Shelf Life (14 page)

chapter twenty-four

“R
ise and shine, son.”

As soon as summer classes end, Dad makes me his personal farm bitch. I’ve got two weeks until fall ones begin so until then, his wish is my command.

“I’m awake. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” I’ve got my T-shirt halfway over my head when I stumble into the kitchen. Coffee smells strong, perfect. Mom, still in her bathrobe, shoves a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. I eat it without tasting. When we’re in full-on harvest mode, it’s fuel. Nothing more. Fresh cream goes into my coffee and I knock it back in a long series of gulps. The fog in my head begins to clear.

Truth be told, I don’t mind working with Dad, but hell will freeze over twice before I admit it. After all the research, note-taking and typing I’ve done this summer, a little mindless physical labor sounds good. Plus, there are the daily dunks in the creek. Mom’s been cooking up a storm keeping up with us, and it gives me a chance to think without people chattering in my ear all the time about what campus party they’re going to, who’s going to be there, under what scientific classification does the platypus belong, and what was the reasoning behind Executive Order No. 6102? Explain the ramifications citing at least three specific examples.

Today we’re harvesting the sweet corn. All of it. It’ll be hot and brutal, but at the end of the day I get to stuff myself with buttery, salty corn on the cob until I get the shits. For now, I’ll slap on sunscreen, a hat, and hope I don’t die.

Dad and I
hop in the pick-up truck and back it next to the corn field. We work one row at a time, each starting on opposite ends. When our bushel baskets get full, we dump the contents into the truck bed, and when we meet in the middle, Dad insists on a water break.

“You’re no good to me if you’re passed out on the ground,” he says.

The thick green stalks stand tall and sturdy, smelling of sunshine and that green scent only plants emit. A good foot taller than my six feet, each stalk has about two or three ears on it. They snap with a flick of the wrist and soon my arms and basket are loaded down. The corn goes into the truck and I’m ready for more.

The past few years, Lindsey and Lewis helped pick and husk the corn and their absence is the white elephant in the field. I remember one year when we were about ten and eleven, Lewis was so busy working that he wandered off from the rest of us, happily plucking along. Lindsey had grabbed my hand and we ran through the rows that way, her leading and me following. Back then, I’d follow her anywhere. We heard Lewis crying and made our way back. He had dirt smudged on his face and knees where he’d fallen.

“I couldn’t find you guys,” he said, a few remaining tears streaking through the dirt on his cheeks.

“
Don’t be a baby,” Lindsey said. “All you have to do is walk to the end of a row and you’ll come out along the path back to the barn or by the creek on the other side.”

“I know,” he said, sniffling. “But I missed you. Don’t leave me again, okay? I don’t want to be alone.”

I’d been surprised that Lewis was crying, but I didn’t make fun of him for it. I knew what it was to feel alone, even though I was usually surrounded by my family. Hell, I’d loved my time alone or with Bennie, and the older we got, the more I loved any time alone I could steal with Lindsey, even if she was just bribing me for my best baseball cards.

Today, the field is empty with just me and Dad, a random crow, and the passing V’s of honking geese flying south.

An hour later, the truck is full. It groans under the weight of our new load.

“Drink up, kid.” Dad hands me a bottle of Mom’s homemade Gatorade. Ever since Iraq, he’s had this weird thing about water and drinking sources. Even though we have a spring and a huge creek running along the length of our property, he’s got a ridiculous amount of potable water stockpiled all over the farm, most of it in the bunker. I humor him and guzzle half the container of blue stuff Mom sent.

We empty the truck near the back of the house, where Mom and Sarah are waiting to begin shucking. Talk about a tedious job. I can’t believe we used to think it was fun when we were little, sticky fingers and all. I’ll take sunburn and sore shoulders over stringy corn silk any day, though I know once we finish picking, Dad and I will have to husk our share, too.

I picture golden ears dripping with butter and it’s all worth it.

