Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  Harvester nodded. “Can you go, Cookie?”

  “I’ll make myself available. I’ve heard stories about Lowell Surratt Jr. It will be... interesting to make his acquaintance.”

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  Chan couldn’t remember a forty-eight-hour period in his life as tumultuous as the time since he arrived in Saxon County. The peaceful look of his father at rest, the altercation on the square, the funeral, his arrest, Harvester’s stories, Richard Smoot, the court hearing.

  Theresa Traynor.

  If all that wasn’t enough, he was headed for a confrontation with Lowell Surratt. It left him at loose ends, and he felt the urge to slip away and spend a few hours doing something fun with the kids.

  “You guys want to go fishing?”

  “Really? Cool!” Ryan was on board.

  “Fishing? Like for real fish?” Lani, not so much.

  “Yeah, fishing. For real fish.”

  “I thought we were going back to Miss Bertie’s house.”

  “We were, but now I’m asking if you’d like to go fishing.”

  Ryan couldn’t have been happier if it were Christmas. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “I guess,” Lani was reluctant. “Will I have to touch the fish?”

  Chan laughed. “No Lani-girl. I’ll take care of that.”

  Twenty minutes later, Chan was rooting through the outbuildings at the old home place, looking for fishing gear.

  “Can we see inside the house, Daddy?”

  “Let’s go fishing, Ryan, then we can look around inside. We don’t want to lose the daylight.”

  Chan pulled open the door to an old shed where Earl kept his tools. Several fishing poles hung from the wall. String, hooks, and a complete tackle box were close by. Gear in hand, he led them down a familiar half-mile wooded path to a dock extending into the Mississippi.

  “How did you know about this?” Ryan asked.

  “My great grandfather built it. It survived three floods and a couple tornadoes. I always heard that the posts holding it up were driven a hundred feet into the river bottom.”

  For three hours Chan baited hooks, pulled fishing lines out of trees, removed the occasional fish, and tossed them back. Time flew by.

  “This is fun.” Ryan said for the fifth time.

  “Can we eat the fish next time?” Lani asked.

  Next time? He hadn’t thought about there being a next time. He was enjoying the peaceful moments with his kids, getting reacquainted with the sounds of the island, and thinking about Dixie, his friend and fishing buddy.

  Why hadn’t he done this before? Lani and Ryan had never spent time in nature, other than the city parks near home. Fishing as a family was a new and special experience they should have enjoyed before.

  The sun was edging toward the horizon when they called it a day. They gathered up the fishing gear and walked back up the wooded path, now deep in shadow. Lani and Ryan were eager to tour the house.

  “Can we stay here tonight?” Lani asked.

  “Let’s look around first and see if you still want to stay,” Chan replied uneasily. He hadn’t been upstairs, and wasn’t sure what they might find.

  ###

  He shouldn’t have worried.

  The bedrooms were immaculate. Clean linens, floors free of dust, and a fresh smell in the air. Chan didn’t remember his father being overly concerned with cleanliness, so either Earl Manning had changed in yet another remarkable way or someone had readied the house for their arrival. Chan suspected Harvester had something to do with it.

  “It’s so pretty,” Lani exclaimed as they stood on the front porch. She was right. It was an attractive country house, with a wide airy front porch and large windows to catch the breezes. The furnishings were clean, but dated, like a time machine set a quarter-century earlier.

  Lani stopped in front of the television, a large console model from Chan’s childhood.

  “It’s like the one on the Brady Bunch,” she said.

  Chan laughed. “My dog Dixie and I used to lay on that rug right there and watch television when my father was away.”

  “You had a dog?” Ryan said.

  “Why can’t we have a dog?” Lani said, renewing a discussion that had played out many times before.

  “Someday,” Chan answered automatically.

  “I’m not getting any younger you know,” Lani said petulantly.

  Ryan asked, “Could we have a dog if we lived here?”

  “We don’t live here.”

