click a sound of profound relief. The ancient desktop computer whirred to life, its fan groaning.
This was his real farm. His secret harvest.
He navigated to his bookmarks, his calloused fingers clumsy on the mouse. He found her. Tilly Dee. His pulse, so sluggish all day, gave a hard kick.