Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  “How did you wind up back here after everything that happened?”

  “It was back about the time you left. I was teaching at Penn State and, out of the blue, I got a call from Earl.”

  Was there any end to the surprises? Chan waited for him to continue.

  “At first we talked every few months or so, wrote a few letters. He was alone. I’d lost Charlene years before. The last thing I wanted was to have anything to do with this place, but Earl seemed to need someone to talk to, so we stayed in touch.

  “I retired five years ago, and became bored really quick. I was on a cross-country trip and decided to see the island one more time.” Harvester gazed out the window. “Maybe put some bad memories to rest.

  “Anyway, I stopped in on your Daddy, and wound up staying for three days... Chan, did you ever notice how beautiful this island is?”

  Chan followed the professor’s gaze. Fields full of corn and soybeans stretched to the horizon. “I remember riding the tractor with my Mama and being spellbound by the beauty of fresh-turned soil.”

  “I share your appreciation,” Harvester said. “A well-tended farm is one of God’s most beautiful creations. Anyway, we got to talking, and Earl said he’d like to return ownership of my father’s land to me. When things got bad, we left. Charlene wouldn’t step foot on the island, and I couldn’t blame her. Eventually it got sold for back taxes. That’s how your grandfather, Levi, came to own it.

  “Well, at my age, farming was out of the question, but Earl and I came up with an idea.”

  “The migrants?”

  “Yes. We decided to divide the island into tracts, like it was back in the early part of the century. I worked with a lot of migrant farmers through Penn State, and saw how difficult the life was. One thing led to another, and those folks you met yesterday are the first of what we hope will be a lot more settling in Saxon County.”

  “Did Daddy sell them the land?”

  Harvester laughed. “No sir, he gave it to them! The agreement states that any family tending the land for five years owns their homestead free and clear. Two-hundred and fifty acres each. It’s not much when you think about how big the island is, but it’s enough to make a go of it. That’s all most of these folks want – a chance to get off the migrant circuit and have their own piece of the American dream.”

  “And you live here too?”

  “I do. I moved into the same house where I grew up. It took a lot of work to bring it back to life, but I’ve got a little saved up and there were plenty of folks willing to help with the labor.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I am,” he said, smiling. “I’m helping people start their own farms and bringing good to a place where a lot of bad happened. I’d say it’s the most gratifying work I’ve ever done, and do you know what?”

  Chan waited.

  “Your daddy is the person responsible.”

  EIGHTY

  Chan watched Harvester drive away, his pulse quickening when he saw a police cruiser come into view from the opposite direction. When it got closer, he could make out ‘Saxon County Sheriff’ emblazoned on the side. The bubble-top slowed as it passed Harvester’s dusty sedan. The old man gave a short wave that the driver ignored. The cruiser sped up, but not so much that Chan didn’t recognize the driver. Deputy Stan Slaven glanced his way, then returned his attention to the road.

  The dynamic duo was alive and well. Bump Cannon and Stan Slaven, the long arm of the law in Saxon County. Still together.

  With Richard Smoot due in an hour, Chan decided to look through Earl’s desk to see what paperwork he could find related to the farm. The small office was paneled in light pine. A tidy desk was against one wall, a gray file cabinet next to it. In the corner was the same Diebold floor safe Chan remembered. Little had changed, including the musty paper and ink smell.

  Chan’s search for the safe’s combination was quick. A file labeled ‘Floor Safe.’ was exactly where one would expect to find it, tucked in the file cabinet between ‘Flood Insurance’ and ‘Gas Bills.’ Chan located the combination and started spinning the tumblers. After two false starts, the door opened.

  Inside were three manila files and a money bag.

  Chan pulled out the money bag. Emblazoned on the side was Saxon County Building and Loan, an entity Chan remembered from his teen years that underwent a change when the bank’s president, a guy named Hatcher, was indicted for fraud. He was eventually cleared of the charges, but hadn’t survived as president. The bank’s board renamed it Saxon County Savings Bank. Hatcher married a barmaid and moved to Paducah.

  The bag contained a single slip of paper. Chan’s hope of piles of cash were dashed when he read the hand-printed acknowledgement of a deposit of eleven dollars, made twenty-seven years earlier.

  A Manning fortune may prove elusive.

  The first file contained what he was looking for. Last Will and Testament was written across the top in his father’s scrawl. Could wills be hand-written? Yes, he thought, remembering something from a business law class years ago.

  The will was short, two paragraphs in which his father left him everything. No mention of the migrants, Harvester Stanley, or anyone else. The will indicated that he would also receive any money in savings and checking accounts at Adair National Bank. A notary public named Judy Dellinger had witnessed the signing of the will four years earlier. Included with the will was a copy of the small insurance policy Toby Harmon mentioned, the proceeds going to the funeral home to cover burial expenses.

  The second file contained lease agreements between Earl and each of the migrant farmers for the properties they were homesteading. Pretty straightforward, as Harvester had indicated. No rent, no payments. Operate the farm for five years and it became theirs. Reading closer, Chan saw that the contract was transferrable upon the death of either party or with thirty days’ notice.

