A Part of the Sky by Robert Newton Peck

“But I’m also old enough to think, to reason, and do right. Trust me.”
    “I do.”
    “Good.”
    I clinked my nickel and both quarters, my day’s pay, in the teapot and replaced its little lid. It seemed so empty. Perhaps the pot only longed once again to hold tea. Yet there wasn’t a leaf of it in our pantry.
    Mama kissed me and then tiptoed quietly up the creaking stairway to her bed.
    I stayed up, walked outside, and studied a creamy three-quarter moon. After all I had heard today, the moon prompted me to a promise, to swear a secret oath.
    “Never will I trouble a girl.”

Chapter
13
    It was September.
    There wasn’t a second cut of hay. And very little of our field corn could I cut or try to sell for silage. The ears were few and stunted, yet I collected every one to shuck for our chickens.
    During warm weather, our hens roamed free, surviving by pecking at every bug and beetle. Winter was another story. The snow and cold demanded that our chickens would stay cooped. Corn had to be provided. An animal, even a hen, burns more fuel in winter. So do people. This meant that our teapot money drained away to vacant.
    Mama and Carrie canned every vegetable that I could dig up from our little backyard garden. Not much to can. In better years, my mother and aunt would spend weeks by the stove, paring, slicing,and processing all their jars on our Acme American stove.
    One time, sweaty with boiling beets, Mama said to her sister, “There be only two seasons in Vermont. Winter and canning.” Mama had a wit.
    At least I kept my job at Ferguson’s Feed & Seed. During my noon hour, on the first day of September, I made a trip to the Town Clerk’s office. A lady was there. The only person.
    “How do,” I said, taking off my hat. “My name is Robert Peck. Me and my family, we’re uphillers. Is this where people pay taxes?”
    “You’re here for that purpose?”
    “Yes’m.” I swallowed. “No, because I don’t have the thirty-five dollars. Not a penny of it. My father died, and …”
    “What’s your name again?”
    “Peck.”
    She searched through her records, then stopped. “Haven Peck?”
    “No, I’m his son. He’s dead. Please, tell me what happens if I can’t pay.”
    “Then your property is placed in jeopardy. Perhaps you ought to consult a lawyer. My brother-in-law happens to be …”
    “Excuse me. I want to be polite, but we don’t have a lot to spend, on anything.”
    “Are you employed?”
    I nodded. “Yes, a regular job at the feedstore, right here in Learning. If you doubt it, you can ask Mr. Porter Ferguson.”
    “How old are you, young man?”
    “Thirteen. Does that make a difference?”
    “Not usual. I was just curious. You’ll have to register for school in two days. And attend. You won’t be working any longer. By the way, what was your stipend at the feedstore?”
    “My what?”
    “Pay. What do you earn?”
    I smiled at her. “Well, I started there at fifty cents a day, but because I come early and stayed late, Mr. Ferguson upped my wage to seventy-five cents.”
    “Six days a week for Mr. Ferguson?”
    “Yup. I mean yes’m.”
    “Do you own your farm outright, or is there some sort of a lien or mortgage on it?”
    “It’s mortgaged. But we’ve been paying it off pretty steady. Only four years to go and it’s all ours. Free and clear.”
    The lady made a note on our paper.
    “Your property will not be free and clear if you haven’t settled your annual tax. How do you propose to raise thirty-five dollars? Ordo you expect to become a burden to the township?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “By statute, there is a fiduciary obligation on indebted real property. Legally, no continuant can be considered in our jurisdiction without further proof of viable assets. An attorney, for a reasonable fee, can explain all this to you and then represent you in court, at which time you can opt for a judicial review.”
    My knees started to wobble. Inside my brain, all she’d said