"Please Grow" -- July 18

Word count: 1200

Please Grow

The only cloud in the bright, clean May sky hung over a tiny rundown house at the end of a long lane, surrounded by a wrought iron fence in as much disrepair as the house itself. There was no gate in the fence, and the bars were crooked and broken. The porch hung off the house at a forty-five-degree angle, and the windows were covered with brightly colored scraps of mismatched flannel.

Up the lane came a dusty man. Grease stained his fingers and his blue jeans, and his boots were covered in mud that splashed up his legs. He walked with his shoulders bowed forward like a man carrying a heavy burden.

The porch creaked beneath his feet, sending up puffs of dust. He walked straight across it, ignoring the sound, and knocked heavily on the door three times. While he waited, he patted all his pockets and straightened his clothes.

The door swung open silently. The man hesitated on the doorstep, then ran a hand over a bald, shiny head and face and walked in.

The man crossed through a beam of gray light from a window, stepping over a litter of colorful stones on the floor. He stopped to inspect a stack of old books that bent the side table beneath their weight.

“Mrs. Ballywood?”

The man leaned from side to side, trying to see around stacks of clutter. “Mrs. Ballywood! It’s Murphy!”

Murphy’s voice echoed in the room, seeming to startle a collection of taxidermied foxes that perched on a sofa, staring into the room with wide-open eyes and mouths. He put a table with a large, heavy globe on it between himself and the animals.

“Mrs. Ballywood!”

A figure rose from behind a pair of shelves filled with dusty bottles. Wild gray hair appeared first, then a pair of bony shoulders draped in a sheer material embroidered with crazy figures. She turned around, her wizened face scrunched into a squint.

“Farmer Murphy?”

“Mrs. Ballywood, it’s me.” Murphy stepped around a pile of empty bottles into the old woman’s line of sight.

Mrs. Ballywood stood up straight, bony hands holding her filmy shawl to her chest. “Oh?”

Murphy’s hands fidgeted in front of him, as though he were wishing for a hat to hold. “I’ve come for help with my situation.”

“I see.” The old woman stepped out from behind her shelves, dust falling from her shoulders like pixie dust. “And just how do you think I can help you?”

“Well…Corey down at the General Store said you’d helped him with his problem, and I thought—”

“Did he tell you how much it cost?” The old woman squinted at Murphy, a frown tugging the dozens of wrinkles on her face downward toward her chin.

Murphy fidgeted. “No, ma’am.”

“Hmph.” The old woman put her chin in the air and studied Murphy.

“Please,” he said. “It just needs to grow.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure I can help you with that.”

“I’ll pay anything.”

“I’m not sure you know what you mean.” The old woman pivoted on her heel and hobbled toward a door.

Murphy watched her go, his shoulders slumping. The old woman glanced back over her shoulder at him as she closed the door slowly. Murphy hesitated, rolling the hem of his shirt between his fingers.

“Wait!” he said just before the door closed. “How much would it cost?”

The old woman poked her head out from behind the door. “How much did you bring?”

“I can get more—”

“At least two thousand dollars,” the old woman said. She pulled her head back behind the door, but it remained open. “And that’s if I choose to help you.”

Murphy stood speechless, his eyes wide, his face turning an unhealthy yellow. The door remained open. In the silence the raspy breathing of the old woman was audible. A soft cascade of dust motes fell through the slanting rays of gray, overcast light from the windows.

“Mrs. Ballywood, I only have eight hundred dollars, but I just bought a brand-new tractor that you can have; I can use the old one—”

“What would I do with a tractor?” The voice from beyond the door was sharp and had a hard edge of laughter in it.

“Look, it’s worth at least three thousand; I’ve only used it to plant one field—”

“Do better.”

Murphy licked his lips and ran a hand over his smooth head and down his face. “Um…”

“I’ll wait.”

“Half the crop?”

“What would I do with that? Eat it?”

“It could—”

“Do better!”

“My…” Murphy bit the word down and hesitated. He wiped his palm down his shirt.

“My dog?”

A pause.

“And what,” said the sharp voice behind the door, “would you do without that?”

Murphy took a step toward the door. “I…I don’t rightly know, Mrs. Ballywood, but I’ve just got to have your help. Would…would you take my dog?”

A long pause. The old woman’s head reappeared.

“Eight hundred dollars, your dog, and half the crop.”

“You promise it will grow?”

The old woman pushed the door back open. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“No guarantees.”

Quick as a snap she whipped into the other room and slammed the door. Murphy jumped. A shelf of glass knickknacks rattled, and a puff of dust rose from everything in the room.

The old woman’s voice came faintly. “Of course, if it doesn’t work, I’ll return half the payment.”

The color came back to Murphy’s face as tension drained from his shoulders. He grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Ballywood!”

“Don’t leave!”

Murphy waited. He wandered the room, feet leaving wide prints in the dust. He picked up a jar full of green fluid and turned it over in his hands, studying the three-eyed fish suspended inside.

“Farmer Murphy!”

Murphy jumped and set the jar down with a clunk. The old woman stood in the doorway, holding a bottle full of orange liquid. She handed it to him with a sniff.

“Put it in your water,” she said. “Don’t let anyone else get any. And bring the dog tomorrow night, around eight?”

Murphy took the bottle reverently and gently deposited it in his pocket. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

The old woman turned and disappeared behind her door.

Cradling the precious bottle in his pocket, Murphy left the house grinning.

Five days later, Murphy stood at the pump and poured the last of the bottle into his wash bucket. He tucked the empty bottle into his pocket and leaned down, splashing his head and face with the orange-tinged water.

As the water settled, he leaned over and grinned at his reflection. From his head and chin, which had been bare and bright enough to reflect the sun a few days before, sprouted a crop of thick, dark hair. He ran his fingers through it, grinning as he spiked it in front.

The loss of half his crop meant he wouldn’t have money for another invaluable cattle dog for at least a year—but he had despaired of ever having hair again.

Rubbing his hair dry with the towel, Murphy walked into the house grinning.