Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  FORTY-FOUR

  Twenty-seven years had passed since Earl and Cora left Saxon County. Earl tried to maintain an air of indifference, but knew Vestal could see through his façade.

  Ultimately it was his decision to return. Cora had tried to talk him out of it initially, and he had to admit, her arguments were valid. There was a lot of hate in Saxon County back then, much of it in his own home. Still, Earl could close his eyes and see the white frame house, its outbuildings, and the beauty of the surrounding fields. In his memories, those fields were always at their fullest, most bountiful splendor, with melons, corn, and other crops ready for harvest. It was the Grebey Island of his father’s absence, when storehouses and dreams were brimming.

  Earl wanted that Grebey Island.

  How today’s appearance at the Saxon County Courthouse would go was anyone’s guess. Mama had worked behind the scenes to ensure that Judge Airey’s maneuverings were made public. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch published a searing indictment of the septuagenarian jurist’s mishandling of the case, casting Saxon County as a redneck backwater in the process. It was an image that locals had worked hard to move past. Among the charges raised by Attorney Jack Schira were numerous breaches of county and state laws for posting tax lien sales, making changes in public postings without proper notification; and the most egregious, attempting to sell an estate without a good faith attempt to contact surviving family members. It was the latter point that the press most brutally drove home, noting that the son of the late Leviticus Manning had actually appeared in Judge Airey’s court many years before, and that his mother, Levi’s former wife, was a well-known public figure in Missouri and Washington political circles.

  But as he entered Adair for the first time in many years, Earl didn’t care about any of that. The court appearance was a means to an end. He wanted to return to Grebey Island, see the farm and the Mississippi River, and renew old friendships that were severed far too early.

  The courthouse’s ornate clock tower was visible from miles away. Rather than take the direct approach, Earl made a turn on a side street, two blocks short of the Adair Square. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for.

  Open Door Bible Church – All Welcome.

  The name hadn’t changed. Neither had the proclamation over the front door. Pulling up in front, Earl felt himself being drawn back to the day when the Grebey Island Negroes put that proclamation to the test. He remembered the excitement he felt when they walked in, the pride when the pastor, a man whose name he had long ago forgotten, attempted to make them feel comfortable. He recalled with fondness how their island neighbor, Archie Mueller, stood up and welcomed them, telling the others what good farmers and good people they were.

  Sadly, he also remembered the reception they received from others in the congregation. Some stalked out. Others didn’t come back the following week. Within a month, the congregation had dwindled to three dozen. Before the year was out, that young open-minded pastor was gone.

  “Was this your church, Daddy?” Chan said from the back seat.

  “For a while, son.” What Earl couldn’t tell him was that he hadn’t stepped foot into a church since leaving Grebey Island. His love for the Lord was real enough. He prayed sometimes, but memories kept him from seeking a church home. There had been a time, early in their marriage, when Vestal tried to persuade him to go to church. It was one of the few times he denied her wishes, and eventually she gave up.

  ###

  Jack Schira was waiting for them in the vestibule. The courthouse was as Earl remembered. High ceilings, ornate lighting, and cool tile floors. Several cameras flashed as Schira pulled open the courtroom door, raising his hand to head off questions. In addition to a dozen reporters, scores of spectators packed the rows of benches.

  “Judge Airey didn’t recuse himself,” Schira said. “I’m not sure what rabbit he plans to pull from his hat, but we’re ready.”

  At eleven on the dot, a side door opened and the judge entered. Earl would have recognized him anyplace. His eyes were as sharp as he remembered.

  It didn’t take long for the theatrics to begin. When the gallery was seated, Judge Airey leaned forward and nodded to Earl.

  “Mr. Manning, it’s good to see you back in Saxon County. It’s been too long.” Earl met the judge’s gaze, but didn’t respond.

  Turning his attention to the gallery, he continued. “Events have transpired in this county over the past month which could have resulted in most unfortunate circumstances for Mr. Manning.

  “I want to say, on the record, that considerable time has been spent investigating these events and indiscretions, and I feel I’ve taken the steps necessary to ensure they never happen again.”

  Earl glanced at Schira, who appeared as confused as he was.

  “Effective this morning, three individuals were relieved of their duties with the Circuit Court. This action was taken after I determined that negligence on their part was responsible for a tax lien auction that took place on the steps of this courthouse three weeks ago.”

  “Sacrificial lambs,” Schira whispered in Earl’s ear. Grumbling from the gallery confirmed others suspected the same.

  “Mr. Manning,” Judge Airey continued, “as the lone and rightful heir to the property of Leviticus Manning, you are now the owner of the parcel of land, number 062859. This of course is dependent upon you paying back taxes in the amount of four hundred and eighty dollars.”

  Earl took a deep breath. Could it really be this easy?

  “Mr. Manning, are you prepared to make restitution for those back taxes?”

  Schira stood.

  “Your Honor, my client is prepared to bring the taxes up to date. He also wants this court to know how disappointed he is with the manner in which—”

  “Silence!” The judge’s booming voice defied his frail bearing, bringing back memories of a tension-filled courtroom many years before. Schira sat down as the judge wiped his brow.

