“Unless the crows eat them first,” Mason said with a snicker.
“Daddy, make Mason stop saying nasty things.”
“Mason, stop needling your sister. He was only joking, sweetheart. Now come and finish making your sandwich.”
Olivia stuck out her tongue at Mason and finished spreading the jelly atop the peanut butter. They plopped their sandwiches onto plates and carried them to the table. He warned Olivia to sit up and not to drop crumbs, and Mason not to drum the tabletop with his fingers. The bruise on Mason’s left eye had faded to an ochre color, and the swelling was visible only when Harden looked hard enough. He appeared in good spirits, otherwise.
“What has eighteen legs and catches flies?” he said.
Olivia stretched her neck, and the dab of peanut butter stuck on her cheek crumbled and fell to her plate. “A big ugly caterpillar.”
“Wrong, dumbhead. And besides, caterpillars don’t catch flies. They eat leaves.”
“What is it?”
“Wait for Dad to answer.”
“I don’t know,” Harden said, chewing with contrived interest.
“A baseball team!”
Mason and Olivia laughed and laughed, slopping their sandwiches against the roofs of their mouths. Harden wondered if they were as fidgety as him and tried to inject their home with silly jokes to fill the void carved by their mother’s absence. The ongoing rain matched the artificial cheerfulness.
Determined to conjure some genuine levity, Harden rubbed his hands together and worked up the gregariousness more familiar to his friends and coworkers. “Hurry and eat so we can play.”
“A game?” Olivia’s blue eyes expanded.
“Only if you eat your sandwich and don’t make a mess.”
“Hurray!” Olivia cheered.
They finished eating, cleaned the table, and stacked their lunch dishes in the dishwasher. Next they spread out on the living room carpet to play Monopoly Junior, with the gurgle of rainwater rushing down the gutters.
Four turns in, Olivia said, “Will Uncle Andy want to play games with us too?”
“I’m sure he will, sweetheart.”
“He played games with us last time he was here,” Mason joined in. “We played that dumb game where you have to draw.”
“Pictionary,” Olivia sang out and raised her arms in a strange show of victory. “I want to play it again with him. I love to draw.”
“You remember that?” Harden was surprised his daughter could recollect something from when she was four years old. The thought first tickled him, but he wondered what else she might remember from a time period that held traumatic memories for a little girl. For every one of them.
“I want him to take us to the pool while he’s here,” Mason said.
“I’m sure your Uncle Andy will take you once he gets here.”
Mason and Olivia raved their approval, and they played the game until Mason collected the last of the properties. While the kids scampered around upstairs, Harden was left to clean up, but he valued the moment alone to focus on something other than work and his personal life.
The remainder of the afternoon passed much the same. Tedious and smooth, save for the minor scuffle between Mason and Olivia. The rain still trapped them indoors, so Harden suggested they bake brownies from the mix Kamila had bought from the grocery store. Mason especially liked to experiment in the kitchen, and the distraction kept them busy for an additional hour. The only mishap: Olivia dropped an egg while carrying it from the refrigerator.
Harden allowed the kids to slip into their swimsuits and frolic outside under the sticky rain. Clutching a mug of coffee, he watched from the porch while they splashed in puddles in grassy areas and hopped and yelped. Olivia raced to the back and returned with good news. The creek fish appeared alive. He recalled playing similar summertime games with his brothers. A mixture of delight, regret, and dreariness settled over his soul.
After a light dinner of Kamila’s leftover kabobs, they watched television until the kids’ eyes drooped. Harden ushered them upstairs to bed and read to Olivia from one of her favorite books. Once they were tucked in, he loped to the kitchen and cracked open a beer. In midsip, he caught a glimpse of his reflection on the door leading to the backyard. Dressed in his sweatpants and T-shirt, he looked the image of the frumpy dad. No wonder I feel so secondhand.
His gloominess tracked him into Sunday morning and through church, where he sat with the kids, his mother, and Lance’s family. He decided he needed to make a show at Mass alongside his children that morning to satisfy his mother, who’d been pestering him more. The sermon failed to lift his slumping spirits. But he was glad to see old friends and spend time with his big brother.
