CHORES

Dusty sunlight streamed through the barn doors as Lori lowered the saddle from the rafters. The saddle settled on the blanket laid below it with a soft thud. Lori removed the cargo net and hung it on the wall cleats. She then pulled back the canvas cover from the top pack.

The top pack saddle held barrels, crates, and burlap bags tightly secured with rope and twine. Lori unfastened each rope from the rigging rings one by one and placed items either on the table or in a hand cart parked nearby. The parcels on the table were meant to stay in the barn, while those in the hand cart she would take to the general store.

“Dad, come see what I brought,” she called.

Her father hobbled over from behind the bar, careful not to spill his fresh cup of coffee. He sipped as he watched her over the rim of his cup. “Good Lord, kid. What did you bring this time?” He sorted through the sacks and crates on the table with his wooden arm. He set the cup down and picked up a can of condensed milk and looked at it with contempt.

Lori grinned. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve got just the thing!” She rummaged through a saddle bag hanging near the pommel and pulled out an unusual tool resembling a small sickle with a wooden handle. “Watch!”

She set the condensed milk down on the tabletop and with her left hand, put the tool on the lid and pried it up, piercing a hole in the tin lid with a satisfying pop. “See?” She beamed, holding up the can.

He chuckled as he turned the can in his hand. “That’s neat, kid. Where did you find this?”

“I found a place in Remington City that sells those. Some blacksmith is making them. Isn’t that handy? It’s no good for opening cans, but it’ll punch a hole in one!”

Her father examined the tool and chuckled. “Well, what do you know? A hole punch for tin cans.” He punched another hole in the can, poured the cream into his coffee, and sighed in satisfaction. “I haven’t had cream in my coffee in years.” He sat down, his peg leg outstretched, and enjoyed his coffee as Lori continued to unpack.

Lori, pleased with her gift's usefulness to her father, continued loading the hand cart. She carefully added sacks of flour, crates of canned goods, and various supplies until she decided it was enough for a single trip.

She saw her father struggling to roll a cigarette. “Here, Dad, let me do that for you,” she said, taking the paper and tobacco. She rolled and lit it for him.

“There you go,” she said, handing it back to him. He took a long draw, the smoke curling around his head, and let out a contented sigh.

“Thanks, kid,” he murmured.

Lori smiled. “I’m taking this to the store. Hopefully we’ll get some decent money for it.” She shook the cart to ensure everything was secure before gripping the handles and heading out.

He watched her go through the smoke drifting up from his cigarette. He tapped his fingers on the table as he reflected on his concerns about her future.

***

Lori guided the rickety cart down the gentle slope of the vast corral and through an imposing wooden gate. Beyond it lay the deserted town. She passed buildings with shuttered windows, tumbleweeds tangled in forlorn corners, walls split by cracks, signs bleached by time, and streets strewn with prairie grass reclaiming its hold, creeping along building sides and wrapping around any stationary objects.

The dry grass rustled in the wind, whispering through the ghostly remains of the town. Once lively with the clanging of metal, the blacksmith shop now stood as a cold, silent relic. Cobwebs blanketed the brick walls and nestled into every corner. The bank, with its front wall demolished to remove the vault that sat in her father’s barn, now housed layers of dust and perhaps some varmints.

Two saloons flanked the main street, their interiors dark and musty. Stores that once bustled with commerce now stood silent and decayed. Shelves were bare, and counters thick with dust and webs. Every corner of the town whispered the same faint message: everyone had left, and they weren’t coming back.

Lori felt no sadness about the dying town. She hated it and wished for her father to leave, to go to a city where he could receive the proper care he deserved. The town could rot and vanish into its namesake for all she cared. She continued down the empty street toward the general store.

She pushed the cart onto the creaky boardwalk, its weathered and warped planks groaning under the weight as she rolled along. She parked in front of Mayfield's general store, and swung open the door, which protested with a loud squeak, revealing the quaint interior with sparsely stocked shelves. Inside, three old men sat in a circle around a wood stove, their familiar faces welcoming her. It was always the same trio—fixtures as constant as the store itself. Lori couldn't help but wonder if they ever moved from those rocking chairs.

One puffed leisurely on a pipe, while the others chewed tobacco, each with a coffee cup in hand. Cracker barrels sat beside them, one overflowing with peanut shells, the others with used plates. A tarnished cuspidor lay on the floor, and they took turns spitting toward it with disregard for proper aim. They greeted her warmly with raised cups, inviting her into their cozy enclave. Accepting their offer, she helped herself to some coffee. She chatted with them, all the while trying not to wince at the thick, bitter brew that tasted like it had boiled on the stovetop for decades.

They each commented on how long she had been gone, how soon she was leaving, and submitted various ideas on her next destination or what products and goods they’d each like her to bring on next visit. Lori politely took their suggestions and promised she would think them over. She kept glancing at the back door, hoping the store owner would rescue her from the conversation. She bore no ill will toward the townsfolk but had little patience for them. The empty water bucket and lack of coffee still burned in the back of her mind, and she resented them for not checking on her father.

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At last, the store owner emerged from the storeroom carrying a crate of jars. He caught Lori’s eye and gave her a nod, signaling the start of their usual bartering session. Lori excused herself from the old men’s company and followed the owner outside. The bright sunlight contrasted with the dim interior of the store, and Lori squinted as the owner adjusted his glasses and pulled a worn pencil and small notebook from the pocket of his apron. He examined each item with a practiced eye, scribbling notes in his book and muttering prices under his breath. He tapped the pencil against his lips as he tallied up the total. He told her, and she shook her head. They haggled until Lori got the price she thought was fair. She would not budge on her idea of a fair price. She could always put them back on Jangles’ saddle and sell them at the next town she came to, and the store owner knew it.