  “As stated earlier, I have conducted a thorough investigation and have relieved those responsible of their positions. I will not heap further scorn upon them.”

  The judge banged his gavel and exited with a flourish. The press quickly descended on the Mannings and their attorney.

  “How do you feel about the judge’s actions?”

  “Will you pursue this further, Mr. Manning?”

  “Do you feel the judge is partially to blame?”

  Dumbfounded by what had transpired, Earl allowed Schira to speak on his behalf. He did feel a small sense of pride that the press was in agreement that he had been wronged. This was a far cry from years earlier, when the same judge saw fit to return the farm to his Levi, despite compelling testimony regarding his actions and character. Perhaps times had changed for the better. Maybe Saxon County could be home.

  It was a final question, asked to those around him by a small man in a threadbare white dress shirt, that caused Earl to reconsider.

  “Are the colored woman and little half-breed with him?

  FORTY-FIVE

  Vestal hadn’t seen him this way very often. Talkative, almost giddy.

  Could a piece of land make that much difference?

  She listened to stories about people he had known decades before. Some of the names she’d heard, but never with so much emotion. The boy named Harvester, probably in his forties now, but the closest thing to a role model Earl had known. It wasn’t just what Earl said about Harvester, but the way he said it. Harvester Stanley had a tremendous impact on her husband, and he was excited to renew the friendship.

  And Harry Davis. Earl spoke of him as one might his own father. He related a story about a ne’er-do-well named Grover Petty and how he held Cora and Earl at gunpoint until Harry intervened. Vestal felt his love for the man. Chan noticed the difference, too. Usually chatty in the car, he was quiet, sitting on the edge of the back seat, absorbing the stories.

  Perhaps a piece of land could make that much difference.

 
###

  Missy Comstock placed four glasses of lemonade on the coffee table and exited quietly. David, her husband of twenty years, made it clear that they were not to be interrupted.

  The visitors were from Knoxville, or so they claimed. They said their names were Martin and Lewis, but they probably weren’t. Men sent by The Covenant were always evasive about particulars. They came to do a job, not make friends.

  The one called Martin sipped his lemonade before speaking.

  “Judge Airey is on his own from now on. We can’t prop him up anymore.”

  “He certainly made a mess of things,” banker Troy Hatcher said.

  “Part of the blame lays with that Manning woman back in Washington,” Lewis said. “Her fingerprints are all over this.”

  “Maybe,” Martin answered, “but the judge’s screw-ups made it easy.”

  “What do we need to do next?” David Comstock wasn’t a particularly intelligent man, but his proximity to Grebey Island had proven invaluable to The Covenant. “Levi’s gone, but we still got people around here who can take care of problems.”

  “If you’re referring to Petty, forget about it,” Martin said. “Without somebody to hold his hand he’ll make things worse.”

  “For now, we wait.” Lewis said, pulling a small pad of paper from his shirt pocket. “Levi’s son is weak, and from what we’ve been able to find out, he might have a few skeletons in his closet. Give us time to sort things out.”

  “Are you local boys getting together anytime soon?” Martin asked.

  “Yeah,” Hatcher replied. “Couple of weeks, usual place.”

  “We probably won’t have anything for you by then,” Lewis said. “Keep a lid on things for now; let Manning get comfortable. Maybe he’ll start to believe things have changed in Saxon County.”

  “Too comfortable, perhaps,” Hatcher grinned.

  “Perhaps.” Martin said, as a car passed in front of the house. A blue sedan headed for Grebey Island. The driver was easily identifiable.

  ###

  “The old bridge is holding up well.”

  Earl steered carefully across the narrow low-sided span. “My grandfather’s grandfather built this back in the 1880’s. Before that, the locals boated across.”

  “Can we fish?” Chan’s head filled the rearview mirror.

  “As much as you want, son,” Earl replied. “There’s a nice path from the house down to the river. We’ll go together for a while, then when you’re a little older you can go on your own.” Chan smiled broadly.

  At the foot of the bridge, Earl made a right turn, heading south and east on a well-worn gravel road. “Manning land begins right here,” he said, motioning to fields on their left and right. “It doesn’t appear that Levi had been doing much farming, though.”

  The fields were overgrown with grass, bushes, and scrub trees. Earl thought of the labor ahead as they worked to prepare these fields for planting. He squeezed Vestal’s hand, happy that she’d expressed a desire to work with him as they reclaimed the farm. Still, there would be things about farming that he didn’t know. He was so young when they lived here. Fortunately, they would be able to rely on the wisdom of Harvester Stanley and the others.

  As the road curved gently to the southeast, they got their first view of the house.

  “Is that... ?” Vestal said.

  “It is. Our new home.”

  As they drew closer, Earl could see that time and neglect had left the house and outbuildings worse for wear. All were in need of paint. The large red barn was taking on a gray pallor. A couple outbuildings were dilapidated beyond repair. Earl knew he’d have to bulldoze them to the ground. Still, the house appeared to be holding up well.

  “It’s so big!” Chan said excitedly.

