The Journal: Cracked Earth (40 page)

I stirred the dark golden liquid with the big
spoon and let it run off of the edge. “Yes, very close. You’re
getting a good eye for this. Keep it cooking while I get the jars
prepped and the canner heating. It shouldn’t take too long. I’ll
let you know when I’m ready.”

A half hour later, we were ladling hot, deep
golden syrup into pint jars, fixing them with a sterilized lid and
ring. Five jars were submerged into the boiling water bath and
timed for ten minutes. I lifted them out and John set them on a
folded towel to cool. Then we started on the next five jars.

“Now that’s a beautiful day’s work!” I said,
hooking my arm into his to admire the ten pint jars of the deep
amber liquid, all perfectly sealed and lined up on the counter. I
rested my head comfortably against his shoulder.

“Do we need to do more?” he asked.

“Not unless you want to. This should last us
a while. Jason is doing his own, so we don’t need to provide for
them. We could pull the taps, now.”

He nodded tiredly.

I got the small wagon from the garden, and
armed with a hammer and a near empty can of pruning seal, (another
hole in my preps) we started at the furthest tree. We removed the
tent, then the bucket, emptying any sap into the five gallon pail
for tomorrow’s final coffee, and put everything in the wagon. Next
came pulling the tap out, which John did while I searched for just
the right stick to plug the hole. I jammed the stick as far as I
could and broke it off. John used the hammer to drive it in. A
quick spray of sealant and we moved to the next tree. The last
bucket to come down reinforced John’s desire to stop syruping. The
bucket had two inches of milky fluid in the bottom proving
this
tree at least, was done. I dumped it on the ground. It
really didn’t surprise me though. The temperature had climbed into
the high 50’s for several days now. The removal process took less
than fifteen minutes, and I still had to wash everything so it
could be stored for next year.

I told John I wanted to make something
special with that first small batch that he had made. There was
about a cup left.

I melted two sticks of precious butter, plus
a half cup of evaporated milk in a pot. I now had only four pounds
of butter left from the ten that I had in the freezer back in
October. A sobering thought. Then I added the cup of maple syrup to
the pot, a half cup of brown sugar, and two cups of graham cracker
crumbs that I found in the back of the cupboard, sealed in a glass
jar. I cooked that at a boil for five minutes. Next I opened one of
the jars of canned crackers, using the club crackers. I lined a
9x13 inch pan with the crackers, then poured one-third the cooked
mixture over them. Then another layer of crackers, another third of
the mixture. One more layer of crackers, using all of that one jar.
I took a chocolate bar that I had been hiding and grated it into a
bowl. I made sure that the final third of the mixture was hot,
spread it over the top and sprinkled the chocolate over the
surface. The heat softened the chocolate to the right consistency.
Then I set the pan in the pantry to chill.

“What did you just make?” John asked with a
fascinated look on his face.

I grinned. “Maple Kit Kat bars! You are going
to be amazed how good they are!”

“But you used a whole jar of crackers.”

“Yes, John, and this is the reason I stored
up what I did. All the canning I did, all the work I went through,
has been to provide things for myself and my family. Things that
might not be available when the time came to need them. That’s what
prepping is all about, Hon. Having what you need, when you need it.
It might be tomatoes or ready-made soup. It might be aspirin and
band aids, or it might be rope or crackers. It might even be
something I forgot.”

“I doubt that you’ve forgotten anything,” he
said, putting his arms around me for one of those special hugs that
I’ve come to love.

* * *

Later that evening everyone enjoyed the
sugary treat, and
none
of it was going to the school!

* * *

JOURNAL ENTRY: March 20

The chilly nights have quickly given way to
more moderate temperatures in the fifties, which means open windows
to me, and fresh air for sleeping. Listening to the woods wake up
in the Spring is very special. The night birds come back, the
animals rustle around in the leaves looking for food. I was very
excited to hear geese honking high above us this morning, and I
almost wept with joy to hear the very distinctive call of the
Hermit Thrush looking for his mate.

