A Rhinestone Button

by Gail Anderson-Dargatz

“It’s dead.”

  “All right then. Tell us what you thought when you first saw the crop circle, Mr. Sunstrum. What did you think caused it?”

  “I thought it was God.” He realized this was a mistake. But felt committed now, caught in the truth.

  “God?”

  “A sign, from God.”

  “A sign?”

  “I was trying to make a decision. So I prayed. Asked God for a sign. Something in the air. I thought maybe a duck. Then Carlson was in the plane flying overhead and …”

  “The crop circle.”

  Job saw he was sinking, paddled harder. “But then Carlson was talking about aliens writing messages in the barley, or that maybe the circle was where a UFO landed. And my brother explained how all that talk about aliens is a demon conspiracy. So now I don’t know what to think.”

  “A demon conspiracy?”

  “The devil trying to get us to believe we’re not the only people in the universe, so that salvation doesn’t mean much. My brother’s a pastor.”

  “I see. A unique theory, Mr. Sunstrum. Well, there you have it, folks. God—or maybe the devil—reaches out and touches folks in Godsfinger.” He turned to one of the other men. “Dr. Fisher, what do you think caused the crop circle?”

  “There’s been all kinds of explanations for crop circles, anything from dust devils to plasma vortexes or ball lightning to landing marks left by alien craft. But most likely it’s pranksters.”

  “Some argue that the crop circles are too complex to be built by pranksters,” said the interviewer.

  “I’ve made them myself. I fixed up this piece of two-by-four with wire stuck through a hole on each end. I held onto the wire and pushed the board down into the grain with my boot. Nothing to it. Leaves that swirling pattern everyone gets so worked up about.”

  “But that hardly explains the molecular change the wheat undergoes in these crop circles,” said Mr. Mayer.

  “There is no molecular change.”

  Job stepped back, out of view of the camera, and looked down at the duck. He couldn’t think for a moment why he was holding it. He listened to the other men talk and talk, couldn’t catch onto what they were saying. Aware of the ache at the back of his head.

  Dave Nash lowered his mike, coiled its cord. “All right, Dr. Fisher, Mr. Mayer, Mr. Sunstrum, thank you very much. I think that’s all we need. Karl, make sure you get a shot of the silos and that barn roof. We can splice it into the interview with Sunstrum. Jesus is Lord! Hallelujah! This is cattle country. Eat beef. Christ. And the dead duck. This is too good.”

  Job followed several yards behind the crop-circle experts, the cameraman and Dave Nash as they hauled their equipment back to the van. He watched Ben leap around them like a magpie on an ant hill, pecking bits of attention from them. Mr. Mayer and Dr. Fisher continued to wrangle. Mr. Mayer, red-faced and angry; the doctor, quiet and assured, pulling out a notepad as he got into the van next to Mayer, calmly sketching out his defence as they drove off.

  Job watched the van drive away, pulling a cloud of dust behind it. Held up a hand as Ben waved to him from the stoop of the house before going inside. He wondered again why he was carrying a duck, realized with a sting of embarrassment that he’d held it throughout the interview, though now he couldn’t recall what he’d said. The television crew and the interview—they seemed unlikely. As unlikely as a crop circle forming in his field in answer to a prayer. As unlikely as a dead duck dropping from the sky onto his head. As unlikely as seeing Will kiss another man on the lips.

  Job winced as the throbbing of the lump on the back of his head came sharply into focus. He picked up a shovel that was leaning against the barn wall, carried it with one hand up to the house and laid the duck on the bottom step before scooping out a hole in the flower bed. He laid the duck to rest, and quickly shovelled dirt to cover its one open eye.

  Six

  For the first thirty years of the town’s life, Godsfinger was called Hay Lake, after the lake that disappeared in dry years, giving surrounding farmers a fertile field of hay to cut. But then the sky set about renaming the place. A tornado touched down one summer, blasting a swath through town, lifting the church whole into the sky like the body of the chosen on the day of resurrection, before slamming it down again. Everything was destroyed, except for the cement cold room, in which the ladies’ auxiliary kept fruit and preserves for church suppers and pie-making events. Not a single jar of preserves was lost.

