Soil (13 page)

Jay unfolded the wadded paper and broke the dusty green nugget apart with his fingers. He reached into his pocket for papers and rolled a bittersweet beauty, which he passed for Hatcher to fire off.

“The deep freezer quit on me, spoiled all my fish and venison,” Jay said. “The solar panels worked great. It was the goddamn battery. One too many cloudy days, it kept tripping the inverter off and on. The old motor couldn't take it.”

Jay tried to get in there and speak the old guy's language, but Hatcher was having none of it. He just shook his head. “You know, it'd be a hell of a lot easier if you just pay your light bill.”

Jay bristled at the continuing assault. Hatcher sucked up the joint, held it for several seconds, and exhaled like a steam drill. White billows swirled around him, and smoke seeped out of him when he spoke. “You strapped for cash or something? Need a job?”

“You got work?” Jay asked, accepting the joint and taking in a breath that expanded him to twice his normal size.

“Always got work. And more than enough knuckleheads on the payroll who I wouldn't mind shitcanning.”

Hatcher ran a small plumbing outfit out of the shop behind his house, mostly small domestic chores. He once told Jay that he'd grown so depressed by the all-around shoddy construction he found on his jobs that it ruined the work for him. He hired out these little chores to a bunch of young trainees and just fielded calls and managed the workload. He put on a good act over the phone, sounding like a preacher with his assured bass. A roster of helpless old country widows kept him in business.

“I'll keep it in mind,” Jay said.

“Sure,” Hatcher replied, “but only if your farming operation doesn't pan out.”

Jay couldn't decide if Hatcher was poking at him, or if he was simply paranoid, hyperaware and hypercritical. He studied the effects of the marijuana on Hatcher, who was staring at the wall. He rubbed his arm against it as if to measure it plumb. They'd gotten high together enough that Jay could detect the gears of Hatcher's mind switching in constant transformation. He seemed to possess the ability to hone in on some flyspeck in front of him, penetrate that point, and illuminate the broader implications, the reverberations spread
ing throughout all of time—past, present, future—always exposing something rotten and festering at the core of the universe.

Hatcher had his nose to the wall. “Something's dead,” he said.

“Don't fuck with me!” Jay cried out. Hatcher was onto him, the tricky geezer. As the owl sees through darkness, he knew the fear in Jay's soul.

Hatcher looked back and wrinkled his brow. “It's probably just a squirrel or mouse or something, slipped down and got stuck in the crawl space. Not too old. You'll smell it tomorrow.”

Jay moved against the accused wall and stood there inspecting it. He turned to watch through eyes engorged and red as plums as the neighbor floated around the room in scrutiny.

Hatcher noticed the gaps on the bookshelf. “What happened to all your books?”

“I got rid of them,” Jay replied. “A man can't put too much emphasis on book learning these days.”

“He can't?”

“No. There's too much real knowledge out there, the observable sort. I can't waste my time on fabrications.”

Hatcher pulled down a dog-eared Dostoyevsky. “I kinda like the Russians. When I'm in the mood.”

“Bored ruminations of men too frightened to wander out of doors. You like that?”

Hatcher paused and studied him. Was his behavior too erratic? Out of character?

“I noticed some activity over here the past week or so,” Hatcher said finally. “Your hands look like they've been busy.”

Jay looked at his hands, scraped up red and throbbing from the dig. He was gripped in a tingle brought on by the potent weed. His lungs felt full of concrete, his mind an engine that wouldn't turn over. A confession rose in his chest. “Yeah, I've been gathering up wood to make charcoal,” he mustered. “For my cops.
Crops
. My crops.”

“What crops? You gonna harvest them brown tomatoes?”

Jay offered a rambling, incoherent explanation of biochar theory, the whole notion of pyrolysis and carbon sequestration, the Amazonian fire mounds. Hatcher snorted and took another deep draw from the stub.

“You think some charcoal mixed up in your mud out there's gonna do the trick?” he wheezed, holding in the smoke, then blowing it all about the room. “Save the farm?”

“There's a research group in Australia that's done wonders with it.”

“Australia?”

“Yeah. They've been taking the brunt of global wrath, you know? Floods and sandstorms, blizzards in the middle of summer. It's biblical, man. They'll try anything. That's where you see progress. It comes from desperation.”