Afterward, they met at the family home on Third Street in Duncan. Corralled indoors by a nagging drizzle, they brunched on tomato slices, corn pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fried slices of leftover ham roast. Later, Lance’s only child, Damon, entertained the kids in the basement while the adults played several hands of Hearts.
When Harden mentioned in passing that Andrew Wingal planned a short visit to Burr Oak Farm, the card table fell silent, but their forced smiles amused Harden more than irked him. His mother squared her hand.
“I haven’t seen him in quite some time,” she said, fanning out the cards in front of her nose. “It’ll be good to see him again.”
“He was always nice to me,” Lance’s wife, Holly, said in her typical relaxed manner.
His brother brought out a more boisterous response. “Andy’s a good guy,” Lance said. “Hope I get a chance to see him while he’s here.”
“Did he say what’s bringing him?” his mom asked, gaze unmoved from her hand.
Harden shrugged. “Just that he was coming out for a visit. Probably wants to see the kids. It’s been a while.”
“How long did he say he was staying for?”
“Not long, Mom.”
They passed their cards, and Harden waited for more comments about Andrew. But Harden suspected they bit their tongues. Several more hands played out, and eventually his mother voiced her concern for Mason’s swollen eye. Harden refrained from mentioning his prior bruised cheek, but Lance, who had probably heard it through the Duncan grapevine, uttered it on his behalf. Thanks, Bro!
His mother expressed her typical reserved concern. “I hope you’re able to spend enough time with him.”
“He’s with his kids more than anyone, Mom,” Lance said, slapping down a discard. “He does the best he can.”
“I was merely expressing an interest,” she said toward her cards. “I know Kamila does her best, but a housekeeper cannot replace a mother or a father.”
Harden endured the Mom-Lance sandwich for a few more hands before leaving them to play three-man Hearts. The rest of the afternoon he lounged with Dad, who’d been sitting and smoking his Don Diegos in the garage with the door raised, since Mom couldn’t stand the stench.
His father, certifiably obese, appeared happy in his nascent retirement from Healey Dairy, but Harden worried more and more about the sixty-six-year-old’s health. The last ordeal any of them needed was the untimely death of Dad.
Together, they watched the drizzle and sucked down a few beers while chatting about farming, the weather, Harden’s youngest brother, Jordan, who lived in Kansas City, and Harden’s job at Marshall. They rarely discussed anything personal, although Harden understood behind his father’s defiant blue eyes, sealed near shut now with rivulets of flesh, resided a man who’d endured the pain and happiness of a full life. His father always danced the thin line between sense and sentimentality. It was with his big brother, Lance, a fireman in adjacent Buchanan County, that Harden could reveal his inner thoughts—those needing a good shaking out.
Despite living twenty miles apart, the duties of parenthood had separated Harden from his brother. Emotionally, their lives as modern fathers united them closer than ever. Somehow they managed to check on each other enough to reassure them neither lacked f
or moral support.
Before leaving for the night and while waiting for everyone to gather, they snatched a short, private hallway chat by the front door. Lance gave Harden one of his, “so how’re things” looks. Harden peered at his loafers and shrugged.
“Mom’s right. I wish I was around more. I’d catch one of those punks teasing Mason. Probably wallop him before Mason had a chance.”
“Sorry for squealing about Mason’s other fight. You know how things are around here. She’d find out anyway.”
Harden shook his head. “I just don’t want this to get out of hand like last time.”
“What about Olivia? Does she get any of the teasing or bullying that Mason gets?”
“If she does, she keeps it to herself and handles it much better than Mason. It’s been three years. Why won’t they leave them be?”
“Most of the kids are okay, aren’t they? Only a few bully them. Don’t fret over it too much.”
“Christ, I try. But I worry about Mason getting older. He’ll be a teenager in a few years. Imagine things then.”
“Brother, you’re doing the best you can with what you got. You have enough on your plate without worrying about what-ifs.”
