The Harvest Read online

  Tamara glanced at the red eye of the clock. Nearly nine. The high sun pierced the shutters.

  Friday was her day to sleep late, since she had no classes. Robert had gotten the kids off to school. Her tongue was dry and starchy, as if the Russian army had camped in her mouth. She tried to raise herself and head for the bathroom, but she was heavy with sleep, confused by the dream.

  At least this one can't come true.

  Unlike the death of her father, which had been vividly pre-created in a dream, this particular subconscious brain flick wasn't filmed in an earthly setting. Well, at least not a natural-sized one.

  But the time she had dreamed of Kevin soaring over a canyon like a bird, with his wings failing in mid-flight, he had broken his hip the next day while jumping a gully. So maybe it was all symbolism.

  Robert had been wonderful while Kevin was healing. Kevin's cast came up to his waist to keep his pelvis immobile. There was a bar slung between his legs, and Robert had to carry him like that, with one hand on the bar and the other under Kevin's back. Robert insisted that the family keep up their routine, and since Tamara had her hands full with Ginger, Robert hauled Kevin everywhere they went, to the zoo, the circus, basketball games, or Tamara's academic functions.

  Robert's forearm was rubbed raw from the plaster, but he never uttered one word of complaint. He bore whatever pain was necessary to keep the family together. He was always ready to make time for the kids. In fact, she sometimes suspected that might be the reason he'd never made the kind of selfish sacrifices it took to become a radio star.

  What had changed? Why is he so cruel about my Gloomies? What has happened to us?

  She kicked away the covers and stood, peeling off her nightgown. She walked to the window and raised the shade, letting the sun warm her. The woods that bordered the back of their lot were airy and calm and full of songbirds. The new buds seemed to have swollen and exploded almost overnight.

  The forest could be a symbol for unknown danger, or it could just be a bunch of trees.

  Either way, she was going to do her thirty sit-ups, take a shower, and go down to Barkersville to do some shopping. Maybe she would buy Ginger a yellow Easter dress. Then she'd go for a drive, just for the hell of it. Stay out late just to bug Robert. Let him worry, for a change. She flipped on the radio and heard Robert talking over the fade of a Beyoncé song.

  “This is Bobby Lee with you, stick around, Dennis Thorne's going to have a Blossomfest preview and the rest of WRNC's High Country News, coming your way right after these messages.”

  Why did she love that insensitive bastard so much?

  She looked out the window at the top of Bear Claw, preparing herself for the expected flash of light. The ridge was golden in the sun, the striations of its slopes like waves in an ocean of soil and stone. No strange beacons signaled her, no meaningless syllables pierced her skull. The clouds brushed the mountains as if scrubbing away the nonsense of telepathy and an overactive imagination.

  Maybe Robert was right. Gloomies didn’t exist.

  ###

  Eggs . . . shish.

  The alien collected the symbol, added it to the others that had drifted into the cave. It had received more input from its roots and tendrils, but the symbols made no discernible patterns. After the symbols passed through its filters and reached its center, they were digested along with the bright energy of the forests. The alien fed on the information, but could not focus on all the new signals that flooded its raw senses.

  The creature pulsed against the granite, heated by the solar rays that leaked from the mouth of the cave. It was growing stronger from the sustenance. Soon it would be able to move, to crawl from the darkness and expand its search for food. In the meantime, it would rest and analyze.

  ###

  James dropped a plate, sending thick ceramic shards across the concrete floor. Buddy appeared in the serving window, his face purpling like a plum above his stained apron. "That's the second one you dropped today, boy. What's going on?"

  "It's a little steamy back here, that's all.” James felt the invisible white eyes burning from the counter and booths right through the wall. "Makes things slippery."

  "Well, you watch it now, or those plates are coming out of your paycheck."

  "Yes, sir."

  James swept the dish-room floor, the slushhh of the wet broom straws reminding him of last night's encounter. But then, everything was reminding him of last night's encounter: the boiled Brussels sprouts, the day's vegetable side that everybody ignored; the pallid green of the creamed broccoli crusting around the edges of bowls; the parsley garnishes pasted to the plates by Buddy's award-winning gravy; even the zucchini he had sliced, making him think of green fibrous fingers with every stroke of the knife.

