The Farm

by Matt Moss

  Ten days and no word. No sight of Mr. Whyte, either. I’ve thought about asking the farmhands, but that would come off way too desperate. Everyone else is excited about the wine that should be ready to drink tomorrow, none more than Gibbs and Red. They can’t stop talking about it and frequent the barn much more often now just to check in on the process. I’d rather not have them around, but I will say that they’re much more pleasant and relatable now. It’s nice to see everyone put their differences aside and come to terms on something.

  Even if getting drunk is all that something is.

  We go to work like any other day and till the ground. For some reason, they have us jump from one field to the next, never fully completing one. There are five fields in all spaced over the farm — consisting of probably twenty acres of soil in total that’s ready for seed based on what we’ve done. I can see the end in sight based on the previous years and guess it to be about another four weeks worth of work between all the fields if all of us stay on pace and don’t get sick or hurt. So far, everyone’s been fortunate.

  We all work hard in the field knowing that the wine will be ready to consume tonight. Abram tested it this morning and said it was ready. The moods of everyone have been high overall and Mr. Gibbs has sung a song on multiple occasions throughout the day.

  Mr. Red parks the four wheeler and whistles for all of us to come meet him. “Work’s over for today. Let’s pack it up.” His words are met by cheers of agreement from all. “Now, let’s just hope that Abram’s better at making wine than he is at working in a field.”

  “Gah-damn, that’s good!” Mr. Gibbs shouts after drinking deep. He stares into his cup and takes another drink before wiping his mouth with his denim sleeve. “I had my doubts. But not anymore.”

  “It’s good,” Mr. Red notes.

  Gibbs gives him a sarcastic look. “Good? That’s it? You’re already on your third drink.”

  Mr. Red drains his cup and belches. “Alright, it’s very good. Nice work, Abram.”

  Everyone cheers for Abram, and Donald offers up a toast. “To the Chemist.”

  “To the Chemist,” we all resound and drink in turn. It’s clear that Abram appreciates the praise, and doesn’t shy away from telling everyone everything he knows about making alcohol. I walk outside to get some fresh air.

  The buzz from the wine is starting to kick in and I take a deep breath, my body warm and numbing by the minute. The sun begins to set and I look across the farm to the field and all the trees in the distance. It really is a beautiful place.

  A voice startles me from behind. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Mr. Gibbs says and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. He puts it to his lips and lights up. The smell takes me back to when we stole his weed. He tilts his head to the sky and lets the smoke roll out of his mouth. Without looking, he offers it to me. The gesture surprises me, and my mouth waters at the chance to smoke another one of Mr. Gibbs’s hand rolled pleasantries.

  “I wouldn’t want to give offense by declining such a generous offer.” I take the joint and indulge.

  Mr. Gibbs keeps his eye on the sky and smiles. “I didn’t know you smoked the devil’s lettuce.”

  I fix my gaze on the glowing tip and take another hit, deeper this time. I begin coughing uncontrollably and my throat feels like it’s going to burn out of my neck.

  Gibbs chuckles. “Easy now. You got those virgin lungs.” The hacking continues and I hand the joint back to him. When it settles down, I come up for air and feel like I’m flying. “Now this is the life.”

  “Sublime,” Gibbs agrees and narrows his eyes as he smokes.

  There’s something about Gibbs that’s magnetizing. They way he dresses, stands, talks, smokes—he’s as cool as a cucumber. And he knows it. Not in an arrogant way, but confident. Secure-in-knowing-who-he-is kinda way.

  He turns his head and looks at me. “I never got to say thank you for stepping in and breaking up the fight. Not that I needed your help, mind you.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’m sure you would’ve handled it yourself. But secretly… I just wanted a shot at Donald.”

  “He can be a stubborn bitch at times, can’t he?” Gibbs says and we share a laugh. I think this is the first time we’ve shared a laugh between ourselves. I try to avoid authority. My throat’s dry, so I drain the rest of my cup and gaze at the white house.

  Gibbs takes note of my long stare. “So, what did you and Mr. Whyte talk about in there?” His tone wavers, searching for something more than just casual conversation. He’s suspicious of something and is checking in on Mr. Whyte.

