“Right, no problem,” Milo said with a smile that faded swiftly.
“I just want to know,” she whispered, “What is this place?”
“This Miss Rowena’s place. Bent Willow Farm. It’s not much, right? But for some of us, it’s all we got.”
Another man came along and touched Milo’s shoulder, directing him to get back to work. He was a full head and shoulders taller than Traci, wearing a faded green Moe’s Tavern t-shirt, his hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. Perspiration stains already flowed down the center of his chest and his weary eyes were fixed on Traci.
“Get this out to the compost pile,” the man said to Milo while never losing his gaze on Traci.
Milo used both hands to lift the thirty gallon trash can overflowing with weeds and kitchen scraps. He hoisted it onto his back, glancing at Traci over his shoulder as he turned and walked away. Traci smiled politely and nodded at the man. He didn’t nod back or smile. She backed up and looked away. She could see the flash of sunlight on the windshield of the 8:20 bus turning the corner and headed down the block. She made a mad dash for it, cutting across the street right in front of it. She dropped her fare in the box and walked past the scowling driver, taking a seat completely out of breath. A fresh start as a bicycle courier? “Come through electric bikes,” she said.
Chapter Five
EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION at Dependable Flyers was exactly how Traci imagined it would be, long and tedious. With her cellphone stowed away in her locker, she grew restless on the metal folding chair and chipped away her nail polish. She smiled absently toward the other newbies and wondered who would be the first to quit.
9:00 - signing paperwork, employee photo, company president welcome video
10:30 - tour of office, uniform dress code and kit distribution
11:00 - bicycle assignment and mentor introduction
11:30 - lunch with mentor
Traci had nothing against her mentor Warren, except the idea of being someone’s shadow all day. That was the part she dreaded. Ms. Rios had implied she would work alone. What was this idea of being joined at the hip with someone? For three weeks!
When it was finally lunchtime, Warren returned from the locker room with his lunch tote and waved Traci over to a seat near the window overlooking Bridgewell Arboretum. There were a lot of hollowed out courtyards and open green spaces in Keeferton because of the New Century Renaissance Project. Political candidates and dignitaries clamored for photo ops around the parks, hoping to garner tourism and funding. Traci sat comfortably looking at all the handsomely groomed acreage behind the walls of a “climate controlled state-of-the-art employee skylight cafe” in its “zero carbon footprint Bridgewell Headquarters Building,” all the while thinking of Milo and his fellow workers toiling in the fields near her home. What was this feeling she couldn’t shake? She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t tired. She felt lost.
Traci stepped away from the table. She did not what to listen to Warren describing how long he had worked for Dependable Flyers, how long it took for him to be promoted, how long it will take for his next promotion, how long it took for his wife to get pregnant and how long before the baby arrived. She needed air. She tried calling Myra again. No answer and a full voicemail box. She sent another text.
Myra, I need to talk to you. It’s really important.
Traci tossed an antacid into her mouth. She wanted to leave Warren at the lunch table with his precision cut peanut butter filled celery sticks and “perfect pH for optimum performance” alkaline water. She looked for an exit that led outside of this glass cage, but they all directed back to work areas or the secured reception station. Her eyes scanned each window section for an opening, a latch or hinge that would release a panel where she could crawl out. She needed out. Now. She could feel her cheeks burning and scalp tingling.
“Ready?” Warren said, “We’ll take a delivery assignment together. You can follow me and see how things work.”
“Outside?”
“Yep,” Warren said smiling, “It will be a quick ride. I won’t tire you out on your first gig.” He laughed, “Wouldn’t want you to quit after your first day.”
“Right,” Traci said and forced a smile.
Warren started walking toward the bike staging area in the bright courtyard along the side of the building. She followed so closely behind Warren that she clipped the back of his heels. She donned her neon green with red flames Dependable Flyers helmet, unlocked her assigned bicycle and sat waiting while Warren went back inside to get the packet. He rushed out to meet her wearing his ever-present toothy grin, stuffed a large manila folder into his cross-body courier bag, draped it across his chest and mounted his bicycle. He tucked his pant cuffs into his socks and checked to make sure Traci was ready.
“Follow me. We’ve got a client over at Warner Electric. We can take the side streets. There’ll be more shade and we’ll miss the City Centre traffic.”
Traci knew the way. It was through her neighborhood of Magnolia Grove. The old trees would shield them from the relentless afternoon sun. She wasn’t sure about how well she would do with this job. But now that they were outside, the tension was fading away. She went through her mental checklist again:
Four things you can see. Warren. Sidewalks. Stop sign. Purple Leaf Bakery.
Three things you can feel. Hot handlebar. Pedals. Helmet.
Two things you can smell. Bus exhaust. Hair gel.
One thing you can taste. Regret.
Relax, breathe, refocus.
“I’m going to be okay,” Traci whispered to herself as they entered the familiar boundaries of Magnolia Grove. She took a deep breath, loosened her shoulders and unclenched her fingers around the handlebars. She overtook Warren when they reached the next intersection. “I know this street.” She waved to him, “I live right down there!” She smiled, and he smiled back. They lingered at the corner.