Hatcher glowered skeptically.

“I found a deer in my front field there,” Jay confessed. He enjoyed the loosening in his chest as he began to unburden. “Drowned or killed somehow. I butchered him and made a batch of charcoal from his bones. Gonna see if it works.”

“Let's see it then,” said Hatcher. “Show me what you made.”

“Well, it's . . .” Jay grasped for something. “It's not really done yet.”

“Oh no?” Hatcher said. “Still just a theory? You must not be desperate yet.”

This charade couldn't go on. He should just come clean. Of all the people he knew, who would judge him less than Hatcher?

Jay went outside and dug under the tarp to fetch the quart mason jar of black powder. He took it inside and handed it to Hatcher, who shook it, unscrewed the lid, and took a whiff. He sealed it back and tossed it to Jay and held him with a long suspicious gaze.

“What is wrong with you, Mize?” he said firmly. There was godlike authority in his query.

Jay wavered a little. He'd misjudged his neighbor. He thought they'd shared an allegiance to privacy and a respect for the cruelty of nature.

“I used to think you were a pretty sharp tack,” Hatcher said. “Now I think maybe you're some kind of . . . forestalled man-child.”

He took a step forward, pinched the roach out between wet fingers. Jay swallowed.

“You've got a beautiful wife. Smart, gorgeous. My God, if I had a woman like that.”

Jay tensed, working his fists into furious balls.

“Your boy is polite, clever. Both of them, so far out of your league you're not even in the same sport. And here you are just playing in the dirt. Talking about how some jar of soot is gonna save your farm. Really? That's how you plan to get em back?”

Jay wondered what would happen if he reached out and grabbed the old guy's neck and wrestled him to the ground. What sort of wiry strength did either of them still possess?

“I'm sure it's none of my business, but I think you oughta stop sitting around your house smoking dope and find some real work. You aint scared to work, I seen you out in that field all spring, but I'm telling you, it'll never make you a dime. It's already set you back to zero.”

“What, you think I'd be happier running toilet snakes for you? You think my wife would respect that?” Jay snapped. “Or do you just want me to come be your son?”

Hatcher stared into him with the entirety of his invincible pain and wisdom. “I oughta whip your ass for being such a trifling fool, you know that?” he said. “And believe me, you'd end up thanking me for it.”

Hatcher placed the wet joint into Jay's palm and closed and held it shut. “You keep the rest, brother. I'm gonna let myself out to piss.”

Jay stood there, an apology dissolving in his throat. There was no sound but for the muffled night and the quietly decomposing rodent behind the wall and the blood chugging through his head. He walked out behind him. “Hatcher,” he called, but the night had sucked his neighbor up as if he'd never been there at all.

Jay sat down on a workbench. He just wanted to tear off all his clothes and
steal into the night, naked as any animal, down to the river and the washout, into that cold judgeless maw of earth. But his body refused to concede, and he fell asleep there, clutching his jar of ash.

He awoke the next morning, shivering, Chipper's tongue all over him. A strange cooler sat beside his makeshift bed. Someone had left him a gift to go on—a generous hunk of smoked ham, some individually wrapped containers of beans and creamed potatoes, a half-dozen dinner rolls, and a sack of sweet corn. “Who left this?” he demanded of Chipper, who sat obediently licking his jowls in anticipation of ham. He tore into the meal, not even with pleasure but with a wolfish indulgence, sharing only the rind with the dog. He finished and had to lie down on the bench with a stitch in his gut. He thought it must have been Hatcher who'd left it, trying to keep him alive for some baseless reason.

He drank some water, managed to keep his food down, and studied the quart mason jar of dust. It amazed him how little was left of the unfortunate trespasser.

He took the jar and a shovel down to a corner of the field above the waterline, where he'd arranged a row of wooden bins, each containing a batch of compost in some various stage of decomposition. The bins ranged from coarse materials like straw and leaves and corncobs to husks of manure, procured from the horseman Rakestraw up the road, to coarse mixes and hot piles to fine rich silts, fully cooked and cured batches, black and rich, ready to spread.

