by Penn Gates
“You plantin' rutabagas?” he laughs. “Never had one, but I'll try anything once.”
“Cash—”
“Lighten up, Nix. You got my word, there's no need for code red.”
When she continues to glare at him, he says, “Put your gun away. I guarantee they already know we're serious people.”
Nix does as he asks, but her nervous system is still fizzing like a high school chemistry experiment gone wrong. “So help me, Cash, if you don't start explaining what the hell is—”
Cash points toward the truck. “Met up with this crowd at Forrest's store. Shocked the shit out of us when they walked in. And right away the old man blurts out that we're livin’ with Nix St Clair. So the older guy—the one behind the wheel—says he and you went to high school together."
Cash looks pissed. “He starts reminiscin’ all sentimental and says he sure would like to see you again. Wouldn't take no for an answer." He scuffs at the dirt with his boot. “Wasn't much point in tryin' to lose him. He knew exactly how to get out here with no help from me.”
“What's his name?” Nix asks. “You didn't tell me his name.”
“Says he's Frank Turner.”
Nix stares toward the vehicle that has apparently brought back into her life someone she'd gotten rid of a long time ago. Aloud she says, “Can't see him clear enough from here. Could be him, I guess.”
“You over there, or him over here?” Cash asks.
“Don't want to make him get out of his truck if he's not staying,” Nix says. “Come on, let's go say howdy.”
“Nix St Clair! It's been—what?—twenty some years since I saw your pretty face,” Frank calls as Nix approaches the truck.
Cash is right beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Michael still sitting on the mountain of stuff.
Nix doesn't respond to Frank's greeting immediately. She studies his face with the eyes of a cop. It's him, all right. Older, a little heavier, a little less hair, but the same arrogant expression as the star quarterback she used to know. And a certain puffiness that tells her he likes his booze.
“Hi Flash,” she says, purposely using the nickname he'd acquired from adoring fans during his glory days. “Long time no see.”
“What's with the high alert?” Frank asks, looking at Cash as if he's a pet dog she's using to scare off intruders.
“Can't be too careful these days,” Nix says. “You may have noticed—bad things happening out there.”
He smiles at her as if she's just said something amusing. She returns his gaze, but not the smile. “Where you been, Frank? We're in town regular, and we've never seen any sign of you.”
“I'm at my dad's farm. Only been there a short time. It was tough getting there. Like you said, things are crazy up north.”
“I can imagine,” Nix says noncommittally.
“This is real nice,” Frank says nervously into the silence that's fallen. “Looks like you got things under control.”
“We manage.”
“Uh, Nix, you think we might get out and stretch our legs a bit?”
“Depends. Are you armed?”
“What?" Frank looks at her like she's out of her mind.
“Guns. You or the guys with you have guns?”
Frank jerks a thumb at the rifle resting in the gun rack behind him. “Just this. And a couple of the boys have shotguns.”
“Leave your weapons in the truck,” Nix says, raising her voice so those in the back can hear, too. “If you don't object to being searched, you can leave the vehicle, one at a time.”
“Is that really necessary, Nix?” Frank says, and now he sounds insulted. “We've been friends a long time.”
“Used to be.”
“Pardon me?”
“We were friends, a long, long time ago. I have no idea what you've been up to all these years, but here's an update on me—I’ve occupied my time arresting bad guys. Sorry if you're offended, but being suspicious is kind of second nature to me by now.”
Frank makes no more objections, but he submits to being patted down with ill grace. Nix watches each of the young men as Cash checks them out. They're all the right age to be Frank's sons. She wonders which of them is a Frank Junior.
“Introduce me to your traveling football team,” Nix says jokingly.
“How'd you know that?” Frank asks, startled.
Nix decides to play along. “Practice,” she says.
Nix can tell by the poker face Cash wears that he's heard every word but is determined not to laugh at Frank's gullibility.
“I coach an exhibition team. Well, sponsor it, really,” Frank explains. “Helps these kids get seen by scouts.”
