by Lisa Wingate
We were walking together for the last time, and both of us knew it.
“You are always welcome here anytime,” she offered, as if to deny the fact that this was really good-bye, probably forever. “You could put off your flight and stay a few days. Wherever you are headed isn’t going anywhere. There’s no need to run off.”
I wanted to accept her offer. Everything in me yearned to slow down, take some time to think, to call Mel and tell him he needed to go back to the hospital and look after his health—and by the way, I wasn’t coming home. I’d decided to become a Mennonite. Take up milking cows and baking zwieback, maybe design a few dental clinics on the side for extra cash. But instead I said, “Oh, I’m not running. I’m just going on this trip for work, and then back home.”
“I suppose it depends on your definition of the word.” She squeezed my arm, then watched the girls dash onto the lawn to play horsey on a live oak branch that dipped near the ground. “Home.”
I patted her hand but didn’t answer. What was I supposed to say? Moses Lake isn’t home. I’ve always hated this place. . . . But there was this one night out at Blue Moon Bay . . . and this trip to the bluffs to watch the eagles fly . . . and this moment in the shoe department of the hardware store. . . .
We hugged good-bye. She held on to my hand for a moment afterward, as if she meant to lecture me again. I halfway wanted it to work this time.
“Oh . . . I’ve remembered where the drawing of your grandfather and your uncles disappeared to.” She let her head fall back, silently scoffing at herself. “I gave it to your brother yesterday evening. He came by here to borrow a shovel and a few canning jars.” Fanning a hand by her head, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “Goodness! My mind these days. I think the medications might be worse than the disease.”
I stopped where I was. “Clay borrowed a shovel and jars from you? Last night?” What in the world did that add up to? “Why didn’t he just get those things from Uncle Herbert’s place?”
Ruth’s brow creased. “He was doing something out at your grandparents’ old farm, I think. He said there wasn’t a shovel out there and it was closer to come here and borrow one. He didn’t have time to go back to Moses Lake before dark. I gave the drawing to him, so he could bring it to you. I wasn’t feeling well, and I thought I might not be able to visit with you today, but the Lord is good. I woke feeling quite chipper this morning. Your brother hasn’t given you the drawing, then?”
“No. Not yet. He got in late.” No sense in worrying Ruth about last night’s fiasco with the Ladybug. “It’s probably still in his truck. I’ll ask him to mail it to me.”
I turned to leave, then paused again. “Are you sure Clay said he was working out at the farm? There have always been plenty of tools out there. As far as I could tell when Clay and I stopped by there for gas the other day, not a thing has been moved or sold off. . . .” Leave it be, leave it alone, Heather. Don’t get involved. Head for the airport. Don’t get sucked in again.
But even as I thought it, I felt like that little Mennonite girl standing on the hill above the big top, trying to decide whether to play it safe or go take a peek at the circus.
You either think on your feet, or sink on your feet.
—Dale Tazinski, LPC
(Fifty pounds lighter on his feet, after joining Weight Watchers)
Chapter 18
The airport in Waco was quiet and easy to deal with. Short-term parking was free, so leaving the car wouldn’t cost a thing. My exit from Texas was growing simpler by the minute, as if heavenly blessings were raining down upon it. There was even a bit of Proxica PR on the airport wall. Feeding a New Generation, the lighted sign read.
I found my gate and sat in the waiting area, my thumb rubbing slow circles over the slick plastic iPhone case. The broker offer was set to expire tomorrow. The day after Valentine’s Day. I needed to call Richard, see if there was any possibility of having the offer extended a week, or even two. By then Clay would probably have lost interest in Moses Lake. Hopefully if I kept trying, I could convince him to admit that he had a serious problem and needed help.
What if he doesn’t? What if something terrible happens, like last night but worse? The question was uncomfortable and confining. Inconvenient.
