The Farmhouse by W.T. Paterson


Two days after closing on our first home—a classic farmhouse in rural New Hampshire with a large plot of unused, fertile land out back—with my belly a month away from popping, Charles lost his job at the bank.

“How can we afford anything?” he asked, our room packed and bare the night before the movers were to arrive. His eyes fluttered with mortgage payments, utilities, upkeep, hospital bills, and food.

“We have a savings,” I reassured. “And my dad won’t let us starve.”

For the rest of the night, he pretended to be asleep even though I felt his anxious legs twitch beneath the covers, his shallow breath and restless shoulders cold against the pads of my fingers.

The next morning, he stumbled into the kitchen with eyes sunken, dark, and pained. Charles blamed it on nightmares and, because I said nothing, he assumed I believed him.

We said goodbye to our one-bedroom apartment just outside of the city. We lived on the second floor of that boxy place for three years and had experienced a proposal, a wedding, and the news of our little boy during our time there.

“We need a bigger home,” Charles said one day, and I agreed. Later that year, with the help of his bank, our wish-and-a-prayer offer got accepted for the farmhouse.

The bulky movers lugged boxes into the hall and down the steps. Their sweat soured the air. With the walls empty of art and flowers, it seemed like no one had ever lived there, that no one could ever live there and so, we closed a chapter of our lives without any fanfare.

Charles drove behind the moving van, checking their speed and paying attention to turn signals. A man of numbers, of order, of precision—should the hired help step out of line, I feared he would phone them for discounts and refunds as a temporary fix to his out-of-work status.

But they were professionals and did no wrong. Boxes and furniture inside by three in the afternoon, I tipped the movers in cash while Charles roamed the yard, and off they went. The baby kicked, and our new life together officially began.

The field behind the house spread into the horizon, far too big for any one family. I imagined rows of cornstalks, of wheat, hay, and vegetables. Shades of green to complement the blue skies and white clouds. So much potential, so much beauty. Along the edges, a hand-built stone wall marked the property lines with our closest neighbor whose big red barn glistened under the sun. Branches from the trees in our front yard swayed in the breeze, giving the birds a reason to chirp. The land felt alive, quiet, and still.

I spotted Charles shooing away a dog: a brown and gold mutt traipsing around the rear entrance to our home.

“Must be the neighbor’s,” I said.

“Git!” Charles said flailing his arms, but the dog continued to sniff, unbothered. A man in large overalls and dirty boots stepped out of the shining red barn and waved hello. He wiped his hands on a towel pulled from the front pocket of the overalls and stepped over the stone wall.

“Sorry ‘bout ‘im,” the farmer said. “He’s prolly lookin’ fer the old owners. Name’s Stanton. Bob Stanton.” Bob held out his hand and Charles shook it, then palmed the back of his jeans.

“Good people?” I asked.

“Kept mostly to themselves, but pleasant nonetheless. Where y’all from?”

“Boston,” Charles said.

“Proper, or burbs?” Bob asked. He tucked his hands into the front pocket and rocked from heel to toe. His body was an enormous thing; it seemed as though peeling back skin wouldn’t reveal bones, but boulders.

“Burbs,” Charles said. He said it like he missed it, and my heart shrank at the idea that I had done this to him, forced him into a life he didn’t want.

“Scooter here means no harm,” Bob said, nodding at the mutt. “Gentle beast. Curious thing. When are you due?”

“Soon, maybe three weeks,” I said. I folded a palm over my belly, warmed.

“Havin’ rugrats puts it all in perspective. Got three myself. Gonna be a grandad ‘fore the year’s up. A young stud like me, a grandad! Ain’t that a thing!” He whistled for Scooter, but the dog sat down and eyed Charles.

“If we need anything, we’ll let you know,” Charles said in the tone he used when ushering clients out of the bank. He turned to the mutt. “Go, go with your master.”

“Word to the wise, sweet-ums,” Bob said, nodding at me. “Be careful. Something about the land—the water maybe—can’t say for sure, but the previous owner was set to pop three different times. Never made it to one.”

I looked at Charles and Charles’s face reddened. The stillness of the land, the eclipsing beauty. It didn’t seem possible, but I had no reason to doubt Bob as he lumbered back to his plot, whistling to the birds. Scooter watched Charles pace and wagged his tail whenever my husband got close.

“Guess we have a dog now,” Charles said. Saying it out loud made him laugh and, when he laughed, I laughed and, just like that, all was right in the world.

