Foul Soil
If Jody’s Chevy wasn’t leaking oil, it damn sure burned it. Sixteen square feet of viable farmland, up and stained in a single night. Jody had been meaning to replace the truck over the last few years, but he found trouble negotiating it with himself, and well Sheryl for that matter, hell, the engine still turned over, the wheels still spun the rubber all the same. The market had been relentless, even outside of Syracuse, which in fairness hadn’t blown up like the rest of the big cities. Jody knew a fella, an IronMeyer rep out near Boston, did a whole bunch of fleet work from what he could recall, but this fella, Steve Chambliss, Jody was certain his name was, he had a deal with the Dodge factories and even then he couldn’t pick up a work truck for less than forty. A small time farmer like Jody would be lucky to get a tax write off and not a penny more. Business breeds discounts, that’s what his father had always said. The more you got at the stake, the more people are inclined to work with you. Nobody’s cutting deals with empty pockets, no sir. Jody smirked at the thought of that, by any comparison, he had been the most successful farmer of his line. He expanded the reaches of his property line by a whole 7 acres, struck bargains to sell his crop wholesale and even began to plant a few of the Dupont seeds. Jody could imagine the look on his grandfather’s smile scarred face when that red corn sprouted, it looked unnatural enough, but with double the yield and a third less the seed, he would have been a fool not to strike a deal with them. Hell, the corn tasted just the same, boiled and buttered without a lick of difference, Jody chalked it up to folks finding any reason to complain. Everyone’s got a voice nowadays. Even with all that, empty pockets still found a way to prevail, raising a brood had become less a matter of willpower and more an issue to be bantered between the notches of an abacus. Sheryl and him had been blessed with four, and while the youngest, Freddy, didn’t make it past the crib, both Jody and his wife thanked God everyday for three lads who did. Three who had grown healthy in spite of seclusion on a rural homestead, who had prospered without the aid of wealth, and now stood to carve their own fortunes at the local SUNY. It ached Jody to think about the lonesomeness that comes with a farm occupied only by two, man and wife, but he knew somewhere in that sunbaked skull of his that he could never tell the boys. They were good, compassionate fellas, they’d drop out if they thought they could alleviate his distress. It was selfish of Jody, selfish to put a father’s own wishes before the ambitions of his sons and he would sooner bury the thought away before giving it air to escape.
Jody looked at the spot of oil, the grass spit back light with magnificent purples and reds, blues and yellows. He hoped it hadn’t gone as far as the groundwater, not that there was much he could do to rectify if it had, but Jody was aware the damage it could do to the irrigation system should the wrong streams cross. He paced out the distance between the oil and the corn, not more than 40 feet. He knew the pipes that ran below the ground, carved their course himself, it would in all likelihood spray to the leftmost portion of his corn crop, but with their husks, he reasoned they would have some level of protection. Most of his crop went to the cows anyway, hearty beasts that would seldom feel any effect from marginally tainted water. His primary concern had been the radishes, a stone’s throw from the corn, Jody knew that when the water ran off it would cascade downhill and seep into the root. It would certainly affect the cosmetics of the root and make selling them at a grocer damn near impossible. The average produce buyer had a discerning eye known to probe for the slightest defect, an overripeness would make a buyer pass, discoloration would be as good as a death sentence. Jody considered the radishes, he thought that if he could dig a trench around their enclosure, perhaps he could manually water the crop, it would be a pain, but until the oil ran off it would be a task needing to be done. Before he could consider the matter further, he heard gravel kicking up from the driveway and saw Sheryl’s Volvo descending down the pebble lined road. Petey bounded over to the front door as was his routine. The mutt had probably been laying underneath a shaded tree for all Jody knew. Even though the dog had been a shelter mutt, he had been decent as a farm hand for the first few years, keeping the farmer company as he went about the day’s tasks. He had even functioned as something of an alarm clock for Jody when the farmer would take his midday nap, there was a comfort in knowing that Petey wouldn’t let Jody sleep for more than a hour or so before waking the man up with a wet and heavy tongue. Nowadays, Petey seldom found the energy to round the property more than twice before finding the comfort of a tree to recuperate beneath. However, Jody had noticed on more than one occasion that the dog still found the reserves in energy to chase down his wife’s Volvo each and every day that it descended down the drive. Petey, like his owner, was entirely a creature of habit, and even though Jody’s sons had not been passengers in that Volvo on their way home from school for a handful of years, Petey still kept the habit as he was nothing if not simply devout. Jody questioned the dog’s awareness, whether or not this beast evolved to stand beside man was capable of understanding his own sadness each and every day upon discovering that the Volvo was empty and whether it was simply hope that kept him running down. Even as his calloused paws scraped against the gravel, as his hips and joints ached and clacked painfully, he still found the resolve to run to the Volvo each day knowing that his boys were not inside.