Maybe I was wrong to be leaving. I could still tell Mel he’d have to handle Japan on his own. Maybe I should stay and keep fighting. But how? No one in my family would listen. They were all fully determined that I was the one in the wrong, the pariah taking my sibling-rivalry issues out on poor Clay. Even if I told them everything that had happened last night, Clay would counter with his story about having fallen asleep in the car, and they would believe it because it was easier to believe, more pleasant.
I dialed Richard’s number, put the phone to my ear and sank in the chair, letting my head fall back against the wall, my eyes closed.
Richard’s voice was all business. “Richard Lawson.”
“It’s me.” For an instant I wished I could rekindle the intimacy that had been between us. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. How was he planning to spend the evening?
Maybe I didn’t want to know.
“Heather?” He sounded as if I’d been gone for a month, and he wasn’t sure who It’s me might be. I waited for him to ask how I was, how things were going. I wanted to pour out the whole story to someone. I wanted someone to be waiting for me at the Seattle airport whenever I finally made it home from Japan. I thought of Gary the dentist and his family. I wanted my return to be like his.
The longing hurt.
“What can I do for you?” Richard’s tone conveyed that he was pressed for time.
I swallowed my disappointment and moved right to the heart of the matter. “Any chance of getting the broker to extend the offer on the property—a week, maybe two? I think this thing will work itself out, given a little time.” As soon as I had a moment to collect my thoughts, I’d get in touch with Donny and let him know in no uncertain terms that he needed to extricate his father and Uncle Charley from the mess my mother and brother had created.
“I don’t see that happening.” Richard’s answer sent my hopes spiraling downward. “Proxica needs to seal the deal immediately to minimize any chance of information leaks. It’s hard to keep things under wraps in a small town. I know that the broker is working an offer on another piece of property nearby. They’ll ink that immediately after this offer expires. They’re getting nervous, with the AP picking up the Kentucky story.”
“The AP . . . What? What Kentucky story?” Not only was I out of sync with my family, but now Richard was speaking in riddles, too.
“The pesticide case. There’s a class-action suit against them in Kentucky—the thing about that pesticide, Armidryn. Proxica was using it widely on their farms until about the midnineties, when there were some court cases about a similar pesticide in Europe—they say the chemicals show up in water wells, farm produce, cow’s milk, that sort of thing, and cause health problems. That it stays in the soil for years.
“Anyway, at the time, Proxica denied that Armidryn was similar to the European pesticide, and they produced lab results and chemical specs to prove it. They did quietly quit using Armidryn on their farms and around their production facilities, though, and they patented a new formula, Armidryn II, that was supposed to be even safer. But some recent soil and water tests in Kentucky have shown high residual concentrations on some Proxica farms.
“The suspicion is that when Proxica needed to quickly and quietly get rid of their stores of Armidryn I, they may have buried it on some of their farms. There are also some accusations that either they continued shipping Armidryn I but claimed it was Armidryn II, or that Armidryn II isn’t as biodegradable and safe as Proxica claimed. None of it has been proven, though. Chances are, it’ll be tied up in court for years. Proxica isn’t about to just knuckle under. They can’t.”
He paused, talked to someone on his end of the phone, then came back. “But you can see why they wouldn’t w
ant to be trying to close land deals for future expansion after the court-case story goes national. The paranoia over something like that could cause all kinds of protests, problems with zoning, trouble with the locals and so forth.”
Trouble with the locals . . .
I sat up, opened my eyes, stared numbly at the windows, where the day was dimming as planes came and went. Everything seemed to stop, growing dark around the edges as I looked down the hall, taking in a skewed view of the illuminated Proxica sign.
Feeding a New Generation . . .
My father was so proud of that slogan, of Proxica’s commitment to healthy foods and to providing jobs for rural families. Were the facilities in Kentucky anything like the ones that would be built in Moses Lake? Anything like the ones that were already in Gnadenfeld? Had they been shipping this chemical . . . this Armidryn II to farms in our area? Could some of the original Armidryn stores have been buried here?