The next day, Charles went into town to apply for jobs. A small community with one bank, a newspaper publisher, a library, and one restaurant; the odds were low that he’d come home happy. Fiercely hot, the sun cooking the green grass yellow, I allowed Scooter inside and gave him a bowl of cool water from the tap. He sniffed around, probably seeking the old owners, and then lapped from the dish.

I put plates and flatware away in the kitchen, wiping each piece down with a small yellow hand towel given to us as a wedding gift. That day had brought together our families, our friends, and the promise that life was a shared celebration. Thinking back on it made me feel that our little boy might grow up happy.

The kitchen took up half of the downstairs. Natural edge counters ran the walls into stainless steel appliances. Scooter wandered into the living room, sniffed the blue couch and loveseat, circled into the dining room checking beneath the table stacked with boxes, and stopped to peer upstairs. The bristles of his neck rose, and his tail shot out straight. His mouth pulled into a snarl with large canines catching the daylight. He growled once, looked at me with innocent eyes, then back up the stairs with another short warning. Finally, he came back into the kitchen to nap.

I went to the stairs and looked up, unsure of what I might find. A window screen in the bathroom vibrated with the wind, and I reasoned it to be what Scooter had heard. The bedrooms on either side had creaky floors, and I told myself that a person walking or an animal scraping would have been more pronounced.

Before I met Charles, I was attacked in my own home. A man followed me to my apartment after a shift at the car dealership my father owned. For years, I worked everything from reception to financing to payroll and, one day, a man came in asking about me.

“Does she need a husband?” he asked, and my brother Duggy told him to beat it unless he planned on buying a car. When he came back the next day, Duggy asked, “Do you know Julie or something?” The guy smiled and said, “Julie, is it?” That night, the man shouldered through my door and put his hands around my throat, said he loved me and told me to take off my clothes. I fought him off and Duggy, who lived in the downstairs apartment, heard the commotion, and showed up with a handpiece, keeping him there until the police arrived.

I tell myself that the man was just a creep which, I know, is minimizing the situation. But my father always said I was as tough as I was beautiful. That idea kept me going. It made me look at life through a different lens though, and when I met Charles, I thought, here’s a guy that thinks about everything, considers possibilities. Nothing gets by. His anxious habits will keep us safe. And they did. And I fell in love. And, while he knew about the incident, he didn’t know that my father keeps me on the payroll out of guilt, and I have enough money tucked aside to last us two years.

Kitchen boxes unloaded and broken down into flat slabs of cardboard, I sat on the couch with a sweating glass of ice water and stared into the dark reflection of the unplugged TV. Scooter moped in and flopped to the wooden floor. The baby kicked, and I considered calling Charles about the mutt’s odd behavior, but I didn’t want to stress him out more than he already was. Instead, I called a company that checks for mold and they were there within the hour, scraping black flecks from the vents inside the central air ducts.

“That’ll do it,” the first guy said, peeling off rubber gloves and pushing his facemask to his chin. “Glad you thought to check on those.”

“What’s your name?” the second guy asked. The question wasn’t friendly. “Can you get me a glass of water?”

Scooter leapt up barking, and both men jumped. The gravel driveway crunched under the wheels of Charles’s car, and I watched my husband step out of the driver’s side, hair askew, dark sweat stains blotching the pits of his blue button-up. His body looked thin, withered. Dehydrated.

“That your man?” the second guy asked. He smirked. The stench of their sour sweat swirled into the room, pushed by the cool central air: the smell of physical labor.

“What’s with you?” the first guy said, shoving his partner. He pointed. “In the van. Let’s go. Sorry, Miss.”

“Missus,” I corrected, and the guys both held out their hands in apology. They left and nodded hello at my husband as they passed in the driveway. Charles watched them go.

“We can’t afford contractors,” he said. He didn’t say hello.

“Free of charge,” I lied. “Our inspector sent them.”

“Oh,” he said. Scooter wagged his tail and received a head scratch from Charles. “Country life is going to take some getting used to. Guess he’s ours now?”

“Guess so,” I said.

Charles cooked a pasta dinner, measuring out the water, salt, sauce, and butter. He told me about the town, how he felt like a foreigner talking to people, how he considered extending his job search to new towns in the surrounding area.

“Something’s got to be out there,” he said, staring into his untouched plate of food. I asked him to eat and he ate, and a glimmer of life returned to his eyes.