  Members of the congregation built a new church on the old foundation that same summer and conducted services until the second tornado hit, exactly a year to the day after the first, lifting the roof of the new church like a great winged bird, casting it a half mile to the corner of Steinke’s farm. Without the roof, the walls fell; what was left looked like a flattened cardboard box. Upon seeing that second tornado approach, the church secretary fled downstairs to the concrete cellar to hide among the preserves and rose from rubble into daylight carrying a jar of strawberry jam.

  The following Sunday the pastor then, Fritz Hofmann, preached a fiery sermon in a crowded tent beside the church foundation. He claimed God had roared through town to give them a taste of the end of the world, so believers would know their deliverance was close at hand, so sinners would have no excuse on the day of reckoning. From the manse, he had watched the tornado touch down in the field, he said, “like God’s finger writing the commandments in front of Moses!” And went on to suggest the town should be renamed Godsfinger, to commemorate the two catastrophes, to remind everyone of God’s everlasting power over them. In the end, the town council agreed, as public sympathy had been swayed by the disaster.

  Disaster is said to come in threes, and even though the congregation rebuilt a second time on the old foundation, everyone stayed away from the church on the anniversary of the tornado and breathed a sigh of relief when the day came and went without catastrophe.

  Godsfinger might have become a bedroom community to Edmonton, as nearby St. Albert had. But the stench of Hanke Bullick’s feedlot on one side of town, Stinky Steinke’s dairy on the other and Stubblefield’s poultry farther out kept potential buyers from the city from settling there. No one in Godsfinger liked the stink, but almost everyone understood, as they carried their own farm odours: the sweet smell of horse or cattle, the foul scent of pig, or the worst of odours in Job’s mind, poultry. Stubblefield’s poultry barns were situated a half mile west of Godsfinger on Correction Line Road, so when the wind blew east, it brought the foul stench of chicken manure into town with it. As it stood, the whole town was composed of one dead-end street with a strip of shabby buildings running down each side, crowned at the end by Godsfinger Baptist Church.

  There was little to keep the town going. The old brick bank still stood, but its windows were boarded over. Residents had to go to Leduc or Millwoods to do their banking. The Godsfinger Bar and Grill kept chugging along, though the upper floor hadn’t been operated as a hotel for years. Hanke Bullick, who owned the bar as well as a feedlot, occasionally rented rooms by the month to young people just stepping out or to ancient bachelors down on their luck, but they never stayed long. The rooms were sun-baked in summer, freezing in winter.

  Sheeler’s Auto Repair had been running for nearly twenty-five years, though rumour had it Sheeler was thinking of retiring, closing things down. The beauty salon closed and reopened every couple of years. It was currently owned and operated by Annie Carlson, who cut both men and women’s hair. A doctor from Leduc visited a worn office next to the salon two mornings a week. The three grain elevators had been taken down and Hosegood’s sausage factory had gone bankrupt almost a decade before, though the building still stood, empty and boarded up, at the opposite end of town from the church. Beside the factory, an Esso gas station did brisk business.

  Children in grades one through twelve were bussed to Godsfinger from surrounding farms, and it was this school that kept the town alive. That and the Out-to-Lunch Café tucked in the front corner of the c
o-op. Fifteen years before, Crystal had covered the café walls in fake wood panelling, decorated them with laminated jigsaw puzzles of cats, horses, an empty farmhouse on the prairie, and hadn’t changed a thing since. Plastic plants dangled from macramé hangers over the windows. On the ceiling, a brown swell of water damage. Stinky Steinke, Gerhard Schultz and Walter Solverson sat like elements of the decor at their table by the counter, in a daily, informal meeting of the church board.

  Job came into the café wearing his Sunday best, dress corduroys and a white town shirt, wishing he’d gone into Edmonton to meet Debbie. Hadn’t thought of these prying eyes. He waved at Crystal, who blew him a kiss from the kitchen, nodded at Steinke, Schultz.

  Solverson with a double chin, the sideburns he’d worn since the fifties, dyed with Grecian Formula, though he was otherwise bald. “Saw you on the news,” he said. “You believe all that stuff you said about that crop circle?”

  Job pulled back a chair at his usual table by the window, said nothing. He didn’t remember much of what he’d said and was afraid Stinky Steinke would tell him all about it.

  “What was with the duck?” said Steinke. He had a long, thin face, a neck that had lengthened and shoulders that had sagged with age, giving him the general appearance of a ketchup bottle. A sign placed on the side of the Steinke’s barn by the salesman who sold him the equipment had proclaimed his barn to be a Barn-o-matic, a self-cleaning model. Cows, locked into stanchions, shit into gutters. A chain propelled by an electric motor dragged the manure down the gutters and up a chute that dumped the manure outside into a shit-spreader. Steinke made a practice of spreading his manure right behind the hall during community events. It was his way of saying, “I’m working and you’re not,” and it was this routine that had earned him his nickname.

  “You got yourself a new pet or something?” Steinke cradled the air in his arms. “There he is holding a duck. Rocking it like a baby.” He laughed with Solverson and Schultz.

  Liv refilled their cups and brought the pot and a cup to Job’s table. The smell of oranges about her. Her voice had been the purple of flowering heliotrope, but it was faded now, transparent. Job watched her voice, a sprinkle of lavender falling across the skin of her face as she spoke. “Why were you carrying a duck?” she asked.

  Job grinned, talked into one shoulder. “It hit me on the back of the head. Guess it died in flight. I caught it before it hit the ground. Then I couldn’t think what to do with it.”

  Liv’s laugh was still a rain of silver balls. “What are the odds? Too bad the cameras didn’t catch that. So, what can I get you?”

  “Just coffee for now. I’m meeting someone.”

  “Will?”

  “No.”

  Liv raised an eyebrow but didn’t push for more information. She carried the pot back to the counter.

  Noon came and went. Job drank, stared out the window at Liv’s house up the street. An overgrown lawn filled with bird feeders and sunflowers had sprung from the seeds birds had scratched to the ground. The cheerful heads of the flowers were pointed Job’s way, following the sun.

  Jerry tied his dog to the garbage can outside the door. A Samoyed and German Shepherd cross, white with a tail that curled over its back. It tried to nose its way through the door as Jerry came in. “What happened? Date stand you up?”

  Job felt the room turning his way and huddled over his empty coffee cup.

  Jerry took off his cowboy hat, laid it on his table, turned his chair to face Job and settled in. He called to Liv, “Hey sweetie, can a guy get some coffee around here?”

  Liv poured Jerry his coffee and took the pot around. As she refilled Job’s cup she asked, “I hear right? You got a date?”

  Job watched the coffee pour into his cup. “Sort of.”

  “Hang on a sec.” She set the pot down behind the counter, picked up a plate and an orange and sat at Job’s table to peel it. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll leave when your date turns up. I’ll just keep you company ’til then.” She nodded at Steinke. “Keep the boys from making a scene.” She separated each section of the orange, arranged them into a flower on her plate, cut each section into three and sucked the juice from each bit before chewing. She had a cupid’s bow mouth. Job had once overheard Darren say, “Hey, Kissy Lips,” on greeting her, before slapping her butt. “So, how’d you meet this girl?” Liv asked.

  Job etched a line in the checkered tablecloth with his thumb. “I haven’t met her yet.”

  Crystal came over to the table. Her stiletto heels pockmarked the linoleum. She leaned over the table, so close Job could smell the cigarette on her breath. A jangle of bracelets. Pointy nails painted coral. “What’s this I hear about a date?” she whispered.

  “A blind date,” said Liv.

  “Somebody fix you up?”

  He looked up at the wasp trap hanging over the door. “Not really.”

  “What did you do?” said Crystal. “Put an ad in the personals?” She laughed, then stopped. Job felt the blush sweep across his face.

  “She heard me on ‘Loveline.’ That radio show. Ed phoned in and lied. Said I was a real-estate agent. Then handed me the phone.”

  Liv laughed. “That shit.”

  “Oh, crap,” said Crystal. “I got to get back to the grill. Fill me in later?”

  Job watched her tap back to the kitchen.

  Liv ate a chunk of orange. “So I guess you don’t know what this woman looks like.”

  “She sent a photo.” He pulled it from his breast pocket and watched Liv suck the juice from her fingers before taking it.

  “Huh,” said Liv. “Pretty.” She ate another piece of orange. “You hear Darren and I split?”

  Job hoped he looked surprised, as if he hadn’t heard. He tried to think of something to say, but found himself dumbfounded, feeling the same mild panic he felt when he tried to come up with something to write on sympathy cards.