  So there it was. He was the sole owner of Grebey Island, a large chunk of fertile, but flood-prone land stuck in the middle of the Mississippi River.

  The last place in the world he wanted to be.

  But there he was, at least for now. Stuck with an island he didn’t want and two dozen homesteaders he didn’t know. At least he had some time to figure out what to do. Perhaps Richard Smoot would make the decision easier.

  He replaced the third file before looking at it when Smoot pulled up. Chan felt underdressed as he opened the door. Despite temperatures already approaching eighty, Smoot wore a light gray sport coat over an open-collar shirt and navy slacks. A tan fedora kept the sun out of his eyes.

  “Hello Mr. Smoot.”

  “Mr. Manning, good to see you again.”

  Chan led him to the kitchen table where he and Harvester were visiting an hour earlier. Smoot placed a brown satchel on the table beside him.

  “I trust your accommodations here are more comfortable than the Adair City Jail?”

  Chan smiled tightly.

  “We’re not staying out here. My children and I are staying at Miss Bertie’s place.”

  Smoot’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve stayed in touch with Bertie?”

  “I’ve not stayed in touch with anybody. Miss Bertie called me about my father’s passing. She invited us to stay there, and we took her up on it.”

  “We were all saddened about Earl’s passing.”

  “I’m sure Ricky was upset. I could tell he was having trouble controlling his emotions the other day on the square.”

  Smoot stiffened.

  “Ricky has a tendency to act before he thinks, but I’m not sure he was completely in the wrong this time.”

  “Pounding away on a twelve-year-old is always wrong, Mr. Smoot.”

  “How about we let the law decide that.” Smoot opened his satchel and pulled out a stack of papers. He selected two pages and placed them on the table.

  “Are you still thinking you want to sell, Mr. Manning?”

  “I’m open to discussing it. Some things have changed since I talked to you last. Are
you aware of the migrant familes?”

  “Yeah, I know about ‘em,” Smoot replied, shaking his head. “Professor what’s-his-name’s been getting a lot of press.”

  “Would their presence be an issue for you, Mr. Smoot?”

  Smoot rubbed his chin as he considered the question.

  “What kind of agreements did your daddy have with them?”

  Chan got up. “I’ll get them.”

  “Take your time,” Smoot said as he reached into his coat pocket. “Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?”

  “Go right ahead.” As Chan headed to the office, he heard Smoot go outside. He picked up the files from the safe. It was then that he noticed the label on the third file.

  R. Smoot – Grebey Sale

  The file contained a single sheet of paper, dated fourteen months earlier, a typed offer to buy the island.

  Six and a half million dollars.

  Chan squinted at the page, making sure he had read the number correctly.

  He had.

  “Breathe,” Chan said aloud, willing his heart to slow.

  Suddenly lightheaded, he stared at the offer sheet.

  Why hadn’t Earl accepted the offer? He could have escaped Saxon County and started over.

  Chan returned to the agreements with the migrants, refreshing his memory of what he read earlier.

  Transferrable upon death.

  Thirty days’ notice to dissolve the contract.

  Chan noted the date on the first lease agreement, with a migrant named Arvel Hatchett.

  It was signed in August, two months after Daddy had received the offer from Richard Smoot.

  He continued to look for something that would explain why his father turned down so much money, only to give the land away.

  The sound of the screen door signaled Smoot’s return. Chan grabbed the file with the migrant agreements and, on second thought, also picked up the original offer from Smoot.

  That was when he saw the notes scribbled in pencil at the left margin.

  Not really notes, just three words.

  The Covenant - Richard

  And below that, the name of someone he missed every day of his life.

  Vessie.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Richard Smoot had returned to his seat. Chan put the agreements in front of him. Smoot reviewed them quickly.

  “Pretty straightforward. I wish I would have had the chance to make Earl an offer before he did this.”

  Chan bit his tongue.

  “Mr. Smoot, what are your plans for the island?”

  Smoot pursed his lips.

  “I can’t say at this point. I have partners involved who insist that confidentiality be honored prior to the sale.”

  “Would your partners honor the agreements my father made with the migrants.”

  “I can’t speak for the group at this point.”

  Seeing he wasn’t getting anywhere, Chan changed course.

  “Do you know anything about The Covenant, Mr. Smoot?”

  Smoot blinked several times.

  “Covenant?”

  “Not just ‘covenant,’ Mr. Smoot. ‘The Covenant.’”

  Smoot swallowed. “I guess I don’t know what you mean. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing really, just something I heard.”

  A trickle of perspiration appeared on Smoot’s forehead as he reached into his satchel and produced a sheet similar to the one Chan was concealing in his lap.

  “Here’s my proposal.”

  The sheet was identical, except for one change.

  Two million less than the original offer.

  Chan feigned a close study of the offer sheet while he considered his next move.

  “It’s a lot of money,” Smoot said softly. “Take that and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.”

  “It is,” Chan replied, placing the offer sheet on the table. “But if I’m going to be known as the man who kicked the migrants off Grebey Island, it’s going to take more than this.”

