Cover

The Cloud Chamber

Also for young readers by
JOYCE MAYNARD

The Usual Rules

Title Page

Dedication

For Ken

Acknowledgments

Setting this novel in a part of the country that was new and unfamiliar to me required the help of many generous people who grew up on farms and ranches in Montana and the West. In am indebted to Ken and Elizabeth Love, Donna Hildreth, Janie Cardinalli, Larry and Joy Ganault, and Phil and Sandra Shrug for the time and care they gave in helping me to understand what it means to be a rancher (never more difficult that it has been during these last six years of Montana drought). My experiences, talking with ranchers, have left me with the deepest respect and—more than that—admiration for the women, men, and children who spend their lives raising the crops that feed us all. I am grateful for a lovely novel, Winter Wheat, by Mildred Walker, first published in 1942, and the rich portrait it provided of life on a Montana ranch.

My understanding of astrophysics and of the workings of cloud chambers was enriched through the patient assistance of Dr. Ellen Zweibel, professor of astronomy and physics at the University of Wisconsin, Madison; John Erikson, of Lawrence Laboratories in Berkeley, California; and Dr. Andrew Foland, professor of physics at Harvard University. For any young person seeking more information on cloud chambers, or for one with an interest in building a cloud chamber, I want to recommend Andy Foland’s highly informative and entertaining Web page: http://www.Lns.cornell.edu/~adf4/cloud.html. You’ll find everything you need there to build a cloud chamber, and you’ll have a much easier time of it than the characters in this novel, I can promise.

I want to thank Anne Mouen Stahl of Rosehill Farm in South Lyon, Michigan, for her assistance concerning the behavior of ponies and horses. Pitching advice for the screwball (a pitch, not a person; and don’t try one at home) came by way of my friend Steven Laska, but I offer no guarantees where replicating that one is concerned. Jaime Stathis, Betty Horvath, Lyla Fox, Hannah Rudson, and Bonnie Sklar were my first readers—always the most crucial ones—and I like to think my story was enriched by all of them. Bridgett Johnson, director of the Lewistown Public Library in Lewistown, Montana, provided a native Montanan’s eye on my manuscript—invaluable for a writer born and raised in New Hampshire. Particular appreciation goes to Cindy Nixon for the too-seldom-acknowledged contribution of a great copy editor.

A gift in my life has been the counsel, inspiration, and lifelong friendship of the man I call my brother of choice, Graf Mouen. I cannot imagine my days without his voice at the other end of the phone.

I chose to write this novel in part for the opportunity of working with an editor I deeply admire, Anne Schwartz, and though doing so proved to be one of the more demanding experiences of my writing life, it was also among the most rewarding. To Anne, deep thanks, deepest respect.

Finally, this book would never have been written without the courage of Ken Munn and his sister, Jeannine, who were brave enough to revisit their own story so that I could tell this one.

Author’s Note

Although I have based this story on the experiences and stories of ranch families in Montana, the town in which it is set—Lonetree—does not actually exist. Like the characters in this novel, Lonetree and Chance’s Dairy Farm, and the Chance family itself, are products of my imagination, though it is my belief that the feelings they experience and the kinds of hard times they live through are ones many others have known.

One

EVEN IN THE PITCH DARK, NATE FIGURED HE COULD walk this particular stretch of gravel road from the two-lane blacktop to his family’s farm, he knew it that well: the barn, the implement shed, the pond where his sister, Junie, liked to launch her little homemade boats, and beyond it, the four hundred acres that made up Chance’s Dairy Farm. Their land—just a small piece, compared to the ranches on all sides—stretched out almost perfectly flat as far as the eye could see, except for a single rise, at the far corner, where a stand of poplar trees marked the spot his father called the animal burial ground. Off at the farthest end of the property, the skeleton of a long-abandoned windmill pierced the otherwise-unbroken sky.

A long time ago, when he was little, Nate and his dad hiked to the edge of their land together to watch the total eclipse of the sun. They’d buried a time capsule under the poplars that day, with a Matchbox car inside, along with the wrapper from the Mounds bar they’d shared, a handful of plastic Indians, and his dad’s old baseball cap.

