by Brad Smith
Frances gestured around her. ‘Everything. I guess I was naive, coming in.’ She laughed. ‘I mean, this is show business! I wasn’t looking for that. There’s a difference between being a farmer and being a lifestyle maven. Even a small market lifestyle maven. I’m a farmer. Carl bought me rubber boots for my birthday and I got all excited.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Frances said. She took a drink of wine. ‘And you know the sad part about all of this? Other than the fact that I just used the word maven twice?’
‘Tell me the sad part,’ Christina urged.
‘There’s a thousand of us sitting around in a thousand TV studios right now, desperately trying to come up with fresh Christmas ideas. What can we do that’s never been done before? Can we shoot a turkey out of a cannon? Can we make a Santa Claus out of cranberries? Can we deep fry an elf?’
‘I like the elf idea,’ Christina said. ‘Let me run it past Shawn.’
Frances smiled, then glanced at her watch. ‘I have to run. I have a turkey to pick up.’
‘You don’t raise your own?’
Frances shook her head. ‘Long story. We did raise a couple this year, one for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas. Ridley Bronze, heritage birds. We made the mistake of letting Stacy name them. Trust me – once you name an animal, you’re not going to chop its head off and eat it for dinner. So we are now going to have two Ridley Bronze turkeys living with us for – well, for however long Ridley Bronze turkeys live.’
‘Remind me who Stacy is?’
‘She works for us,’ Frances said. ‘Good kid, still trying to figure out what to do. She’s become a surrogate daughter. Plays with the pup and saves poultry from imminent doom. Carl’s daughter is working an environmental study in Scotland, so the three of us are having Thanksgiving together. What about you?’
‘Dinner with the in-laws,’ Christina said. ‘They eat around five o’clock. We’ll be home by eight, settle in for some HBO.’
Frances put her coat on and started for the door.
‘Have a good one,’ Christina said. It was a phrase that Frances hated but she excused it. She liked Christina. She had the door open when she stopped and turned back.
‘What if we made it about the horses?’
‘What?’ Christina asked.
‘Your tree farm idea,’ Frances said. ‘It’s not about a family going out to cut a tree. It’s about a horse. Maybe the old mare, providing there is an old mare. We follow her for the day, from the moment she wakes up in the barn to when she’s rubbed down at night. The kids reacting to her as she does her job, trudging back and forth. She represents the great proletariat of a time gone by.’
‘I like it,’ Christina said.
On the drive home, Frances stopped in Talbotville to pick up the turkey. They were holding it for her at Fred’s Custom Meats, a local butcher shop that bought the free range birds from a farm somewhere up north. The animal was fifteen pounds, plump and pink, and it did not – so far as Frances would ever know – have a name.
It was dark when she got home. She drove past the house to park in front of the garage. Getting out, she retrieved the turkey from the passenger seat and headed for the back door. Had she glanced to her right she would have seen the pup Boomer on the grass.
Inside, the three men were waiting, scattered throughout the open kitchen and living room. All wore balaclavas. The man inside the door was barrel-chested and stank of tobacco and bourbon; he grabbed Frances roughly by the hair as she entered and flung her across the room with such force that she fell to the floor, pitching forward to crack her head against the wainscoting. She dropped the turkey and it bounced crazily along the hardwood and came to a rest by the stone hearth of the fireplace.
Glancing up she saw Carl lying on his side on the living room floor, his wrists bound behind him with plastic ties, his mouth wrapped with duct tape. Past him and trussed in a similar fashion, Stacy was on the couch. A tall thin man, wearing greasy coveralls, lounged on the arm of the couch, as if chatting with her at a party. The third man stood by the bay window, hands thrust in his pockets. Frances turned to Carl, who was staring at her across the floor. He nodded his head, as if to reassure her.
Then the big man had her by the hair again, jerking her to her feet. She saw now that he had a revolver in his hand. He forced her to take in the scene, turning her this way and that like she was a puppet he controlled. He put his face close to hers, his foul breath in her nostrils.