Harden trusted that his levelheaded fireman brother had made a good point.
That evening back at Burr Oak Farm, the children settled, somber and quiet. Typical after a full day of Sunday socializing. They remained in their rooms most of the night and made not a peep. But rather than relish the stillness, Harden moped about downstairs in his sweatpants and slippers, agitated and uncertain.
What-ifs. He’d spent a lifetime tripping over unforeseen fears. He’d failed at warding off the ones that had proved too real. Why bother worrying about ones that had yet to materialize?
He stood on the porch leaning against the railing, listening to the crickets and watching the lightning bugs. Harden never sat while alone on the porch. Seemed silly to swing without someone beside him, like Olivia, who liked to kick her legs and make the swing wobble.
The rain had stopped, and the corn appeared to have grown two or three inches in the past twenty-four hours. Probably an illusion from the purple blooming over the cornfield from the setting sun. Sometimes as a boy Harden had sworn he could hear the corn grow after a good rain shower. Out in the field, Dick Carelli’s tractor rumbled. He must be tending to the soggy crop.
Gazing off into the fields, with the smell of moist soil thick and tantalizing, he contemplated the odd text message he’d received late Friday night from his former brother-in-law. At first, he hadn’t recognized the number with the 312 area code. After a second’s thought, a name had scrolled across his mind. Spit had sapped from his mouth when he’d linked to the message, and, sure enough, the message had come from him.
Andy Wingal here, he’d written. How r u? Would like 2 come 4 visit next week. Ok? Harden had replied after ten minutes of pondering, not wanting to appear too eager: Hey, you! Kids would luv it. Andrew had added he’d be there Thursday afternoon, for no more than a week.
Excitement had grabbed hold of the kids after Harden had relayed the news. Lillian’s side of the family had faded, and they yearned to reconnect, he was sure. Surprised Andrew still carried around his number, Harden had saved the message on his phone and had reread it several times, like he did now.
The more Harden considered Andrew’s coming, the more expectant he became too, like the kids. A relative stranger was going to visit Burr Oak Farm, and Harden looked forward to something to break up their monotony. Andrew might bring a much-needed added distraction for Olivia and Mason. Yet he also harbored reservations.
Harden wondered what was up with Andrew. He hadn’t seen or heard from him in three years. His text, even without voice inflections or facial expressions, had an oddity to it. Desperate and sudden.
Harden hoped that Andrew wasn’t in any trouble. He’d had enough of the Wingals’ issues.
A comfortable breeze broke the muggy night and rustled the corn tassels and leaves, like the wind chime on his parents’ porch. Crickets competed with the distant call of thrushes and warblers. The sun disappeared completely, and the sky transformed from a purple to a cobalt stain across the horizon. He pocketed his cell phone and wondered how things might be with Andrew visiting their little farm.
How strange it would be to see him again—along with the painful memories he might bring with him.
Chapter 10
THE drive from Uptown to the Mississippi River crossing in Dubuque took four hours, longer than Andy had recalled from his last trip to Iowa three years ago. He still didn’t want to go. He’d felt like a fool texting Harden when he’d failed to think of an alternative. He had to search for his old Motorola to find Harden’s number, unsure if he still had it. Such a long span of time had lapsed since he’d last spoken with his former brother-in-law. But his current trip came under far more pleasant circumstances, considering.
He’d come to Dover County three times throughout Lillian and Harden’s marriage. The first visit was for their September wedding, the second for Easter the following year, and seven years later when Harden had telephoned about Lillian.
At that time, his mind had fastened on the horrible events that had forced him to take a week off his public relations job and head for his sister’s farmstead. The undulating terrain, like a windswept sea, had hurled him headlong into grief.
Still achy after his beating, but no worse than after a long night out with friends cruising the Halsted Street bars, the half-day drive hadn’t exacerbated his injuries like he’d feared. Resentment toward Ken and the police for forcing him to leave dogged him more. He couldn’t help but agonize over the mounds of money he was losing by leaving Chicago. Dozens of tourists and thousands of dollars—flushed down the toilet.