  Earl felt the memories, good and bad, wash over him as they pulled onto the shaded lane and parked near the house. The front porch, where he and Mama had enjoyed so many meals. The barn, where the Saxon County Knights held their meetings. The time when Levi sent him to snuff out the lights, the moment when he came face to face with Harvester Stanley. They had never talked about that night. Earl decided to bring it up the next time he saw Harvester.

  That thought spurred an immediate change of plans.

  “Before we go in, let’s say hello to my friends. You’ve heard me talk about them so much. I want you to meet them.”

  “I’d like that,” Vestal replied cheerily.

  “Do they have kids?” Chan asked.

  “Knowing how much family means to them, I’d bet there’ll be plenty of kids.” Earl looked at his wife. “It’s a special place out here, Vessie. I never thought I’d get to come back.”

  Past Earl’s childhood home the road turned gently to the north. “Just up around the corner here is the Dobson farm,” Earl said. “Remember me telling you the story about how Levi and some of the others tried to burn their house down? They were caught in the act by the Highway Patrol and...”

  The spot where the Dobson house once stood was barren. A single concrete step remained. The outbuildings, even the majestic shade trees Earl remembered, all gone.

  “They must have built a new house someplace else,” Vestal offered. “Perhaps the house got too old or too small.”

  Earl nodded. That had to be it. The house was old even back then. Earl looked in all directions, but the gentle upward slope of the island left little to see. The one thing that was apparent was the condition of the farmland. It resembled Levi’s place, with no trace of planting or harvesting. Earl felt a tightening in his gut. Something wasn’t right.

  The brushy, unplowed landscape continued as they drove toward the island’s far northeastern corner. Perhaps there had been a flood. The island certainly had known its share of them in the past, but the soil was too fertile to remain fallow for long.

  A few acres of corn appeared in the distance. Earl relaxed as signs of plow meeting soil was evident on both sides of the old pockmarked road. Mr. Cornish’s home and barns were further from the road, built close to the river by the original owners to take advantage of the northeast breezes. It wasn’t until he was almost upon the old lane leading to the farm that Earl could see the homestead’s location.

  Nothing was left.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He turned off the gravel road, bumping along at a slow pace but still bottoming out along the way. At the end of the lane, where a large gray barn once stood, was a single pine tree. The former site of the Cornish home was covered by a mound of debris, overgrown with weeds. A mattress, grayed by age and weather, was the only identifiable item.

  “Looks like the house has been gone for quite a while.”

  “What do you think happened?” Vestal said.

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Earl turned the car around. “Mr. Stanley’s farm is next. If anybody’s still here, it’ll be them.”

  The road became smoother as they reached its northernmost point and started circling back to the west. Corn in its early stages of growth was more widespread, and soybeans were also in evidence.

  “There it is!” Earl pointed. Vestal and Chan craned their necks to get a better look at the old house. Like Levi’s, the white paint was badly flecked, but the house was obviously being lived in. Several work shirts hung on a clothesline. Behind the house, a large barn was framed by mature oak trees. Earl recalled afternoons spent playing there with the Stanley children and their neighbors.

  A black International pick-up was parked nearby. The door to the house was open, a screen door providing protection from mosquitos.

  “Chan and I’ll wait here,” Vestal said.

  “I’ll say my hellos; then have you join me.”

  ###

  It didn’t feel right.

  Vestal chewed a fingernail as she watched Earl approach the door. It was hard to reconcile the dilapidated house with his descriptions of the Stanley family. It wasn’t that she expected it to be palatial, but this place was receiving marginal care at be
st.

  “Can I get a dog?” Chan’s question startled her. She smiled at him.

  “That’s something Daddy and I will have to talk about,” she said, watching as Earl rapped quietly on the door. A minute passed with no response. He looked back toward the car, shrugged, and knocked again.

  “Mr. Stanley?”

  “Harvester? Anyone home?”

  He squinted through the screen door. A shadow appeared on the other side. Vestal couldn’t tell much, but she was certain he wasn’t a Stanley.

  He was white.

  The voice was gravelly, like a smoker.

  “Well, lookit what done showed up...”

  Yanking open the screen door with enough force to pull it from its hinges, Earl lunged into the grayness.

  “Mama! Daddy’s—”

  “Stay here,” Vestal commanded, scrambling out of the car and running to the house. The sounds of a struggle were unmistakable. Vestal charged into the grayness and found Earl standing over a man of similar size and stature. His eyes had rolled back in his head. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose.

  “Earl—” He spun in her direction, fists raised. Vestal jumped back, but it wasn’t necessary, as he quickly regained his senses. For a moment they stood there, dazed. Earl’s breathing was ragged, but nothing like that of the man sprawled behind him. Earl glanced at him, stiffened, then turned to face his wife.

  It was when he starting shaking uncontrollably that she knew something was terribly wrong.

  FORTY-SIX

  Vestal checked out of the grubby motor court, hoping it was the last time she saw the place.

  The forty-five-minute drive from Cape Girardeau had become routine the past five days. A number of motels were closer, but none would open their doors to the colored wife of an inmate in the Saxon County Jail.