***

By the time I lift the last bushel, my back’s about to break. I’ve sweat more than is humanly possible. Still, it’s a good feeling knowing Dad and I accomplished all this in one day and that the corn is safe for another year. No major storm damage, no pests, no blight or smut. All that’s left to protect it is to either eat it—which I plan on doing in mass quantities—or can it. Tonight, while Dad and I soak our tired bodies in Epsom-salt baths, Mom and Sarah will shuck, shave and prepare the corn to be canned tomorrow. Some of it will go into the freezer, but you can’t trust those things if the electricity goes out.

With the winter storms around here, that’s always a possibility.

I peel off my shirt and shorts then run for the creek wearing nothing but my boxers. I don’t give a damn if anyone sees me, I earned this swim.

Behind me, Dad chuckles. “Don’t take too long! I might not save you any!”

Those are the last words I hear before leaping off the creek bank and plunging into its cool current. Just as my head breaks the surface, there’s a crash next to me. I automatically move back from the intruder, but my laugh echoes off the trees when Dad’s shaggy hair and beard emerge from the water.

“God-
damn
, that’s cold!”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does,” he says.

Dad hasn’t been back to the creek since he freaked out this spring while fishing. Something in my chest
bubbles up. My dad laughing and splashing in the water is one of the best things I’ve seen in months. His big hands come down on top of my head as he pushes me under, so I play along. I move through the water, stopping behind him. Then I spring up and land on his back. He flips me over and we both get a noseful of creek water. It’s almost like I’m seven again—before Dad went to Iraq—and we’re just a father and son horsing around.

These stolen minutes are a gift.

We drag our sorry butts out of the creek, not willing to hang around any longer lest we earn a reprimand from Mom. “Race you to the house?” he asks.

“You’re going down, old man!”

“We’ll see about—” But he’s off and running before the last word comes out.

“Cheater!”

We’re neck-and-neck the whole way. I sometimes forget that even though he’s in his forties, farm work and his Army training keep him in good shape.

Mom and Sarah sit side-by-side surrounded by glorious corn, most still in the husks but a growing pile of yellow ears next to each of them. They toss the green leaves and stems into wheelbarrows.

“Dinner’s on the table,” Mom says. “Corn on the cob for a midnight snack.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Dad replies.

“Don’t you drip creek water all over my clean floors!”

But it’s too late. He disappears into his bathroom while I drop my wet boxers in mine. Hoping there’s enough hot water for both of us to fill our
tubs, I crank the faucet and pick up the jar of scented Epsom salts Mom laid out on the counter. I unscrew the lid and take a sniff. Eucalyptus. A generous amount goes into the water, swirling around my toes as I mix the two. My back and shoulders protest when I lower myself in, but it’s a good kind of burn, the kind that comes from hard, honest work.

As the salt does it’s thing and my muscles relax, I close my eyes and think of the yummy goodness to come: corn on the cob, cornbread, creamed corn, corn fritters, roasted corn salad, corn chowder, Mom’s bean and corn salsa…

When I emerge a half-hour later, Dad’s standing in front of the stove staring at a pot of water.

“How’s that working for
ya?”

He grunts. “It’ll boil. Watched or not, that pot will heat up and when it does, these are all mine.” He shakes two ears of shucked corn at me.

I shake my head and join Mom and Sarah outside. “Scoot over.”

Sarah makes room for me and I grab a stack of corn. The three of us sit without talking, listening to a tractor in the distance and the
scrunch
sound of husks being peeled. The sun grazes the top of the tree line, but we’ve got hours of work before our heads meet pillows. If I close my eyes, I can pretend Sarah and I are little again, before we began hating each other, hurting each other just because we could. Mom’s hair had no trace of gray and her only wrinkles were laugh lines.

But that’s not quite true. Dad was in Iraq. We were about six and seven years old when he left. I imagine she had it pretty rough those couple years, not only
being a single mom, but worrying about whether or not he was wounded or killed. He came back in one piece, but he was definitely damaged.

Mom was a rock. I remember lots of
giggles, food fights, and snuggles in front of the fireplace. One Christmas break she let Sarah and I build forts in the living room with couch cushions and blankets. She turned off all the lights and we cooked hot dogs—a rare treat—popcorn and s’mores. The orange and yellow glow from the fireplace danced across her face as she recited The Night Before Christmas and told us about how she only got presents in her stocking when she was little. We thought this was an outrage. We had no idea our presents came from schools who donated to children of overseas soldiers.