This morning’s fifty-two degrees rose to
sixty-five degrees by noon and I knew how I wanted to spend the day
- washing curtains and hanging them in the sunshine! John helped me
sort through the coils of rope stacked on a shelf. After the
blizzard was over, we retrieved all the ropes, carefully rewinding
them, tying them individually and hoping that we wouldn’t need them
for a long time.

* * *

“You don’t know how this makes me feel! I
love the way things smell when they have dried outside.” There was
only room for four fifteen foot lines, but it was enough.

“Since you’ll be spending the afternoon
washing curtains, you don’t mind if I take the four-wheeler out for
a ride, do you?” John asked, pulling the last clothesline
tight.

“No, of course not,” I replied, though I was
disappointed that I wouldn’t have the extra set of hands for some
of the other work I had in mind.

I took down all of the curtains in the
kitchen and dining room, and set them to wash. Then I started
washing the windows. Months’ worth of wood smoke was evident as I
sprayed on the window cleaner, watching it drip in dirty streaks. I
had to wash each one twice, and now they’re sparkling. When I got
to the glass door-wall, I also had to clean the track that was full
of mud and bird seed. No wonder it was getting hard to move!

When the first load of curtains was waving on
the clothesline, I put the next load in from the bedroom and
hallway. Since this room was the furthest from the woodstove, the
windows weren’t quite as dirty, but still needed cleaning. As each
window was cleaned, I left it open to help air the house out.

Trying to be systematic, I moved the dining
table, swept and mopped under it, moved it back and did the same to
the rest of the room in preparation of hanging the clean window
coverings back up. For some reason I felt an urgency to clean, or
maybe it was just the warm breezes that was spurring me on. With
the power readily available now, I vacuumed the bedroom and as a
last thought, stripped the bed and washed those sheets too. We
might even get fresh pillowcases tonight!

When the sheets finally went on the line, and
since all the curtains were back on the windows, I began cleaning
up the yard from the winter, a very harsh winter in more ways than
one. I stopped, leaned on the rake, and pulled my cloth hanky out
of a pocket to wipe away the tears as memories bombarded me. I
tamped down the emotions and lifted my face into the sun, welcoming
its heat.

* * *

With all the curtains cleaned and back up,
windows washed, floors cleaned, even freshly sun-dried sheets back
on the bed, I sat down in my rocker with a sigh of satisfaction. It
was then I realized it was almost six o’clock, and John was still
not home.

The kids would be over for dinner soon. It
was our Wednesday spaghetti night, and I had yet to put it
together. I found a jar of pork shreds for meat, and two jars of
sauce that I made last summer, a pound of linguini instead of my
usual angel-hair and a package of noodles for Jacob. My arms were
full when I walked out of the pantry, and almost bumped into John.
My heart leaped. I was so glad to see him.

“Did you have a good ride?” I asked, though I
really wanted to tell him that I was getting worried.

“Yes, I did. It was a beautiful day. Let me
help with that,” he said, taking two of the jars from me.

As we set everything down on the work island,
he said, “The house looks great, nothing like fresh air.”

I wanted to scream. It was burning in me to
know where he had been all this time. Just then the kids came
in.

JOURNAL ENTRY: March 21

The power has been back on for a full week
now. It’s been easy to get used to again… water when we want it,
lights in any room, the refrigerator making ice, coffee ready
before we get up, clothes washed and dried in the same day. The
internet was back on too, and I spent way too much time catching up
on the groups, reading news, and sending emails. It sure felt good.
Watching TV at night still feels surreal and mystical. In reality,
my life will never be the same ever again, no matter how free the
power is or how much is now stocked in the grocery stores. Our
lives have been changed, damaged, for some beyond repair. We’ve
starved, we’ve killed, some have been killed.

No, we will never be the same.

I woke during the night with my heart
pounding and I was gasping for breath. It was only the result of a
bad dream. I snuggled closer to John for comfort, and found he
wasn’t there. The sheets were cold, so I knew he had been up for
some time. I got up and wandered toward a softly glowing light in
the other room. He was standing by the deck door, staring out into
the darkness. I wonder what’s on his mind?