Jody set off inside, the night had grown late much sooner than he had anticipated and darkness was already beginning to settle in. He would need to leave the oil until the morning at the very least and prepare whatever meager meal Sheryl and he intended to share this particular evening. She had never been much of a cook, but as her obligations in town became more and more demanding, certain duties had inherently transferred over to himself. Not that Jody minded it, to cook a meal wasn’t so much a chore as it was a reprieve. There was comfort in finding the right configuration of spices, breads, and meats to sate a rumbling belly and while he certainly wouldn’t claim himself a chef, he always took pride in whatever he prepared. By the time Sheryl had entered through the front door, a box in her arms packed to the rafters with miscellaneous paper, Jody had already set to boiling the potatoes. Sheryl shot him a glance, asking for help with the box using everything except for words themselves. She was an expectant woman, not rude mind you, but certain that folks should always make themselves available should she necessitate it and never one to be bashful of utilizing a favor offered.
“Christ, they ain’t closed yet?” he offered
“They’re real superstitious about ESCROW, someone told them the banks are known to pull out if every single inspection isn’t up to date. So now I got these yuppies trying to schedule termite inspectors, drainage plain surveyors, all before end of the month.”
“Sounds like hell.”
“Was it General Lee, said “War is Hell”? He hasn’t tried to offload a two bedroom colonial.”
“Sherman” Jody whipped back with a smirk.
He took the box from her, setting it down on the dining room table. Sheryl took the opportunity to look inside the boiling pot, the hope slipping away on her face.
“You know we have rice. Perfectly good, I got it from Weggy’s. It doesn’t always have to be meat and salt potatoes” she questioned.
Jody returned to the pot, pouring a cup of salt into the water.
“It’s quick” he offered.
Sheryl shrugged, kicking off her shoes and moving into the living room. Jody followed after, he had some time on the potatoes before the meat needed to go in the skillet.
“You know I’ve been kicking it around some, I’m not sure this truck has got much life left in it.
She plopped into her evening chair, a hunk of red whose only remaining purpose in this world seemed to be masking wine stains.
“Those old trucks aren’t worth their weight in scrap.”
“No, neither are the new ones, but I need something that won’t crap out on me while I’m on the land” Jody responded.
Sheryl surveyed him for a moment, there was truth in Jody’s eyes, that much he knew, but for some reason it felt like she had to search herself in order to confirm it. Then, she reached into her pocket and began to clack away on her phone some. Jody was on the verge of words, prepared to speak when she finally looked up again.
“Les and George have tuition bills coming up at the end of the month. Even for a SUNY, it’s still a couple of down payments on a truck. I’m not sure we have the bandwidth for it. Then you’ve got to hire for the harvest after that. You can’t limp it along?”
“The damn thing might as well be in full traction. Damn near ruined a patch of land today because oil was seeping out.”
Jody hung his head, he knew he would have to broach it again. It was always painful to ask, it always felt like a concession, like a man not being able to provide. Such a time had long since passed in their society, but the claws were still firmly imbedded into his standing.
“Commission checks could put a dent in it” he said.
“Commission checks go into savings.”
“Then what are we saving for?”
She nodded her head, he had a fair point that even she couldn’t circumvent.
“You know Teddy Dane from the office?”
Jody nodded, he wasn’t quite sure where her train was heading.
“I ain’t no fan of Teddy Dane and I’m not talking through this with you no more. Answer is the same as it was last time” Jody said.
“Teddy’s been closing a bunch of land deals with come uppers from the city. He’s saying they’re paying a premium for decent plots.”
“Yeah, yeah, and damn near hamstringin’ the folks unfortunate enough to sign on.”
“We’re sitting on 25 acres Jod, 25 acres of land and a house that’s less than an eighth filled, that seem like sound business to you?” she jabbed
It hadn’t been the first time she brought it up. Sheryl had always kept her eyes affixed to the horizon, never to the ground beneath her feet. It was her ambition that brought the boys on vacations to different countries, reared them in ways that seemed entirely foreign to Jody and his forebears. Perhaps that is why they had been a perfect match, there was always enough of a gust between them for wings to soar, but to never stray too high under the sun’s glare. Jody grounded her, kept her most daring pursuits harbored in the safe ports of their homestead, but as the boys left, finding the willpower to rein her in had become a task in itself. Jody looked at Sheryl and realized he had been woefully unprepared for the argument, his reasoning and logic left outside with his work boots, to banter a dilemma with Sheryl unprepared was an exercise in concession. The woman was quick on her feet and that is why Jody had perhaps been inclined to agree with her. She brought entirely valid points, the house had been a shell of itself with the boys gone and even when they return, he couldn’t see it being a necessary component of their lives for any worthwhile amount of time. That time in their lives had passed and perhaps for the both of them, it was time.
