by Kim Liggett
“Ali?” I hardly recognize my own voice. It’s like I’m a kid all over again.
She drapes her arms inside the truck and leans in close. I feel her breath on my cheek, smell the faint hint of flowers in her hair. Her fingertips graze the top of my thigh, dangerously close to my zipper. Adrenaline rushes through every part of me.
“Meet me at midnight,” she whispers, “at the breeding barn.”
As she turns to walk back to Tyler’s car, I force the key into the ignition and pull out of the lot, ignoring the angry car horns.
I almost crash into some poor girl in a powder-blue Buick, but I have to get out of here. I turn up the stereo as loud as it will go, but it still doesn’t drown out the screaming in my head. The Ali I knew would never go to the Neely ranch after what happened there. She would never ask me to go there.
I’m glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure no one’s following when I catch my reflection. My eyes—they look just like Dad’s on the night he died. His last words cling to the back of my throat like thick bile.
“I plead the blood.”
5
AS I turn on to Route 17, I spot a bunch of punk kids ducking into the woods behind Merritt’s gas station. There’s an old campsite out there where nothing good ever happens. Through the pines, I catch a glimpse of what looks like chestnut hair. Pale skin. A black boot.
Jess.
Without even thinking, I whip the truck around and pull into the lot, kicking up a mess of red earth and gravel.
The kids take off running. By the time I break through the trees, they’ve scattered.
“Jess,” I call as I chase them through the woods, but I don’t see her anywhere.
I catch up to a scrawny kid with a dirty-blond mullet, tackling him to the ground.
“Where’s Jess?” I flip him over to see his face and I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Lee Wiggins. He used to be in my class. It’s like he’s wearing a Halloween mask year round—face like a gnawed-up cheese pizza.
They say the chemicals melted off half the skin on his body. Left nothing behind of his dumbass brothers. A family full of meth heads, bootleggers before that. They blew themselves up in a trailer behind Ted Bannon’s junkyard on the same night my dad died.
“Jess!” I scan the woods, her name echoing through the pines.
“He’s coming.” Lee smiles up at me, clutching my shirt. He reeks of cigarettes, burnt hair, and iodine.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I try to pry his hands free. “And what are you doing with my sister?”
The woods are dense; it’d be so easy to get lost back here. Disappear.
“He who slays the golden calf will be chosen,” Lee whispers, spit bubbles specking his scarred lips.
My heart stutters. “Wait … what … what do you know about the calf?” I grab his shoulders and shake him. “Was it you? Did you put it there?”
“It could be me. The seed. The Devil told me so … from the flames.” He grins, his grotesque skin stretching tight across his bones like thick rubber bands.
“Stop smiling at me!” I scream, rage boiling inside of me.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I haul back and punch him in the face. The sick feel of his waxy gnarled skin against my knuckles makes me cringe. Horrified by what I’ve done, I clutch my fist tight to my chest and crawl off him. “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Sure you did.” Lee just lies there on the pine straw, smiling, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. “I know all about you. We’re the same, you and me.”
Molten heat radiates through my muscles. I clench my fists tighter.
I tower over him, the edge of my boot inches away from his head. “I don’t know what your deal is, but if you don’t stay away from my sister, I’ll come back and put you out of your misery. You understand me?”
His grin stretches wider, exposing his crooked bottom teeth, swimming in blood. “I’m counting on it.”
“You’re crazy.” I stagger back.
His laughter follows me out of the woods.
My truck door’s still wide open, engine running, music full blast.
I tear out of the lot, back toward home.
I don’t know what the hell got into me back there.
As hard as I try, I can’t get Lee out of my head. His face. His words.
The Devil.
* * *
I PARK in back of the equipment shed so Noodle won’t see the truck. I can’t look at her. Not right now. Not after what I just did.
As soon as I enter the shed, my eyes settle on the spot where I discovered all those explosives last year. I buried them on a patch of barren land on the back acres. I don’t know what Dad was doing with all that, but it didn’t matter. He was gone.
