CHAPTER FIVE
Sanna could see the boy formulating the thought. She saw that look every time she met someone new. This kid wouldn’t be any different. “How’s the weather up there?” was ever popular, as was “Do you play basketball?” The little boy’s eyes traced the long journey from her tan work boots, over her worn blue jeans and faded plaid shirt, to the hat she had pushed off her head once they walked into the barn. Bass’s eyes scrunched up as he finally met her level gaze. His mouth opened, as if tilting his head so far back made it impossible to keep his lips together at the same time. He took a quick breath, and she knew the inevitable comment about her height was about to come.
“Do you smell farts up there?”
At least that was a new one. Sanna’s mouth opened to respond, but she had no words.
“Because hot air rises, but you’re really up there, so I didn’t know if they made it that far,” Bass continued.
She blinked and recovered.
“No, I get what you’re trying to say. And yeah, I do.” She eyed him. “Is that gonna be a problem with you?”
Bass gave his butt a little wiggle.
“Not yet, but give me some time.”
Sanna pressed her lips tightly to keep from smiling. Perhaps this kid wouldn’t be as awful as her nieces.
She looked out the broken window to the orchard and could see her dad and Isaac walking across the parking lot to the first row of trees. Isaac kept his eyes trained on Einars as he explained about tree care, nodding and asking questions. Even though his pathetic sneakers were soaked, he looked at home in the orchard, unbothered by the buzzing insects and lack of technology. When he laughed at something Einars said, his head kicked back a little like the recoil of a gun—his joy shooting out into the world and through the open pane in front of her. Why was he so happy? His white teeth flashed in the sunlight, stark against his trim, dark beard. He squinted into the sun, not knowing enough to have brought a hat with him. He’d learn.
Everything about him was vivid: pink lips, brown twinkling eyes, even his cheeks were a bit rosy. The trees around him popped with emerald, bolder and stronger than ever. His dark waves absorbed the light, beaming it back through his skin. His long fingers wrapped around a tree branch and even from this distance she could tell he had the right combination of gentle and firm, careful not to damage any of the leaves or growing apples.
And her dad ate it up—laughing at his jokes, answering his questions, sharing his knowledge. The two of them walked to the green and yellow ATV Einars used to cruise around the orchard, and he gave the keys to Isaac. Sanna narrowed her eyes. He rarely let her drive it.
“Humph.”
“Did you just burp?” Bass asked.
Sanna turned away from the light-filled window into the dim barn and the small person in front of her.
“No.”
The kid’s floppy curls were an unruly version of his father’s, each one winding in a different direction. His shirt and pants were damp from who-knows-what, and he was about to blow into a length of plastic tubing she had sanitized for bottling. She grabbed it from his hands before his slobbery maw could make contact.
“Don’t touch anything.”
She set it on the counter next to her beakers and funnels—the ones the apple hadn’t broken yesterday. Bass stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around, nonplussed by her reprimand. He must hear that a lot. He walked toward a wall of glass carboys, putting his eye up to one of the holes as if looking in a telescope, breathing his hot, muggy breath on the glass.
“I said not to touch things.”
“I’m not touching it.” He straightened up. “There’s a dead spider in there.”
Sanna peeked into it and saw the curved legs of a brown spider. Yuck. She picked it up, careful to have a good grip so she didn’t drop it, and shook the offending carcass loose. Bass had already wandered off to inspect a stack of wooden crates containing empty bottles, ready and waiting for the batch of cider she planned to bottle. He reached out to touch the topmost crate, stretching on his tiptoes. Didn’t he ever just stand still?
“Stop . . .” Did he actually want to be named after a fish? “. . . Kid.”
He froze.
“Come over here.”
He walked and stood directly in front of her like a soldier.
“First, which name do you prefer? Bass or Sebastian?”
“Bass. No one ever calls me Sebastian.”
Sanna nodded. If he was okay with it, then she would be, too.
“Second. Stop touching things. Those are filled with glass.”
“I’m supposed to be helping.”
Sanna looked around. This was what she dreaded. She didn’t know how to talk to this kid. She didn’t know how to keep him occupied, and what could he do to help her? She really didn’t want him touching her stuff. Everything was precisely how and where she wanted it—already in these few minutes, he’d threatened her entire setup. Not even her dad meddled with her barn. Then she spotted the broom.
“There. Sweep the room carefully, and make sure to get all the glass bits from the corners.” She pointed to where she had pushed all the broken window and beaker glass yesterday when she was preoccupied with the spilled juice.
In moments, Bass was quietly shushing around the dust and shards, so Sanna took a deep breath to focus on what she wanted to accomplish, grasping her journal. While he swept, she could pick up where she left off yesterday or maybe dive into that lovely greenish cider she’d dreamed of last night. Opening the pages and pulling out her notes, she ran her finger down the paper, refreshing her memory. Only once she picked up her pen to jot a few ideas down did she notice the sound of sweeping had stopped.
Bass stood staring at her, the broom tucked into the crook of his arm as if it were holding him up.
“What are you doing?” he asked before she could mutter the same words to him.
“I’m working.”
“But I thought you were making beer. That just looks like you’re writing.”
If Sanna had been a bird, all of her feathers would have ruffled immediately. Topmost of her—admittedly many—pet peeves: people who treated the world like their personal ashtray, reckless Illinois drivers, neighbors who thought it was okay to ask when she planned to marry. But above all of those annoyances, the king of all pet peeves were people who didn’t know the difference between beer and cider. Ignoring the fact that Bass was ten and shouldn’t know about alcoholic anything anyway, Sanna prepared her speech.
“First, I make cider, not beer. Beer is made from grains and hops. Cider is made from apples. Saying they are the same thing is like saying a loaf of bread and applesauce are the same. You wouldn’t do that, would you?” Bass shook his head, his eyes wide from the fervor in her tone. “Other than the fact that they both come in the same kind of bottles and are both fermented liquids, there aren’t many similarities. Never confuse the two again.”
She took a breath. “And to answer your question, I take notes of what I’m doing. That way if something goes wrong or really right, I know what I did and can try to replicate it.”
“Like a scientist?”
“Yes, like a scientist. There is some chemistry involved, but it’s more than that. There is a fair amount of instinct, too.” Code for “seeing colors in apple juice,” but he didn’t need to know that part. “Let’s get back to work.”
Bass pushed the broom around with gusto for a few more minutes, then stopped again.
“Have you always lived here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like apples?”
“Of course.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what I’m using them for. Now quiet.”
The sweeping didn’t resume, and Sanna, eyes back on her notebook, girded herself for another onslaught.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?”
Surprised by the question, Sanna jerked her pen across the page. She turned to give him her full attention, taking in his floppy hair and dust-smudged legs. She could almost smell his little-boy smell from this distance, and her nose crinkled.
“It’s not personal. I don’t really like any children.”
She wasn’t sure what she expected him to do. Cry. Call her names. Stomp off and tell his dad. He did none of the above. He nodded his head and went back to sweeping.
“Maybe I’ll be the first.”
Sanna stared at him. Unlike her nieces, who had bluntly refused to do anything resembling work the few times they visited the orchard, Bass seemed okay, he’d done a good job on the sweeping and was using the dustpan as though he’d done it before. Maybe he could handle something a bit more interesting. She tucked away her journal, retrieved one of the carboys full of clear cider from the cooler, and set it on her workbench. Removing the S-shaped glass airlock that allowed gas out while keeping new air from entering, she set it aside to wash later.
“Bass, when you’re finished sweeping, bring me four of those crates. Careful not to break any and don’t touch the inside or near the lip of the bottles. Those are sanitized and ready for cider.”
While he did that, she prepped the cider for the next step—bottling and carbonation—measuring out sugar with a food scale.
“Does all that sugar make the cider sweet?”
“Nope, it’s food for the yeast. Once we put it in the bottles, the fresh yeast I’m going to add will eat the sugar, making carbon dioxide bubbles for a fizzy cider.”
Bass’s eyebrows scrunched together.
“Bubbles are yeast farts?”
Sanna bit her lip as she measured out the right amount of sugar, then dissolved it in water over a small burner.
“I’d never thought of it quite that way, but basically, yes, you’re right.”
“Cool.”
While the sugar mix warmed, she prepared the fresh yeast and put both the yeast and sugar water into a sanitized bucket. Finally, she transferred the cider out of the glass carboy and into a bucket, letting the sugar and yeast mix as the cider flowed.
“Why are you moving it if you’re just going to put it in bottles right away?”
Sanna took a deep breath, not used to so many interruptions. She reached for a blank notebook page and a pen.
“First, so that I don’t bottle any of the lees.” She pointed to the sediment at the bottom of the glass. “This is leftover yeast and sediment that I don’t want to bottle. Second, this is the work zone. Anytime you have a question—don’t interrupt when we’re in the work zone. I have to be very careful with my measurements or the bottles could explode—that’s happened before. Instead, write down the questions, and I’ll answer them all at the end of the day.” She handed him a small notebook and pen, both of which he shoved in his back pocket.
“Now comes the fun part. Get all the bottles out and lined up on the workbench.” She pointed to where she wanted them. While he did that, she set the bucket on a special shelf that would raise the bottom of the bucket above the tops of the bottles. Then she lined up the bottle capper and the sanitized caps. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to fill the bottles, and you’re going to cap them. We’ll do a few practice ones on empty bottles.”
She grabbed a bottle and fitted a cap onto the top. She set it on the capper and pulled down the lever, which crimped the cap onto the bottle.
“See how that worked?” Bass nodded. “Now you try.” She handed him a bottle and pointed to the caps. He did it perfectly on his first try. Not too shabby. It had taken her dad three tries to get it right. “Good. Ready to start?”
“Bring it.” Bass’s eyes focused on each bottle as she handed it to him, his mouth set in a grim line of concentration. Working together, it didn’t take long to fill all the bottles, and Sanna—much to her surprise—was a little disappointed it didn’t take longer.