  “Nothing much, really. He just asked me how my time has been here and was kind enough to share his whiskey with me.”

  Gibbs raises an eye. “He doesn’t share his whiskey with just anyone. Must think you’re special.” He smokes and looks to the horizon. “He show you anything?”

  “Just the smoking room. I felt a little uncomfortable shortly after and left.” I speak as though I’m ignorant of anything that’s going on; of the room and the guns, of the way Mr. Whyte treated me, and the way he fired a bullet close to Gibbs. I saw the tension between them.

  I’ll play along and see where this goes.

  He nods his head and blows smoke. “That’s good. It’s best you steer clear of Mr. Whyte as much as possible. His mind hasn’t been right lately and I’m afraid he may hurt himself or someone else.” He looks at me in warning. “You feelin’ me?”

  “Sure. Stay away from Mr. Whyte. No problem. I’m sure he isn’t going to invite me back, anyways.”

  “If he does, watch yourself. I’m just saying.”

  Inside the barn, the group bursts with laughter, making it a nice diversion to break away. “Come on. My mouth’s a little dry,” I tell Gibbs and walk to join the others.

  “You know, the devil’s lettuce will do that to ya,” Gibbs replies to my back but doesn’t join me.

  I fill my cup and stand among the group, but keep a wary eye on Mr. Gibbs. He stands there and lights up another smoke, keeping a wary eye of his own as he stares at the white house.

  I shake awake, startled and soaked in sweat, from a dream that I can’t remember. It feels like someone’s driving a nail into my skull with a hammer, and I’m wondering if I’ll ever drink again. The sun’s already rising and a chorus of snores accompany it. Slowly, I rise.

  Throat’s dry so I make my way to the well. Outside the barn, I piss for what seems like an all-time record. After washing my face, I slog back to the front of the barn and see Mr. Whyte walking straight towards me. My eyes light up upon seeing him again, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.

  He greets me with a smile. “Good morning, Cole. How have you been?”

  Currently, I feel like shit and a bitter sweetness creeps up on the back of my tongue. “I’m good. You been doing alright?” My stomach clenches and I feel the urge to vomit. Oh, no. Not now. Hold it in and smile.

  He sees that I’m struggling. “Fine, thank you. Are you feeling well?”

  My face feels flush-red and I break out in a cold sweat. I nod my head to answer, but can’t hold it anymore. Puke fills my mouth and I clench my jaw shut to contain it as I run towards the side of the barn. Nature takes over and I don’t make it—vomit spewing from my mouth, painting the ground orange and yellow. I heave five more times. The last one feeling like I’ll never come up for air again, and just may die choking in a puddle of my own making.

  I feel so ashamed and can’t bring myself to face Mr. Whyte, so I stay hunched over and stare at the loss of my dignity.

  “Have a little too much fun last night?” he asks, without condescending.

  “A little. I swear I’m never drinking again.”

  “Ha! Everyone says that in the morning. A week later, they’re doing it again. People really are slow to learn sometimes and often make promises they can’t keep.”

  I run a hand across my mouth and turn to face him. He smiles in empathy, the simple gesture making me fe
el better.

  Donald steps out of the barn. “Mr. Whyte. Good morning, sir. Such a pleasant surprise to see you.”

  “Good morning, Donald. Good to see you again. How’s the farm treating you?”

  “Very well, sir. Can’t complain.”

  Mr. Whyte grins at his statement then shifts his gaze back to me. “Cole, care to join me for breakfast?”

  Donald looks at me and I know what he’s thinking. It’s another opportunity to get inside. Scope the place out. Gain his trust. Grab a gun. Right.

  “Nothing like a hot plate of greasy food to cure a hangover,” Mr. Whyte adds.

  “Anything that could get rid of this feeling would be nice. Thank you.”

  Mr. Whyte folds his hands together and inclines a nod. “Good. Breakfast will be served in one hour. Come on over whenever you like. Donald, take care of that bunch in there,” he says and points at the barn with a knowing smile before walking back to the white house.

  “Here you go. You got another chance!” Donald says after Whyte’s far enough away. “Keep gaining his trust and…”

  “Shhh. They’re coming.” No sooner than Whyte closes the door, the farmhands come through the gate and march straight for us.

  Donald turns his back to them and leans in close. “You gain Whyte’s trust, and we’ll do the same with the farmhands. Then we’ll hit ‘em all when they least expect it.”

  “Mornin’ boys,” Mr. Gibbs greets as he strolls up. “Hope you’re ready to work. We got a lot of catching up to do.” Mr. Red fills his jaw with tobacco and looks at the two of us. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get the others up and let’s go.”

  “I can’t.”

  Mr. Red looks at me. “Oh. Why’s that? Too sick?”

  “Work’s the best way to get rid of a hangover,” Gibbs adds.

  “He’s got a date with Mr. Whyte,” Donald says.

  Gibbs’s eyes flash dangerously and lock onto mine. “Is that so?”

  I try not to let my excitement show. “He invited me this morning. Hopefully he doesn’t want anything much so I can be in and out.”

  Gibbs gives Red a cautious look, one of what looks like worry. Why would they be worried? It makes no sense being that Mr. Whyte’s running the place. Red returns the glare and waves Gibbs off before speaking to me. “Go on, then. Best not keep him waiting.”

  I nod and walk between the two men, and hear Gibbs curse under his breath as I pass by. I grin from ear to ear with hurried steps towards the white house. Before I knock on the door, I turn around to find everyone standing outside of the barn and staring at me. The door opens from behind me.

  “Come in,” Mr. Whyte says. He’s dressed in work clothes like the farmhands, but his blue jeans, flannel long sleeve shirt, and leather boots don’t show stains or signs of wear. He steps aside, welcoming me in. “Don’t worry about what they think,” he says, noticing the group gawking at the two of us. “No doubt you’ll be the talk of the town today due to our arrangement here. But as in all things, it’ll soon pass.”

  I step inside and he closes the door. “Doesn’t bother me,” I say. It does, though. But not a lot, and not all the time. Just sometimes, and just a little bit.

  Actually, now that I think about it… no it doesn’t.

  “Petty people gossip because they’ve nothing better to do. Come.” Mr. Whyte leads us to the smoking room again and there’s a spring in his step, which means there’s something pressing that’s on his mind.

  “Drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  He smiles. “Whiskey it is, then. Sometimes, the flavor is better in the morning hours. And after a glass or two, you’ll be feeling better. Tell me, did you find the stone that I spoke of last time?”

  “I did.” I grin to myself thinking of the rock. Rest in peace, mother fu—

  “And what did you find?” He hands me the glass and earnestly searches my eyes for an answer.

  I take a drink to calm my nerves and hopefully cure my sickness. “A chest with some books inside.”

  “And did you happen to read them yet?” he asks and takes a sip.

  It’s not what you want to hear. Please don’t hate me. “No.”

  He stares blankly at me for a moment and I can’t tell if he’s more upset or disappointed. Without saying a word, he walks to the gun display and pulls a hunting rifle from the wall; one that’s older — of a time long before the technology of advanced scopes and optics. After setting his glass on the table, he takes it in both hands and slides the bolt action open, then drives it closed with force. He puts the stock to his shoulder and aims down the open sights, barrel pointed towards the door from which we came.

  At this moment, I’m terrified because I have no idea what he’s going to do. I’m not afraid of dying. I just have unanswered questions.

  “If I were to pull the trigger right now, what are the chances of you being shot?” he asks, head slightly cocked, right eye taking aim.

  I clear my throat and steel my nerves. “Slim to none.”

  He aims the gun at me. “How about now?”

  I freeze. It’s a weird feeling, not being able to move or speak. You’re so terrified that you lock up for a moment, waiting to see what happens but know you have to do something. I take a deep breath and feel myself relax enough to choke out a reply. “If you wanted to, I’d say there would be an awful lot of blood to clean up off this nice wood floor.”

  He pulls his head up ever so slightly and looks at me with both eyes. Then he takes aim again.

  CLICK

  The sound makes me jump and I close my eyes in reflex. I’m not dead. Mr. Whyte lowers the gun and holds it with one hand, pointed down. “Two things, Cole. You have to know what you’re shooting at. And your aim has to be true. If you have one and not the other, then all your efforts are in vain.”

  I realize that my arms are still held in front of my chest and shaking. The glass of whiskey lay broken on the floor next to me, the spilled contents puddled around my feet. It looks like I pissed myself. I check my pants to make sure that I didn’t.

  Mr. Whyte replaces the gun, turns to me and sighs. “Those books that you found are a tool, just like a rifle is a tool. Tools are to serve a purpose to the one wielding them. If a man doesn’t know what to do with them, then what good are they? What good is the man who doesn’t utilize tools in his work?” He pours me another glass while I stand there, still recovering. When he hands it to me, I find enough courage to speak clearly.

  “Is that why you asked me here? To talk about those books? Alright, I’ll read them.” The words roll hot off my tongue. Now I’m pissed, thinking about what just happened and the power that he held over me for a brief moment of time. My hangover is erased by adrenaline and I bare my gaze into him. “And, Mr. Whyte, don’t ever point a gun at me again. If you do, for your sake, it better be loaded.”

  He narrows his gaze and nods. “Fair enough.” He hands me another whiskey and walks to the drawer where he keeps the cigars. “Yes, those books are, in part, why I asked you here. But since you’ve not read them…yet,” he looks over his shoulder at me. “Then there’s no point in discussing it now.” He shuts the drawer, turns around and holds a single cigar in his hand, making it clear that I don’t deserve one. “The other reason is to discuss something that has been weighing on my mind as of late.”

  I drain the glass and don’t even cough afterwards. “What is it?”

  He stares at the floor without answer, then realizes that I asked him a question. He lights the cigar and I can see his hands twitch slightly, indicating that he’s nervous about something.

  After taking a couple puffs, he looks at me. “How have the farmhands been treating you? Well, I presume?”

  “For slave drivers, I guess.” He frowns at the frank remark. I don’t care. I call it like I see it.

  “I’m sorry about the circumstances, but I try to be as accommodating as possible.”

  “The barn’s real nice,” I snap ba
ck. “Food’s great, too. Gotta love the all-inclusive packages that are included with our stay. I’ll be sure to leave a review.”

  Mr. Whyte laughs out loud. “I like your snarky remarks and quick wit.” He takes a drink, then sucks air through his teeth. “Careful, though. They can get you into a lot of trouble sometimes.” He sits in the same chair he did the first time we talked in this room, and motions me to take a seat of my own. “You have no idea of what’s going on right now. But you will, soon. I promise.”

  “Tell me now instead of later. I may die tomorrow and never know.” I look at the smoke rising from the cigar and my mouth waters at the sight.

  Mr. Whyte grins. “Now, you sound like a stoic. Are you sure you didn’t read Aurelius?” As if he knew what I was thinking, he gets out of the chair and fetches me a cigar. A flick of the lighter and I ease back into the chair. He walks back to his.

  “Everything will be revealed to you in time; when you are ready. I need something from you first.”

  Here, take this cigar. Here, take this whiskey. It’s good, isn’t it? I knew this special treatment wasn’t going to be free. Nothing ever is. Everyone’s always looking for the payback. “From me? What, you need a ditch dug? I’m pretty good at digging holes, too.”

  “I need you to report back to me on everything the farmhands do and say.” He takes a drink, then a quick smoke, almost before he can even get the liquor down.

  He tries to hide his emotions behind the stimulants, but I can see through them. Like the way his foot twitches after the mention of Mr. Gibbs or Mr. Red. And how he holds the cigar high between his pointer and middle finger, instead of low and pinched with his thumb when he’s calm. His eyes are wider than usual and he has a hard time keeping his intentions subtle. No doubt, I showcase all the same tells when I’m nervous. Maybe that’s why I’m so good at reading them.

  “Why?”

  “The reason is my own.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  He laughs at the statement. “Smoke and drink, is that not enough?”

  I stand up. “I want more. I want answers.”