Grabbing a hatchet, a shovel, and a couple of heavy-duty black compost bags, I head out to the combine.
I feel the weight of what I’m about to do in my limbs, like I’m moving underwater.
A turkey vulture passes overhead; I wonder if we’re headed to the same place. Shading my eyes from the sun, I peer up at the sky—an endless gunmetal blue with long white clouds stretching out like continents I’ll never see.
As I get closer to the combine, I tie a bandana around my nose and mouth and brace myself for the stench of the calf, the sound of the maggots worming their way through the innards, a glistening moist endless rattle that makes my stomach churn. I’ll never forget that sound when I found Dad in the breeding barn.
God, I hate maggots. When I die I want to be cremated. I know it’s not the Tate way, but this land’s already taken so much from us. I want to leave this earth nothing more than a pile of ash.
I crouch so I can peer under the cutting platform, but there’s nothing there. No maggots, no fur, no blood.
When I reach my hand in to see if it somehow settled under the discarded wheat stems, the engine roars to life, the cutting blade nicking my arm.
I scramble back from the combine, my adrenaline setting my nerves on fire.
“Tyler, is that you?” I peer in the cab, but there’s no one there. I run around the tractor. “This isn’t funny,” I yell over the roar of the engine.
I search for my gloves, the ones I left behind this morning, the gloves that should be covered in blood, but they’re nowhere to be found.
Holding my head in my hands, like I can press the madness from my brain, I scan the fields. I’m desperate for a logical explanation. Anything other than I’m just going crazy.
The wind stings as it hits my cut. I glance down at the bright-red blood trickling onto the golden wheat and I feel dizzy. Bleary-eyed, I stare out over the untilled crops waving in the wind like a churning sea.
I understand how the settlers got lost in the plains. It’d be so easy to lose your bearings out here, get separated from the herd. Once you’re isolated, the predators can pick you off.
My breath is coming in short bursts now; it feels like the wheat, the sky, and the earth are squeezing me from all sides.
Backing up to the combine, I climb into the cab and cut the engine. There’s no way it could’ve started on its own. I listen closely, but the only thing I hear is the occasional ting of the engine cooling down and the faint buzz of the train whistling through the crossing on Route 17. It’s so quiet I swear I can hear my heartbeat thrumming in the slash across my arm. I pull the first-aid kit from under the seat to find Noodle’s put heart stickers over everything. My chin quivers.
“Just keep it together, Clay,” I whisper as I rip open a packet of gauze and wrap it around my wrist. The combine’s been acting up lately. And it’s just a surface cut.
I notice my bruised knuckles and a fresh wave of guilt washes over me. No one needs to know about this. About any of it. I think about heading home, barricading myself in my room for the rest of the day, but then I think of Noodle standing there with her sticker bag. That goofy Kool-Aid-stained grin, her front two teeth missing. I
can’t let her down. I can’t let the family down.
All of this could be caused by lack of sleep. I mean, even when I’m asleep, it’s a restless sleep. I keep having the weirdest dreams—Noodle whispering in my ear, telling me to work the wheat. It has to mean something. This last harvest will bring in the money we need to pay for that school over in Murpheyville. It might be too late for the rest of us, but Noodle deserves this. I’ll do whatever it takes to help her get out of here … make something of her life.
I take in a deep shaky breath and let it all out. Okay … so there’s no calf. Maybe there never was a calf. Maybe I fell asleep in the cab this morning and dreamt the entire thing. That could happen. Same with Ali. I mean, if she smiled at me like that, walked over to my truck, Dale would be calling me nonstop to get all the details. And Lee Wiggins … who the hell knows. I lost my temper, that was a mistake, but he’s not going to say anything. Even if he did, everybody thinks the Wiggins are crazy trash.
As much as I explain it away, a part of me wonders if this is how it all started for Dad. Maybe it’s schizophrenia.