Today, as the school bus made its way along the dirt road that curved around the barn to where his family’s house came into view, an unfamiliar sight greeted him. A police cruiser was parked out front, and in the yard stood two officers in uniform. One he recognized as the umpire from last summer’s Little League games. The other was the dad of somebody from school, a kid a few years younger than he was—sixth grade, maybe. He was one of those regular-looking dads you sometimes saw, manning the grill at the annual baseball picnic, that Nate used to wish, guiltily, his own father resembled—his father, as everyone knew, being different from the others.

Nate’s best friend, Larry, sitting next to him, spotted the cruiser too. “Man oh man,” he said. “You think your family got robbed or something?”

“Maybe some convict’s on the loose,” said a girl named Susan, who was always recounting the plots of TV shows like Dr. Kildare and Perry Mason. “And they took your mom hostage.”

Across the aisle from Nate, his little sister, Junie, looked suddenly anxious. “It’s probably nothing, J,” he told her. “I bet they’re just collecting for some fund-raiser. More than likely, they want Mom to make her lemon bars again.”

By the time he stepped off the bus, Nate knew something was wrong. He could see it in the face of his mother, standing outside in her old blue dress and a cardigan, though the February air was cold enough to sting.

“Take your sister in the house, Nathan,” she said, her voice tight and low, as he surveyed the snow-covered yard: the officers, the cruiser, and a second cruiser he hadn’t noticed before. Over by the barn a third policeman held tightly to the leashes of a couple of bloodhounds, barking like they’d caught the scent of a dead animal. Rufus, their farmhand, would normally be heading out to the barn for the late-afternoon milking right about now, but he had set his bucket down and was talking with rare animation while another officer—number four—wrote in a notebook.

Before Nate could ask what was going on, one of the officers took hold of his shoulder and pushed him toward the house. “Mom—,” he started, but she just stood there, motionless, as if she couldn’t hear.

He could make out Larry, staring through a window of the bus. Henry, the driver, was just backing up to turn around. Out the back more kids craned to see as they pointed toward the barking dogs.

“Go on inside, son,” the officer said again. Only it was too late. Nate had spotted them. Two other officers moved slowly toward the farmhouse, with a third figure, bent over and staggering, supported between the uniformed men. It took a moment to realize who this other person was: Nate’s father.

Junie saw too. She started running toward her father, running as hard as she could, until one of the policemen grabbed hold and held her back.

“This isn’t the time to see your dad, honey,” he said. “You’d best go inside with your brother.”

Nate stared at the figure, slumped between the officers, moving toward them. He recognized the work boots and the old blue jeans, the mop of sandy hair. The part that was new was the blood, pouring down his face, and the terrible, crumpled expression. It looked as if the weight of the whole world were pressing down on his shoulders, as if something had broken inside him that could not be fixed. He must have put his hands to his face at some point, because they were bloody too, and on his work pants were splotches of deep red.

“What’s going on?” Nate called out, his voice as choked as if a pair of hands clutched his throat. The officer was holding him by the shoulders.

His mom was there too, putting her arms around him, or trying to. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound like she believed it.

“I need to see my dad,” Nate yelled, louder this time.

From one of the cruisers, Nate could make out the crackling sound of the dispatcher on the radio and one of the policemen answering in the clipped tone Nate had heard on Dragnet, where whatever terrible thing was going on that week on the show was boiled down to a few flat syllables.

“Victim of a gunshot wound over at the Chance farm,” the policeman said into the microphone. “Guy’s been missing since this morning, but the dogs finally located him, wandering the back forty. From where the bullet entered his head, you’d never think he could’ve survived.”

“I have to see him,” Nate yelled. More desperate now.

“Daddy!” It was Junie this time. They were putting her father in the back of an ambulance that had pulled up, and she was wriggling and crying, trying to get free of the police officer’s grasp.

“Bullet must’ve missed his brain,” the officer said into the transmitter. “That’s the miracle of it. Unclear exactly what happened. The guy isn’t making any sense.”

For a long minute Nate didn’t move. He heard one of the officers, calling again to get the kids in the house; the barking of the bloodhounds; the police car idling out front; Aunt Sal’s car pulling onto the gravel drive next to them. He could hear the faint, muffled weeping of Junie—who seemed to have gotten the impression the blood came from the dogs biting their dad. He heard the cows, overdue to be milked, lowing in the barn and Rufus muttering, “See what I mean? Crazy.”

From his mother, no sound.

