reject me, after hearing the marvelous music which I created?”
“You are not a musician, but a scientist,” Silla said. “Any musician would have refrained from growing his orchestra from seeds.”
Unable to understand her esthetic revulsion, Calk determined there and then to continue his work with the Student Orchestra (it made a great deal more money than science-teaching). Wrapping his rootlets around his branches, he rolled away from her with crackling dignity.
Breakdown
By Herbert D. Kastle
How are you going to keep them down on the farm—after they've seen the truth?
He didn’t know exactly when it had started, but it had been going on for weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new house two miles past Dugan’s farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused to admit he was sick that way—in the head!
Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear. A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was based on nothing.
The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were chores to do, the same chores he’d done all his forty-one years. Except that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields remain empty. But it just didn’t seem right, all that land going to waste....
Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing stronger each day from helping out after school.
He turned and shook Edna. “What happened to Davie?”
She cleared her throat, mumbled, “Huh? What happened to who?”
“I said, what....” But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part of a dream he’d had last week. He and Edna had no children.
He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. “Like hotcakes for breakfast?”
“Eggs,” he said. “Bacon.” And then, seeing her face change, he remembered. “Course,” he muttered. “Can’t have bacon. Rationed.”
She was fully awake now. “If you’d only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—”
“You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don’t want to hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I’ll call one. And it won’t be that Hamming who I ain’t never seen in my life! It’ll be Timkins, who took care’n us and brought our son into the world and....”
She began to cry, and he realized he’d said something crazy again. They had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he’d died and they’d gone to his funeral. Or so Edna said.
He himself just couldn’t remember it.
He went to the bed and sat down beside her. “Sorry. That was just a dream I had. I’m still half asleep this morning. Couldn’t fall off last night, not till real late. Guess I’m a little nervous, what with all the new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had a son.” He waited then, hoping she’d say they had had a son, and he’d died or gone away. But of course she didn’t.
*
He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen, Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate. Part way through the meal, he paused. “Got an awful craving for meat,” he said. “Goddam those rations! Man can’t even butcher his own stock for his own table!”
“We’re having meat for lunch,” she said placatingly. “Nice cut of multi-pro.”
“Multi-pro,” he scoffed. “God knows what’s in it. Like spam put through a grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can’t hardly taste any meat there.”
“Well, we got no choice. Country’s on emergency rations. The current crisis, you know.”
The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no one could question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finished quickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.
He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. “Why, this ain’t the way I had my barn....”
He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless panic. Of course this was the way he’d had his barn built, because it was his barn!
He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, “Get down to the patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang.” He walked outside and took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn’t it? Sweet and pure and clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still, different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....
He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he’d had twelve pigs, hadn’t he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime later, Edna called to him. “Delivery last night, Harry. I took some. Pick up rest?”
“Yes,” he shouted.
She disappeared.
He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard, moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn’t seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It’d be nice to take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.
No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn’t go further than Walt and Gloria Shanks’ place. They couldn’t go further than his. And the gas rationing. Besides, he’d sold the car, hadn’t he? Because it was no use to him lying in the tractor shed.
*
He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractor shed had stood just fifty feet from the house!
No, he’d torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled and all. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.
He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why should a man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly start losing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.
He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box with a sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicines and other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, and they left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid the bill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receipt and your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found some money from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting
