Chapter NineIt’s gotten stale.
That’s the sentence that kept going through Achille’s mind all day as he did the milking, lifted hay-bales onto the tractor trailer and drove into the front field, and ate his solitary lunch in the farmhouse kitchen. The small windows had not been cleaned since his father died, and the spring light did not penetrate beyond a vague glow. Achille was frugal and avoided using electricity if it could possibly be avoided, so he ate his lunch by candlelight.
The candle was made of tallow. He had to butcher his girls once they got too old, but he did his best to make use of everything he could. He rendered the tallow and then poured it into a glass jar with a piece of waxed string for a wick. The flame cast a flickering light in the drafty room.
It’s gotten stale