Nate smelled sweat and realized it was his own. He could feel the thick arms of the police officer, wrapping around his waist and lifting him off the ground, as he bucked to free himself.

“Get your hands off me,” he yelled. “Just leave me alone.”

“Easy, honey.” Aunt Sal this time, her cool hand pressing hard on his jacket, like she was easing an ornery bull back into the stall.

“Let go of me! I want my dad.”

He flung his whole body down, scrabbling his fingers in the frozen ground. Hands pulled at him—Aunt Sal and two of the policemen. He could see the feet of the dogs as they pawed against the sides of the police van, hear the scratchy sound of the dispatcher on the radio and, quieter, the voice of his father as he was eased into the ambulance. Not words, just a low moaning.

He tried crawling on his belly. He had to get to his dad, but the hands kept him back. The door slammed and the ambulance pulled away.

One of the officers lifted him up. “Easy, kid. You don’t need to be seeing this.”

“That’s my dad inside. I have to see my dad.”

“Your dad’s in no shape, son. We’re bringing him to the hospital. Your mother’s coming along to answer some questions. You’d best let the adults take charge and go on in the house.”

Nate kept kicking, so hard one of his shoes came off. He watched the boot sail past the tire swing their father had put up for them and land in a mud-encrusted snowdrift along the gravel.

“Come on now, honey,” Aunt Sal was saying. “Let’s you and me and Junie go in the house and fix ourselves some hot chocolate.”

As he watched the ambulance disappear down the driveway Nate took a last look at the figure in the back—his father. By the time he reached the back door, he was quiet. He even knew to take off his one remaining boot, along with the wet sock, so he wouldn’t track mud onto the linoleum.

Two

EVEN JUNIE KNEW THAT THEIR FAMILY’D BEEN HAVING hard times. Poppa—their mom’s father—whose adjacent ranch was four times the size of their own small dairy and hay operation, was always criticizing his son-in-law for not being a good enough farmer. But to Nate, it seemed like his dad had just had a bunch of bad luck: milk virus taking five of their best heifers two years back, followed by a drought that wiped out half their feed crop. Then came the new regulations from the dairy association that required them to buy expensive refrigeration equipment if they wanted to keep selling their cream. For as long as Nate could remember, they’d kept the cream jugs chilled in the wooden box his dad had rigged up in the creek that ran behind the barn. Now the county health department said that wasn’t good enough, and the Meadow Gold truck, which used to come by once a week to buy their thick, rich Jersey cream, hardly ever stopped at Chance’s Farm.

Last year their Mercury needed a new radiator, only there was no money to buy one. This year it was the washing machine that gave out. Nate didn’t know the particulars, but late at night he’d hear his parents talking in the kitchen, and where once there’d been laughter and his dad’s deep bass voice, now it was arguing, and something worse: a sound, from his mother, of disappointment and defeat.

“It’s not Dad’s fault we’re having troubles,” Nate told his grandfather the day he’d come by the house a couple of summers back to find Nate’s mom bent over the books, crying.

“Where’s Carl at this time?” Poppa asked. When his mom explained about taking Junie to the rodeo in town, Poppa had just shaken his head. Poppa never said much, but Nate knew his grandfather disapproved of his dad. It was Poppa who’d given them their land, and in his opinion, his son-in-law hadn’t done a very good job with it. Even with the money their mom made teaching piano, they were just barely getting by.

But Dad had said all of that was going to change. Back in the spring he’d borrowed a lot of money from an old friend of Poppa’s, Sam Carter, who’d struck it big in cattle. With the cash, he’d bought a new baler and eighty additional acres for haying, and for a while there he had seemed almost happy. The plan was that they’d hay the alfalfa to sell. Dad had never worked so hard as he did on that grain crop—digging the new irrigation ditches, fertilizing and reseeding the alfalfa.

“This is the one that will turn things around for us, Helen,” he’d told Nate’s mother. Nights when he came in from the field, he’d set a single stalk of alfalfa on the table, so they could study the progress of their crop. “Pretty soon now the kernels will start plumping up,” he told them. “And so will my wallet, honey.”

If things went well, he said, they could pay Sam Carter back within the year. From then on, it would all be gravy. Nate could get a bike his own size instead of the old red Pee Wee lowrider he’d had since he was seven, and Junie could get a regular horse she could actually ride instead of the crazy pony they had now, and maybe a saddle to boot. They’d fix the suspension on the Mercury station wagon and the four keys on his mother’s piano that had stopped sounding, making odd little gaps in the music when she played. Maybe they’d even get a telescope.