  “But we could. We could fish, have a dog, get a boat.”

  “What about your friends back in Louisville?”

  “I’d miss my friends,” Lani said. “I like our home.”

  Chan’s cellphone chirped from the kitchen.

  “You guys go ahead and look around.”

  “Can we stay tonight?” Ryan asked, following in Chan’s footsteps.

  “Can we?” Lani echoed.

  Chan nodded absently as he picked up the phone, then grew giddy when he saw the incoming number.

  “Lo!”

  It was impossible to hear what Lo said next, with both kids clamoring to speak. Chan finally gave up and handed the phone to them, choosing to wait out the happy storm in an overstuffed living room chair. Fifteen minutes later, Ryan brought him the phone.

  “Hey!”

  “Channy! It sounds like you guys are having a blast.”

  “Blast doesn’t begin to describe it, Lo.”

  “What’s this about you being in jail?”

  “Long story; happily, it’s resolved.”

  “Well I’d love to hear it. How about later this week?”

  “What?”

  “We’re flying into St. Louis in a couple days. I thought I’d rent a car and come see Green Acres.”

  “There’s a lot going on, Lo. How about we catch up with you in Cincinnati after we get home?”

  “I guess so.” Chan could hear the disappointment in his friend’s voice. “I’m missing those two knuckleheads. Have they grown since I saw them last?”

  “Hmm,” Chan responded. “Not much, but it’s only been three days. Give it a week and I’ll bet they shoot up a couple inches.”

  The familiar cackle coming through the phone line broke Chan up. They spent a few minutes trading insults before Lorenzo had to run.

  After a dinner of fried steak from the basement freezer, they made a quick trip to Miss Bertie’s for their luggage. Upon returning, they worked out the sleeping arrangements. Lani took her father’s old bedroom. Ryan took a small third bedroom that Chan couldn’t remember anyone ever sleeping in. This left him his father’s room, or more likely, the living room sofa.

  ###

  By ten, the kids were snoring away. Chan went back to his father’s tiny office area and started looking through files. Most held little of interest. Bean Yields, Combine Papers, Corn Yields, and so on. One, however, grabbed his attention.

  Pictures.

  Two black and white photographs fell out of the file as he pulled it from the drawer. Both were yellowed and creased. In one, a couple was standing in front of a house, frowning as people did in old pictures. Faded but elegant handwriting identified them as Leviticus and Cora Manning, 1930. Levi was a small, unpleasant-looking man. Grandma Cora looked young and lost.

  In the second picture, an extremely tall man, resplendent in a dark suit, white shirt, and top hat had his arm around a slender woman in a white dress and gloves. Unlike his grandparents frowning faces, this couple appeared to have been caught in mid-laugh, as if the man had just told a joke that both found very funny.

  Looking up at the happy couple was a little girl of five or six. Like her mother, she wore a white dress and matching gloves. The little girl appeared confused, like she missed the joke. The tall man held her hand and was leaning forward slightly, as if he was about to bend down and share his laugh with her.

  On the back of the photo a dignified script identified the subjects of the picture:

  Monr
oe, Gladys, and Vestal Goodman.

  The date was unreadable, smeared by time and touch, but it was unnecessary. Chan studied the picture closely, particularly the little girl.

  It was the only picture he’d ever seen of his mother.

  Eager for more, he sat at the desk and poured out the file’s contents. Two photos were of a young Earl Manning, dressed in his Army uniform. Another was taken in a church, Mama wearing a simple white dress, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers, standing next to Daddy. Earl’s face flushed with happiness.

  The next photograph was from the same time period. The happy couple posing with Mickey Mouse in front of a castle, smiling brightly.

  Earl and Vestal Manning had been very happy.

  What happened?

  The final picture was a shot of his parents posing in front of a large imposing building with a young, obviously pregnant girl. Flipping the picture over, he was barely able to make out the faded caption:

  Chandra, Howland Sanitarium.

