“Then who has the power? The banking house or the English government?”
“They both do. The bank doesn’t care about making laws, apart from controlling laws that affect their business. They just care about getting their cut for essentially doing nothing but lending with interest, and creating money and credit out of thin air. The government wants to stay in power, so they can use the people like taxable livestock. So the government and the banks use each other to further their goals.”
“Sounds like a match made in hell.”
+++
Through his flimsy bedroom door, Matt hears Uncle snoring. Matt’s room features a small wooden dresser and a single bed made from locust wood. His pillow is filled with chicken and duck feathers. The eight-by-eight-square closet of a room feels more like a sanctuary than a cell. It’s the only private space in the cabin. The walls are cluttered with bookshelves made from old two-by-fours. Books on philosophy and natural farming are prominently displayed.
Lying awake, he stares at the books on the wall beyond the foot of his bed. He thinks he sees them move. He hears a low hum. He gets up and peers through the wooden blinds. There’s a light in the distance and the grumble of a diesel engine. He dashes to Uncle’s bedside.
“Uncle, wake up,” Matt says, as he shakes the old man.
“What, what is it?” Uncle says.
“I think someone’s out in the meadow with equipment.”
Uncle pops out of bed. He puts on his overalls and boots, grabs his double-barreled shotgun, and the pair move outside toward the commotion. Two hundred meters from the cabin, a green John Deere tractor, pulling a brush cutter, cuts a swath through the five-foot tall wildflower meadow. The tractor headlights illuminate the darkness. The driver has cut a path from one end of the property to the other. They run toward the tractor. Uncle steps in front of the mammoth machine. He fires a shot into the air. The machine stops, but the motor still gurgles. The driver’s face is covered by a bandanna. He stares at the business end of Uncle’s shotgun levied at his head. He flips on the high beams, blinding Uncle. The driver places the machine in high gear and drives past, narrowly missing the old farmer. Uncle and Matt watch the tractor exit their property, headed for the road at a high rate of speed. Uncle lowers the shotgun, the weight suddenly too much to bear.
“What was that all about?” Matt asks. “Why on earth would someone mow a strip through our field in the middle of the night?”
“I have no idea.”
[ 2 ]
Meet the Neighbors
Uncle and Matt sit at the round kitchen table, eating chicken sandwiches and apples with honey. A few errant bread crumbs spill from Uncle’s mouth. Matt peers out the window in a trance, the early afternoon sun warming his face. An awkward silence hangs in the air.
“Can I ask you something?” Matt says.
“You can ask anything you want, but it doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
“How come you never got married? Did you ever have a girlfriend?”
“Is this because of your little friend?” A wide grin spreads across Uncle’s face.
Matt blushes. “That’s not why.”
“No need to be embarrassed. She seems like a nice girl. She’s been by a lot lately. Is she your girlfriend now?”
“I’ve only known her a couple of weeks. I know what you’re doing. You’re changing the subject. You never talk about anything in the past. I don’t know anything about your life before here. You don’t even have any pictures. I know. … I checked everywhere.”
“Sometimes it’s best to leave the past in the past.”
Matt frowns. “You said that, when I was older, you’d tell me. I’m almost thirteen.” He stands from the table and grabs the last bit of chicken from his plate. “I’m tired of guessing. For a while I thought you were a history professor or a philosopher—or maybe a spy on the run from the government. If it’s bad, it won’t matter to me. I just wanna know.” Matt looks at Uncle, waiting for a response. “Fine, I’m gonna go finish my chores.” He jerks open the front door.
“It’s better you keep your eyes on the future. That’s what’s important.”
Matt turns to Uncle. “Then why do I learn about history? And why in the hell do I learn philosophy from people who lived over two thousand years ago?” He slams the door behind him.
Matt stomps outside. He walks behind the barn, holding out a piece of chicken. “Blackie, Blackie.” The cat trots behind him, rubbing his leg. He squats down and holds out the chicken. Blackie rips the meat with her sharp incisors. “He’s hiding something, I know it. I’m old enough to know.”
“You talk to your cat?” Emily says, as she walks toward the pair.
Matt drops the chicken and stands up, his brow furrowed. Emily strolls toward him, her calf-length sundress flowing gracefully with her gait. Her hair is propped up on top of her head, with wisps framing her sunny face. Matt’s ripped T-shirt and pants, with kneeholes, are the perfect disparity.
“She’s my friend, okay?”
Emily’s smile vanishes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. I talk to animals all the time. I don’t think it’s weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“Okay, can we just drop it?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m just in a bad mood.”
“I can go home.” Emily looks away.
“No, I want you here. How did you get here so quickly?”
“I cut through the woods. You know, where that tractor cut that trail. After Sunday school I told my parents that I was going to Sophia’s.”
“I thought she hated you?”
“She does, but my mom wants me to be friends with her, because she’s just like my mother … pretty and popular. When I tell my mom that I’m going over there, she gets all excited. Today when I told her, she clapped her hands and in a really high voice said, ‘That’s so wonderful.’”
“What about your dad?”
“What about him? He just does whatever my mom says. So, why are you such a crabby Matty today?” Emily puts her hands on her hips.
“My uncle. I wanted to know more about his life, before I came here. As usual I get nothing. I feel like he’s hiding something. Maybe he’s ashamed of something he did.”
“Maybe he’s just protecting you.”
“Maybe.”
“No offense, but your uncle looks really old to be an uncle.”
“He’s actually my great-uncle. He’s my mother’s uncle.”
Emily bites the corner of her lower lip. “I wanna ask you something, but, if you don’t wanna answer, it’s okay. I won’t be mad.” She pauses. “Where’s your mom?”
Matt stares at Emily blank-faced.
She blanches and looks away.
“She died in a car accident with my dad when I was five. That’s when I came here.”
Emily’s eyes moisten; she stares at her feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine. I don’t remember a single thing about them. How can you feel sad about losing something you don’t even remember having?”
“Did your uncle tell you anything about them?”
“He told me that they were never married. He said my dad really wanted to marry my mom, but she was a feminist and didn’t need a man’s name. He said they loved each other more than any married couple he had ever met. He told me that my mom stayed home with me, and my dad was a civil rights attorney in Philly. My uncle said that I was the center of my mother’s universe. He said it was pretty annoying.”
“Your parents sound really nice.” Emily presses her lips together.
“You probably can’t help with chores today, with that dress, but you can keep me company, if you want. You don’t have to though.”
Emily steps forward, her head down.
His heartbeat accelerates. He places his index finger under her chin, tilting her eyes toward his, her plump lips just inches away. She is the most beautiful girl in the world. His stomach is in knots, hi
s heart racing. He presses his lips softly against hers. She reciprocates for a moment, then pulls away blushing.
“I should probably get going,” she says, as she strides toward the trail.
“Emily, wait.”
She waves without looking back. “I’ll see you next weekend.”
He does his chores with a perpetual smile plastered on his face. He struts from task to task on autopilot, reliving his first kiss. In the late afternoon he hears the birds peeping near the wood line and the trail. He hears voices. He sees flashes of movement between the trees. He touches the handle of the fixed blade secured in the scabbard attached to his belt. He creeps closer along the edge of the woods, careful not to step on leaves. He sees four people, one woman and three men. One stands out in a blue police uniform. The others are dressed in brand new hiking gear. The police officer takes pictures of the others, smiling and laughing as they walk through the path cut by the tractor.
“What are you doing?” Matt says, stepping in front of them.
The blonde woman jumps back with her hand over her chest. The group stops, startled. They see Matt and exchange smirks. The police officer scowls. The officer has a tight curly blond crew cut, wide flaring nostrils to match his cavernous mouth, eyes almost on the side of his head, and a stocky build. He takes a wide stance, unsnaps his holster, and puts his hand on the butt of his Glock.
“It’s none of your damn business.” the officer says.
“This is my uncle’s property, so I’d say it is my business, and you’re trespassing. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“There are no posted signs. And this is police business. I noticed you have quite a few code violations. Did you know that you need a permit for that stand out front?”
“If this is about code violations, why are these other people here?”
The police officer stalks toward Matt. He grabs Matt’s T-shirt, crumpling it up in his hand, pulling him inches away from his face. Matt turns his head and tries to pull away, to avoid the foul odor emanating from the officer’s mouth. The officer clenches his fist like a vise onto Matt’s T-shirt.
“Boy, I told you this is police business. It’s not your place to question. I do the questioning. You got that?”
“Come on, Dave. Let the boy go. This is unnecessary and terribly premature,” the balding man says, as he approaches. The man is tall and fit, sporting a strong chin, high cheekbones, with a short salt-and-pepper half-moon around his shiny dome. Officer Dave relents and steps back. “Name’s John. What’s yours?” he says with his hand outstretched. Matt straightens out his shirt, the collar now oversize. He disregards John’s outstretched hand. “It’s not very polite to ignore an olive branch.”
“My name’s Matt.”
“There you go, young fella. It’s very nice to meet you. We’re just here taking a few pictures for the Kingstown community paper. We’re sorry we didn’t see any posted signs. We thought we were still on community property. How old are you anyway? Ten, eleven?”
Matt glares at John. “I’m thirteen.”
“Oh, then you must go to school with my daughter at Jefferson Middle,” the woman says. “I’m Dr. Hansen.” She’s blonde, forties, short, with large pointed breasts, and a thin waist, with a belt cinched tight around her light blue shirt. Her face is still attractive, even caked in high-end makeup, but she’s perilously close to sagging into her age bracket.
“I don’t go to the middle school. I’m homeschooled.”
She smiles. “Of course you are, dear.”
“What’s your specialty?” Matt asks.
She takes a step back. “Excuse me?”
“What’s your area of expertise?”
She looks dumbfounded.
“You know, are you a plastic surgeon or a brain surgeon or a pediatrician?”
She glares at Matt. “I’m the principal of the high school.”
“Okay, it’s just you said you were a doctor.”
“I am a doctor.”
Matt nods. “A doctor and a principal, you must be really busy.”
A tall athletic man with long, wavy brown hair tied in a ponytail whispers in Dr. Hansen’s ear. “Honey, I don’t think he knows about these things.” He turns to Matt and puts his hands on his knees to be closer to his level. His face and neck are clean-shaven. He looks younger than his wife, but probably isn’t. He speaks, maintaining a clownlike smile. “My name is Mr. Hansen. It’s so nice to meet you. We’re nice people. We’ve just lost our way in the woods.” His voice is higher at the end of the sentence.
Dr. Hansen shakes her head, scowling at her husband. “Shut up, Chip. He knows exactly what he’s saying.”
“Let’s go, gang. This is counterproductive. We have everything we need.” John motions for them to follow, as he walks on the trail toward Kingstown.
“It was really nice to meet cha,” Mr. Hansen says, as he pats Matt on the back.
[ 3 ]
The Giver
Emily bends forward, cutting weeds around an apple tree with a stirrup hoe, sweat droplets forming on her brow, her creamy skin flushed. Matt pushes a wheelbarrow full of wood chips. He stops and glances down her shirt, catching a glimpse of white lace and soft skin. She looks up; he looks away. She adjusts her clothing to make sure nothing pinches. He dumps half of the wood chips and rakes them around the tree. In just a year, she’s grown like a weed, shedding some of her baby fat. The rising ninth grader is growing into her body.
“This goes a lot faster with you,” Matt says.
“Where’d you get the mulch?” Emily asks.
“Reggie’s Tree Service. He brought it early this morning. He gives us all the wood chips we need, and we give him produce.” Matt sets down his rake and wipes the sweat from his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, exposing his muscular stomach. Emily’s staring goes unnoticed. “He tells me every time that I don’t need to give him anything, but his wood chips have really increased yields and cut down on the weeding. I feel like it would be wrong not to give him something.”
“Is that it?” Emily asks.
Matt nods. “We should probably get to the stand. The lunchtime crowd will be there soon.”
Emily looks away. “I should go home.”
Matt furrows his brow. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, I just feel sticky and sweaty, and my clothes feel too tight. You must think I look disgusting.” Emily looks down.
Matt steps into her personal space and lifts up her chin. He presses his lips to hers. She tugs on the sides of his T-shirt. He pulls her tight to his chest. She opens her mouth just enough to allow tongues to touch. She steps back with a smile on her face.
“I wish you could see what I see,” he says.
“So do I.”
Matt pushes the overflowing cart down the dirt driveway, with Emily strolling alongside. They pass the wildflower meadow and the small stretch of woods to the roadside stand. A middle-eastern woman in a hijab peruses the produce. Matt grabs two large baskets of cut herbs from the cart.
“Hello, Mrs. Ahmed,” Matt says.
The woman smiles. “Hello, Matthew.” She eyes Emily.
Matt motions. “This is my, um … Emily.”
Emily blushes and waves. “Hi.”
“Hello,” Mrs. Ahmed says.
“I picked a bushel of basil and coriander a couple of hours ago,” Matt says. “I cut them at the base of their stem, so you can hang them up and dry whatever you can’t use fresh.”
Mrs. Ahmed’s eyes bulge. “The plants look wonderful.”
“Emily picked the apricots you were looking for.”
Matt and Emily load the produce into her minivan. She hands Matt a fifty-dollar bill. They wave as she drives away.
Matt glances at Emily, then to the ground. “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you before as my girlfriend. I’m not sure how Mrs. Ahmed views young people dating, but it shouldn’t matter. It was wrong of me to lie.”
“I’m glad you didn’t tell he
r. It would’ve been weird,” Emily says.
“I just don’t want you to think anything bad.”
“I don’t. I’d prefer we didn’t make a big production out of us. At school I see kids with the scented notes, the hand-holding, and the kissing between every class. It’s just … embarrassing. I like that we’re not in anyone’s face.”
Matt bites the inside of his cheek. “Your parents still don’t know, do they?”
“If I tell them, I can never untell them. What if they don’t want me coming over here all the time?”
“You said they’re so wrapped up in themselves to even notice or care what you do.”
“They are oblivious, but if they find out, my mom will wanna know all the details, and my dad will try to act cool. He’ll probably make you a mix tape of some obscure reggae. And then my brother, … he’ll be a nightmare. He’ll make fun of me constantly. And he’ll harass you even worse. He said something at dinner last night that kinda worries me.”
“What did he say?”
“He made this big production of asking me where I’ve been going all summer. He usually wants nothing to do with me. It’s like he wanted to watch me squirm in front of our parents.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that I don’t answer to him and that he’s not the only one who has friends.”
Emily sits down on a plastic chair under the shade of the fruit stand. Matt grabs a small basket and gathers apricots, cherry tomatoes, bell peppers, carrots, and raspberries. He sits down in the empty chair next to her. He scoots over so the chairs touch.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“I’m starved,” she replies.
He hands the basket to Emily. She takes a carrot, an apricot, and some cherry tomatoes. She hands the basket back and flashes a grin. They eat in silence, watching the cars motor by.
Against the Grain Page 2