“Come harvesttime, even your father will have to say I did something right,” Dad told Mom, the two of them standing on the edge of the field one late June evening, watching the sun set over the Crazy Mountains and the hawks circling above their plump and golden crop of grain.

The last week in July that year, a strange, heavy stillness came over the farm. “High pressure area,” his father said. “Looks to me like a summer storm brewing. One last good rain—just what we need before harvest.”

All day the sky was the flat, dull gray of a battleship, but then it suddenly grew dark as mud. The wind grew still, and a strange, eerie smell seemed to hang over them. Even the cows in the field behind the barn sensed something was coming, milling around like restless schoolchildren during a fire drill. The weather vane didn’t rotate even half an inch.

Then it happened: a freak storm, with hailstones big as baseballs pounding down so hard that one dented the Mercury. Theirs was the only place in the whole county that was hit.

Fifteen minutes later it was over, but the damage had been done: Their entire precious crop was pummeled, while just ten acres over, Ben Landry’s crop of wheat and barley stood untouched. Dad had stood upright as a pitchfork, surveying the damage. But that night Nate had gotten up and seen him through the doorway, shoulders hunched, filling a glass with whiskey. “We’re finished, Helen,” he’d said to Nate’s mom the next morning. “Sam Carter will end up with the deed to our land. Your father will never let me live this down.”

When it was over, they went out to survey the damage— he and Rufus, and even his mom, bending over the stalks and studying them. The buds were knocked off the plants and lying on the ground, mostly. Only bare stems and a few battered leaves were left. There was no choice but to sell what they could for a fraction of what they’d been counting on.

Christmas, there had still been presents under the tree, but just one for each of them. By New Year’s, Nate’s father was spending most of his days sitting in the big chair in the kitchen, staring out the window.

Seeing him that way, a sinking feeling would come over Nate. Something awful was happening, and nothing he could do would make it stop.

Three

AFTER THE POLICE CRUISERS AND THE AMBULANCE pulled away, Nate figured Aunt Sal would tell him and Junie what had happened. But as she set the hot chocolate down in front of them, she didn’t say anything about police cars or barking dogs or their father and all that blood. “Go watch TV,” she told Junie. “Isn’t it time for your favorite show?”

Then Aunt Sal picked up the vacuum cleaner and plugged it in. She turned the machine on, the roar making it clear: No point in talking further.

“You go on too, stay with your sister,” she said to Nate over the roar. “I’ll put on water for macaroni and cheese.”

Junie was curled under her TV blanket with her model horses when Nate came in. The room was dark, except for the flickering blue glow of the set. Cartoon Cavalcade was over and Andy Griffith was starting, with the familiar whistling that marked the start of the show. There was the boy, Opie, walking down a sunny dirt road, a fishing pole resting on his shoulder.

In Mayberry—where Andy Griffith lived with his son, Opie—you had mountains with quarries and caves and moonshine stills hidden away and fishing holes where the fish practically jumped onto your hook. Life looked nice and happy. But the thing Nate loved about his own home, Lonetree, Montana, was the vast open space of nothing but sky overhead, the fields stretched out flat and golden as far as the horizon. On this piece of land, his dad used to tell him, a person could spot every star without a single house or treetop blocking the view. From the safe spot out behind the barn, with the moonlight casting a ghostly silver light on the tractor, the night always seemed magical.

Nate’s dad had started taking him to look at the stars when he was younger than Junie, even, telling him the story of how the universe was made and teaching him the constellations. Cassiopeia first, the Big Dipper, Orion the hunter.

“See the proud way he’s standing?” His dad had pointed out Orion to Nate. “Look how his legs are spread apart, like a cowboy facing down some cattle rustler. Big and bold.”

Nate could remember his dad big and bold like that— up on the barn roof replacing shingles, with his shirt off in the sun, or flying one of the amazing kites he used to make for Junie when their mom thought he should be doing the farm accounts.

Afternoons when the two of them finished their milking in time, he and Nate would play ball out behind the barn. His dad had hung a mattress on the back side of the barn wall, painted with a circle for the strike zone. He’d call out pointers on Nate’s curveball and his slider and the pitch that had been his own specialty, the screwball.

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