* * *

I leaned against the doorway to watch John
with his sweat pants slung low on his hips, barefoot and
shirtless.

“I can feel when you come near me, you know,”
he said, without turning from the window. “I don’t have to see you
to know you’re there.” The small battery operated lantern cast a
soft glow and his shadow bounced off the opposite wall. I waited
until he turned around.

“Are you okay, John?” I asked softly.

“I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to disturb
you.”

It didn’t escape me that he hadn’t answered
my question.

“Why don’t you go back to bed, Allex, I’ll be
there in a minute,” he promised.

I turned and went back to bed. A few minutes
later I felt him shift under the covers and he curled himself
around me, holding me snug against him. We both finally fell
asleep.

* * *

We made love that morning. It was sweet and
gentle and… sad. John slipped out of bed and I heard the shower
start. I turned over and wept. All I could think of were the
unexplained hours away from home, the quickly hung up phone calls
when I came near, and most of all his growing distance. Before the
water went off, I used the second bath to rinse my face and use
eye-drops, hoping to conceal the redness from my tears. I slipped
on my usual morning sweatpants and t-shirt, both now too baggy on
me.

I was already pouring a cup of coffee when he
came out, dressed in jeans and a deep green hoodie. I turned to
him. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” I asked, making more of a
statement than a question. My hands were shaking and the coffee
sloshed. I set the cup down on the table.

“I got a message from Green-Way. They’re
starting up operations again, and I have to report back.”

He crossed the room to me. I backed up.
“Allex…” his voice caught, pleading in that sweet, charming North
Carolina drawl that I’ve gotten so use to, clawing at my heart.

“Why can’t you stay here and still work for
them?”

“They don’t work that way.” He ran his hands
over his bald head in that oh so familiar way, and I lost it. The
tears streamed down my face. He stepped closer, using his thumb to
wipe away the tears on my cheek. I blinked hard, sending a fresh
cascade down my wet face. Were those tears I saw in his eyes? I
couldn’t tell.

“If you have to go, John, then just go.” I
was surprised the words came out. I hadn’t seen his duffle bag
already packed by the door. I wanted to reach out, to hold him and
keep him from leaving me. But I can’t force him to stay. I can’t
make him love me. My hands hung limp at my sides, twitching, aching
to touch him, to hold him here. I wanted to beg him to stay. I
stood silent. Pride stopped me.

John picked up the duffle bag and walked
out.

I stood at the door, hidden by the curtain,
and watched him walk down the road, the duffle slung across his
broad shoulders, a sob escaping from my throat with every step he
took away from me. How could he do this to me? To us? Did the past
three months mean nothing to him? He
had
told me, tried to
warn me so long ago, that he wouldn’t get emotionally tied to
anyone ever again, because he always left.
Always
.

On uncertain legs I went into the bathroom,
hoping to find some relief under a hot shower. There on the dryer,
all neatly folded, were the clothes that I had given him that first
day; sweatpants, t-shirts and socks, with the Beretta sitting on
top.

He wasn’t coming back.

My world shattered. My life shattered. Then
my heart shattered. My legs collapsed and I slid to the floor, and
everything around me went dark.

She sat in the old rocker by the cold cook-stove
reading. A warm September breeze drifted in through an open window,
bringing with it the scent of the honeysuckle that now grew by the
sliding glass door. She closed the old, well-worn journal and set
it down, the tears pooling in her dark hazel eyes. Oh, how sad her
grandmother had been. She searched her pocket for a hanky, cloth of
course; there’d been no paper tissues in a very long time, but she
did remember them.

Emilee, now twenty-five, lovingly stroked the
smooth cover of the brown leather book her Nahna had faithfully
kept for many years. There would be time to continue reading. She
knew there was more written, much more beyond the five months that
she had just finished reading about. She wiped her tears, shed in
sympathy for the heartache her grandmother had felt at the time,
but also knowing that Grandpa John had come back to Nahna a month
later, unable to stay away from the woman he loved.