“This land was my daddy’s, his father’s and his father’s before him. They owned this land before the roads were even paved out here!” Jody exclaimed
“All the more reason to sell in a good market. We paid nothing for this land and owe nothing liened against. Anything we sell it for is money in the backpocket.”
With that Sheryl moved closer to Jody, she had a physical tact for negotiating even if the intangible fell short. She reached for his calloused hand and wrapped it in her own. It felt like home for Jody, she hadn’t offered up such a thing in months and while his heart had been torn, her hand felt like a needle and thread to mend.
“Perhaps we could listen to an offer or two, but we don’t commit unless we both agree” he responded.
Sheryl wrapped him in a hug. She would make a nice profit off the house he was certain, even removed from what the two of them made as a family, she would still keep her commission. Jody watched as she moved to the kitchen, he knew that they would probably have sex tonight, a stroke of pleasure to wax the deal artfully negotiated. Of course, she would never admit to using intimate warfare, nor would he pursue the argument himself. They both knew the game as well as the other, but pretending to be fools was the only way to permit it’s continued play. He wondered if he could attempt a similar tactic, but knew that a male mind lacked the patience and forethought of its female counterpart, much less the fortitude to override base nature. Before he could deliberate further, he heard the pot of water in the kitchen begin to boil over and knew he had to return to the meal.
Jody’s dreams were not of a familiar nature, not half remembered and misappropriated stories from whatever television show he had watched that night, but of himself, wandering around a city where twisted pillars of metal and glass loomed overhead, where patches of refreshing grass seemed entirely absent, if not nonexistent. It didn’t leave him lurching awake or struggling to find breath, but disheartened, a feeling of nothingness seeping into his marrow.
He quickly put the dreams into the recesses of his mind in the morning and set to work. Jody knew that he would need to rectify the oil spill from the previous day and that carving out land from around the radishes would not only take a toll on the day’s sunlight, but it would certainly leave his joints howling for mercy. Petey ran after him, the mutt chasing after a rabbit that had taken up residence in a bored out hole beside the porch boards. The old dog would probably fall behind after a decent bit and rejoin Jody in the work. However, when Jody went to the fetch a shovel from the shed, he noticed something entirely odd.
A small batch of stems had already begun to peak through the soil where the truck had been parked. They were small, wispy stalks of milk white color, with a ruby red lining around the edges of the plume. It struck Jody as such a clash of colors that it almost seemed to have been painted onto the plant as opposed to grown. Jody creaked to a knee, bursts of pain shooting from his patella joints, he angled his head close to the plants. His sight hadn’t been what it once was as a boy or hell, even a marginally younger man, but Jody was certain that he had never seen such a plant growing in these parts. Perhaps some strain of mushroom he thought, they were known to grow quick and these must have only arisen over the past night. Jody moved his finger to one of the stems, intending to pluck it, but as soon as he coiled his fingers around it, he could swear that he heard a faint murmur coming from beneath the soil. He quickly released the stalk, certain that it was the wind and nothing more. He repeated the thought to himself, the night previous must surely have taken a slice from his measured demeanor.
Jody would not venture as to rip these from the ground just yet, there was value in determining a species of crop before snuffing it, albeit it risk as well. The species could well be invasive, much like wolves introduced into an ecosystem acquainted to a far less domineering predator. Jody was well aware that such a thing could cause chaos if allowed to grow, yet on the other hand, the value of a new species dwarfed the risk. There were magazines still around, a subscription base of farmers, who, like himself, regularly kept apprised of the new discoveries made in the agricultural field. It wasn’t lucrative beyond means, but such discoveries did facilitate some level of notoriety and compensatory revel. Jody went to adjust his Red Sox cap, catching a faint whiff of the plant on his fingers. Whatever this crop was, it smelt rotten, spoiled almost, akin to festering meat left out long enough that has begun to smell sweet. It was distinctly sour, yet possessed a quality that felt all the same enticing. Jody recalled the first time he caught a whiff of gasoline, the synthesized scent that would set his nostril hairs inward to the flesh and inspire a repressed desire to consume. There were others like Jody of course, those imperfectly made with the innate desire to stomach that which should not be stomached, perhaps this plant employed the same tactics.
He wiped his hands off on the jeans, he would probably sweat off the rest of the scent during the day, or so he hoped. Jody knew that Sheryl had become quite particular about his personal hygiene and she would scarcely tolerate the onion laced tint of his sweat, much less the persevering domain of whatever this odd crop possessed. From elsewhere on the farm, he heard Petey pounce on the rabbit, sinking his teeth into the creature with a recurring yelp and gnash.