“What kind of health problems?” The fluorescent lights behind the sign flickered. A mother and a little girl walked past, pushing an old woman in a wheelchair. I thought of Ruth. She and her husband had lived on a Proxica farm for years, ever since the plant and the farms went in. My father helped Ruth’s husband get the job. “What kind of health problems do they think Armidryn causes, Richard?”
“I didn’t read up on it too extensively. My paralegal pulled a few things while she was getting the file together for the land deal. I skimmed it. Try Google. The conspiracy theorists are all over it. You’ll find what you need.” His answer was bland, matter-of-fact, giving no indication that he had any concept of the string of Black Cats exploding inside me. “Listen, Heather, I’m headed into a last-minute mediation. I’m going to have to sign off.”
I stood up as if to run after him. My carry-on bag fell over, hitting the floor with a smack. “Wait. Wait a minute! You knew about this? You were aware of this lawsuit, this . . . issue when you were putting the deal together? You never said anything to me?”
“I figured you knew. You usually do your homework, Heather.” He was getting impatient now. I wanted to reach through the phone and grab him by that perfectly-pressed collar of his. “Besides, you and Mel both have more connections to Proxica than I do.”
I slapped a hand to my throat, swallowing a ball of ashes. “You figured I knew? You figured I knew, that I just didn’t care if a company that’s under a class-action lawsuit moved into my father’s hometown? On land that’s been in my family forever?” What kind of a horrible, disgusting mercenary did he think I was? How could he, the man I was dating, the man I thought I wanted to marry, think that of me?
The answer was clear enough. I hadn’t given him any reason not to. He’d only seen me as the person I appeared to be.
Maybe as the person I was?
Ruth had cancer . . . “How could you think I would be okay with that?”
He responded with a harsh, cynical sound, something between a laugh and a hiss. “Oh, come on, Heather. You couldn’t wait to get rid of the place. You hated it. You wanted to stick it to your family and the whole town.”
I squatted down to pick up my carryon, stayed there with my head resting in my hand. “I would never . . .”
“Mel knew about the Kentucky lawsuit. He wasn’t worried about it. By the time anything happens in terms of a court case, the facility in Moses Lake will be a reality, and your firm will be out of the loop. You’re going to tell me that Mel never said anything to you? You’re going to tell me the Kentucky issue never came up?”
“No, it never came up. Mel didn’t mention anything like that. I would never help some . . . some corporate entity that’s hurting people—that’s poisoning people. Who would, Richard? What kind of a person would do that intentionally?” Was this the sort of life I’d built for myself, a thief among thieves, a person who would do whatever it took to turn a profit?
“Listen, I’ve got to go,” he repeated. “I’m due in the meeting.”
“You know what . . . ? Good-bye.” This time I meant it with every fiber of my being. I hoped I never saw Richard’s face again. Or Mel’s. The idea of spending time in the same room with either one of them disgusted me.
The walls of the airport dissolved in a blur of movement as I grabbed my things and hurried toward the door. Passing the Proxica sign, I wanted to pick up my suitcase and smash the plastic, obliterate the innocuous-sounding slogan.
After throwing my belongings into the car, I stopped long enough to text Mel and tell him I wouldn’t be making it to Japan—today or anytime. I ended by letting him know exactly how I felt about the class-action lawsuit against Proxica in Kentucky. Before I could change my mind, I took a breath, pushed Send, and set down the phone.
My thoughts rushed ahead, forming connections, the events of the past few days coming together like pieces of a puzzle as I pulled out of the parking lot and started toward Moses Lake. Everything that had confused me solidified into a scenario that made perfect sense. Shovels, ziplock bags, vials . . . Clay’s hint that he knew the broker offer on the property had something to do with development, the fact that he just happened to be dating a girl who worked at Proxica’s Gnadenfeld plant, his sudden interest in Moses Lake . . .
All along, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that seemed to indicate it, I couldn’t quite picture my brother succumbing to a drug problem. It just wasn’t like Clay to get involved in something like that.
But it was like him to take up a cause.
A cause that may have turned dangerous. . . .