  The date on the photo was just three weeks before Chan was born.

  Who was Chandra, and why were his parents at a sanitarium?

  ###

  Sleeping in his father’s bedroom proved impossible. Chan made up the living room sofa with bedding from an upstairs closet before going through the house checking doors and turning out lights.

  That’s when he saw the car.

  It was parked across the road, a hundred feet past the house. Chan could make out the bubble top.

  He went out the back door and crept around the house, staying in the shadows of the large trees surrounding the property. Soon he was within thirty feet. Close enough.

  The driver was alone, but it was too dark to see who he was.

  Until he opened the glove compartment, illuminating the interior.

  The driver bent over, looking for something that proved difficult to find. In the thirty seconds it took Deputy Stan Slaven to locate whatever he was searching for, Chan was back in the house.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Chan scrambled to his feet. The blanket covering him fell to the floor beside the couch.

  Something wasn’t right.

  The house smelled different.

  Then it hit him.

  Bacon.

  Sunlight drenched the living room. The wall clock read eight-twenty, forty minutes until the meeting with Lowell Surratt. He would have to hurry.

  Who was cooking bacon?

  The door separating the living room and kitchen was closed. Chan stretched, willing away the stiffness that came with being a big man sleeping on a regular-sized sofa, and opened the door.

  Lani and Ryan were at the table, among heaping helpings of bacon, eggs, and something else.

  “Grits,” Ryan grinned, displaying a mouthful.

  “Cheese grits,” Lani added. “Why have we never had this. It’s amazing.”

  Harvester was at the stove, scrambling eggs. “Breakfast?”

  “Wow.”

  “Professor Stanley is a great cook, Daddy,” Lani said. “He told us he would take us fishing again today. He’ll even help us cook the fish.”

  “Harvester, you didn’t have to do this.”

  “Just trying to help. You have a meeting in town in a little bit. Better get moving.” Nodding at the kids, he added, “leave these two here. We’ll go catch us some fish for supper.”

  “Aren’t you going to the meeting?”

  Harvester smiled. “I figure you, Bertie, and Cookie will be plenty of fire power.”

  Chan hesitated. He’d only known Harvester for a few days. Then, as he thought of Theresa Traynor and the stories she’d shared, he relaxed. The kids would be alright.

  ###

  The School District Administrative Office was a small building across from the high school. It wasn’t there when Chan was in school. One thing, however, remained the same.

  Those feelings.

  The same feelings he’d had whenever he crossed paths with Lowell Surratt, Jr. Fear, distrust, and uncertainty. Over time he had learned to suppress them. Suppress, but never eliminate.

  He hadn’t considered those feelings when he agreed to come. Why should he? Since leaving Adair, he hadn’t experienced them.

  Now they were back. He felt like a child; a scared little boy. He considered turning around, picking up the kids, and heading for Louisville. He pushed the urge aside, but it returned.

  Leave. Never come back.

  He’d tried that before, hadn’t he? And it worked for sixteen years. Why not run again? Maybe this time he could make it permanent.

  A handful of cars were in the parking lot, Miss Bertie’s among them. Chan parked a few spaces away and sat for a moment, composing himself, willing away those feelings. It was already five after nine, so a few more minutes wouldn’t matter. Maybe they would wrap things up before he made an appearance.

  The remnants of hundreds of pregame pep talks rattled around his mind. They never really helped anyway. Real motivation came from within. It couldn’t be created by rah-rah speeches or the words of dead people.

  The only exceptions were a few Christian teammates. He was never really close to the guys who attended clubhouse chapel services and read their Bibles before games, but he had to admit they seemed to have something extra going for them, their own form of internal motivation that helped level out the ups and downs of baseball life.

  Staring through the windshield, he wondered if those guys might be on to something. Of course there were also the guys who suddenly found religion, only to fall back into the party scene after a few months. Why hadn’t it worked for them?