It was hard work, trenching around the radishes, but work that needed to be done nonetheless as Jody would discover that the oil had already begun to seep into the irrigation plain beneath the ground. Back and forth he labored with a shovel, for the summer season, Jody surprised himself as the ground was oddly hard and only seemed to work against him with each successive lance of the shovel. He had worked the land a hundred times over and the plow never had a hard time turning the soil, yet the ground may as well been as firm as poured concrete with how much a sweat cascaded down Jody’s back. It had become drenched, he wore a flannel from when the morning was still crisp, yet by the end of his trenching, he perspired clean through the work shirt and the heavy fabric. He fanned it out some, bringing a gush of fresh air against his hairy torso. Jody peeled back a layer of the soil and saw that fortunately the radishes hadn’t been all that affected from what he could see. He ran his finger against the reddish skin and came up with nothing but dried out dirt. Radishes had never been one of his favorite crops to grow, they were labor intensive relative to the rest and had a miniscule return on dollar, plus he might have been biased but they tasted nothing beyond dried chalk and sediment in Jody’s honest opinion. He did what he could with them, but they were more a tool to utilize patches of land not otherwise planted. Jody inspected the soil, it appeared slightly discolored, darkened but not by moisture. The tricky thing with such a liquid as oil is how easily it can permeate the ground. Even a few drops of oil could seemingly find their way through the soil and into the wells. It was no exception here, couldn’t have been more than 3 quarts that drained out, but he was seeing the effects in stunning fashion more than 30 feet away, felt unnatural it did.
An hour, maybe two, had passed when Jody heard the rumble of Sheryl’s Volvo making its way back down the driveway, Petey ran off from behind a nearby tree in hot pursuit. However, Jody caught the glint of an unfamiliar vehicle behind hers, a premium shitkicker, one of those fresh of the lot, computerized more than Apple itself, Escalades. Teddy Dane Jody thought. Jody had been spot on in his prediction as a suave grey haired 30 something exited from the Escalade with a damn clipboard in hand. Jody offered every single person the benefit of the doubt, he called himself fair in that regard. He would treat a stranger as the reborn king of Troy until they had given him reason not to. It was the Christian thing, treat others as you yourself would want to be treated. It had been beaten into Jody’s kids so many damn times that the words found a home not just in their skulls, but his as well. Teddy had little of the same appreciation for those words. Jody took the man’s gait to be offensive, the way he swayed from side to side, the loose manner in which his arms waggled back and forth. There was an air of presumption to the man, an unrelenting symbol of status fashioned into his clothes, his life, and even his eyes. There was a subservience to the almighty dollar and Teddy Dane, Jody reasoned, was nothing if not it’s most devout servant. Jody recalled the first time he met Teddy, the two bumped into one another at the Don Ellis and Associates Real Estate junction that for as long as Jody, or any other member of the town could remember, had been held at the Elks Lodge off near County
Route 8. The entire event was an excuse to glad hand and to burn off the remainder of the year’s budget, which is why, depending on the year, the event could go from cheese pizzas to prime rib. Jody unfortunately attended the year when Thai food stunk up the hall. By that point, Jody had heard more than his fair share of Teddy Dane, his ability to swindle an estate into selling their grandmother’s farm for tits under asking.
“It’s money fresh with no strings, better grab it up quick before the birds” Jody had heard him say to a crowd of fellow swindlers, loudly, knowing it would only dock in friendly ears.
Beyond that, Jody had caught wind of everything from Sheryl, who, in the words of those so reluctant to call infidelity by a name so plain, was something of a work wife to Teddy’s work husband. Perhaps that was why when the two first met, Jody could have sworn that Teddy dug his fingernail into Jody’s palm during what was otherwise a plain handshake.
“She’s a pill ain’t she pal?” Teddy chortled.
“Take too much and you’ll be hooked up to the defribs!” Jody politely spit back
The past had never pushed beyond Jody, as now, when Teddy strolled out of the Escalade and up the front porch, Jody felt himself tensing, strings of muscle in his forearm knackering back and forth like struck keys on a piano. He knew that for the sake of Sheryl amicability was his only course of option, but he reasoned he could make Teddy feel the message all the same.
“You’re looking like farmer Joe! How goes it pal?” Teddy slapped across the lawn
“I see you brought trouble with you!”
Sheryl slammed a box of papers from out of the Volvo onto the hood of her SUV.
“We’re moving awful quick now, Sheryl and I were just talking about the possibility the other night and well, we haven’t quite set our minds to any one particular outcome.” Jody offered
Teddy waved his hands like he was trying to swat gnats from around his head. The man had a theatrical side to him, perhaps he had been bound for the stage before settling into the market Jody thought.
“In this economy my friend, believe me when I tell you, and I offer this advice not just to my potential clients, but well, anyone with sense between their ears. To sit and dwell is a pact made with death and death alone.”
“Surely, but are we not moving just a bit quick?”