  Liv leaned over the table in the way he liked, giving him her attention in a very physical way, with her whole body turned to his. “So, did you believe that stuff you said on TV? Or were you putting those guys on?”

  He turned his attention outside, to Jerry’s dog tied to the garbage can. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  Jason pushed through the café door wearing jeans and a jean jacket and a striped blue T-shirt. His dirty-blond hair stood straight up from his head. He had Liv’s milky complexion, round face and wide smile, though he was lanky like his father. All arms and legs. He tripped over his own foot as he ran over to their table. “Job! Saw you on TV!”

  “No running in here,” said Liv.

  Jason sat. “Can I come over and see the crop circle?”

  “Sure,” said Job. “Your mom tells me you’re getting pretty good on the sax.”

  Jason scuffed his runner against linoleum. “Not really.”

  Liv rubbed a hand down her son’s arm. “He plays and plays, throws his music across the room when he doesn’t get it quite right. Then he gathers up the pages, starts again. He’s a perfectionist. Doesn’t get it from me.”

  “So did you see any aliens or anything?” Jason asked.

  Job caught Steinke watching, laughing. “No,” he said. “No aliens.”

  Liv popped the last of the orange in her mouth, pushed her chair back and stood. “Looks like I better get back to work.” She waved a hand at the window. Outside Debbie Biggs stepped from a red Mustang. Job sat up straight. Felt his heart thud against his chest and his hands go moist.

  “All right, Jason. Let’s leave Job alone. He’s meeting someone.”

  “Can I come over to see the crop circle today?” he asked Job.

  “We’ll see,” said Liv. “Job might be busy.” She winked at Job, then walked Jason up to the counter and brought him a slice of blueberry pie.

  Debbie Biggs stepped through the café door and looked around the room. She had breasts big enough to garner stares, though she’d apparently done her best to conceal them by wearing a loose sweater and
jacket with oversized shoulder pads. Job put his hand up to get her attention, but she’d already locked gazes with Jerry. He nodded at her and she sat at his table and stayed there. Job waited for Jerry to clear up the mistake, but Debbie went on sitting with him. She laughed too loud and curled her hair with her finger. Jerry leaned into the table and stared deeply into her monumental breasts. He caught Job’s eye and winked.

  Liv came back to Job’s table and whispered, “That’s your date, isn’t it?”

  Job nodded.

  “What’s she doing with Jerry? You want me to go get her?”

  “No! No.”

  “I imagine Jerry will tell her.” When Job said nothing, she said, “Want some pie?”

  Job stabbed his blueberry pie and watched Liv carry the pot over to Jerry and Debbie. He looked down, blushing, at his half-finished pie when Liv pointed his way. Then Debbie Biggs was there, standing beside him. “Job?”

  “Yes, hello,” he said, standing.

  “I’m Debbie.”

  He shook her hand, stepped forward to pull out her chair just as she stepped back, plunging a heel into his toe. He gasped, apologized.

  “I’m the one who stepped on your toe.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

  He sat and tried to think what to say. Out the window Jerry’s dog struggled back and forth past the café window, with its tongue out and tail wagging, dragging the now-upturned garbage can to which it was tied, trying to get a scratch from Dithy Spitzer. A trail of garbage littered the sidewalk behind the can.

  Debbie cleared her throat. “So, you’re a farmer?”

  “Yes.” He watched Liv sashay over to Steinke’s table, carrying three plates, the soup-and-sandwich special. Tuna sandwiches. Tomato soup. He wondered why talking with Liv was nearly effortless, like talking with Ruth. Or Crystal.

  “Cow-calf operation,” he said finally. “Though I should tell you that since my brother came home, I’m living in the hired hand’s cabin. I’ve got no place to entertain. And there’s some confusion over the farm. After my father’s death the estate was never settled. Now my brother’s back home. I don’t think he really wants to farm. He’s a pastor. I could never be a pastor, standing in front of all those people and everything. Although when I was a kid I sometimes played the accordion at the community hall, for weddings and showers, that sort of thing. The accordion was my father’s idea. I wanted to play bass guitar. But then my dad didn’t allow any rock in the house.” He stopped short, having completely lost his train of thought.