‘You see how things are?’ he asked. ‘Right now everybody’s still alive. You’re the one can keep it that way.’
TWO
Two months earlier
Carl and Frances had been up before dawn. They had coffee only before heading out to the ten acre field on the river flats that was planted with sweet corn. They picked thirty dozen ears, loaded them on to the wagon and then into the GMC stake truck by the warehouse. Finishing, they were both soaking wet from the dew-heavy corn stalks. They went back to the house to change clothes. Stripping down, Frances looked over at Carl.
‘We have time for a quick shower?’ Her smile was wicked.
‘I have never had a shower with you that would qualify as quick,’ Carl said. ‘Hold that thought until I get back.’
He drove the truck to a whole foods co-op in Rose City. By eight o’clock he was unloaded and back on the road. In Talbotville he stopped for breakfast at a Main Street diner where a number of locals with time on their hands were discussing ways to save the country from the certain ruination that was apparently the goal of the current federal administration. Carl, with nothing of any real value to add to the discourse, ate his sausage and eggs in silence and left.
He stopped at Country Grain & Feed outside of town and picked up the order of chicken feed waiting for him. After discussing the weather – which, like the political situation, Carl could do nothing about – with the store manager for a time, he headed for home. When he arrived the television trucks were already there – parked in the driveway, in the yard and along the road out in front of the farm. He’d driven past them and pulled into the warehouse drive before circling around to the chicken house. He parked and got out, then walked along the rear of the property to the patio behind the house. It was hot in the sun and he stepped into the shade to watch.
Frances was on the lawn a few yards away, wearing a hooded winter coat and work gloves, holding a rake in both hands. She was looking away from him, speaking.
‘Before the big meal, there is always plenty to do to work up an appetite. It’s autumn and that means raking leaves, stacking firewood, cleaning the rain gutters. Thanksgiving means that winter is on its way and we had better be ready—’
‘Cut!’
Frances stopped, turning to the director, who was standing by the wall of the garage, surrounded by the production team. He was looking at a monitor on a stand.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘We got a guy in the background. Walked out of the warehouse and went into the barn.’
‘He works for me,’ Frances said. ‘What’s the problem? I thought we were trying for – what did you call it – verisimilitude?’
‘Guy was wearing shorts and a tank top,’ the director said.
‘Oh.’
‘Let’s try it again,’ the director said now.
Frances said her lines again and began to rake the leaves into a pile. They did it twice more and then the director asked that the cameras be set for a different angle.
‘Let’s get one with the house in the background.’
The leaves were now in a pile where Frances had gathered them; two helpers went to work scattering them about the lawn again.
‘We need more leaves!’ one of them shouted after a moment.
Carl turned to where a pudgy kid – no more than eighteen or nineteen – was on his knees behind the garage, spray painting green maple leaves that were spread across a plastic tarp. The kid had several spray cans on the go, various shades of red and yellow a
nd brown. The painter was sweating profusely under the heat and the obligation of his task.
‘They’re not dry yet!’ he shouted after a moment.
‘Bring ’em anyway.’
While they set up for the shot, Frances walked over to where Carl was standing. She removed the coat and cap and tossed them on the scarred pine table where they ate grilled chicken and steaks from time to time. Under the coat she wore a T-shirt and khaki pants. She ran her fingers through her hair, mussed from the wool cap.
‘I didn’t see you come home,’ she said.
‘I snuck past the cameras,’ Carl said.
‘Wish I could. You get the feed?’
‘For the hens,’ Carl said. ‘The pullet mix is back ordered. We’re OK for a week or so there.’
Frances pulled the T-shirt away from her body to show him how she was sweating.
‘How many shots of me raking leaves do we need?’ she asked.
‘That’s rhetorical, right?’
‘You’re a lot of help.’ Frances looked around. The leaf painter was now carefully dragging the tarp with the freshly colored leaves around to the front yard. The kid’s hands were covered in paint and there were even splashes of red in his dark hair.
‘Why did I agree to shooting here?’ she asked.
‘You wanted out of the studio, if I recall.’