“Jody, my dear friend, have you not given thought the amount of cars that drive past this farm on a daily basis? The faces that look out the window over your acres and acres. The ones who would kill for even the slightest chance to live a life even half as satisfying as your own. Those cars drive past a lawn without a sign, what we’re going to give them now is an opportunity.”
Jody looked to Sheryl. He pushed his thoughts toward her, he wanted desperately to show his hesitancy, his reluctance, to tell her with a sternness in his voice that this matter shall proceed no longer. However, the woman gave little weight to Jody’s opinion, not in earnest at the very least, for many years. Her mind was already made up and thus Jody’s was as well.
“I don’t mean to give you a hold up Teddy, especially after you drove out here already. It’s a good twenty miles I know, but maybe I’m just still kicking the tires on it. Sheryl and I have still got the boys to come home every now and then, ‘specially during the summer.”
On that Teddy dropped the for sale sign beside his feet and the wood dug into the soil, his eyes narrowed with a steely intensity and he leaned in close to Jody.
“Let me tell you something pal, those kids aren’t never coming back here permanently. They’re gone, except for maybe a layover during the holidays. I don’t say it to be cruel, but you really want to be stuck out here by your lonesome? You want Sheryl out here? The name of the game these days is downsizing. You’ve got a whole cow here when your appetite is nothing more than T-Bone. Listen, we’re gonna find you something, don’t you worry about it. Two bedroom, something with an office. Hell, retiring early, that just became your bread and butter. Maybe even find a late model BMW. Now, what do you say to that pal?”
Teddy lanced Jody’s rib with a punishingly friendly elbow, nodding in the direction of Sheryl. She had little to say in defense of Jody, not that there would be a word taken up against Teddy Dane. The man’s words wounded Jody, perhaps they spoke to something he already knew in the back of his mind or maybe it was the unsympathetic nature of his spew, but Jody would have hit him. He would have balled his fist, let the fingers tear at the insides of his palms, crunched the knuckles and let loose. He could feel it, the impact it would make against Teddy Dane’s cheek as flesh collided with meat underpinned by sinew and bone. Teddy would fall to the ground and Jody could straddle him, he would fire off round after round, his arm would grow tired and he would knot his fingers around Teddy’s shirt collar and lift him face to face, Jody would snarl at him and warn not to overstep. Jody felt the fire boiling in his forearms, they had grown tired from the day’s labor, but the furnaces had been fed, he jumped the muscles up and down, folded his arms in front of himself as if to show, as if to display to Teddy a present of force, to wave the Gadsen flag and say only do not tread me, not a footstep nor an inch. However, as Teddy once more picked up the for sale sign, Jody only found the strength to nod. It would have been an overstep, and oversteps only cause trouble.
By the evening, a bottle of wine had been passed around the table. Jody had never been much of a drinker, so he seldom stomached more than half a glass before the sweet wine ventured to his mind, but the Negroamaro was of a different ilk compared to the Kirkland variety he so often purchased. It didn’t so much go to his head as it did envelop his body. It felt as if someone had unconscionably slipped a rain poncho over his extremities, dulling the senses with a faint sheen. Every piece of paper passed to him needed a signature and for the same reason his fingers felt tied by a puppeteer’s strings, wrapping them around the pen became a great test of dexterity. The farm, as Teddy and Sheryl would go into great detail explaining, had many contingencies, which made selling the property not so much a matter of listing and closing. It was never as easy as a handshake, not since the days of his father had business been done in that way. He knew it was for the better, people would always find the pinhole exceptions in word if it wasn’t laid down with ink and paper. Jody would have objected, but the mindtrust shared between the two of them seemed true enough. He would not know the guidance needed himself and surely signing as many documents as he did would alleviate him of any simple oversights. Sheryl, he was certain, had done her due diligence. Teddy, he was less so and that was why Jody found the strength to raise an objection.
“You’d think we were already closing?”
Teddy and Sheryl exchanged the briefest glances with one another, the pair barely had time to register the other’s eyes before turning away to face Jody once more.
“Technically we’re caravaning this Jod, so it’s a whole lot of paperwork and getting permissions. I’m sure Sheryl has bemoaned the process at Don Ellis to you a thousand times over. Hell, get a beer in me and you’ll buy me another just to stop talking about it. Form on form is what they’re all about.” Teddy indicated.
He offered a sharp toothy smile to Jody and slowly angled another carbon copy stack underneath Jody’s awaiting pen.
“You’ve got more teeth than a Great White” Jody drunkenly slurred.
“My dentist does a bang up job” Teddy retorted.