“Which one is yours?” Nix asks.
“I never had a son, just two daughters,” Frank says in what Nix assumes is meant to be a tragic tone.
She's tired of the conversation already. This is the kind of meaningless bullshit you have to wade through at a high school reunion. Which is why one is all Nix ever attended—one too many, in her opinion.
Cash gives her a nod. They’re all clear. The only question that remains is how long she has to endure this neighborly visit before sending them all back where they came from. Not that they'll stay gone. From the shape they're in, they're here looking for a handout.
Nix sighs. “Well, come on. You look like you could use a drink.”
“Of water,” she adds hastily as she sees Frank's face light up. “There's a pump out back.” She gestures vaguely. “You go on. I'll be along in a minute. I want to see what the guys brought back.”
“How are you doing, Michael?” she calls. “Climb down careful or you'll be buried in the landslide." To Cash she whispers, “I don't want 'em in the house. I'm gonna duck in the front door and tell M & M that supper tonight will be a picnic.”
“You got that right,” Cash says. He jams his hands in his pockets. “You really know this guy?”
She laughs. “If I'd met him on a city street, I'd probably have convinced him he was mistaking me for someone else. But what am I gonna do? He was raised around here. He knows the St Clair farm.” As she starts toward the front porch she calls over her shoulder, “He's an arrogant prick, isn't he? Always was.”
◆◆◆
“You are telling me we will be having sixteen guests for dinner?” Margaret asks, horrified. “How am I supposed to be feeding that many people? And with no warning!”
“Beats me,” Nix says, “As far as I'm concerned you can give 'em a bowl of oatmeal.” Seeing the look on Margaret's face, she realizes that to the Mennonite girl, hospitality is nothing to joke about. “Hey, speaking of beating—milk and eggs, right? So we could at least have scrambled eggs or maybe custard.”
Margaret sighs. “We cannot be serving guests breakfast or desert at suppertime.”
“You haven't seen these guys yet. When you're not getting enough to eat, fresh milk and eggs is quite the delicacy. Not many people have fresh anything.”
It's apparent that Margaret cares about the menu a lot more than Nix does. She still looks flustered and a little irritated.
“Hey, did you ever hear of quiche?” Nix asks, suddenly inspired.
Margaret shakes her head, and Nix finds herself faced with the task of coming up with a workable list of the ingredients involved. She feels like an illiterate giving a book report.
“I don't want you to get the impression I know how to make it, but I bet you've made plenty of custard pies in your time. Am I right?"
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, quiche is just custard pie, but with no sugar. You can add things like onions or other vegetables, or bacon or sausage.” She looks pleadingly at Margaret. “Get the idea?”
Margaret breaks into a big smile. “That sounds quite easy. And we have plenty of eggs and milk, heaven knows. What is this name you are saying?”
“Quiche. Supposed to be real classy. Never understood why they make such a big deal about it. French name, I guess.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Nix adds, not because she wants to but because she really doesn't want to go back out there and listen to Frank’s blather.
Margaret is already pulling out the flour and rolling pin. “Mary,” she says to her sister, “Find Elizabeth and have her pick a big bowl of dandelion greens. And then come back and begin breaking the eggs.”
Nix wanders out into the yard, making sure to stay out of Frank's sightline. The same young men who were jammed together in the back of the stake body truck are still standing shoulder to shoulder. Nix has a sinking feeling about what she'll find in the center of that group of horny adolescents jostling each other for position—and it isn't a football.
“Oops,” she says, tromping on the nearest toes as hard as she can while she tries to shove her way through the crowd. “Sorry. Didn't break anything, did I? That's what happens in crowds, though, isn't it?" She smiles brightly at the owner of the toes. The guy has a face that makes her want to smile, although she's not sure why.
The kid's voice is full of enthusiasm as he grabs her hand and pumps it. “I'm Bob Dodge. I guess you're the lady who owns this farm, aren't you? It's really great of you to invite us for supper when we just showed up on your doorstep.”