‘Yeah, and now the farm is the studio. Be careful what you ask for.’
‘What’s next after the leaves?’
‘Me pretending to chop wood, and then me pretending to gather eggs that have already been gathered, cleaned of dirt and chicken shit and placed artfully back in the coop.’
‘You’d better hope the hens don’t unionize,’ Carl said.
‘I control the axe,’ Frances reminded him. She sighed. ‘After that, we move inside for the cooking.’
‘Ah, the cooking,’ Carl said. ‘You’re actually planning to cook a turkey?’
‘It’s already in the oven. Takes a while to cook a turkey, you know.’
Carl glanced toward the house. ‘You have the oven on? It’s eighty-five in the shade out here.’
‘I know how hot it is. I’m the one who’s been bundled up like an Inuit hunter all morning. I probably could have cooked the damn bird out here on the flagstones.’ She glared at the director, who was sitting in the shade reading a magazine and looking cool in his shorts and shades. ‘And it gets worse.’
‘How?’
‘I mentioned the firewood.’ Frances said. ‘The plan is we’ll have a fire going in the hearth inside. A nice little Thanksgiving backdrop.’ She turned to Carl. ‘Sure you don’t want to be on TV?’
‘Surer than ever,’ Carl said. ‘I’m going to unload that truck. It’s probably only ninety or so in the brooder. Come on down if you want to get cooled off.’
‘No turkey for you, bub.’
‘You’re breaking my heart,’ he called over his shoulder.
When Carl reached the pickup truck, parked by the side door to the chicken house, he looked back to the activity around the farmhouse. The newly painted leaves were properly scattered, the camera was set. Frances was back in autumn attire, standing once more in the yard, rake in hand. When she looked his way, he waved. She gave him the finger and he laughed as he began to unload the truck.
THREE
Chino sat spread-legged on the stool beside the work bench, smoking a cigarette while he went over the spreads for the coming week’s games. He’d had a bad Sunday, losing five out of six bets. He’d had a hundred each on four of the five and dropped two hundred on the Rams, who had won the game but failed to cover the spread when the chickenshit head coach had ordered his quarterback to take a knee on the Saints’ five yard line, instead of kicking the field goal that would have put Chino over. Those lost three points meant that Chino was out five hundred on the day and overall three grand on the season. All on credit. Johnny K wanted his money. He had called last night to say as much and then, when Chino said he needed time, Johnny had called back an hour later to suggest that Chino have a conversation with Tommy Jakes about a job.
Chino had gone to see Tommy that morning. The job involved the border. If it worked out, Chino could pay Johnny off and maybe get him to extend his line of credit for this Sunday’s games. He was due to win. Overdue, in fact. Chino flipped the paper over and looked at the night’s NHL games. He didn’t like betting on hockey because he didn’t know anything about it. He might as well throw the names in a hat and let a monkey pick one out.
Tossing the paper on the bench he heard the blat of a blown muffler coming from the intersection a quarter mile away, the noise rising and falling as the driver shifted upward through the gears, approaching the yard. As the truck pulled into the driveway Chino stepped out of the shed, taking a last haul on the cigarette before flicking it into the dirt. He exhaled as the driver got out of the truck.
It was Digger Bagley, sliding his bulky frame from behind the wheel. His curly blond hair grew over his ears and even his eyes, giving him the look of an unkempt sheepdog. Digger had recently done eighteen months in jail for blowing up a guy’s Camaro with a pipe bomb and was now getting back into the scrap iron trade. The Camaro’s owner had been seeing a woman whom Digger considered to be his girlfriend, even though she had taken out a restraining order against him. Digger had broken into a shed at a local quarry and stolen enough blasting powder to take down a small town. There hadn’t been much left of the Camaro. It had taken the cops less than twenty-four hours to arrest Digger.