“Show me!” Warren said.
Traci allowed herself to take in his smile beaming under the smoke biker sunglasses.
“Okay,” she said and turned down the next alley that connected all the properties. She led him around the ruts and potholes through the dusty lane, ducking under low-hanging branches, turning to check that he made the adjustments. Warren was matching her pace, glancing around now and then to check out the old houses and decayed yard ornaments.
Suddenly, he plowed into the side of Traci and let his bike drop to the ground before falling with it. Stunned, he grabbed her shoulder and pulled off his sunglasses. She was frozen in place, speechless, staring across the backyard of a red and white house and a small group of people blocked off by yellow police tape.
Traci let go of her bike and stepped out of Warren’s grasp. She squinted her eyes, searching through the blue and white flashes from the two police cars parked diagonally across the driveway looking for Milo. She could hear the radio chatter and officers warn everyone not to enter the property. She walked up the path to where the crowd was waiting, no one speaking. Everyone was staring in the direction of the small kitchen garden next to the house. She stepped directly in front of the Moe’s Tavern guy and looked past the huddle of uniforms.
They had draped a white cloth over what was clearly a human body on the cement slab below the kitchen window. A police officer was talking with one of the women that Traci recognized from the field. She was sobbing uncontrollably and gripping her headwrap in her fists. Traci turned toward the person standing next to her, and before she could form the words, Moe’s Tavern said, “Miss Rowena.”
“What happened?” Traci said.
“When you find out, let us know,” he said and walked away. His sarcastic tone cut through to her core.
Warren pushed through the crowd and nudged her arm.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said, “But, we have to get back to work.”
Traci was too busy scanning the scene and refused to follow him back to where they had left their bikes. Her heart leaped. She saw Milo s
tanding off by himself at the edge of the tool rack. She started walking toward him, and he dashed behind a pickup truck. By the time she reached the spot where he had been standing, he was totally out of sight. She walked around the side of the truck and still did not find him. Her phone buzzed.
“Traci.” It was Warren. “I’m going ahead to finish this delivery. Meet me back at the office,” she could hear traffic and frustration, “if you still want your job.”
She walked back to the area where a police officer was talking to individuals and writing notes on a small clipboard. Stunned, she waited alone. Finally, the officer walked over to her.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m Officer Wells.”
“Hi,” Traci said, “What happened?”
“I just want to ask you a few questions,” he said, “Is that okay?”
“Yes,” Traci said. What could she possibly know? Certainly she had more questions in her mind than answers.
“Did you know Ms. Garrett?”
“Know her?” Traci was fixated on her reflection in the officer’s mirrored sunglasses. She wasn’t sure how to answer. What had the others told him about her? What should she say or not say? Why was she even standing there when none of this was any of her business? She felt the blood pulsing in her tightened fists.
“The deceased, Rowena Garrett,” said Officer Wells, “did you know her?”
“No, I did not.” Traci said, “I just met her. I guess you could say we were neighbors.”
“So, you live nearby?”
“Yes,” she said, her fingers trembled as she pointed toward her house. “Down the alley on the other side of those trees.”
The officer jotted down something, looked up at her and then wrote some more.
“I have to get back to work,” she said. “Sorry, I really have to go. It’s my first day and I don’t want to lose my job.”
“I understand,” Officer Wells said, “I’ll take down your information and contact you later.”
Traci gave him her full name, address and phone number. Her voice was shaking all the while. She regretted staying behind instead of leaving with Warren.
“I’ll be in touch,” Officer Wells said.
Traci made it back to Dependable Flyers in time to meet Warren at her locker. He explained how he had smoothed things over with the director for her. Traci didn’t hear anything he said except that he would meet her first thing Monday morning at the bicycle rack. Was that good news?
Her thoughts were still racing from the news about Rowena Garrett. She stared out of the bus window, then scrolled through the news apps on her phone. No word about what happened other than an obscure mention of police investigating an incident in Magnolia Grove. It was odd that nothing specific was mentioned about Miss Rowena’s death. No obituary either. Probably too soon for that. What would it say about her? Was it crazy to anticipate reading someone’s obituary?
Instead of going straight home, Traci took the long way around and entered the field while the evening sunset was a dark coral slice on the horizon. She pulled her hair down out of the red and neon green headband and let the wind catch it as she looked across the fence into the empty field. No sound of the shovels and familiar chatter. Just the fluttering of birds and small animals in the tall grasses. No one was in sight in the entire path through Rowena Garrett’s land until she got closer to Hazelton House. She could hear the cats meowing on the other side of the garden. She waited and out they popped from the small shed, followed by Milo.
“Milo, what are you doing here?”
He emptied a scoop of cat food into tin pie pans. The cats pounced on the food and began purring softly.
“What are you doing here?” he said and wiped his tear-stained face with the back of his arm.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” she said looking around to see if anyone else was near. “It’s so strange. I just want to know what happened.”
“We all do.”
Was that anger in his voice? She couldn’t read this kid and that bothered her. She was always good at sizing up people. Not this one.
“Was she your family, Milo?”
“I ain’t got no family, Miss Traci.”