That was also the year Sarah got pneumonia and Mom had no choice but to take her to the hospital. Our military insurance dragged its feet and Mom needed cash to pay the bills. That’s when she began selling raw milk and raw cheese to the pre-hipster health freaks north of here.

The rest, as they say, is history.

But right now, in this very moment, everything is golden—literally. The sun has just dropped below the trees, bathing the sky and everything below in an amber brilliance. It’s gorgeous and for the first time, I realize I’m going to miss this place when I leave for veterinary school. No matter how badly I hate Jay and whatever he’s doing with Sarah, no matter how many political lectures I have to sit through from Dad or how many episodes I have to talk him down from, this is home.

This is my family.

These are my roots.

And nothing can take that away from me.

chapter twenty-five

A
s luck would have it, Ava’s in my fall biology class. Thankfully, so is Evan.

“You and I, we’re invincible,” he says, clapping me on the back.

“We’re something, all right, but not sure it’s invincible.” He follows my gaze to the front of the room where Ava’s busy checking her phone. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste…

“Leave it alone, man.”

My eyes snap open. “What, Ava? I have no intention of ever talking to her again. Doesn’t mean I can’t look.”

And imagine.

“Suppose not,” he replies.

Truth is
, I still see the look on her face when I told her my mom had flushed the bag of pot down the toilet. It was only there for a split second, tempting me to think it was all in my head, but no. There was fear. Even though she set me up, I’d feel terrible if she got hurt over it. She deserved to get in trouble, but if someone laid a finger on her, I couldn’t live with myself, and the only way to find out is to ask her. I glance over at Evan again to find him watching me.

“Your face is a movie,” he says.
“Can tell everything you’re thinking. Don’t you do it, Farm Boy. Don’t want to bail your ass out of the Youngstown Metro Jail. Break your mom’s heart, mmm-hmm.”

“Listen, I don’t know how the whole,”—I wave my hand in the air while I search for the right words. “The whole drug thing works, but could she have gotten in trouble because my mom flushed her stuff?”

Evan smiles. “That’s what I like about you. Even though she conned you the same as she conned me, you turn the other cheek. Before you get angry, I know she didn’t con you with sex, Farm Stud, just drugs. But to answer your question, no. Little dime bag probably not worth more than the price of lunch. Small change for a decent dealer. Pretty sure you did more damage to her ego than wallet.”

I nod. “So, she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble with her dealer?
Or grower? How does that work?”

“Why you
wanna know?”

“Just curious.
She asked me some funny questions, wondering if we grew it on our farm. We don’t, but it got me thinking.”

Evan takes a deep breath. “Look, I’ll tell you what I know, but first you got to promise me two—no—three things. First, you won’t go near that girl again. Second, you won’t ever go near pot. And third, you won’t repeat any of what I’m telling you and won’t ask how I know.”

“Jeez, Evan, it’s just marijuana. It’s not like we’re talking meth or molly.”

He levels a steely gaze at me. “Thought you didn’t know
nothing?”

“I don’t. I just want to make sure she’s not in trouble and—” I almost tell him my suspicions, but they’re so far-fetched I don’t even want to admit them aloud. “Hey, I go to an urban university. Shouldn’t I know what’s going on so I can stay out of
trouble?” I screw my face into my most innocent, shit-eating grin.

Evan shakes his head.
“You something else. Okay, here’s how it works. Ava’s just a seller. They all recruit, too, which is what she tried with you. Above her is a distributor. There’s a couple of those in Youngstown, mainly the mob, but the one she works for just handles the university. He was probably at the party you went to. Above the distributor is the main guy. He gets it straight from the grower. It works different in bigger cities, but around here, things are pretty simple.”

It doesn’t sound simple at all. Evan’s given me plenty to think about.

“Thanks, man. I’ve got no plans to go near that stuff.”

Unless I don’t have a choice.