Maybe it’s in my blood.
I drag my hands through my hair as I look back toward the house. The house my ancestors built from nothing. I need to man up. The fields aren’t going to work themselves.
I force myself to turn the ignition. The combine purrs to life so easily, it takes me aback.
Like it’s been waiting for me.
6
BY THE time I notice the front porch light flickering, dusk has come and gone. I worked the fields with a kind of focus only the heaviest of death metal can bring. As I climb out of the cab, I feel completely spent, but my mind’s still reeling.
Noodle doesn’t ask me how many acres I did, but I can tell she’s dying to know by the way she’s gripping her sticker bag. I dig my hand in and count out six gold stars for her. She hums a little tune as she places them in the squares.
Standing back so she can admire her work, she slips her hand into mine. “More than halfway there.”
That’s Noodle for you—glass half-full.
“Clay?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Supper’s ready.”
“Finally.” Jess clomps down the stairs.
Noodle skips off to help with the plates.
“Were you out by Merritt’s today?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down.
Jess lets out a heavy sigh. “What’s it to you?”
“I saw that Wiggins kid out there.”
“So?”
“So, I want you to stay away from him. Stay away from those woods.”
She rolls her eyes at me.
“I’m serious, Jess.”
“I’m starving.” She barges past. “It’s stupid we have to wait for you to eat. King of the castle … just like Dad.”
I grab her arm, yanking her back. “I’m nothing like Dad.”
She looks down at my hand in shock, and jerks away. “Leave me alone, psycho.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” But she’s already gone.
We sit in our usual spots, while Mom waits on us hand and foot. I’m always telling her she doesn’t have to do it, but I think it’s a way to keep the attention off her, keep busy.
Dad’s chair sits empty at the head of the table, like a ghost. We never talk about it, but that’s the Tate way—there’s honor in the pain. Tragedy is a way of life, right? Why should we be immune? Right after the funeral, during one of her spells, Mom told me she thought it was God’s punishment for having so much—being blessed with healthy children, a fruitful farm. But I don’t believe that. Not even God can be that big of an asshole.
Noodle starts grace. A little whistle escapes through the gap in her teeth every time she makes the “th” sound. I never say grace anymore. Feels wrong.
“And God bless potpie night. Amen.”
Thursday night, potpie night. Basically all the leftovers from the week thrown in a dish with gravy and a piecrust tucked over the top. It sounds gross, but it’s pretty good.
Jess takes the best piece, the one on the far side where the oven’s the hottest and the crust gets real crunchy. Mom always gets stuck with the soggy middle piece. She claims she likes it best, but we know she won’t touch it anyway. She’ll just move it around the plate over and over again in the same pattern, a sweeping arc with a couple of stabs for good measure.
Each of us had our own way of dealing with what happened, but sometimes I think Mom took on the worst of it—the shame.
“How are you coming on the wheat?” Mom asks as she finally sits down and picks up her fork. I look away. I can’t stand watching her going through the motions anymore.
Noodle sits up all proud. “Right on schedule, forty-four acres left.”
I feel her tapping the leg of the chair, no doubt, forty-four times.
“I need new clothes,” Jess says, more as a demand than a request.
I’m saving for Noodle’s tuition at All Saints, but I don’t want anyone to know about that yet. Not until she gets in. “Well, I’m sure as hell not giving you hard-earned crop money to buy clothes you’re just going to cut holes in anyway.”
Jess opens her mouth as wide as she can to show me her half-chewed food.
Noodle giggles at her. “I don’t need new clothes.”
“Duh.” Jess looks her up and down. “It’s not like any boy is ever going to be interested in you anyway, unless it’s COUNT Dracula.”
Noodle kicks her hard under the table. Mom and I ignore it. If Noodle kicks you, you probably deserve it.
“Tomorrow’s homecoming,” Mom says with a gasp as she looks up at the wall where the calendar used to hang, like she can still see the date circled. “You should have an extra piece tonight. You’ll need your strength.”