Barring any more rain, the field should be ready in a couple of weeks for a nice winter garden. He'd put in some cold crops like collards and kale, spinach and garlic and onions. Maybe a few rows of overwinter parsnips and carrots. He'd plant winter wheat over the rest, good fodder for next season.

He removed the lid from the char jar, swirled the black grit. Little wisps rose like steam. He bowed his head, gave a thought to his mysterious friend who had sacrificed his life for the fields, then sprinkled the dust into a bin of his finest black compost. He worked them together with the shovel and wet the pile from a bucket of standing water, let it glisten in the midafternoon sun, thinking
There, I've buried you. Back where I found you.

There was nothing to find. No one would be the wiser.

18

It began two weeks ago with Sandy's father complaining about a pain in his jaw. She convinced him to see the dentist, who prescribed an antibiotic for an abscessed tooth. The discomfort remained, so he saw his general practitioner several days later. Sandy thought it must have hurt him terribly, for her father, a former doctor himself, was stubborn and had always rejected medical attention. She could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen a doctor in twenty years, two of them last week.

The general practitioner diagnosed strep throat and prescribed more antibiotics. She visited her father several days later on a Saturday, only to find him in worse shape. He complained of dizziness, nausea, intense pain in his face, neck, and shoulders. Concerned to find him alone in such a weakened state, she insisted they go to the emergency room, and again she was shocked when he did not resist.

The ER doctor told them it was a serious bacterial infection and insisted he get more rest, sending them away with prescriptions for stronger antibiotics, pain pills, an antidepressant. Sandy sat with him over the weekend, and when she returned on Monday afternoon, he was severely disoriented. In between vomiting, he kept shouting nonsense—“Joggers are stealing my mail!” and “Did you take my tuxedo? I'm not paying the late fee!” She took him directly to the emergency room, pleading that the staff keep him and run tests, anything but send him home with more prescriptions.

And now here they were, her father off in a shallow coma. The latest in a battery of tests and diagnoses suggested encephalitis caused by West Nile
virus. It was a rare infection linked to the virus, but all signs pointed to it. This was the hospital's first case, the doctor told her. Research was limited, but he thought they could get a handle on it.

She felt ill herself, not from any virus but from stress and lack of sleep. It reminded her of when her mom died of a stroke, impossibly young at forty-­five. The life support machines helped her hang on for a few days at the hospital in Jackson where her dad practiced. It took several colleagues to convince him to let her go.

Months before the stroke, her mom had begun losing her mind. Little things at first, and then erratic mood swings, bizarre behavior way out of character. It annoyed them before they realized it was serious, but then it was too late. She hated for Jacob to experience this slippery slope toward death, his father losing his mind too. The boy just seemed bored. He watched mindless cartoons on the hospital TV while his little leg flopped off the side of the chair. To him this was probably just another gloomy detour. He didn't understand the severity of this, only yearned to watch giant robots shooting at each other. Seeing her son absorbed in the terrible cartoon with its outdated art and revolting dialogue created a displaced sadness that made her grieve for him too.

A nurse arrived, another one she hadn't seen before. Was it such a large staff or an inordinate turnover rate? This one was sullen and hefty and came awkwardly with her cart to check the patient's vitals. She seemed put out by their presence. Sandy didn't want Jacob to be here. Hanging out in hospitals could crush the boldest of spirits.

He had a four-day weekend next week. The school called it “Fall Break,” though actually it was a two-day teacher training seminar that all instructors were required to attend. She would have to find something to do with Jacob. She'd just assumed her dad would watch him, but certainly not now. Even if he made a sudden miraculous recovery, he would be weak for a while. She couldn't afford a sitter right now. She'd begun to rekindle relationships with her old church friends, but Jacob hadn't connected with their kids and it was too soon to ask such a large favor. She was estranged from everyone, which
she blamed on Jay. He'd plucked her up young, isolated her from everyone, tamed her instincts, and then released her back into the wild.

The job then would fall to Jay. He was the father after all. It certainly wasn't ideal. Based on her visit, he barely seemed capable of watching the dog, and the house appeared to be a less healthy environment than the hospital. Also, it bothered her that he had not made contact since their visit almost a week ago. She'd given him gas money, but still he had made no attempt to see Jacob. Maybe bringing the boy to his father would wake him up, make him realize what was at stake.