The sound woke us, the midnight of the land squeezing our sight into malformed shapes in a worried panic of sleeplessness. Scooter stood at the top of the stairs, peering into the dark, barking so hard that the yips squealed at their ends. He growled and snapped, loaded his weight on his hind legs and hung his head low.

“Do you think he hears something?” Charles asked. He scrambled for his phone and dialed 911, the glow turning his face ghostly and pale. “Yes, our dog is barking, and I think someone is in our home.”

I listened for signs of intrusion—the creak of a floorboard, the sour stench of sweat, whispered voices plotting harm—but found only the crickets and distant owls of the New Hampshire fields. The baby kicked, and I tried to slow my breathing.

Scooter barked, growled, and snarled at the dark until Charles rose from bed, told me to stay put, and joined the dog at the top of the stairs. They peered into the first floor together. All was quiet and still. Suddenly, Scooter snapped out of it and laid down on the cool wood, sniffing Charles’s thin, bare legs.

“Hello?” Charles called. “We’ve phoned the police! They’re on their way!”

We listened for a reply. Only silence. The farmhouse creaked and settled. It sounded like walking if I wanted it to, but I knew the truth. Faintly in the distance, like a feather caught in the wind, we heard Bob Stanton weeping, the sound floating out from his big red barn gone gray under the shine of the moon.

The police arrived with flashing blues and reds so bright, they rippled across the silent fields into the horizon. Charles spoke with them about the mutt’s behavior and the police took notes, told us to call if we noticed anything unusual in the morning. Charles asked about Bob Stanton and how we heard the sound of crying, and the small-town police said it was the anniversary of his wife’s death and none of his kids had come to visit. The officers left and all was quiet again, the type of quiet that hurts the ears—a screaming silence so thick, it’s maddening. We didn’t sleep and eventually, the sun broke over the hills to usher in the day.

Charles didn’t want to leave me alone, so he spent the morning outside gathering wildflowers for a bouquet. I watched from the wooden porch, my eyelids heavy. Bob waved from his land and I waved back, feeling sorry for the lonely man. He made his approach, and Charles spoke with him by the drive.

“Perfect season ta’ grow,” Bob said, nodding at the garden beds near the bulkhead. “Work with your hands, I’ll show yas how.”

“Maybe later,” Charles said, and then went inside to wash his hands, put on a new shirt, and makes some phone calls about potential employment. Scooter brought Bob a large stick, and the man tossed it into the field for the dog to bound after. He nodded at me with a tight-lipped smile and headed back to his yard.

“Tell me about her,” I said. “Your wife, what was she like?”

Bob stopped cold, his profile hanging over his stone shoulders.

“Loved ‘er like the crops love a rainstorm in July,” he said. “Had ‘er issues, but don’t we all?” He pointed at our land, to the garden beds, to the long stretches of grass around the porch. “Soil needs to be tilled. Land’s gotta breathe, same as the rest of us. Packed too tight, nothin’ grows.”

The back of his neck had gone leathery brown from the sun. I apologized if the police lights woke him, kept him from sleep, and I explained that we thought someone might have tried to get inside.

“It’s a different world out ‘ere,” he said. “Takes some adjustin’.”

And with that, he walked over the stone wall, into his field, and I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

Inside, Charles hung up the phone and put his face in his hands. The air was cool and crisp, and the sunlight spilling through the windows, giving life to dancing dust particles. I rubbed the back of his head and thanked him for the flowers.

“They’re something, aren’t they?” he whispered, admiring the vibrant purple, yellow, and white petals. “Maybe we should grow our own.”

The baby kicked. It was only a matter of time.

Later in the afternoon, Charles got a call from the local bank. He put on a tie and headed into town to speak with them. I spent the day with Scooter, walking the fields, smelling the sweetgrass and swatting at pesky flies. At sunset, we both returned, and Charles looked defeated.

“Offered a teller position. Entry level. A dollar above minimum wage,” he said. “I don’t want to take it, but I fear I might have to.”

“Don’t take it,” I said, but Charles stared into the blank kitchen walls calculating the cost of the future.

That night, we stayed awake in bed, neither of us speaking, both of us wondering if this new life of ours was the answer. A silence this thick made me miss the rumble of cars, of passing trains, of people stumbling home from the bars. Being alone with my thoughts proved a challenge because it forced me to confront them. I wondered about our child and the secrets we’d keep from him. Would he grow up to know his mother ran from her past? That his father followed their mother when perhaps he didn’t want to? Would he believe this strange distance—of the land, of the house, of his parents—was normal, and form relationships of the same kind? What if someone broke into his apartment and tried to hurt him? What if he grew to be a man who does the breaking in?

Scooter growled again, this time from the cusp of sleep. Charles sat up and snapped his fingers to break the dream. The mutt looked at him, then to the doorway. He growled again, barked once, then rolled to his feet and crept to the frame. I sat up and watched.

“Charles,” I said. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?” he asked, his eyes peering into the darkness. I imagined a silhouetted body, their labored breaths churning through adrenaline lungs, a sudden burst with fingers around my throat, the helplessness of an intruder breaching my space with eyes bent on violence. Scooter understood the severity of an unwanted entrant, his exposed teeth and sharpened fur that stood ridged along the spine giving weight to the basic fact that, at some point in our lives, we all must confront that which storms our darkened rooms. I was not sure that Charles could ever understand, even as the mutt loaded weight on his back haunches, preparing to pounce and scramble down the staircase.

“Everything I cannot see,” I said, and pushed a hand against my swollen belly. Charles turned, his eyes filling with understanding, with validation, and held me the way he did when we’d first lived in that boxy apartment with art and flowers decorating the walls.

“Me too,” he said, and squeezed until I felt safe.

Scooter turned to watch us there, arms wrapped around each other, and plopped himself in the doorway, a wedge between us and whatever he sensed. His fur cooled, but his alert ears and sniffing snout stay fixed onto the hallway’s shadow. I slowed my pounding heart until the fear lifted into liminal drifting and stayed cradled like a babe, comforted by the weightlessness of confession. There, in the predawn hours on the cusp of sleep, the gentle winds moved through the window screens like the strained breath of someone crouched in waiting.

In the morning, I crept downstairs to find Bob and Charles working in the garden. Bob struck the earth with a hoe while Charles, on his knees, ran his hands through the moist dirt. They didn’t know I was watching, but they worked until noon planting seeds, setting irrigation, and tending to the land.

When they came inside for lunch, they smelled of dirt and grass, and their sweat filled with the pungent scent of promise.

“Bob says we can sell our flowers,” Charles said. “He said he’ll teach me crops later, proper care, and lend out machinery for harvest. Says we can make an honest living and on good years, do better than I did at the bank.”

“Happy to pass on the learnings of ma’ life’s work,” Bob said, hooking his thumbs into his overalls and rocking heel to toe.

“Charles,” I said, doubling over and struggling to breathe. Wetness burst down my legs, sticky and thick. “The baby is coming.”

We hurried to the car, Bob telling us to go, that’d he’d watch over things, and Scooter wagging his tail so hard that he couldn’t keep balance. We sped out of the gravel lot, spraying pebbles across the lawn, and kicked up a dust storm en route to the hospital.

A few hours later, our son came blinking into the world, his blue eyes large wet against the light. Charles asked to hold him. He still smelled like the earth, though his hands had been washed clean by soap.

All day, we sat with our child, gooey with love until we let our bodies rest, falling asleep to the soft beeps of machines.

“I miss the crickets,” Charles said, and any fear about our child’s future washed away like a rainstorm in July.

When we brought our boy home days later, Bob greeted us at the drive with a handmade wooden crib, rounded and painted soft blue.

“Made this for yas,” he said. He’d also cut our grass, and the small green leaves of flowers sprouted from the garden beds. Scooter ran through the yard in celebration of our return. We carried our child inside as he looked around with the large eyes, full of fascinated curiosity. What a world he must have seen.

We all ate dinner, taking small bites of our food and ogling over the child.

“He’s perfect,” Bob said.

“Like his mama,” Charles said, and wiped a smudge from the child’s pudgy cheek.

That night, Scooter begged to be let outside after we’d put the baby to sleep. I brought the mutt downstairs in quiet and opened the door, and his brown and golden legs catapulted him into the fields out back, a green world gone silver under the watchful moon. Scooter ran there—content to chase away whatever pesky critters dared to encroach our fertile lands—until he stopped suddenly, abruptly. Stopped there to sniff fresh footprints in the mud that led into our house, but not away.

W. T. PATERSON is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, MFA candidate for Fiction at the University of New Hampshire, and graduate of Second City Chicago. His work has appeared in over 80 publications worldwide including The Forge Literary Magazine, The Delhousie Review, and Fresh Ink. A number of stories have been anthologized by Lycan Valley, North 2 South Press, and Thuggish Itch. He spends most nights yelling for his cat to "Get down from there!"

Artwork by Novel Noctule team.

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