Each mile along Iowa’s choppy Route 20, and his misgivings grew greater. He wondered how Harden and the children had fared without Lillian. Guilt forced him to clutch the steering wheel, and he tried to stifle the nagging voice inside his head.
You should’ve made yourself more available to them. You shouldn’t have allowed three years to pass without a single visit or even a phone call.
The rolling hills of northeastern Iowa carried him along. Silos, far from the highway, reminded him of “magic mushrooms” from his high school days. He chuckled to himself, seeing the foreign landscape. Yet some of it looked familiar. Estate homes, like those in Chicago’s upper-class suburbs, sat closer to the highway atop what was probably former farmland. Where did the residents work? How had they come into their money out in the middle of nowhere?
Soon, the green signage welcoming drivers to Dover County appeared ahead. He had his Magellan switched on, but once Andy exited for the small town of Duncan, he realized he’d have no difficulty locating the Krane farm, and he clicked off the annoying voice.
Cornfield after cornfield flanked the country roads. For a while, Andy allowed the pastoral landscape to soothe his nerves. But as soon as he spotted the Kranes’ mailbox, his heart began krumping inside his chest.
Hesitantly he turned toward the driveway. The crunch of gravel under the van’s heavy tires sounded like an army march. He slowed and took in the small white farmhouse with the green roof, semiwraparound porch, and nearby silo and barn. Everything exactly as he had last seen it. As if on cue, Harden Krane, still dressed in his office attire, stepped outside.
Worries that he might be unwelcome vanished upon recognizing Harden’s signature grin, one that seemed to extend wider than the cornfields. Andy matched Harden’s smile even before he had a chance to set the brake and exit the van.
They approached each other, hands extended. “How you been, Andrew?” Harden said, clasping two warm hands over Andy’s. He had the same cheery blue eyes (perhaps with less sparkle), and those irresistibly pinchable cheeks that had always made Andy succumb to chuckles. As they did now.
“Good to see you, Harden. Been too long,” Andy said, unable to stop laughing from the mixture of go
od feelings and released tension.
Harden shared in Andy’s drunk-like laughter, but then he stifled himself and moved his face within inches of Andy’s. “Looks like you’ve had a little scuffle. What happened? You didn’t get mugged in the big city, did you?”
Andy had hoped his bruised eye would have completely healed before the trip. The black and blue that had faded into a green ring was, in some ways, more noticeable. “It’s a long story that would bore the pants off you.”
Harden released Andy’s hand and gazed over his shoulder. “Some mode of transportation you got there. Big enough to haul ten head of cattle.”
Andy relished Harden’s country vernacular and glanced at his iconic van, his laughter fading into light coughs. “It’s the only vehicle I got,” he said.
“I’ve read about your unusual business.” Harden snickered. “South Side Tours, huh?”
“We haven’t spoken in so long I forgot you might’ve learned.”
“We get the Internet in Iowa too, you know. The modern computer originated here, in fact. Iowa State University. Ever heard of the Atanasoff-Berry computer?”
The storm door slapped shut, and a little girl with long blonde ponytails fluttering behind her rushed outside. Olivia immediately threw her arms around Andy’s legs. Taken aback by her greeting, Andy hesitated before lifting his niece and returning her hug. “I can’t believe how big you’ve gotten,” he said, noticing how she smelled of peanut butter. “How old are you now?”
“Seven.”
“Wow, that’s old.”
The storm door shut again, but softer. Mason ogled them from the top of the stoop. Andy let Olivia slide from his embrace, and Mason shuffled closer and gave him a timid hug.
“You’re almost as tall your dad, Mason.”
“He’s growing faster than the corn,” Harden said.
“I see you’ve got something on your face too,” Andy said, glancing at Mason with a squinty smile. “Looks like we’re twins.”
Blushing, Mason stepped back from Andy. “Just a little fight with some guy from my baseball team.”
The South Side Tour Guide Page 6