The boy barked out a raspy cough. “Jacob, honey, are you okay?” Sandy said. “Do you need something to drink?”

“Yes,” the boy replied.

She caught the nurse's eye. “Is there juice available for him?” Sandy asked.

The nurse blinked and mumbled something that implied,
Yeah, but you know I'm a nurse, right? Not a waitress?

“I can pay for it,” said Sandy, who didn't wish to offend. “Thank you so much.”

She pulled up alongside her father and grabbed his hand and clutched it dearly. When they left Jay, she went straight to him, and he took them in, cooked for them, cleaned up after them, gave her money, took Jacob to the park and the grocery store, picked him up from school. He gave her time and space to process her decision and to plan their life from here. He made them so comfortable that it began to unnerve her. She felt like a child running to Daddy for consolation. She loved and resented him all at the same time, even got snippy with him a few times, but he took it all in stride. Always the patient one.

Finally, she decided she would have to move out and tackle this on her own if she was to preserve any self-respect. “Stay here and save up some money,” her father had insisted, but she demurred. It was his own self-­reliance and determination that had rubbed off on her, and possibly Jay's stubborn independence she was trying to uphold. What kind of mother would she be if
she just freeloaded off relatives? She didn't want Jacob to believe this was how to deal with trouble.

They'd been in the rental a little over a month before her father fell ill. It was such a shitty little hovel, the grime of previous owners etched into every stitch of the place. She'd killed dozens of cockroaches already, overcoming grave fear. And they had only one bed, a twin she bought for Jacob, while she slept on the couch. The refrigerator rattled and whined like an old propeller engine. The hot water took five minutes to heat and then grew tepid in five more. She'd made due with less than luxury before, but there was something especially depressing about having to submit Jacob to it, even though he probably didn't care. He was confused and sad, a bright light going dim. She was so pissed at Jay.

She accepted her share of the blame. It was her troubles that had stressed her dad and aggravated his sickness, made her less attentive and slow to respond to his symptoms. The doctor's confidence that he could rout this aggressive virus and that her father would make a full recovery had begun to diminish. Now he hinted about the possibility that her father's mind would not make it all the way back. Fevers and ailments often singed delicate parts of the brain, causing strange, unforeseen side effects. Strokes would be more likely, restriction of movement, blindness. “Your father is very sick,” he'd said. She'd detected the slightest hint of uncertainty in his eyes, a waver in his voice, as if he were confessing,
I'm in over my head, help me.

The nurse scuffed in with juice, dropped it on the rolling bedside tray, and slunk out.

“Thank you!” Sandy called, overzealous, borderline facetious.

“Mom,” Jacob said, pointing to the juice without diverting his eyes from the robotic mayhem on television.

Sandy punctured the foil lid with a straw four times too deep for the shallow cup of liquid. She handed it to Jacob, who slurped it up instantly and asked for more. “In a bit,” she replied.

“Mah-um,” he whined.

What would they do if her father died? Move back into his house, she imag
ined. Worse yet, and she hated to admit it, what if he regained consciousness but had no faculties? Would she ever see him as a burden, his sagging, whiskered hobo face and adult diapers that needed frequent changing? How would she manage it, how would she afford it? Was she truly thinking so selfishly? Breath left her. She felt light and flaming inside. Her eyes welled, she gasped for air.

Just then someone knocked on the door. She stood up, hoping it was the doctor with good news. A balloon and bouquet appeared, followed by Danny Shoals, sporting a look of practiced concern. “Anybody home?” he inquired with a tender grimace.

Sandy flushed red. She looked at Jacob, who recognized the deputy and brightened instantly. His posture changed, becoming more erect and obedient.

“I'm so sorry,” he said with longing. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, then set the balloon and flowers on the bedside credenza. He walked around the bed, opened the blinds a twist, and slapped five with Jacob. “What's up, big'un?” he said, squatting down to greet the boy. “You been working on that swing?”

Jacob wagged his head and grinned shyly.

“I brought something you might like,” Shoals said, digging in his pocket. He retrieved a Swiss Army knife, not one of the little ones with five or six features, but a fat one with a host of flip-out devices.