  The internal debate continued as the minutes ticked away. He had to go one way or another.

  He chose another, starting the Explorer and putting it into reverse.

  Then, it came to him again.

  For I know the thoughts I have for you.

  Thoughts of peace, and not of evil.

  And Mr. Meekins’ gentle words, as if the old man was sitting next to him.

  “God knows what he has planned for you in the future, and his plans are good.”

  It was nine-fifteen when he turned off the Explorer’s engine.

  Mr. Meekins.

  Katie in the burn unit.

  The voice in Cincinnati.

  The e-mail from the radio station.

  Pastor Duke’s words at his father’s funeral.

  Chan took a deep breath and lowered his head.

  “Lord, you don’t know me, and I really don’t know you, but you keep hitting me over the head with the idea that you know what’s going to happen, and that it’s going to be okay.”

  He paused for a moment, unsure how to proceed, or if it was even worth it.

  “Well, I’d like to learn about some of those good plans, so anytime you’re ready, fire away.”

  He didn’t know if he should feel better, or different, or what. The uneasiness was still there, but he proceeded inside.

  ###

  Butter would have melted in Lowell Surratt’s mouth.

  “Chan, it’s good to have you back in Saxon County.” Rising from his chair at the head of the conference table, Surratt offered his hand. Chan’s grip was weak.

  “Sorry that we started without you, but you’ll get caught up quick enough. Have a seat.” Looking around the conference table, Chan chose a spot next to Duke Windsor.

  “I thought you’d show up in prison stripes,” Duke whispered.

  “I’m on the lam, Pastor, haven’t you heard? Why are you here?”

  “Some of the migrant families attend Lighthouse, my church.” Duke squeezed his arm before returning his attention to Surratt. Chan gazed around the table, nodding at Miss Bertie and Theresa, seated across from him. At the opposite end of the table from Surratt was a large man with dark red hair and a goatee.

  “Chan, this is Ross Walker, our school board president,”

  Chan nodded. “Did you grow up here, Ross?”

  “Moved here six years ag
o from Burley,” Walker replied brusquely. “South Missouri.”

  “Ross runs an online company,” Duke said. “Hunting supplies and stuff like that.”

  “Lowell, let’s get done what we came here for,” Walker said. “I’ve got a conference call at ten-thirty.”

  “Of course,” Surratt said. “I was just explaining that our plan is to self-contain our new students until we determine where they stand academically, then place them appropriately.”

  “How long do you anticipate that taking?” Miss Bertie asked.

  “First we gauge academics, then socialization. Finally, a placement recommendation is made, and we go from there.”

  “Socialization?” Miss Bertie appeared apprehensive.

  “Well yeah, Bertie,” a twinge of annoyance in Surratt’s voice. “You know better than anyone that some young people are socially ahead or behind their peers.”

  Theresa Traynor jumped in. “I take it you’re referring to their maturity?”

  “Exactly. We see a big difference in students’ social growth. Some children come from homes where little is expected. Others are far ahead.”

  “What about the children who have school records,” Theresa asked. “Don’t those include notations related to social skills?”

  Chan was impressed by Theresa’s questions. Her presence was a stroke of good fortune.

  Surratt pulled a stack of files close, opening the top one.

  “Some do include social assessments, others don’t. The problem we run into is determining the quality of the assessments. The education many migrant kids get is hit-and-miss. A few days here and there, lots of movement from school to school, that kind of thing. You ran into some of this down south, right Ross?”

  “Sure did. Most migrant records aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.”

  “How do you know so much about those records?” Miss Bertie said. “Aren’t they supposed to be confidential?”

  Walker’s eyes narrowed. “If you must know, I was on the school board in Burley.”

  “I’ll repeat my question,” Miss Bertie said, meeting Walker’s stern look with one of her own. “How do you know so much about those records? Do school board members review all student records? That sounds like a breach of confidentiality.”