  Smoot raised his hands. “If it comes to that, it won’t be your decision. You’ll be in the clear.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Smoot. If I sell this land it will be my decision, because we both know that your partners won’t allow them to stay.”

  Neither spoke for a few moments.

  Chan stood up. “Mr. Smoot, tell your partners that it’s going to take more than four and a half million for me to kick those people off the island. When they have a more reasonable number, come back and see me.”

  There was a hardness in Smoot’s eyes that wasn’t there before.

  “Son,” Smoot said, getting to his feet. “You don’t want to drag this out. My partners are used to getting what they want.”

  “I spent ten years playing minor league baseball, Mr. Smoot. If there’s one thing I learned, it’s that impatience can get in the way of what’s important.”

  ###

  The center of the island, the area once known as Grebey Township, was full of life.

  Chan spotted a dozen children, from preschool to preteen, playing in the backyards and vacant lots where their family trailers were clustered. He drove down the parallel gravel roads that, back in the day, were First through Fourth Streets. Illinois and St. Mary’s Streets intersected them, creating a grid that according to legend, once bustled with life and commerce.

  At the far north end of the cluster of streets was Grebey Island Church. The old brick edifice still looked impressive despite peeling trim around windows and on the bell tower. Chan remembered how his father always respected the sanctity of the abandoned church, never using it to store supplies or cattle feed like he had in other deserted structures.

  The settlement was modest, but immaculate. The trailers were well-kept, and the children appeared happy. As he looped around, he came upon the school where he and Mr. Meekins spent two years together. It was in remarkably good shape as well.

  He was reliving the past when a car flashed by. Harvester was driving, and he was in a rush. Chan waved. Reluctantly, Harvester stopped and backed up.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Gotta get to town. One of our boys has a court appearance. We just found out.”

  “A.B.?”

  “Yeah, they want to send him to a juvenile facility. His parents are already at the courthouse.”

  “Do you mind if I come along?”

  “Get in.”

  ###

  On the way to town, Chan pulled out his cellphone. When Miss Bertie answered, he filled her in.

  “I want to be there.”

  “I thought you would. Meet us at the courthouse.”

  “How about the kids? Shall I bring them?”

  “I don’t think so, Miss Bertie. I’d rather not expose them to what’s going on.”

  “They’re not babies anymore, Channing. They need to see that the world can be an unfair place sometimes.”

  He knew she was right, but still wanted to protect them.

  Protect them from what?

  Protect them from the truth, like he thought he was doing when he neglected to tell them about their grandfather?

  “Bring them along.”

  EIGHTY-TWO

  The courtroom was subdued. Miss Bertie and the kids were seated near the front, amid a scattering of spectators.

  “How did you get here so quickly?” Chan asked.

  Her answer was cut off by the bailiff.

  “All rise. The Circuit Court of Saxon County is now in session. The Honorable William T. Perkins presiding.”

  The judge was younger than Chan expected, early forties, with a shock of blonde hair and a crimson bow tie under his black robe.

  “We’re here for a special hearing at the request of the Adair City Attorney,” Judge Perkins said, nodding to a weary-looking man sitting next to Ricky Smoot. Ricky’s drinking buddies were seated in the gallery behind him, elbowing one another and smirking at the surroundings.

  Richard Sm
oot was absent.

  “Theresa Traynor representing the accused.”

  Judge Perkins sized her up.

  “Miss Traynor, I don’t believe we’ve met. Do you practice around here?”

  “I recently opened a practice in Cape Girardeau, Your Honor. I’m licensed in the states of Missouri, Illinois, Maryland, Delaware, and Virginia.”

  “Welcome to Saxon County, Miss Traynor,” Judge Perkins smiled faintly, before turning to the city attorney.

  “Mr. Broomsdale, you can proceed.”

  The attorney stood and laid out his case for sending A.B. to a juvenile offender center in St. Louis County. Chan heard little of what was said; his attention was focused on Theresa Traynor. She was beautiful. Dark shoulder-length hair and brown eyes brimming with fight and fire.

  Ricky Smoot took a seat on the witness stand. All spit-shined, shaved, and sober, he presented a much different image than two days before. The city attorney approached and asked him to share with the court what had happened.

  Ricky nodded at his buddies. “Me and my associates was enjoying an after-work cocktail at Schmidt’s Pub. We’d been in there for about a half-hour when I looked out the front window and saw that boy over there.” He pointed at A.B. “Him and some other kid was throwing rocks.”

  Chan shook his head. Ricky Smoot had never enjoyed a cocktail in his life, but he had undoubtedly downed enough beer to fill a creek.

  “What happened next?” It was obvious that Broomsdale and Ricky had rehearsed his responses.

  “Well, just as I was about to go back to my cocktail I saw that boy throw a rock in the direction of my truck. Even from inside I could hear the sound of something breaking, so I went out to look.”

  “What did you find?”

  “A rear taillight was busted out. The other one, the darker colored boy, he took off running, but this one here kinda looked at me, like he dared me to do something about it.”