“Maybe your mom will let you go down to the courtyard and cut something with this. There's plenty of cool features on this thing. Look, there's a screwdriver, wire cutter, toothpick. Flashlight!”

“Whoa!” said Jacob, wide-eyed. He looked up at the deputy with stunned gratitude. Shoals turned to Sandy and winked.

“That's too much,” she said, still in shock at his arrival.

“Nah,” said Shoals, waving her off.

“No, really. We can't accept that gift. It's too much.”

Shoals walked over and leaned in conspiratorially. “It's nothing, really. We confiscate stuff like this all the time.”

“Is this a drug dealer's knife, probably stolen in the first place?”

He chuckled, shook his head. He knelt down and demonstrated some of the knife's features to Jacob. “You can pick your way out of handcuffs with this,” he said.

Sandy watched him intently, his gestures full of purpose. He believed with every fiber of his being that he belonged here, that he could bring comfort where no one else had.

“How did you find us?” she asked.

He came close, patted her arm. “I hear things, I act.” She drew away unconsciously.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Nothing, I'm fine.”

“You want me to sit with him while you go down and get some chicken strips or eggs or something?” He pulled out his wallet and turned to Jacob. “Hey, bud, you want a honey bun? Maybe some juice?”

The boy wagged his head. “Mom, can I have some candy?”

“What's a matter, you don't want a honey bun?” said Shoals. “Come on, I'll walk down with you.” He turned to Sandy. “Is he old enough to go down by himself?”

Another nurse came in, nodded at Shoals, and smiled awkwardly. “Everything okay?” she asked, though it sounded to Sandy like
It's
getting a little crowded in here.

“We're all good, Belinda,” Shoals called, jovial and loud. “What's Randall up to?”

“Oh, nothing. Just working,” she said with a drawl and a grin.

“Y'all taking good care of the professor here?”

“We're keeping an eye on him,” she said, a bit uncertain, a bit flirtatious.

“A'ight then, be good.” He said it as a dismissal, which the nurse heeded.

“Hey, can I have a honey bun?” Jacob asked Sandy.

“You bet, little man, in just a second,” Shoals replied. He looked at Sandy, who was horrified into silence. She had a disturbing vision that the three of them were a family. He misjudged her look and touched her shoulder, bent
down to eye level.

“Hey, look, I know it's tough to see him like this, but everything's going to be just fine. I saw Dr. Pete down the hall and he said your dad's a fighter.”

She felt aggravated by his simple assurance, yet part of her believed him too. “They don't even know what's wrong,” she lied.

“Oh, they will, don't worry. Sometimes it takes a few days, but the tests match up and they nail it down. Then they'll shoot him up with the right juice and then problem solved.”

He took her hand and stared at her father for a long moment.

“I've seen folks worse off than him turning cartwheels out of here in a week's time,” he said, gripping her hand.

Disgusted by his presumptuous familiarity, she released his hand and walked to the other side of the room. She wanted to tell him to leave, but there was something in his positivity that she needed. And she didn't want Jacob to see her behave rudely in the face of kindness. There was also something inside of her, something that repulsed her, that made her want to throw her arms around him and bawl.

“Hey, bud, you wanna go for a ride in the squad car?” he asked Jacob.

Jacob whirled around toward Sandy. “Ooo, can I? Please.”

“No, honey. We have to go home pretty soon.”

“Come on, let him ride,” Shoals insisted.

“I just don't think it's a good idea.”

“Mah-um.”

“Come on, little pecan Sandy.”

That corny endearment put the nail in the coffin. She led him aside. “Danny, it's incredibly thoughtful of you to drop by, but we really need to deal with this privately. I just met you. You're sweet, but I really can't do this with you.”

He grabbed her hand again, cocked his head, and spoke gravely. “Hey, I hear ya. I'm only sorry there's not someone more familiar to be here with you. You're a strong woman, but this aint easy. I've been here, wondering if my dad
is going to make it back. Sometimes they don't. It's okay to need somebody to prop you up, even if it's just a quiet stone wall to lean against. I'm here, don't be shy to ask.”

He patted her on the back like a pal and raised his trigger finger to Jacob. “Be good, big'un. I gotta run catch some bad guys. Rain check on that squad car ride. And you help your mama, now, you hear me?”