***

“Welcome to the second edition of Turning Points in American History.” Dr. Roberts stands at the front of the room, staring out over the sea of eager new faces. My punctual butt is already planted in a seat next to Jenna. We’re both angled to the right so we can see who wanders in late, becoming Dr. Roberts’ victim this semester.

“You have a good break?” I whisper to Jenna. She’s cut her hair a little. It’s nice.

She shrugs. “Just went to work or hung out by the pool with friends.”

And I can tell. She’s even more tan than usual, making her look exotic. Again, it’s nice. Also nice is the absence of athletic shorts in favor of a short skirt that shows off her long legs. While I appreciate the
eye candy, it doesn’t stir anything inside me, just affection for the girl who helped me get an A in history.

“Yeah,
me, too, except it was a creek, and my friends are thousand-pound Jersey cows.”

She grins, showing me her perfect white teeth. This girl’s going to make some guy really happy one day.

“You kill anyone yet?”

“What?”

“With your raw milk.” She’s smiling, but I don’t see what’s funny. Is she making fun of me? Insinuating that we’re out to harm people?

“I’m teasing. Guess it was a bad joke,” she says, her face falling as she takes in my reaction.

“Yeah. Okay.” Thankfully, some poor shmuck pushes through the lecture-hall doors at that moment and Dr. Roberts jumps his ass same as he did mine last semester. I use the time to study the syllabus he handed out at the beginning of class. We’ll be studying turning points in American history from 1950 onward. There’s an entire section devoted to the Vietnam War.
That ought to be a blast
. Then I kick myself for the terrible pun.

I’ll admit
, I had a pretty good time in this class last semester. I don’t know if Dr. Roberts will be my favorite professor, like he is Jenna’s, but he kept his word. He didn’t preach to me the way Dad does, and a number of the students in the class took controversial stances on the events we studied. As long as they defended their positions with facts, he gave them good grades. Even the musty smelling guy from Georgia who referred to the Civil War as the War of Northern Aggression. Jenna and I had laughed at his oral presentation, but Dr. Roberts didn’t bat an eye.

I’ll even go so far as to admit I learned a lot from him, not just names and dates, but I learned to look at things from a number of angles. I still don’t agree with Dad on many issues, but I respect his point of view and his right to have it.

It’s weird because I’ve always believed I had to go along with whatever Dad said because, first, he’s my dad. Second, he went through a shit-ton of nasty stuff in Iraq. Every Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day people stop him on the street to say thank you. It makes me proud. It also makes me feel guilty when I disagree with him. Should I drink his Kool-Aid just because he sacrificed his time—and possibly his sanity—to fight for our country? Do I owe it to him?

Thanks in part to Dr. Roberts, I’m beginning to think that I owe him respect, but I don’t owe him complete agreement. When he’s not flipping out, he’s pretty reasonable. He and Mom encouraging me to take this class is proof of that.

The next two weeks are relatively smooth. I adjust to my new schedule—three classes this time, not two—and I manage to keep myself away from Ava and Jay. I’ve also kept myself away from Lindsey and Lewis, though that’s been much harder. I can’t count how many times something happens and my first thought is,
I need to tell Lewis and Linds
. But I can’t. They made their choices and I have to live with them.

I wonder how Lewis is doing now that he’s a senior in high school, but Sarah isn’t volunteering that information and asking her is just more trouble than
it’s worth. She’d probably roll her eyes and flip me off. Instead, I keep to myself. I do my homework. I help Mom and Dad around the farm as usual. Things are settling into a nice routine, one I could get used to, but the same as every other time things begin to go my way, I get fidgety. Call me pessimistic. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. Whatever. All I know is, when I start to feel this way, I’m usually right.

***

“I can’t do all this myself!” The apples are just about to peak and Sarah’s whining. It’s one of her only jobs around here, yet she expects everyone to do her work for her. It’s the same every year. Since the day I found her on the ground with Jay, I haven’t set foot in the orchard. I’ve got no plans to change that.

“If you’d stop whining, you’d be halfway done by now,” Mom says, and shuts the door in Sarah’s face. I nearly shit myself from laughing so hard. “You have homework, Pete?”