Jody put pen to paper and scribbled off another one of his signatures. His head spun something fierce, it felt like someone had taken a gyroscope and tied it off to the back of humming semi. Every single curve of his signature brought Jody on a roller coaster, the sloping Y and the curved S of his last name, Southmoure. He thought how in a few months’ time this farm would only bear the name Southmoure in the cemetery out back, the plots of land where his ancestors had been resting for almost a century, the green pasture wherein six feet under Freddy had lain, undisturbed by man or plow. He wondered if the family that moved in would dig them up, see them properly squared away onto consecrated ground, or if they’d simply tip over the stones, lay concrete and never give a second thought to those that had dwelled before. Jody knew he couldn’t bring the family with him, wherever Jody would go, which was just as much a question as anything else. Even if he could, Jody was certain that if those who dwelled could speak they would seldom prefer the opportunity to relocate at such a late state in their lives. This was their home, from when they still had breath in their lungs to the moment of their last movement. It would be an inconvenience for them, uprooting from their home and being forced to adjust to an entirely new patch of grass and soil. Of course, Jody would surely explain to them how much in value their property had increased and how he would simply be a fool not to sell in this economy and just as surely they would sit propped in their coffins, jaws devoid of tendon and muscle, not offering a word of reprieve to their son. Perhaps they would build a gazebo, Freddy would like that Jody thought, if they were going to build atop his plot, a gazebo would be pleasant.
The next morning when Jody awoke he turned to find the left side of the bed entirely vacant, the absence of Sheryl’s body leaving a waking cavern in the mattress. It was a rare thing for her to find the will to break sleep sooner than himself. Save for Easter and Christmas, Jody never slept past the single digits. It was a farmer’s routine he kept and a farmer’s routine meant that a man does not linger in bed. The wine he thought to himself, it had surely seen him to bed longer than he intended. As he swung his legs from the bed and onto the hardwood floor, his toes descended into an ice cold puddle resting on one of the floorboards, wiping the sleep from his eyes, he brought up his leg and propped it onto his knee, taking a swipe of the residual from his foot with a finger. Piss. In the corner, he saw Petey pacing back and forth, the lapse in routine affecting them both.
The midday sun already hung in the sky by the time Petey and Jody made their way from the house and out into the property. Perhaps it was the oddity of joining the day so late or maybe a lingering exhaustion from the morning, but Jody noticed Petey migrated straight to the shade of his favorite tree. The old dog’s bladder had surely tormented him enough during the morning, so Jody would find no blame in his own heart for the creature. To that end, Jody had considered throwing in the towel himself. The day had already crowned in heat and sweat began to trickle down the farmer’s back at even the slightest effort, but Jody knew that there was much work to be done and without a fine day’s labor, the care of a farm could just as easily become unyielding.
Jody set to inspecting the radishes, the trench dug from the previous day seemed to be doing its job as the samples of water matched against the farmer’s skin were preserved clear and untainted. On that end, Jody thanked the lord for the turn in his favor and for the welcome surcease of additional labor. Yet, Jody knew that he needed to complete the task fully. While the radishes had not been affected by the tainted water, there was a necessity in ensuring that the irrigation for the other portions had not as well. He followed the irrigation course and it began to lead him toward the shed, but as Jody paced along that subtle trail, an odd thing struck him.
Beneath Jody’s feet, the oil stricken patch of soil which had given bloom to the small batch of stems had yielded yet another growth of crop. The farmer humbled himself to a knee and noticed that the milk white stems from the previous day had doubled in size, where they had only been a few inches in length the other day, now they must have easily been half a foot, maybe more. Beyond that, the span of the crops had expanded, five or six plants had lent themselves to what was now a small army. As Jody bent down to give further inspection, the putrid smell of the crop wafted into his nostrils, the farmer wretched into the soil. There wasn’t much remaining in his stomach from the previous night, but yellow tinged brown hunks of potato found themselves strewn about the curious plant. Jody wiped his mouth and then, taking pity on this strange piece of life, he wiped the back stomach spew from the ruby red lining of the plume. As his finger traced along the edges of the leaf, a faint murmur pushed through the soil.
“Nice of you” the voice weakly said.
“Excuse me?” said Jody, surveying the property
Jody was certain it was a lark. Someone playing a joke. They must have an awful lot of patience to play practical on me he thought. He gave a cursory inspection of the area in his immediate vicinity, the chance someone had been hiding in the rafters felt doubtful, even to his superstitious mind. He gave another rub of the plume, not even sure what he was trying to do. Was he trying to replicate it? To dissuade himself? To give credence to his mind still being firm? Before he could discern what he was trying to do, the voice from the soil came once more.
“Some remains” the voice beckoned.
Jody put his ear to the soil, rubbing the plume back and forth, polishing away the last of the vomit, waiting for a response, but through the soil, Jody didn’t hear a sound.
“Hello” he hollered.
Again, not a single sound.
He pulled his head away from the soil, content to consider it just a mistake, a lapse of the mind, an oddity never to be repeated, until…
“It’s hard to speak with you from so far below” the voice responded.