Bob is just a fraction away from being good looking, but there's a slightly goofy quality to him which makes him as appealing as a puppy. Nix likes him immediately—and that never happens.
“Go find something else to do, Bob. I'm breaking up this feeding frenzy anyway.”
He looks confused, then laughs. “Oh. Right! We must all look pretty stupid, huh? We just haven't seen a girl for awhile. And she's a pretty one, if you don't mind me saying so.”
“They're the worst kind, Bob, the worst kind.”
Nix turns and shoves an elbow into someone's side. “Let me through,” she says. “You guys are going to smother her."
No one pays her the slightest bit of attention and that makes her feel like shooting a round into the air to get a little respect. But as much as she'd like to, it's not necessary, not even close, because Nix knows who will pay attention.
“Brittany!” she yells. “Come over here, sweetheart. I need to speak with you right now.”
If it's anything Brit likes more than boys, it's staying out of basements. She's at Nix's side immediately. “What?”
“It's hardly fair for you to be out here socializing when M & M and Elizabeth are in there slaving away to make a meal for our guests." Nix looks at her pointedly. “Need I say more?”
Brittany wastes no time heading toward the house. Jason tries to speak with her as she passes him, but she doesn't even slow down. He looks furious, and Nix realizes he's jealous.
She glances around, looking for more trouble spots. Cash catches her eye and motions for her to join him and Michael and another young man she has yet to meet.
“Nix, this is Tony Marconi, and you'll never guess what he knows how to make.”
“If the answer is money, I'm not interested. But I'm still looking for someone who can turn water into diesel fuel.”
Tony looks at her like she's crazy, but Cash grins. “It's not that great—but close. His family owns a pizza parlor and he knows how to make pizza!”
“No shit,” Nix says. “That's one of everyone's favorite food groups.” Too late she notices Martin and the twins standing next to Michael. I wonder if I’ll get the hang of child-friendly speech before they’re all grown up, she wonders.
Tony realizes at last that she's kidding and smiles, his teeth dazzling white against his olive skin. “I think you'd really like it,” he says, looking directly at Michael.
“I'm a Mennonite, I'm not from another planet,” Michael says, dark brows drawing together.
“Watch out for this one,” Nix says quickly to Tony. “He's quite the kidder." To Michael she says, “Can I have a word with you, bud? I need your advice on something.”
When they're a distance away from the crowd, Nix says, “What's going on? If you have something to say about these guys, let's hear it.”
Michael shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “These guys are full of themselves. Who needs a whole bunch of Jasons? Guys from the suburbs—you’re right. They're more trouble than they're worth.”
“Have you talked to every one of them?”
Michael doesn't answer, but Nix is sure it's because he can see where she's going with the question.
“What if one of these guys had met George first, and then figured all Mennonites were exactly like him?”
“They'd be mostly right,” Michael says, and then smiles. “But not all—I get it, I get it."
Nix stands looking at the group of young men milling around, waiting to be fed.
“See that guy over there?” Nix asks. “The one wearing the yellow football jersey with the hacked off sleeves? I can tell by his body English that he's comfortable on a farm. I think he was originally from a rural area.”
There's a short silence, then Michael asks, “What's body English?”
“You can control what you say to people. You can even control your facial expressions. But almost nobody has that kind of control over how they stand, how they move—or don't move. Body movement can tell you whether they're lying, or embarrassed, or scared. And they don't have a clue they're giving themselves away.”
Michael is already scanning the crowd. “Let me try one." His eyes narrow. “See that short guy over there? He's small to be a football player compared to all these other really big guys. But he doesn’t, uh, act like he's got something to prove. He's relaxed. So, uh, he's got some talent that's important to the team. I'm guessing he’s—fast,” he finishes on a note of triumph.
