Admission

Admission

By Kimberly Espeland

Eric stuffed the open envelope into his parka and trudged back to the farmhouse, slip-sliding on some black ice. Maybe they got it wrong. They probably mixed him up with someone else. The frigid air made him cough. No one was watching, so he used the doorframe to kick snow off his boots.

Freya was in the kitchen, pouring oats into a sauce pot. Eric took off his scratchy hat, fluffed out his blond hair with his fingers, and blinked the morning mist out of his long eyelashes.

“Mom, what if I apply to U-Dub?”

The sinewy woman turned and stared, dark circles under her eyes. “Out of state? Eric Jacobsen, who do you think you are?” she snapped. Then, “Oliver! Are you up?”

Eric stocking-footed down the cellar stairs, yanked the cord on the bare lightbulb, and shut the door. He folded his lanky legs around a wooden stool. Above racks of glossy preserves and faded yellow squash, he could hear Freya slamming cupboard doors. Floorboards creaked overhead as his dad entered the kitchen. Her shrill, bitter voice alternated with his slower, soothing tones.

Oliver padded downstairs and knocked, unshaven and looking small. He gave Eric a sympathetic nod. “We need to talk.”

He grabbed the old key on the way out. Eric followed him past the hoarfrosted evergreens flanking the stone steps. Hands in coat pockets, they walked between rows of shriveled cabbage stumps. A rabbit gnawed a withered leaf sticking out of the snow. Eric’s mouth tasted sour, and he spat.

“Not much snow on the ground, eh?” Oliver said, brightly.

“Yeah, it’s light compared to last January.”

Oliver rubbed a hand across a hollowed cheek. “You know, your mother would have loved to have more children. It’s hard for her to accept that you’re almost grown.”

Eric started tuning out the same-old, same-old. He thought back to the trip he’d taken right after the choking stench of Fall harvest: thousands of stray cabbage leaves left to rot in the field. Out in Seattle, his cousin Tim’s fraternity had thrown a wild Halloween keg party. Eric had helped the guys set up blacklights and a silly jumping spider decoration. Girls obligingly pretended to freak out, and danced in skimpy costumes. The Foo Fighters blasted, And I wonder… If everything could ever feel this real forever. Afterwards, he and Tim sat on the roof, smoking weed and looking down across the campus three stories below. At least one light was still on in every building he could see. When he got back to Minnesota, Eric had secretly applied to the University of Washington, early decision. The minute after he dropped his packet off at the post office, he felt stupid.

Now, his father pulled out the farmhouse key and turned it over in his hand. He’d purposely adopted the habit last Spring, to replace smoking. The key was heavy and pock-marked, with an old-fashioned curlicue design. Eric’s grandfather had bought and installed the fancy lock on his farmhouse door with pride. Eric had always thought it was overkill, since any thief could just smash a window. Anyway, everyone out here’s a good shot.

Sure enough, his dad started up about the Farm Crisis again.

“You’re too young to remember, but just ten years ago, most families were struggling. The ’80s weren’t kind to farmers with a heavy debt load. Your grandfather’s saving and scrimping was our deliverance, since he had already paid off the house.” Oliver turned the key over in his gloved hand again.

Eric pulled the hood of his parka closer. “Yeah, I know. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’”

Oliver nodded. “So, I thought I’d start getting you involved on the business side. Maybe you’d like to see our financial reports?”

Eric raised his eyebrows, tempted to take the bait. He’d always been good with numbers. He liked desk work, when he could get it, away from mosquitoes sucking at his neck and mud dragging his boots down. His dad was still talking, talking.

“As I see it, our output per acre will keep growing. I bet government commodities support will continue, and we can be smart, take advantage. Why not? We pay our taxes, eh?”

“I’m not sure that’s better than being a borrower, Dad.”

Oliver faced Eric, and squeezed his shoulder. “Look, my dad was a severe person, frugal, not always warm, a lot like your mom. But they both loved us through their actions and hard work. And you and I, we’re alike: dreamers. Let’s get into what could be, for the farm, for you.”

Eric mutely tried to say what he’d done.

Oliver turned away and cleared his throat. “The thing is, I’m out of time. Doctor says the cancer’s back, terminal.”

“How long?”

“Two years.” He paused. “I’m not going to be able to take care of your mom. Will you take care of her for me?”

They looked out at the field for a long moment. Eric poked at a frozen lump of snow with his toe.

“Come on, let’s have breakfast and warm up,” Oliver said.

Freya moved between the Formica counter and the table, lips a thin line. She relaxed them as she placed a soft-boiled egg in a blue china cup, alongside Eric’s hot coffee and oatmeal. Eric twitched his nose. She meant the egg as a peace offering; they had been his favorite as a kid. He could never bring himself to tell her he didn’t like them anymore. Eric broke the top off with a spoon, and dipped into the sticky, yellow ooze.

*

At sunset that night, Eric unfolded the admissions letter that began “Congratulations…,” and slid it behind his dresser. He grabbed the key to the Ford from the sideboard, noticed the old farmhouse key, and stuck that in his pocket too.

“I’m going out spotlighting,” he called up to the dark, quiet bedrooms.

Eric took off in the truck, a gloved hand in his pocket. He turned the key over, feeling its weight. He crossed into the center of the South field and climbed out. No stars. Wispy mist hung low over the rows of cabbage stumps.

He followed the standard procedure his father had taught him years before. A rabbit’s eyes, caught in the headlights, reflected a supernatural glow. Eric aimed his .22 for a head shot. A painless kill: humane and immediate. He checked to be sure the animal was dead, and moved on.

THE END