The Harrows of Spring by James Howard Kunstler Read Free Book Online Page A

operating a turpentine still on the back side of Pumpkin Hill.”
    â€œThat’s right. We all have to make a living somehow.”
    â€œI wouldn’t trust him to draw up a prenuptial,” Bullock said. “Did you handpick him already? I thought you said you were going to hold an election.”
    â€œYes, we will. And he’ll win, don’t worry.”
    â€œI’m not worried,” Bullock said. “About that anyway. I’m worried that I’ll never get to hear a recording of Satie’s Reveries and Nocturnes ever again. That would be goddamn tragic. But I think we can keep the vagabonds and riffraff in line.”
    Dick Lee’s horse pawed at the ground restlessly.
    â€œUh, that’s actually not why we’ve come out here to see you, sir,” Terry Einhorn said.
    â€œWhat else do you want?”
    â€œI thought we had a good system worked out with you for getting wholesale trade goods from Albany on your boat, and all.”
    â€œYou always settled your accounts straight up, Terry,” Bullock agreed. “I appreciated that.”
    â€œWell, I’m a little confused, sir. My boy has come down to the landing for pickup twice lately on the regular schedule only to be told that you have no goods for us.”
    â€œI’ve discontinued the service for now.”
    â€œLike, temporarily or what?” Terry said.
    â€œAt least through planting season. Turns out I need all the men I’ve got around here.”
    â€œWhen exactly do you expect to resume?” Terry asked.
    â€œI dunno,” Bullock said. “Midsummer maybe. And then there’s the harvest to contend with.”
    â€œThe town has come to depend on you, Stephen,” Robert said.
    â€œThat’s not my fault. I’m not the Union Grove’s sugar daddy. Maybe you should make other arrangements, be more self-reliant.”
    â€œThere is nobody else sending a regular trade boat downriver.”
    â€œThen get your own goddamn boat and build a landing for it like I did. There’s plenty of vacant riverfront property.”
    Terry and Robert shared a long fraught look.
    â€œNow, let’s talk softball, shall we?” Bullock said, rubbing his hands together.
    â€œWhat?” Terry said rather loudly.
    â€œRobert and I were talking last fall about reviving the old softball league,” Bullock said. “Remember? We had regular play for a couple of years before that Mexican flu epidemic.”
    Robert nodded reluctantly.
    â€œWait a minute,” Terry said. “You don’t want to bother getting trade goods that everybody around here needs, and is willing to pay hard cash for, but you want us to play softball?” Then to Robert: “Is he serious?”
    â€œAre you serious, Stephen?” Robert said.
    â€œOf course I’m serious,” Bullock said.
    â€œWhat kind of silly-ass idea is that?” Terry said.
    â€œWhat’s silly about it?” Bullock said, his voice rising. “Sports builds character, confidence, morale, community spirit. It’s wholesome recreation. The national pastime. It’s just the thing for those long hot summer evenings soon to come.”
    â€œCome on, let’s go back to town,” Terry said and climbed back up to the driver’s box of his wagon.
    â€œMy girls have already sewn up some nice softballs,” Bullock said. “Real horsehide with cork centers and everything. Close to factory-made.”
    â€œGood luck with your electric outfit, Stephen,” Robert said. He unhitched Lancelot and joined Terry up above in the driver’s box.
    â€œDon’t be soreheads,” Bullock said as Terry reined the big horse around the circular drive. “Or losers.”
    When they were back on the River Road, Robert said to Terry, “You’re right. Moody doesn’t quite cover it.”

S IX
    Dr. Jerry Copeland, forty-three, stood atop a steep slope above the Battenkill