“Good one,” Nix says admiringly. “You are such a quick learner, Michael. But unless we can prove what we say is true, we're just guessing." She thinks for a minute. “I'll go have a conversation with the small guy. You go talk to yellow shirt. Let's find out how smart we really are." Nix holds out her hand. “Deal?”
But Michael is already moving toward his target. Nix heads for the guy who's only a couple of inches taller than she is. “Hi there,” she says to him. “I'm Nix. I don't think we've met.”
By the time Elizabeth steps out on the porch and rings the call to supper, Michael and Nix are in a huddle, trading information.
“Well, you were right,” Nix says. “Guy's name is Jake and he's a wide receiver." Seeing those eyebrows start to rise, she adds, “The guy they throw the ball to when they're boxed in and he runs it over the goal line—has to be fast, very fast."
“Yellow shirt's name is Colt." Michael smiles. “That sounds like a farmer’s name, doesn't it? Well, he did live on a farm until he had to go stay with his grandfather. He doesn't really like the suburbs.”
“I like him already,” Nix comments.
“Me, too,” Michael says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, he's not a bad guy." Michael lowers his voice a little. “He doesn't like living with that old friend of yours.”
“Tough luck for him,” Nix says.
Elizabeth uses a small metal rod to strike the iron triangle hanging from the porch eaves. The second time she moves it quickly, from side to side, making an impatient, clanging sound which is hard to ignore. For a little girl who hardly ever talks, she can produce a lot of noise—and clearly she loves to do it.
This time the racket penetrates the buzz of voices, and the visitors stop talking and look around at what's making the noise. A few even look concerned.
“Not a fire drill, folks,” Cash calls. “Supper's ready, is all. Find yourself a seat and dig in.” He spots Michael and Nix. “What are you two plottin’?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Nix says innocently.
“Nix is teaching me about body English,” Michael says. “And I was right, first time I tried it.”
“Yup, pretty soon you'll be just like her. You'll see all and know all." Cash grabs Michael by the shoulder. “Here comes Nix's old buddy, Frank
. You and me are gonna eat with some of those guys over there,” he says. “Give her a chance to reminisce about the old days.”
“Don't you dare leave me to deal with Frank alone,” Nix hisses.
“Be good for you to relax a little,” Cash says, his smile stopping just short of a smirk. “And anyway,” he says, lowering his voice, “I need to talk to as many of these gridiron goons as I can. Figure out what's goin’ on over there.”
Nix knows he's right. This isn't a social occasion. It's like going undercover, and that's just how she needs to think of it.
Frank materializes at her side like the proverbial ant at the picnic. “There you are,” he says. “I suppose you were busy making dinner.”
Nix stares at him incredulously. Is this guy for real?
“I'm not the cook,” she says, “I'm the sheriff. I'm on duty all the time, but with any luck I don't have much to do most of the time.”
Frank nods toward Cash who's sitting at the other end of the table surrounded by several of Frank's team. “Is that your deputy?” he asks jokingly.
“You could say that,” Nix says, “But you'd be wrong. He's our chief engineer and logistics expert.”
“You're kidding, right? He's just a kid.”
“Here comes another important person around here,” Nix says, as she waves enthusiastically at George, who's returning from the dairy barn. Anything to momentarily distract herself from how much she dislikes Frank.
“Hey George,” she calls. “Come over here. I want you to meet someone.”
It's obvious by his stiff-legged walk across the gravel drive that he's not happy with her summons.
“Miss St Clair,” George says, “I am just back from the milking and I am needing to wash before I can eat. Can this wait?”
“Frank, this is George Shirk. He helped my grandfather when he had a stroke and he's pretty much in charge of the farm—the cultivating and animal husbandry part of it, I mean." Too late she remembers that George views a compliment as an invitation to the sin of pride.
George stares at her unhappily. “I do my part,” he says quietly. “Everybody here does their part.”
“That's just the point I'm trying to make to Frank,” Nix says hastily. “We all have a purpose." And then, because she can't help it, she adds, “Don't we, George?”