Jody just about went ass over tea kettle. He kicked up a storm of grass with his clodhoppers and barreled toward the shed. His heart was racing through his chest, while he would not normally find himself akin to such a reaction, his mind had set to deciphering the event as it occurred in real time, a ticker tape unwinding and the messages on it were far from a respite. Once more he checked his surroundings, but he knew the answer would be all the same, a vacancy on the farm filled only by himself and Petey for the day’s work. He looked toward the patch of blooms and for a moment, just a moment, he could swear that the earth had a movement to it, minor waves like the coming in of tide. The soil bobbed and fell, Jody went to wipe the sweat from his brow, hoping for the welcoming embrace of delusion, but his brow did not offer a single drop, only the unfaltering coldness of taut skin. He rose to his feet and began to take hesitant first steps toward the plume, they were far from direct, as with each step Jody found himself encircling the patch, rather than journeying the path of a straightedge.
“You’d find me as a fool I’ll admit, I don’t know the mechanics of this trick” he stated.
Jody took another step closer, the soil shifted again, like whatever was below had attempted to stretch their toes. Perhaps some sort of machine he pondered.
“Is it only a trick if it ends in a laugh?” the voice replied.
He bent to a knee, the bloom that was the tallest, perhaps eight inches to the others’ six and three, sank against the summer air. Jody caught the stem betwixt his fingers.
“And if I ripped you from the ground, roots and all, how would it end there?”
The voice grew silent through the soil and Jody could only discern the whistling of the wind as it worked its way through the rows and rows of corn stalks.
“I venture you’d find me quite insalubrious.”
Jody released the stalks, whatever this voice from the soil was, it was clever, perhaps too clever for Jody to make a rash move.
The Charred Man
Published In
〰️
Great Lake Review
〰️
Published In 〰️ Great Lake Review 〰️
Skin cream was a luxury to him. It was something he never even considered buying before, but now he found himself visiting the drug store on a daily basis just to get his fix. It was a nicety he could scarcely afford, but goddamn he needed it.
The pain was always there. Shooting pulses that danced along his nervous system, rendering him incapable of speech or mobility for hours on end. Why had the fire taken everything but left the nerves perfectly intact? Were they so far buried beneath his skin that the flames wouldn’t even touch them?
He saw the looks they gave him. People trying to mask their disgust with a faint layer of sympathy. The layers of clothing could only mask so much, and they always seemed to know just where to look in order to catch a peek at his charred skin. It didn’t matter what his story was or how he got there, a first impression is sometimes the only impression.
The story of it never factors in. There isn’t a line of questioning for him to answer, to describe how it happened. Even if there was, he’s not sure he would respond. How do you describe to someone the choice made in an instant, the decision to run into a fire as opposed to away from it? The simple answer: you don’t.
The pig skin grafts never matched up just right. Jagged pieces of flesh haplessly clinging to the contours of his face, leaving him resembling a poor man’s Humpty Dumpty. Every visit to the doctors’ bringing more and more rejection. This donor wasn’t a match, this skin tone was a tad off, more pig skin it is.
He was the hero of 42nd Street. When he was in the hospital, cards and flowers filled the room, from thankful parents to local businesses proud to call him a customer. He had run into that fire with little regard for his own well-being, not as a hero, but as a citizen.
The fame was brief, less than 15 minutes. The medical bills piled and continued to pile until they had a suffocating effect. He couldn’t afford the mortgage, barely afford to eat. Sometimes he wished that he hadn’t run into the fire, maybe avoid his mutilation, or at the very least prolong it. The cream soaked into his skin, offering a reprieve, just for a few moments.
Dad’s Jeans
Published In
〰️
Gemstone Piano Review
〰️
Great Lake Review
〰️
Published In 〰️ Gemstone Piano Review 〰️ Great Lake Review 〰️
My dad was the type of man to push away problems until they bit him on the nose and when he went over to my grandma’s house one day to see her sprawled out on the couch in his favorite “relaxin” jeans, it was the equivalent of a nibble.
He let her keep the jeans. She didn’t remember absconding with them, but was adamant that they were my recently deceased grandfather’s.
Why not let her stay in dreamland?
The next pair didn’t stay long before they went MIA. Rinse and repeat. Each time Dad bought a fresh pair, within days they would vanish from the house.
Grandma was a geriatric Robin Hood.
We tried locks and chains, but the old lassie was far too clever for that, even in her current state. She either had a vendetta against my father that involved swiping his denim or thought Grandpa was alive and storing his jeans at our home.
Dad was really bad at confrontation. You could call what he did giving into a delusion, but that didn’t matter. When he went to Costco and bought 100 pairs of their finest jeans, the only thing running through his head was the woman who raised him, and the comfort she might find.