“No, I finished it last night.”

“Good, then help your sister.”

I’m about to yell,
No fair!
Then I realize how that would sound, so I silently accept my fate and grab an apple sling on my way out the door. Sarah’s stomping up a ladder when I reach the orchard. Without saying a word, I begin picking apples off the lower branches, starting with the Buckeye Galas and moving on to Jonathans. When my sling gets so full that it pulls my neck, I empty it into a basket. Sarah does the same. I know she’s noticed me here, but the brat won’t even say
thank you
. Whatever. I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing it for my family. That, and the apple pie that’s sure to follow.

Without being a weirdo creeper, I observe Sarah. It’s been so long that I actually spent time with her that she’s nearly a stranger. She’s taller.
Thinner, the baby fat completely gone. Much to my horror, I realize she’s not a girl anymore. She’s an adult woman, one who gets it on with Jay Leaher. But there’s something else, something in the way she carries herself. She’s always been confident, taking long, determined strides. Now she flutters around the trees and up and down the ladder as if her mind’s anywhere but here. Certainly, she’s not expecting Jay to wander over and help her. She wouldn’t have whined so much for one of us to.

Then what is it? What’s changed my sister into this weird, hardened, flighty thing? In that way, she reminds me of Lindsey, but my sister hasn’t had it nearly as bad as her. Sarah’s got two parents who love her and support
her, she’s got the roof of a real house over her head, and a few creature comforts. My parents didn’t force her to get a job as soon as she turned sixteen, and she’s not responsible for her brother, the way Lindsey is for Lewis.

I don’t get it.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“What?” I shake my head when Sarah’s loud voice interrupts my thoughts.

“You’ve been staring at me all day and it’s freaking me out. Are you stoned or something?”

“Stoned?
Very funny.”

She dumps her apples into a basket and turns on her heel. As I watch her retreating back, it hits me. I recognize the slight change in her gait, the chip on her shoulder, the defiant set of her jaw. Sure as shit, that’s
guilt weighing her down. She can try to hide it, but I recognize it because it’s the same attitude I had right after the party at Helen Miller’s.

But Sarah never feels guilty, so it must be big.

“Wait up!” She keeps walking. I jog after her, grabbing her shoulder and spinning her around. She pushes hair out of her eyes and levels a fierce glare at me.

“What the hell, Pete? Let’s just get this done. I’m not in the mood to talk to you.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.
I’m trying to pick apples here.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. Why were you with Jay that day?”

She reddens at my question. Good. At least she’s not proud of it.

“I want more than this,” she says, flinging her arm up at the trees. “I’m taking steps to make sure that happens. That’s all you need to know.”

“You think by sleeping with Jay you’re going to get away from all this? He’s not going to make you his girlfriend, Sarah. He’s in college. He uses girls and throws them away. You’re better than that.”

“No,” she says. “I’m not. I’m using him as much as he’s using me. We’re both users.” At that, she smirks. “Plus, I don’t want to be his girlfriend.” She holds up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart from each other.
“Itty-bitty baby dick.”

That is
so
much more information than I wanted to know. If she’s trying to get me to leave her alone, it works. Not even saving my sister from doom is worth the mental image of Jay’s tiny penis.

***

Jay crouched behind the Wilsons’ pear trees nearest to his family’s property line. He’d planned to drop off something to Sarah, but Pete had ruined his plans by showing up and helping her pick apples.

Pete was always ruining things for Jay. He brooded as he watched them work together like the precision ticking innards of a watch. He’d observed them doing this year after year, gathering the apples and gently placing them into their slings. Then they’d load them into baskets. When they were younger, their mom or dad would drive the truck over and haul the baskets into the bed, but the last few years, either Sarah or Pete got it. He wondered if they’d fight over who got to drive this time.

As much as they fought, Jay still wished he had a sister or brother. Someone to ride the rides with at the amusement park when he was little. A built-in ally against his dad. Someone to take the pressure off when his mom cried into his shoulder at night. He’d take the possible bickering over the loneliness he felt every time he walked through the pretentious door to his childhood home.