  "We're in a quandary, Mr. Tin Man," he said quietly. "What you might call a smorgasbord of problems."

  The Hobart didn't answer, only opened its dewy steel jaws in hunger for more dirty dishes.

  "On the one hand, you've got a creature running loose in Windshake, something that might be dangerous to other people. But on the other, you've got me as the only witness, and what am I but a crazy drunken nigger, probably freaked on angel dust and spouting voodoo Zulu nonsense?

  "And on another hand—and let's hope you never get three hands, because then you'll be as creeped-up as that hothouse nightmare I saw last night—I've got Aunt Mayzie to worry over and protect, so I can't hop in the Honda and rediscover the Underground Railroad. Because she's not going to budge, even if the devil himself and his skinhead hordes come to stake their rightful claim to this sorry town."

  The Hobart stared, uncomprehending. James lifted his eyes to the food-specked ceiling of the dish room.

  "Lord, I hope you're listening, because I have a feeling we're going to need some help. I take back all that stuff about asking you to give Mayzie her angel's wings early because you needed a black face to spice up Your choir. And I take back that ‘White makes right’ guilt trip that I used to lay on you. And I'm sorry for—hell, Lord, this could take the rest of eternity, and I don't have that long. Just get Your white ass in gear. If you really want to save us the way the preachers claim, now's your chance."

  James didn't feel any more secure because of the prayer. He checked the lock on the back door and kept a close watch on the Brussels sprouts that swam in the garbage can like leafy eyeballs.

  ###

  Peggy fingered the torn flap of the envelope. She sighed a blue lungful of tobacco smoke. The electric company was going to cut the power on Monday. January's bill was seven weeks past due. And this morning, the kids had to eat oatmeal for breakfast, from two little brown packets she had found in the cupboard behind a rusty can of beets and a hard-crusted sack of cornmeal. It had been plain flavor oatmeal, at that.

  Her puffy eyes welled with tears. She tried to be a good mother, Lord knows she tried, but she wasn't getting much help on the home front from Sylvester. Bastard hadn't even made it home last night and apparently hadn't bothered to show up for work for the third day in a row.

  She stubbed out her smoke and laid the butt aside for later. Might be hard times ahead.

  Hard times is HERE, girl. The question is, what are you going to do about it?

  She lifted the phone, her nicotine-stained fingers trembling as she punched the buttons. Jimmy answered. Jimmy didn't seem to be big on going to work these days, either.

  "Hello?" he said, his parched throat cracking.

  "Jimmy? It's Peggy."

  "Peggy, darlin'. You're up with the birds this morning."

  "You up yet?"

  "Uh—sure, honey. Just a sec."

  She heard the unmistakable sound of a hand covering the mouthpiece and Jimmy's muffled voice beyond that.

  "Is somebody with you, Jimmy?"

  "Huh? No, you know I'm a one-woman guy these days. And you're the woman got me that way."

  Peggy might have blushed slightly, maybe even gotten a small tingle, if she didn't know all about Eu
la Mae Pritcher, Peggy's cross-town rival. Eula Mae lived on the other side of the tracks, and one day Peggy wanted to have a catfight with her over which side of the tracks was the wrong side. But maybe when it came to loving Jimmy, both sides of the track were wrong.

  "Cut the shit, Jimmy. I called to talk about your . . .proposal."

  "Really?" His voice squeaked like an adolescent experiencing his first hand-job. Then his voice lowered again. "I mean, I'm glad you're coming around. I think it can be good for both of us."

  She wasn't sure what she thought of having Jimmy as a business partner. But her back was to the wall, with pricks at every side.

  And what was the difference, anyway? She was already doing the synchronized snake dance with Jimmy, Paul Crosley, that Speerhorn boy who was Junior's friend at high school, and occasionally her own husband, Sylvester. And all she had to show for it so far were sticky thighs and an aching heart.

  "Jimmy, Sylvester didn't come home last night. I don't know what he's up to this time. And I'm starting to get to where I don't care."

