The Last Harvest(9)

I take in a deep shaky breath and let it all out. Okay … so there’s no calf. Maybe there never was a calf. Maybe I fell asleep in the cab this morning and dreamt the entire thing. That could happen. Same with Ali. I mean, if she smiled at me like that, walked over to my truck, Dale would be calling me nonstop to get all the details. And Lee Wiggins … who the hell knows. I lost my temper, that was a mistake, but he’s not going to say anything. Even if he did, everybody thinks the Wiggins are crazy trash.

As much as I explain it away, a part of me wonders if this is how it all started for Dad. Maybe it’s schizophrenia.

Maybe it’s in my blood.

I drag my hands through my hair as I look back toward the house. The house my ancestors built from nothing. I need to man up. The fields aren’t going to work themselves.

I force myself to turn the ignition. The combine purrs to life so easily, it takes me aback.

Like it’s been waiting for me.





6

BY THE time I notice the front porch light flickering, dusk has come and gone. I worked the fields with a kind of focus only the heaviest of death metal can bring. As I climb out of the cab, I feel completely spent, but my mind’s still reeling.

Noodle doesn’t ask me how many acres I did, but I can tell she’s dying to know by the way she’s gripping her sticker bag. I dig my hand in and count out six gold stars for her. She hums a little tune as she places them in the squares.

Standing back so she can admire her work, she slips her hand into mine. “More than halfway there.”

That’s Noodle for you—glass half-full.

“Clay?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Supper’s ready.”

“Finally.” Jess clomps down the stairs.

Noodle skips off to help with the plates.

“Were you out by Merritt’s today?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down.

Jess lets out a heavy sigh. “What’s it to you?”

“I saw that Wiggins kid out there.”

“So?”

“So, I want you to stay away from him. Stay away from those woods.”

She rolls her eyes at me.

“I’m serious, Jess.”

“I’m starving.” She barges past. “It’s stupid we have to wait for you to eat. King of the castle … just like Dad.”

I grab her arm, yanking her back. “I’m nothing like Dad.”

She looks down at my hand in shock, and jerks away. “Leave me alone, psycho.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” But she’s already gone.

We sit in our usual spots, while Mom waits on us hand and foot. I’m always telling her she doesn’t have to do it, but I think it’s a way to keep the attention off her, keep busy.

Dad’s chair sits empty at the head of the table, like a ghost. We never talk about it, but that’s the Tate way—there’s honor in the pain. Tragedy is a way of life, right? Why should we be immune? Right after the funeral, during one of her spells, Mom told me she thought it was God’s punishment for having so much—being blessed with healthy children, a fruitful farm. But I don’t believe that. Not even God can be that big of an *.

Noodle starts grace. A little whistle escapes through the gap in her teeth every time she makes the “th” sound. I never say grace anymore. Feels wrong.

“And God bless potpie night. Amen.”

Thursday night, potpie night. Basically all the leftovers from the week thrown in a dish with gravy and a piecrust tucked over the top. It sounds gross, but it’s pretty good.

Jess takes the best piece, the one on the far side where the oven’s the hottest and the crust gets real crunchy. Mom always gets stuck with the soggy middle piece. She claims she likes it best, but we know she won’t touch it anyway. She’ll just move it around the plate over and over again in the same pattern, a sweeping arc with a couple of stabs for good measure.

Each of us had our own way of dealing with what happened, but sometimes I think Mom took on the worst of it—the shame.

“How are you coming on the wheat?” Mom asks as she finally sits down and picks up her fork. I look away. I can’t stand watching her going through the motions anymore.

Noodle sits up all proud. “Right on schedule, forty-four acres left.”

I feel her tapping the leg of the chair, no doubt, forty-four times.

“I need new clothes,” Jess says, more as a demand than a request.

I’m saving for Noodle’s tuition at All Saints, but I don’t want anyone to know about that yet. Not until she gets in. “Well, I’m sure as hell not giving you hard-earned crop money to buy clothes you’re just going to cut holes in anyway.”

Jess opens her mouth as wide as she can to show me her half-chewed food.

Noodle giggles at her. “I don’t need new clothes.”

“Duh.” Jess looks her up and down. “It’s not like any boy is ever going to be interested in you anyway, unless it’s COUNT Dracula.”

Noodle kicks her hard under the table. Mom and I ignore it. If Noodle kicks you, you probably deserve it.

“Tomorrow’s homecoming,” Mom says with a gasp as she looks up at the wall where the calendar used to hang, like she can still see the date circled. “You should have an extra piece tonight. You’ll need your strength.”