We all freeze in place, looking at each other anxiously. It’s usually best to play along. She’ll remember eventually, and when she does, she’ll take to her bed. To be honest, I’m not sure which is worse.
“Do you need a corsage … for Ali?” she asks as she moves her food around.
I flinch at the memory. Last year, after the game, I was going to take Ali to the dance, finally tell her how I felt. Instead, I spent it in the wheat alone, mourning my dad, thinking I’d just killed that halfback, and cursing the day I’d ever been born.
I glance into the living room. Even though the lights are off, I swear I can still see the faint outline where the metal crucifix used to hang.
I force myself to swallow another bite and glance at the clock on the wall: 9:06 P.M. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
“Your dad sure is working late these days, but don’t worry, we’ll be there in time for kickoff. He wouldn’t miss that.”
“Why can’t anyone say it?” Jess drops her silverware on the table with a loud clang. “You know what tonight is, right? It’s the one-year anniversary. Can we at least take Dad’s chair away now? It’s not like he’s ever coming back. He’s dead, Mom. He went crazy and now we’re paying the price.”
Noodle’s smile melts away. Mom looks down at her plate.
I’m partly relieved for the interruption, but I can’t believe she said that.
I glare at her.
“What?” Jess wads up her napkin.
As I look down at the flesh-colored vegetables and meat oozing with gravy, I feel sick to my stomach. I poke at my plate with my fork a few times and then ask if I can be excused.
“Of course, honey,” Mom says with a weary smile. “You’ll need your rest for the big game tomorrow.” She starts to get up to clear my plate, but I carry it to the sink on my own. I can’t look at her right now. It hurts too much.
“I don’t want you waiting on me for supper anymore.” I walk away before getting a response.
I make it to the foot of the stairs when Noodle comes crashing into me from behind with a hug. “You’re good, Clay. Don’t forget that.”
I pull her around and hold her tight. I have no idea what she’s talking about,
but somehow it’s exactly what I need.
* * *
MY ROOM is stifling.
Who am I kidding? This house is stifling.
Peeling back the garbage bag, I open up my window and take in a deep breath of fresh air. My eyes automatically zero in on the Neely ranch. No lights—nothing but dead space.
All I can think about is Ali leaning into my truck, her fingertips almost grazing the top of my thighs, my zipper. I feel stupid for thinking it was real. No way she’d even look at me, let alone ask me to meet her at the breeding barn. Maybe Miss Granger’s right. Maybe it’s the sleeping pills.
I grab one of the bottles from my bedside table and read the side effects. Warning: This medication may cause drowsiness. Sure as hell hope so. In some cases this may cause delusions, check. Tremors, check. Hallucinations, check. And severe mood disorders. Awesome.
“Thanks for nothing, Dr. Perry.” I gather up all the pill bottles and empty them into the toilet, flushing them before I have a chance to change my mind.
Stripping down to my boxers, I climb into bed. The sheets feel clammier than my skin.
I left my music on the combine, but I’m not about to go back out there and get it. So what if I have to lie here all night? It’s not like it’s going to kill me. I can still read.
I pull out the family Bibles and farm ledgers stashed under my bed.
At first, I was looking for clues, but now it’s just habit. The last few weeks of his life, Dad couldn’t stop poring over these books. And when he didn’t have his nose buried in one of them, he was down at the Preservation Society looking through the archives.
I feel like the answer’s here, staring me right in the face, but I just can’t see it. The only thing remotely interesting is the family tree. That night, Dad kept talking about the sixth generation … the seed. It must have something to do with the family tree.
I trace my finger across the names.
Thomas Tate came here and settled this farm in 1889. So I guess he’s the first. It passed on to his son Benjamin Tate in 1919. And then to his son Lyle Tate in 1950. Then Heath Tate in 1979. My dad, Neil Tate, in 2000.