What if, all those times I’d felt like someone was watching us at Harmony House, someone really was? Maybe I hadn’t been turning shadows into ghosts but had been seeing people lurking. People who were trying to figure out how much my brother knew, where he was hiding the proof, and who he’d told.
I had to find out the truth, and if I was right about what Clay was doing, I had to stop him before something terrible happened.
When I made it back to Moses Lake, the high-school gym was lit up like a Christmas tree. Western swing music poured from the gaps around the windows of the WPA-era stone building. Under the portico hung stars made of rebar framing and red Christmas lights with the paint partially scraped off, so that portions of the stars twinkled a gaudy combination of red and white. The sight of them brought back memories. They had been a fixture at every high-school dance and community gathering I’d missed out on during my senior year. I’d seen them hanging in the eaves, sitting on the stage, poised in the bleachers, or out front under the portico, as I hurried through the gym from one building to the other. Cheerleaders hauled them back and forth while decorating for pep rallies and socials, giggling and working in pairs to lug the stars around the gym and decide where to position them.
I’d hated those stars. They were one more reason to be angry with my father, to hate what he had done to me by taking the job at the Gnadenfeld plant and moving us to Moses Lake.
After he was gone, the fact that I’d barely spoken to him the last three months of his life, the fact that I’d hated him, was one more reason to hate myself. The stars reminded me of all of that.
Tonight, Reverend Hay was standing under the portico with the high-school principal from back in the day, Burt Lacey, along with Uncle Charley, and Mr. Hall, who’d been president of the school board when I graduated and probably still was. They stopped me before I could get to the door, but I couldn’t focus on their greetings. My mind was awash in thoughts and questions, coming in short, rapid fire bursts. Armidryn, cancer, Proxica. Did Dad know? I wanted to find my mother, to force her to tell me exactly what was happening that last week before my father died. Did he know what Proxica was doing? Did he suspect that something dangerous had been buried as the facilities were being built? Had he found evidence? Was that why he had been acting so strangely before the accident?
Accident . . . Was there a chance that my father’s shooting wasn’t an accident or a suicide, but a murder?
“Couldn’t get a plane
out tonight after all, huh?” Uncle Charley stretched out an arm, pulling me in for a shoulder hug. “We’ve been having us a little school board meetin’, right here during the community Valentine’s shindig . . . sorta on the sly, so to speak. There’s a bond issue about to pass, and we gotta figure out how to get Moses Lake ready for the twenty-first century without letting Claire Anne Underhill tear down this old place and put up some glass-and-metal crackerbox. Kids shouldn’t go to school in something that feels like a hospital. A place oughta have history, and this old building’s strong. It’ll go another hundred years, if we treat it right.”
Lips curving upward contemplatively, he gazed into the eaves, small puffs of steam floating from his nostrils, the stars reflecting off his glasses. “Young boys mustered up to go to war in this old buildin’, danced a last dance with their best gals, said good-bye to their folks, stole a kiss from their sweeties behind the bleachers. You can’t replace history like that.”
I shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, Uncle Charley’s arm weighing heavily on my shoulders, his vision clouding my mind. I pictured young men with duffel bags—a change of clothes, clean socks, and their parents’ fears packed inside—their dreams on hold. I pictured Ruth and her sister coming to this school, the ladies of the community gathering around them, taking in those frightened, damaged Mennonite girls, telling them they were safe within these walls. I pictured my father and his friends running across the gymnasium during pep rallies, their blue-and-gold Moses Lake football jerseys loose with no shoulder pads underneath as they tore through paper signs reading Smear the Spartans! or Beat the Bulldogs!
The images haunted me like unwanted ghosts, even as I tried to push them away. I couldn’t think about that now. “Uncle Charley, there’s a lot involved in rehabbing a building of this age. The existing structure would have to be closely studied and assessed, and plans drawn up to provide for an expansion that would blend with the historic structure. It’s not impossible. The right person could do it. When I get back to Seattle, I could help you find—”
