Clifford Simak - The Big Front Yard and Other Stories

“It must have happened in the night,” he said.

He thought it was funny, but figured maybe there had been a shower across the lower end of the valley, although as a rule rains travel up and down the valley, not across it. But when he had crossed the corner of the field and crawled through the fence, he noticed it hadn’t rained at all. So he went back and walked around the field and the rain had fallen on the field, but nowhere else. It began at the fence and ended at the fence.

When he’d made a circuit of the field he sat down on one of the balls of twine and tried to get it all thought out, but it made no sense – furthermore, it was plain unbelievable.

Jingo is a thorough man. He likes to have all the evidence and know all there is to know before he makes up his mind. So he went over to Heath’s second corn patch, on the west side of the valley. And once again, he found that it had rained on that field – on the field, but not around the field.

“What do you make of it?” Jingo asked me and I said I didn’t know. I came mighty close to telling him about the unmanned tractor, but I thought better of it. After all, there was no point in getting the neighborhood stirred up.

After Jingo left I got in the car and drove over to the Heath farm, intending to ask him if he could loan me his posthole digger for a day or two. Not that I was going to dig any postholes, but you have to have some excuse for showing up at a neighbor’s place.

I never got a chance to ask him for that posthole digger, though. Once I got there I never even thought of it.

Heath was sitting on the front steps of the porch and he seemed glad to see me. He came down to the car and shook my hand and said, “It’s good to see you, Calvin.” The way he said it made me feel friendly and sort of important, too – especially that Calvin business, for everyone else just calls me Cal. I’m not downright sure, in fact, that anyone in the neighborhood remembers that my name is Calvin.

“I’d like to show you around the place,” he said. “We’ve done some fixing up.”

Fixing up wasn’t exactly the word for it. The place was spick-and-span. It looked like some of those Pennsylvania and Connecticut farms you see in the magazines. The house and all the other buildings had been ramshackle with all the paint peeled off them and looking as if they might fall down at any minute. But now they had a sprightly, solid look and they gleamed with paint. They didn’t look new, of course, but they looked as if they’d always been well taken care of and painted every year. The fences were all fixed up and painted, too, and the weeds were cut and a couple of old unsightly scrap-lumber piles had been cleaned up and burned. Heath had even tackled an old iron and machinery junk pile and had it sorted out.

“There was a lot to do,” said Heath, “but I feel it’s worth it. I have an orderly soul. I like to have things neat.”

Which might be true, of course, but he’d done it all in less than six months’ time. He’d come to the farm in early March and it was only August and he’d not only put in some hundred acres of crops and done all the other farm work, but he’d got the place fixed up. And that wasn’t possible, I told myself. One man couldn’t do it, not even with his wife and daughter helping – not even if he worked twenty-four hours a day and didn’t stop to eat. Or unless he could take time and stretch it out to make one hour equal three or four.

I trailed along behind Heath and thought about that time-stretching business and was pleased at myself for thinking of it, for it isn’t often that I get foolish thoughts that are likewise pleasing. Why, I thought, with a deal like that you could stretch out any day so you could get all the work done you wanted to. And if you could stretch out time, maybe you could compress it, too, so that a trip to a dentist, for example, would only seem to take a minute.

Heath took me out to the garden and Helen had been right. There were the familiar vegetables, of course – cabbages and tomatoes and squashes and all the other kinds that are found in every garden – but in addition to this there were as many others I had never seen before. He told me the names of them and they seemed to be queer names then, although now it seems a little strange to think they once had sounded queer, for now everyone in the valley grows these vegetables and it seems like we have always had them.

As we talked he pulled up and picked some of the strange vegetables and put them in a basket he had brought along.

“You’ll want to try them all,” he said. “Some of them you may not like at first, but there are others that you will. This one you eat raw, sliced like a tomato, and this one is best boiled, although you can bake it, too –”

I wanted to ask him how he’d come on the vegetables and where they had come from, but he didn’t give me a chance; he kept on telling me about them and how to cook them and that this one was a winter keeper and that one you could can and he gave me one to eat raw and it was rather good.

We’d got to the far end of the garden and were starting to come back when Heath’s wife ran around the corner of the house.

Apparently she didn’t see me at first or had forgotten I was there, for she called to him and the name she called him wasn’t Reginald or Reggie, but a foreign-sounding name. I won’t even try to approximate it, for even at the time I wasn’t able to recall it a second after hearing it. It was like no word I’d ever heard before.

Then she saw me and stopped running and caught her breath, and a moment later said she’d been listening in on the party line and that Bert Smith’s little daughter, Ann, was terribly sick.

“They called the doctor,” she said, “but he is out on calls and he won’t get there in time.”

“Reginald,” she said, “the symptoms sound like –”

And she said another name that was like none I’d ever heard or expect to hear again.

Watching Heath’s face, I could swear I saw it pale despite his olive tinge of skin.

“Quick!” he shouted and grabbed me by the arm.

We ran around in front to his old clunk of a car. He threw the basket of vegetables in the back seat and jumped behind the wheel. I scrambled in after him and tried to close the door, but it wouldn’t close. The lock kept slipping loose and I had to hang onto the door so it wouldn’t bang.

We lit out of there like a turpentined dog and the noise that old car made was enough to deafen one. Despite my holding onto it, the door kept banging and all the fenders rattled and there was every other kind of noise you’d expect a junk-heap car to make, with an extra two or three thrown in.

I wanted to ask him what he planned to do, but I was having trouble framing the question in my mind and even if I had known how to phrase it I doubt he could have heard me with all the racket that the car was making.

So I hung on as best I could and tried to keep the door from banging and all at once it seemed to me the car was making more noise than it had any call to. Just like the old haywire tractor made more noise than any tractor should. Too much noise, by far, for the way that it was running. Just like on the tractor, there was no engine vibration and despite all the banging and the clanking we were making time. As I’ve said, our valley roads are none too good, but even so I swear there were places we hit seventy and we went around sharp corners where, by rights, we should have gone into the ditch at the speed that we were going, but the car just seemed to settle down and hug the road and we never even skidded.

We pulled up in front of Bert’s place and Heath jumped out and ran up the walk, with me following him.

Amy Smith came to the door and I could see that she’d been crying, and she looked a little surprised to see the two of us.