  "No telling where he's off to. But that might make this little enterprise go a little smoother, right here at the first. So I can get some customers over there."

  "Here?"

  "Sure, darlin'. It's convenient for everybody. And we already know how to work around Sylvester's schedule."

  Peggy wasn't sure she liked the idea of a parade of drunks in her trailer, dirtying up her dishes and spraying bodily fluids and liquor vomit all over her bedroom, using up her toilet paper and leaving mud all over the doormats. But she knew Jimmy sure as hell didn't want anybody whoring out of his own mobile home. He wouldn't even let Peggy set foot in the place.

  "When do we start?" she asked.

  She heard a bristling sound, probably Jimmy rubbing the hangover off his stubbled cheeks. "Soon as I round up some johns."

  "Who the hell is John?"

  "Just the lingo, baby. I told you, I've been studying on this some."

  She stabbed the thumb-length cigarette butt between her lips and fired it up. "Well, I've got some bills coming up, is why I'm asking."

  "It's Friday, honey. I can line up some action, no problem. If we can set something up for this afternoon, hell, I can go down to the Moose Lodge and probably load up a cattle truck. Plus, if Sylvester does turn up, he'll be at the Moose Lodge, too, just like every Friday night. So I can keep an eye on him."

  "Whatever you think is best. I'm just tired, Jimmy. Real tired."

  "Honey, that ain't the way to be, if this is going to work."

  "Don't worry, I know how to pretend. Fooled you, didn't I?"

  The worst part was that she had loved him, and all the things he did to her. But love was another thing that didn't matter a rat's ass in the new real world. "Love" was up there with “pride,” words you knitted onto those heartwarming little samplers you hung on the kitchen wall. Just threads and knots, when you got right down to it.

  Jimmy broke the silence. “No need to get mean, Peggy.”

  “Just bring them on. However many you can find. And one more thing—”

  “What, dah—?” He’d been about to say “darling.” "What?"

  She sucked in another tarry hit, then exhaled slowly. She felt worn out already. “Nothing on credit.”

  She slammed down the phone. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

  It couldn’t be any worse than acting on a stage. In sixth grade, she'd played the part of Sleeping Beauty in the class play. Her Momma was so proud, she'd gone out and spent money the family could barely afford for costume materials. Peggy remembered the feel of the dress her Momma had made, virginal white cotton with lace edging, billowy sleeves, and a veil. She’d worn it for the first time at the dress rehearsal the night before the play.

  She felt like a real fairy queen, her small nylon slippers seeming to barely touch the stage as she crossed. The lace swished lightly with each movement and the veil wisped out behind. She had tingled, made of feathers and warm snow, puffy clouds and helium. For that one night, she believed in magic.

  She noticed how the boys watched her during rehearsal. Even the girls glanced at her as if she were a stranger, with a mixture of awe and envy and scorn. The drama teacher, Mr. Anderson, said that she looked absolutely perfect.

  "Good enough to eat," he said to her privately, in the wings behind the curtains. And when everyone was gone and it was time for Mr. Anderson to drive her home, he locked the school and darkened the gym and turned on the spotlight. Then he led her to the sheet-draped plywood altar where Sleeping Beauty would drift in pretend dreams the next day and await her prince's kiss. Mr. Anderson leaned her back among the plastic roses and lifted her dress and put himself inside her, said that was how princesses found true love.

  There was pain and a little blood, but even that couldn't wash away the magic feeling. She had never felt so loved, so treasured and worthy. Even though the play was a disaster and Mr. Anderson never looked her in the eye again, she had carried the memory of that airy feeling ever since. And she'd spent her entire life trying to regain the magic, to step into a bright starring role, to slip again into those soft folds of make-believe.

  Well, you can add “make-believe” to that sorry little list, alongside “love” and “pride.” If my prince ever does come, he is damn sure going to have to pay for the privilege.

  ###

  Junior passed the joint to Reggie Speerhorn. Reggie took a hit and rolled his eyes.

  "Good smoke," he grunted as he exhaled, leaning against the dumpster. They were skipping study hall, hiding in an alcove behind the gym. The air circulation pump kicked on, making the wall vibrate, and Junior jumped in stoned surprise.