The way he said her name, that was definitely anger. He put the lid on the feed bucket and stored it back inside the shed. She waited.
“Look, I don’t think we should be here and it looks like no work is going to be done today. I guess we should get home,” Traci said while she reached down and patted one of the cats’ arched back.
She watched Milo as he studied the ground between them. Finally she turned and walked away. She looked back over her shoulder. Milo had not moved. They stood in silence for a few minutes, a few yards apart.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, “a little bit.”
“C’mon”
Traci led him down the path and through the alley. As they approached her house, she walked ahead and grabbed a flashlight she had stashed in the planter on her front porch. She shined it down on the walk in front of him.
“Watch your step,” Traci said, pointing to the uneven wooden slats that led to her door. He followed her through the shabby living room into the kitchen. Traci pulled the metal lawn chair from the back porch and set it in the kitchen for Milo. He brushed off his pants and sat down.
“It still needs work,” she said and rolled the backpack off her shoulder onto the floor.
“It’s not bad,” he said and glanced around the room.
She turned on the ceiling fan and they both watched as it buzzed and the blades slowly turned. The center light cast a creamy glow over them.
“That’s my favorite thing, so far,” she said looking around the room. It was nowhere near as spacious as the kitchen in Hazelton House. She had a hot plate, toaster oven and microwave on the butcher block countertop. A compact refrigerator sat at an angle in the corner to cover the spot where she had run out of the pastel green paint for the walls. It was the color of her favorite lime sorbet that one of her many ‘aunts’ would use as a bribe to keep her from crying. Auntie Rose, she thought, or was it Ruth?
“Nice,” Milo said. He settled back in the chair and looked around the room. Traci opened her fridge and glanced back at him.
“I have some leftover Chinese takeout. I eat it cold sometimes. It’s pretty good that way, actually,” she said while stacking the small buckets of lo mein noodles and vegetable stir-fry, plates and forks on the card table in the center of the room.
“Okay, that would be great,” Milo mumbled. He watched her scoop helpings of each onto a paper plate. “Thank you,” he said. He reached for the plate and looked at his hands.
“Oh, here,” Traci said pointing to the sink. She passed him the bottle of dish soap and a hand towel. “I’ll get you a drink.”
She left Milo standing at the sink scrubbing his hands meticulously and grabbed two bottles of water from the cooler on her back porch. When she returned Milo had already eaten all of his food.
“You can have more if you want.”
“You sure?”
Traci pushed the containers toward him and took a sip of water. She hopped up on the kitchen counter and slipped off her shoes, letting them fall to the floor with a thud. She watched Milo finish the takeout and swallow down the water in big gulps. He smiled up at her, finally. He looked about fourteen years old under the soft light.
“Thank you.”
“No problem,” Traci said. She found some peanut butter sandwich cookies in the cabinet and tossed one in her mouth. She took a couple long sips of water, trying to think of something to say.
“I appreciate this, Miss Traci,” Milo said breaking the silence.
“What happened over there, Milo?”
“They say she fell out the attic window,” he said, his voice cracking. “Hit that concrete so hard it broke her neck.”
She tried to imagine the scene and wondered who found Miss Rowena’s body, who called the police and what will
happen to all those people?
“But, I don’t believe them,” Milo said interrupting her thoughts. He folded his hands into fists, clenching and unclenching them. Traci cleared away the table and poured a small glass of Pelon out of Milo’s view. She swallowed it down, and another one, then filled the glass a third time.
“Why not?” she said and turned to face him. “What do you think really happened?”
“I don’t know. But, I do know that Miss Rowena never went up them steps. They was too steep and she was a real scary type,” he said. “A lot of people didn’t know that about her. But, she believed her dead ancestors still lived in that house. You know, ghosts.”
Traci raised her eyebrows and downed the rest of her drink.
“Well ...” she said and took a breath, searching for the right words.
“All I’m saying is,” Milo said, “she ain’t die like that. No ma’am, not like that.”
“You know, it is pretty crazy,” Traci said, “falling out a window like that.” She could feel the bourbon kicking in as she struggled to get the words in her mind to flow smoothly across her lips. She dragged one of the thrift store bar stools across the room, perched herself on it and looked down at him.
“You know what else’s crazy, Milo?” she said leaning over him.
“What?”
“What’s crazy is ...” she said, brushing her hair back. “I think you’re right!” She laughed.
“I think you’re drunk,” Milo said with a shy smile.
“Well,” she wiped her mouth, “you’re right again.”
They laughed for a few minutes. They both needed it. Then they sat and looked at each other, out of breath.
“What happened to you?” Milo said, pointing to her arm.
“I hurt myself,” she said softly, rubbing the scar. “I used to hurt myself a lot.”
Milo nodded, walked over and tossed his empty water bottle in the trash across the room. He stood in the corner, lost in his thoughts.
“See, Miss Rowena, she cared about me. She’d come looking for me, you know? When nobody else was. She was like that. If she hadn’t done it, I don’t know where I’d be right now.” He looked down at his hands. “Probably locked up somewhere.” He looked away at the wall, “Probably locked up,” he repeated to himself, “or worse.”
Final Harvest Page 3