He tucked the notebook back into his apron pocket and together they gathered armloads of the goods and made a few trips from the cart to set them down on the counter inside. The owner paid cash, and she folded it into her pocket and said her goodbyes to him and the old men, then pushed the much lighter hand cart back up the hill toward the barn.

***

The rest of Lori's day was a whirlwind of chores. She fed the goats a few flakes of hay as Jangles snoozed blissfully beneath the lean-to, one hind leg jutting skyward, surrounded by a circle of dozing dogs.

Lori lit a crackling fire in the pit a few yards from their shelter and slowly heated a large bucket of water hanging from the spit. As she carried and heated the water, she also prepared their meal inside, mixing and shaping dumplings with care before placing them in the pot.

She coaxed her dad into changing into new clothes she had purchased, a task that required considerable patience and endurance as he grumbled about her wasting money. The process of removing and reattaching his artificial limbs was an ordeal, but she eventually succeeded in dressing him in a clean pair of long johns, pants, and a shirt.

Then she shed her own garments and slipped into a clean pair of bright red long johns. She grabbed the washboard and a chair, setting up at the wash bin filled with steaming water. She scrubbed the worn garments vigorously, the cake of soap creating frothy suds that clung to her hands. Once clean, she wrung out the clothes, twisting them tightly to remove excess water, and draped them over the wooden fence to dry in the sun.

She imagined she looked silly, and she was glad there was no one around to witness her in just her underclothes, boots, and cowboy hat.

By the time she finished the laundry, dinner was ready. The aroma of the pork stew made her mouth water. Both she and her father, still clad in their long johns, sat down to enjoy the meal. Her father remarked on how tasty it was, even though Lori thought it was a bit too salty. She took his compliment with a smile. For dessert, she opened a jar of preserved peaches and a bag of candied fruit.

After dinner, Lori cut her father’s hair in the breezeway, where the sunlight streamed in through the open door. Clippings of hair stirred in clumps with every pleasant gust of wind. Then she fetched the shaving kit from the shelf, setting out a small bowl, a shaving brush, and a block of shaving soap. She poured hot water into the bowl, steam rising as she prepared the essentials.

Jangles had risen from his nap and decided to help. He set the large wash-bin near the open barn and filled it with multiple trips to the goat pen’s trough using his teeth to carry the bucket. The dogs trailed him back and forth.

Lori dipped the brush into the hot water, allowing the bristles to soak, then swirled the brush over the shaving soap, creating a rich, creamy leather.

“Hold still, Dad,” she said softly as she applied the lather to his face with smooth, circular motions. Then Lori took the straight razor from its case and carefully shaved off a week’s worth of whiskers, rinsing the blade in the bowl of water with every stroke.

Once finished, Lori wiped his face clean with a damp cloth. “Okay, Dad. Bath time.”

He grumbled.

When Jangles saw they were ready, he lowered his head to the ground and blasted the side of the wash bin with fire, heating the water almost to boiling point. He avoided blasting the water from above; that created a greasy film on the water’s surface. The dogs, curious at first, now found reason to be elsewhere.

Lori set a chair near the tub and helped her father into it, then unfastened his peg-leg and wooden arm, and helped him undress. Jangles bent his neck low, allowing her father to grip his back ridges as Lori helped him into the tub. He grumbled that the water was too hot, and Jangles muttered an apology.

Lori retrieved a cake of soap, a cotton washcloth, and a scrub brush for him, then turned away to give him as much privacy as she could. Jangles, with his wings extended like curtains, stood guard to shield her father from anyone who might see, though that wasn’t likely.

Lori collected the dishes from the table and put them away to wash later. She moved the stew to the brick hearth to keep for the following day. She prepared a new pot of coffee and set it on the stove to boil.

Next, she gathered the dried laundry from the fence, folded it, and placed her dad's clothes on a shelf, while putting her own in her saddlebags and setting a pair of jeans and a shirt out for herself to change into later. She then brought firewood in and placed some by the stove in her dad's stall and the rest beside the bar's stove.

Her dad was ready to get out of the tub. Jangles leaned his neck over and he took hold of the ridges again. Jangles slowly lifted him out of the tub with Lori’s help and lowered him onto the chair. Lori draped him with a towel and scrubbed him dry with another. Then she combed his hair while he padded himself dry as best he could. She helped him dress, reattach his limbs, and assisted him to a table where she served him coffee and set his punched can of condensed milk within reach. She rolled a cigarette and lit it for him.

Then it was time for her bath. She set her boots and hat and a change of clothes on the chair. Jangles blocked the view from town with his wings again and she quickly removed her long johns and got in the tub. She glanced at her father who was facing the back of the barn, smoking and occasionally sipping his coffee.

After Lori slipped beneath the water's surface, Jangles trotted into the barn, gently nuzzling her father’s shoulder with his snout. She watched as her father gently scratched under Jangles' chin. He whispered something and motioned towards the library, prompting Jangles to trot back and return with a large, red-bound book delicately held in his teeth. Her dad took the book from him and began reading aloud.

Lori smiled as Jangles listened intently to her father reading. She leaned back in the warm tub, wishing she could soak longer, but she had too much work to do. She washed her hair, enjoying the warmth as she poured the water over her head from the old tin peach can.

She relaxed and enjoyed the bath as her father finished reading the story. Then she called Jangles to block the view again so she could towel off and dress. Once she buttoned her shirt and ran a comb through her hair, her father stood and turned to face her.

“Get your pistol and rifle.”

***