  Wade, the third member of the stoogish group, broke up in laughter. He said, "That reminds me of the way you jumped when that lightning struck the other day, while you were taking a whiz. About pissed all over your boots."

  Reggie took another toke and said to Junior, "Yeah, man. You been tight lately. What's got you so spooked?"

  Junior huffed a little. He about told them to fuck themselves and the horses they rode in on, but they were two of his best customers. The guys had the scratch, and that's all that mattered.

  Wade was an import, from Chicago. His parents were loaded, something about his old man retiring from IBM, whatever that was. He said his parents moved him down here to get him away from the niggers and spics and gangs and drugs. Well, the plan was three-quarters of a success.

  Wade didn't care what he paid, either. He was used to big-city inflation, and Junior could charge him ten bucks a gram for sensemilla bud. Good virgin smoke from the fields of Meh-hee-co, grown by dot-headed beaners specifically for U.S. consumption. Wade kept asking Junior to score some smack and crack, but Junior didn't need that scene.

  Wade had it going on with the chicks, though, Junior had to admit. Blue-black curly hair, the kind the girls seemed to like, what Junior called "Superman hair." He was tall with a cocksure walk, and that northern accent made him sound exotic to the Bojangle's Chicken-and-Biscuit crowd. Butt-loads of money didn't hurt, either.

  Junior had been smoking dope with Reggie Speerhorn since the fourth grade, when Reggie had found a roach outside the teacher's lounge at Fairway Elementary. Junior often wondered what the mayor would think if she discovered her only son had been brain-basted almost half of his waking life. Might put a dent in that "Just Say No" horseshit she'd picked up from the Reagan era, the words she always ended her speeches with at the school assemblies.

  Wade and Reggie were good customers, and probably the closest things Junior had to friends. Even though they were a little older, they were sort of like kin. Brothers in the family of dope. Still, there was no way in hell he could tell them about the fucked-up fish he had caught yesterday. He took the joint from Wade.

  "Yo, man, blow me a shotgun," Reggie said.

  "Naw. That's too faggy." Junior didn't want his lips anywhere near Reggie's. He took a draw and leaned against the bricks, listening to a
PE class on the football field, the temporary jocks grunting like hogs rooting for acorns.

  Reggie thumped him on the chest, and Junior looked at the freckly green-eyed stoner.

  "I ain't no fag, man." Reggie tried to sound as tough as his leather jacket.

  Wade grabbed Reggie by the shoulder. "Chill. You're fucking up my buzz."

  Reggie squirmed his shoulder free. "Nobody calls me a fag."

  Junior knocked off an eraserhead of ash and handed the joint to Reggie. Reggie pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, still sulking.

  "Did I say ‘faggy’? I meant ‘froggy.’ Ree-deep," Junior said. He and Wade broke into moist laughter. Froggy was a nickname for Reggie that went whispered around the halls behind his back. And he did resemble a frog, with his squat, spade-shaped head and bulging eyes.

  "I'm getting me some good squeeze," Reggie said, spitting out a pot seed that he'd accidentally sucked into his mouth. Apparently, he wasn't aware of his nickname, because he didn't clench his bony fists in rage. But he had to make a play for manhood now.

  "Anybody we know?"

  "You don't, Wade, but Junior knows, don't you?" Reggie flashed a bloodshot wink at Junior.

  Junior had no idea what he was talking about and really didn't care. The lunch bell was about to sound, and who wanted to be standing around with their thumbs up their asses, smoking dope at school, when they could be downtown or out in the woods, smoking dope with their thumbs up their asses?

  "Are ya'll interested?" Junior said. "Got thirty grams of Panama Red and ten grams of Tijuana Taxi. I can probably score a half kilo of what we're smoking, but it'll be Monday, at least."

  Junior was glad drug dealers had started using the metric system for weighing dope. Always made it sound like you were getting more for your money. Plus you could cut a bit out and customers couldn’t tell the difference. Still, using the metric system was about as close as Junior ever wanted to get to being a French Commie.

  "I'm in for the Red," Wade said.