Drizzle by Kathleen Van Cleve

Edith,” I say, confused. “Are you really—I mean—what are you—?”
    Aunt Edith looks at me straight in the eye.When she talks she sounds kind, not mean. “Remember Emerson. Truth is handsomer than the affectation of love. ” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “Ask me what you really want to ask me, dear. I won’t get mad.”
    Okay then. “Do you really want to sell the farm?”
    “Yes.” She pauses. “Actually, it’s already done. The farm is sold for a very generous price. I’m just waiting for your father to sign the papers.”
    I’m rocked. Truly, completely rocked. I’m a baseball that’s been hit out of the park, out of the county, out of the universe.
    “Edith.” Dad speaks gravely, more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “I told you, I am not going to sign.”
    She lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Of course you are.”
    Dad shakes his head and pushes his chair back from the table. “No. I own half of this farm, the same as you. And I say no .”
    Aunt Edith swallows and her face hardens.
    “I’ll ask you again tomorrow, George.” She puts both of her hands on the table and stands.
    “I’m not going to change my mind,” Dad insists.
    “We’ll see about that.” She gives Girard a small nod.
    “We’re leaving.”
    “Do not—” Mom starts, but Aunt Edith cuts her off. She gives Mom a small smile, and then turns to us. “Good night, everyone.”
    “But—” Tears form and spill from my eyes. I can’t stop them.
    “Oh Polly,” clucks Aunt Edith. “Please don’t.”
    She is staring at me with such sadness and such pity that I can’t stand it. But the fact that Aunt Edith wants to sell the farm makes me not like Aunt Edith.
    And I cannot not like Aunt Edith. I just can’t.
    Then, in an instant, she walks out.
    Even after we hear the door shut, none of us move for a while.
    “Aunt Edith is rich,” I say. “She has a Mercedes. She knows the President.”
    Mom laughs, crazily. “A Mercedes and a president, yes,” Mom says.
    I get mad that she’s laughing. “You must have done something,” I tell Dad.
    “Polly—” Mom begins.
    “What did you do to her?”
    “Polly—” This time it’s Dad.
    “Just give her the money,” I say.
    “You don’t know the first thing—” Mom says.
    “You’re being cheap!” Aunt Edith is the one person in this family who actually knows anything—who actually is anything, and Dad’s making her want to sell the farm. That has to be it. I jump up from my chair.
    “Sit down!” Dad orders.
    But I run out of the house, with everyone staring after me. I don’t care. I’m mad, more mad than I’ve ever been. At my parents. At Aunt Edith. At Freddy. At Patricia. At Harry. It feels like all my anger is pooling into one hot, ugly stream. My cheeks burn; my heart pounds. I think my brain has blown up; nothing makes any sense.
    I run over the rope bridge and through the castle and I run and run as fast I can over to the chocolate rhubarb field, row eighteen, column thirty.
    “Harry, please talk to me!” I stare down at him, panting. “Tell me what’s happening!”
    Slowly Harry moves all his leaves up to the same bouquet position .
    I wipe my eyes to get rid of tears I didn’t even know were falling. “Why do you keep doing that?”
    The other plants start to make bouquets too, one by one, until the entire field is covered in chocolate rhubarb bouquets.
    “HELP ME!” I plead.
    Suddenly, Harry slowly releases his leaves, stretching them out, flat, like he’s finally going to answer me, tell me what I need to know. I take a deep breath, relieved.
    He stays there, outstretched, for a long, long moment.
    “Yes, Harry?” I whisper.
    Then, Harry’s leaves snap up into the bouquet position, that same terrible, unknowable, frustrating position.
    And I snap too.
    I don’t know what that means I don’t knowwhatthatmeans Idon’tknowI . . .
    I don’t think, I just reach over and start ripping, leaf by leaf, yanking out the stalks,