The Soured Earth Read online

  THE SOURED

  EARTH

  SOPHIE WEEKS

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2013

  COPYRIGHT 2013 SOPHIE WEEKS

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover design by Daniel Ramer

  Edited by Cynthia White

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-184-6

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-280-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920954

  For Sera, wherever she may be.

  Like a bird on the wire

  Like a drunk in a midnight choir

  I have tried, in my way, to be free

  —Leonard Cohen

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I HAVE ACCRUED MANY DEBTS of gratitude in the course of writing this book. Drs. Jaclyn Yeo and Shay West helped me to invent a blight and explain it in a rational way. My editor, Cynthia White, helped me tease out themes and motifs I didn't even realize were present in my work. Julie Klein brought rigorous attention and care to the task of proofreading. Emily Duncan has been helpful in all things. To these people, and to you, my dear reader, I owe my thanks.

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHEN MARGARET FIRST GOT THE CALL about her grandmother's heart, it didn't really process. “You should come home,” her father said, and she accepted that, but it still didn't make sense that her bright, strong grandmother's heart should suddenly have just stopped beating like that, even for a moment, with no notice at all. Still, she was stepping off a plane in Calgary before morning, and she found her way out of the airport, looking all bleary and clutching a cup of Tim Horton's coffee and a box of doughnut holes.

  Her father's familiar truck was waiting at the curb, and she tossed her bag in the back before climbing in. “Hi, Dad,” she sighed softly, leaning into his shoulder as he gave her a sideways hug from the driver's seat. “How is she?”

  “Better than I hoped. But I don't want you to consider this a wasted trip.”

  “I wouldn't—I didn't say that,” Margaret protested, sitting back and buckling her seatbelt. “It's just so far and so expensive.”

  “You know I'll pay, Margaret, that isn't the point.” Jon looked a little irritated, but Margaret couldn't entirely blame him, under the circumstances.

  “All right, it's not. So when you say better than you hoped, is it a lot better, or … ?”

  “A lot better. Thing is, the doctors say she's got this incurable thing. They call it aging.” Though his words were flip, his tone was all too somber.

  “Okay, well, I guess mortality is a little tough if you were just suddenly introduced to the concept,” Margaret said, peering a little.

  Jon gave her a bit of a look. “Sam's only eleven, Margaret,” he said. “And I may have raised a daughter, and a damn fine one, but that doesn't mean I'm exactly equipped to raise two more by myself.”

  Oh good. It was time for that talk. “So, what, I'm supposed to give up my degree and come back here to bake cookies?”

  “You already have a degree, honey.”

  “Yes, but not the one I want.” Margaret had graduated a couple of years ago with a solid degree in business economics before realizing that she wanted to pursue fashion design and starting all over again.

  “Well, you'd have to come back eventually,” Jon said stubbornly. “Is it so bad if it happens now?”

  “I don't have to come back, Dad. There is no law that allows you to imprison your daughters forever in the middle of nowhere, though if there was one anywhere, God knows it would be here,” Margaret said, sounding very fierce.

  Jon didn't say anything for a few moments, not till they were on the highway, and then he looked at her sideways. “Might be something still on the books. Worth checking.”

  “Very funny.” Margaret shoved the Timbits at him and put her feet up on the dash.

  “Look,” Jon said finally, flatly. “I know you didn't count on coming back. But I didn't count on Penny and Jeff getting killed. I didn't count on being a dad again at this age. They're your cousins. You have a responsibility too.”

  Margaret couldn't deny that. She might not have wanted to stay home on the ranch, might not be the most family-oriented person in the world, but her cousins were suddenly orphans, and Bonne-maman was sick and … she was beginning to feel a little sick herself. “They don't need me,” she said in a small, unconvincing voice.

  “You been telling yourself that since the funeral. Do you believe it any better now?” When she didn't answer, he pursued the line of attack. “Your grandmother was always there for you. She didn't have to raise you after Lorraine left. You kids, you think it only goes one way.”

  “All right, can we just not do this right now? I didn't even fucking sleep last night.”

  “Nice language.” But Jon was quiet after that, and Margaret was left with the words in her head, which didn't sound any less accusing for not being spoken aloud. But as they left Calgary and hit the plains, she let out a deep breath; the beauty never left her unmoved, no matter how long she was away from it. Long vistas of grassland would always hold first place in her heart.

  “I'll talk to Bonne-maman about it,” Margaret said finally.

  “Oh, that'll be a help. All she wants is to see you become a big shot in Paris.”

  “Because she knows I want that, and for some strange reason, she cares about what I want.”

  “Fine,” Jon said, raising his voice. “Fine, then go back to London and wait for me to die so you can sell to developers.”

  It was always like this. Developers might be a word not used in many family quarrels—in her family, though, it was the ultimate knife to the heart. “Dad, you keep talking about this like you leaving me something I don't want means I'm obligated to live the kind of life you want. Leave the ranch to Emilie, or make it a park or … I don't know.”

  “You're just like your mother.”

  There it was, the second knife to the heart. Just like her mother. Just like the mother who had left them when Margaret was only nine. And Margaret might have made a tentative peace with her mother since, but that didn't mean she wanted to be compared to her, that all those years of pain and absence were forgotten. “I am sorry,” Margaret said in a low voice, “that Bonne-maman is sick. I'm sorry you
're worried about how to handle this without her. I'm sorry Aunt Penny died. But I do not recognize some enormous duty based on the fact that I was born a Campbell.” She took in a deep breath. “But that doesn't mean I won't help. I'll withdraw from my classes this term if I have to. I'm sure that will make you very happy.”

  “I'm the one paying for your degree, Margaret, in case you missed that fact when you're casting me as a developmentally-challenged redneck,” Jon said sharply. “Don't act like I haven't supported you.”

  “It's too late for a refund,” Margaret snapped, then stared out the window silently for the next half hour until they pulled in the long driveway. When she climbed out of the truck, though, she had a big smile on her face as Samantha raced towards her and wrapped her arms around Margaret's waist.

  “Uncle Jon said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would,” the girl said innocently, making Margaret give him a dirty look over Sam's head.

  “Of course I came. Where's Bonne-maman? Is she at the hospital?”

  Jon shook his head, ignoring her glare. “She's home now—has to go back for a whole boatload of tests, but she's resting in bed.”

  “Good,” was all Margaret said, and she handed Sam her bag. “Be an angel and put it in my room?”

  “Okay,” and Sam hefted the bag readily. “Can I look at your clothes, please?”

  “Go ahead,” Margaret laughed. In fact, she just didn't particularly want Sam around while she was still reeling from all the implications. It was like a horrible, sticky web of owing people. Owing Sam and Emilie because their parents were dead. Owing Bonne-maman because she'd more or less raised her. Even owing her father because if he needed help, then it was her job to provide it.

  Margaret climbed the stairs, doubly anxious because if Bonne-maman looked sick, if she wasn't herself, then all the meager detachment she could muster would be shattered. But the voice that called “Come in” at her knock was clear and strong, like always, and Louise was sitting up in bed, wearing a fetching bed jacket made out of tulle.

  “Hi,” Margaret said, and sat down on the bed more heavily than usual from her relief. Louise looked precisely as she did every morning before breakfast, and the only hint that something was wrong was that breakfast was already eaten and cleared, and she was still in bed. Margaret let her eyes linger on the framed photos on the wall: Grandpa, Dad and Aunt Penny, the grandchildren, Pierre Trudeau, and the pope, just as always. In fact, the last time Margaret remembered a change in the lineup was when the pope had died.

  “You look tired,” Louise said plainly. “And you are not wearing any powder. You look naked.”

  “Thanks, Bonne-maman. You look like you just had a heart attack.” Margaret's relationship with Louise had always been one of delicate sparring and deep affection.

  “Lies. I wouldn't even be in bed if your father weren't so bent on it.”

  “He's pretty worried,” Margaret acknowledged. “So am I.”

  “So I gathered. You see, all I have to do is fall over, and you come and see me.” Louise patted the bed beside her, and Margaret moved up to sit closer. “Margaret, it was a very small heart attack. Angina, they call it. I will take some aspirin, eat just a little less butter, and I will live twenty years.”

  “Okay,” Margaret said hesitantly. She reached out and squeezed Louise's hand tightly. “I don't think we can handle too many more bad surprises, so I'm holding you to that, all right?”

  “Good,” Louise said, and she stroked Margaret's forehead. “What has my Daisy making so many wrinkles?”

  “Dad,” Margaret said frankly. “I got a nice dose of guilt on the ride home. I ended up kind of promising to take the rest of the term off.”

  “You what?” Louise gave a formidable frown.

  “He wasn't wrong,” Margaret said unhappily. “Sam and Emilie need someone to be there for them, like Aunt Penny was for me. She never complained about any of it, even when the girls were so young.”

  “Penny did a lot for you,” Louise acknowledged. “But Penny was very happy. You should be happy too.”

  “It's not that I don't want this. It's that it means not having any of the other things I want. It's just so far from everywhere—if I live here, then the only thing I can do is run the ranch.”

  “I know. When I was your age, I wanted everything too. To master the piano, to be married, not to be married, to visit Paris, to write for a newspaper. Then I met Carl, saw this place. After that, everything was clear. I knew what I wanted most.”