I didn’t think Grandma was lucid enough to appreciate the gesture, but Dad kept it up, even played along sometimes, making the locks less difficult as she got worse.
In Heat
Davey swore that the lock stuck something awful. He swore it alright, not that Bill ever gave a damn what he said anyways. Christ, Mom is putting that lout up and he ain’t even good with a hammer and nails. Lotta good a man around the house is then if he isn’t worth the red piss of being one. Davey didn’t even know why Bill had gotten so angry, they weren’t his breeders anyway. His father, now that was a fine, upstanding one, one who could fix anything, he had bought the entire brood of blue tick hounds from a man in the North Country, Amish maybe, but Davey’s father was certain they was pure. You could tell by the smell of their piss, his father had often been known to say. Davey didn’t track much with that, didn’t try it more than a handful of times. Piss smelled like piss to him, ‘sides they looked pure and that was what mattered, at least until you got further enough down the line.
That lock though, it was in need of grease or maybe a wire brush, but it was in need of something, Davey had tried to tell Bill in between wacks of the belt. The lock didn’t close all the way and if you weren’t looking, well it might just fly open behind you and that would be that.
“A man’s gotta fess up”
“But it ain’t like I’m lying about it!”
Davey didn’t even get anything out of it, they were his father’s blues but Bill’s pups or so he said, but it didn’t make a lick of sense to Davey. Bill could sell them all and Davey would still end up carrying spoiled ham for lunch, every dime went to Bill. So why the hell couldn’t he just oil the damn lock?
“Man’s gotta fess up”
“I’m being straight with you!”
Davey knew Marsha was in heat, she kept em up late enough at night with her howlin. Long week too, Bill said they couldn’t bring the spike in for at least another week, buddy of a buddy or something, youda thought thata given him enough time to fix the lock! But all the block knew and all the mutts too. They just kept sniffing against the fence wood, bending it in with their wet noses.
“Man’s gotta fess up”
Davey had gone down to the match. It was fair, no matter what Bill said, it was fair. Crippler Stevens was wrestling and Davey wasn’t going to miss it no how, but it really shouldn’t have made a difference, not if the lock was proper! Davey didn’t know that Wilkes’ Saint Bernard had been sniffing around, hell even if the lock had been working the thing was big enough to break down the gate anyways. It wasn’t his fault, but Bill caught them in the act and he swore it was.
Wilkes’ poor Saint Bernard lost a chunk of ear Bill dragged him off so hard, but Bill swore it didn’t make a difference.
“Man’s gotta fess up”
None of us were sure everything got done, but the spike was brought in a week later. Bill’s belt broke before he could tell Davey to pray they came out clean, he’d wear his rings otherwise. But it took months and none were sure, Davey hoped he’d just up and forget.
Litter poor would keep Bill away from that new truck bed of his, a decent pure Blue could fetch 200 to the right eyeball. Bill would even throw in the collar for that price.
Marsha didn’t do nothing, she could give up another litter, two or three more maybe before they came out foul, but the ones that came were mutts, real odd ones with a bent up noses and stuffy bodies. Not good for hunting or tracking, house dogs.
Woulda thought it’d been Mom’s choice, maybe even Davey’s. They were his father’s pups if you track it down the line, shoulda fell to Davey. Not Bill, he didn’t see it thataway, was costing money to feed ‘em and more if you consider the loss of an entire litter of Blue Ticks.
Bill brought home the burlap sack on one night home from work, big enough to fit a barrel or something, didn’t even do nothing with it at first, just left it sitting draped over the back of a chair. Let it go until after dinner when he set it down alongside a ball peen hammer.
Davey tried to come up with tears, but they just couldn’t come out while trying to win an argument. He’d set them straight, keep them fed and find owners, it didn’t have to be done.
Bill didn’t even look past his beer.
“I’ll know if you don’t, then it’ll really pay. Man’s gotta fess up”
He tried to turn to his Mom, she shouldn’ta sanctioned it because it steamed her all the same. She didn’t approve, but it wasn’t her call, Bill swore up and down that it needed to be done. But he didn’t even fix the lock, things that needed to be done Davey didn’t think.
Davey cried some, but the tugging on Bill’s pant leg didn’t help none. He just kicked him off and sent Davey through the screen door.
Davey went out to the shed, easy enough to grab the pups while they were at the nip. He thought about throwing them over the fence, letting a few go and only doing a handful, but Bill would figure it out, see ‘em roaming or they’d break their legs on the way down from the fence.
So he stuffed them into the burlap one by one, gripping the ball peen hammer by its splintered hilt. The soft mewling echoed through the burlap, Davey swore they’d only gotten louder. If only that damn lock had worked he told himself and even if it wasn’t his fault, he knew…
Man’s gotta fess up.