Chino walked out into the heat to have a look at the load. The box of the GMC pickup was full of rusted rims and brake drums and ragged pieces of steel siding. On the trailer behind the truck was an ancient McCormick threshing machine, steel-wheeled, listing to the side as if it might topple over from age. It was tied in place by an assortment of ropes and straps. The thresher was eighty or ninety years old, maybe more. Chino took a walk around the truck and trailer. There was a lot of cast iron on the old harvester. It would weigh up.
‘Where’d you find this relic?’ he asked.
Digger was hanging back, all three hundred pounds of him. ‘My grandpa’s old farm.’
Chino shook his head. ‘Hidden away in a cubbyhole, was it?’
‘What’s that?’
‘You been finding goodies at that farm for years. Must be a big place, you never noticed something this size.’
Digger had a fat bottom lip that made a permanent pout. ‘What’s it worth?’
Chino nodded his head up and down while making a show of calculating. Really he was thinking about his problems with the football bets. He couldn’t afford to pay Digger too much. ‘Fifty bucks for the lot.’
‘Fucksakes.’
Chino glanced over, still nodding to the music. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘That damn machine weighs a ton,’ Digger said. ‘I ought to know, took me all morning to haul it from the weeds and load it. Shit’s worth more than fifty.’
‘Not to me.’
‘I’ll take it over to Peter’s Salvage and have him put it on the scale,’ Digger said. ‘By the pound, be a sight more than fifty bucks.’
‘Then take it there, fat boy,’ Chino told him. ‘See how you make out. Old Pete’s above board, he just might ask you where you found this junk. He might make you produce old grandpa.’
‘Thing’s a million years old. Who cares where I got it?’
‘I don’t,’ Chino said. ‘That’s why you brought it here. But say hello to Pete for me.’
He walked inside and sat down at the stool again. He had a plastic glass of Jack going and he took a drink. Waiting for the fat man to come through the door, hangdog. Which he did, after a minute or two.
‘Gimme the fifty.’
Chino used the loader to drag the thresher off the trailer while Digger tossed the rims and the rest in a pile by the gate. Five minutes’ work winded him. When he was gone Chino poured more bourbon in the cup and wheeled his torches over to the thres
her, fixing to cut it up. Before he lit the torch though, Bug pulled into the yard. He slid out of the Dodge pickup, finishing a beer as he did and tossing the can into the scrap pile along the shed, the same heap where Digger had thrown the rims. Bug was skinny as a snake and wearing the same black jeans he’d been wearing for a few years, and a T-shirt with the logo of some bar in Florida on it. Bug had never been to Florida that Chino knew. His hair was to his shoulders and he had a wispy goatee that he’d been trying to grow for years. His eyes had a permanent chemical flash to them, whether he was high or not.
Chino pushed the goggles up into his hair and set the cutting torch aside. ‘You find him?’
‘Said I would.’
‘Where?’
‘He ain’t on the rez. He’s over to Tareytown.’
‘Let’s go.’
Billy Taylor was by a utility shed behind the house, fixing the cord on a vacuum cleaner he’d picked up at the Sally Ann that morning. He’d made a work bench out of two sawhorses and a half sheet of plywood; the vacuum was sitting on top, the casing open, motor exposed. Billy was tall, an inch over six feet, and thin. The homemade bench was low and he had to hunch over to work on the appliance. His hair was cropped close to his head, making the scar along his right temple stand out, the scar he’d gotten flipping a dirt bike when he was just twelve. His stepfather had given Billy the bike, not as a gift, but because he himself couldn’t get it to run. He’d told Billy that he wouldn’t either but Billy had proven him wrong. It was worth the fifteen stitches to do that.
It was a hot day and Billy was working in the shade of a crooked pine tree. Skinning the wires to the plug, he heard a vehicle pull up out front, doors opening and closing, but didn’t think anything of it. It was a busy street, the old part of town, mostly wartime housing turned into rental units. He heard somebody say something and he looked up and saw Bug Murdock walking across the lawn. Billy watched Bug as he approached, loose as a scarecrow, the crooked little smirk on his face that he always wore, like he was reacting to a joke he’d just heard. Billy had no reaction to Bug’s presence. Bug was just Bug.