  “But maybe that doesn't happen to everyone. Maybe some people never figure it out.”

  “At some point,” Louise answered, “you must look at what you are doing to know who you are. If you are always at sea, then it seems likely you are a sailor.”

  Margaret leaned back against the pillows. “I am always at sea. That's the problem.” She gave a big yawn. “I spent half the night trying to finish my midterm project before my plane left.”

  “Tell me about it,” Louise asked softly, moving over a bit so Margaret could be comfortable.

  “It was to update a classic designer. You know, like what Coco Chanel would make today. You had to show you understood the classic style but could make it fresh. I did Fortuny.”

  “You will show me the drawings?”

  Margaret nodded. “And I brought you some ma-magazines,” she said, stumbling a little as another yawn threatened to swallow the word.

  “Go lie down,” Louise whispered. “All is well, Daisy.”

  With a long soft sigh, Margaret kissed Louise's cheek, then went down the hall to her old room, where nothing had changed for six years. Slipping off her shoes, she climbed into bed under the duvet, and without any more thought, she was asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER HER LONG SLEEP, Margaret came downstairs to find Emilie and Jon in the middle of an argument about whether it was Emilie's or Sam's turn to set the table while he wrestled with the old-fashioned hamburger shaper and tossed thin, perfect patties into a frying pan. “I don't have time to keep track of the times you girls trade turns or the times she forgets. She's upstairs doing her homework, and you're right here, so set the table. You could have set three tables in the time you've been arguing with me.”

  Emilie gave a loud huff, tossing her honey-blonde ponytail, and began banging things on the table. Margaret started slicing tomatoes and lettuce for the hamburgers. “You need to make them write down who's supposed to do what every day, and who did what.”

  “I don't have time to go making up chore lists and then being the referee. They know what needs doing, and they need to do it. Especially Em. She's sixteen, and that's old enough to take some responsibility.” Jon looked over his shoulder pointedly at his niece.

  Margaret rolled her eyes just a little. She did love her father. In the years after her mother left, her father had always been there—maybe not in exactly the ways she most wanted, but he'd done his best, she was sure of that much. The problem was that he was so hard on himself that he'd lost the habit of going easy on anyone else. She didn't doubt that he loved her, but she also didn't doubt that she'd been a disappointment since she gave up riding cross-country to go back east to college. That was at least part of why she was considering staying. Emilie and Sam, who were struggling through hell, needed something more than Jon could give them. They had Louise, of course, but Margaret kept wrestling in her mind with the memories of Aunt Penny showing up to school plays, making slumber party snacks, and grounding her for six weeks for being caught behind the gym with a cigarette.

  “Honey,” Jon said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Mmm?”

  “Take the Tater Tots out of the oven?”

  “Yeah.” The simple childhood meal made her smile, even as she knew it wasn't precisely a nutritional winner. She pulled out the Tater Tots and began stacking the sliced vegetables on a plate. Glancing at her father, she said, “Talk after dinner?” and he merely nodded.

  As soon as Margaret rang the bell,
the girls came tumbling in, complaining of starvation, and Rob and Gene, the two hired men, tipped their hats almost perfectly in unison to her before hanging them on the wall. “How's Whisper?”

  “Earning his keep in stud fees,” Rob winked. “You ought to go out and see him.”

  “I will later.” Whisper had been Margaret's horse until she left home, and happily, he was valuable enough as a stud that Jon hadn't considered rehoming him. “Did you leave my jacket in the stall?”

  “Yup. He ate one of the sleeves, but he still likes it real well,” Rob answered, his deadpan making it impossible to know if he was making fun of her or not.

  From the back stairs, Margaret could hear her father saying, “Mom, you have to stay in bed …”

  Margaret excused herself and went to see what was going on, not that she couldn't guess. Sure enough, there was Louise exclaiming, “My ill health is no excuse for you to starve me, Jon.”

  “Bonne-maman, I'll bring you up some soup, okay?” Margaret said quickly.

  “I do not need soup. I do not have the sniffles. I want a hamburger.”

  “Less butter, remember?” Margaret said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Red meat is packed with cholesterol. Come sit down, and I'll make you something better, okay?”

  “Very well.” Able now to save face, Louise finished descending the stairs and went to her usual place at the head of the table, while Margaret began trying to figure out what the hell she was going to cook for Louise. Finally, she decided to just throw together a stir-fry and heated up the old cast-iron skillet good and hot while she began assembling her materials.

  It made Margaret feel better, anyway, to cook something; she'd meant to wake up in time to make dinner, but her sleep had been extremely heavy, and she was still feeling groggy. The dinner table was the usual noisy babble, with Rob talking about the cows, Emilie talking about her next rodeo, and Jon trying to divide his attention between the two of them.