by Laurel Dewey
“Did he?” Jane countered. “Well…that Werner…we’re not that far apart in age, you know?”
“I think it had more to do with your mothering vibe,” she said with a sweet smile.
Harlan stepped forward. “I can vouch for that one!”
The woman was a bit taken back as she looked at Harlan. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
Jane spoke up. “He’s my—”
“Husband,” Harlan said, extending his hand to the woman. “My name’s Hank.”
Jane froze but her neck was still able to turn to him and glare.
The woman shook his hand. “Well, Hank! Nice to meet you. My name’s Blythe.” She observed him a little more carefully. “I don’t mean to be rude, but did anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like that—”
“Actor John Goodman?” he quickly interjected.
“Well, no, actually I meant—”
“I get it all the time,” Harlan interrupted. “’Can I have your autograph, John?’ Sometimes, I just sign it to get rid of them.”
Blythe offered a warm smile to Harlan, quite taken by his charm. “Oh, Hank. You’re just a big teddy bear, aren’t you?”
Harlan wrapped his big arm around Jane’s shoulder. “Well, ain’t that somethin’, honey. That’s what you call me too!”
Jane felt the muscles in her face tighten. “Oh, yeah. I sure do.”
Blythe’s fifteen-year-old daughter bounded toward her, tears streaming down her hormonal face. “Mom! You said I could go to Tami’s house tonight. She just texted to say her mom said that you said I had to stay here for the dinner! That’s not fair!”
Blythe attempted to calm her daughter but the soothing words fell on deaf ears. The girl, named Blossom, became increasingly emotional and exaggeratedly dramatic until Jane worried she would collapse to the ground and have a full-blown temper tantrum. Jane looked off to the side. A short, wiry guy in his late sixties hung close to the main house, smoking a cigarette and peering around. Something about him sent Jane’s antenna on high alert.
“Excuse me one second, kid,” Jane said in a dismissive tone before turning to Blythe. “Who’s that?”
Blythe turned. “That’s Jude. He’s been with us for years. He lives in a small cabin out back. Jude’s a jack-of-all-trades which comes in really handy around here.” She looked at Harlan. “I bet you’re a jack-of-all-trades too, Hank!”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. You need somethin’ done, I’ll help you out.”
Jane smiled, pulling Harlan toward her. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Blythe said, “we’re like a big, happy family around here!”
“I hate you, Mom!!!” Blossom screamed. “I can’t believe you don’t care! What am I to you anyway? Just another person to plant another stupid carrot? I will not be your slave!” With that, she ran crying into the apple orchard, all pistons firing on high drama and theatrical acumen.
Blythe turned to them. “You have kids?”
“Not a chance,” Jane stated.
The rest of the day was spent visiting with the other guests and making light of the fact that Harlan looked so much like the “guy who killed that girl in the motel and died that morning.” Every time somebody made the comment, he was quick to tell them his name was Hank. And each time Jane heard that name she stiffened. But by late afternoon, Harlan had the crowd laughing with his silly jokes and card tricks. Jane observed all of it and shook her head. He never told her a silly joke. He never showed her a card trick. Suddenly, he was the belle of the ball and she was the hapless sidekick.
Finally, Jane had enough. She returned to the van to organize the vehicle and figure out how to turn it into a temporary camper. As she pulled the van into the grassy field next to the CSA, she caught sight of Jude watching her every move. He looked like one of those creepy little parasites that lurked around the soup kitchens on East Colfax in Denver. Broken by years of alcohol and drug abuse, Jude was your typical poster boy for what hard living does to a body. Happy-go-lucky Blythe and her weak-chinned husband didn’t have a clue about that reprobate. It was so typical, Jane mused. The “granola crowd,” as she called them, were deliriously unaware or simply disbelieving that people like Jude were potential liabilities. All Jane had to do was take one look at him from a distance, and she had his number. What was so startling to her was that his game was so poorly carried out. As she moved bags in and out of the back of the van, she easily saw Jude traversing the field back and forth on the other side of the fence, checking a few sprinkler heads along the way for show. Finally, he did his best “casual stroll” toward the fence line and stood there, staring at her.
“Something I can do for you?” Jane asked, with her guard up.
He said nothing at first. Now that he was closer, she realized he appeared a lot older than she first thought. He was what Jane called “an operator,” but one that hung on the bottom rung of the ladder. If he were involved in drugs, he wouldn’t be the one with the bag; he’d be the one waiting in the car to pick up the guy with the bag. Jude was not a guy motivated by morality or religious fears. His sole motive was greed and his avarice knew no bounds. She was certain he’d sold his soul, humanity and any straw of integrity to the first bidder who threw him a few bucks to buy a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes.
“So, you’re Werner’s sister, huh?” he asked, squinting even though the sun was behind him. His voice had a squirrely quality to it.
“Yeah. That’s right,” Jane replied, turning to him and closing the side door. “You knew Werner when he worked here?”
Jude didn’t answer right away. It was as if he either didn’t hear it or chose to give it a lot of thought before replying. “Yeah…I knew him…”
It seemed like a loaded answer to Jane.
“What happened to him?” Jude asked, curling his upper lip.
“He’s overseas right now. Working for a relief organization.”
Jude stared at her, cocking his head. “Is that right?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Yes. That’s right. Why do you ask?”
He regarded her with a strange glower. “Just checkin’.” He turned without saying another word and ambled back across the field toward the main house.
It was just strange enough to make Jane return to the van and remove the 9mm before holstering it in the waistband of her jeans. Covering the pistol with her leather jacket, she locked the van and headed back to the house.
For the next few hours, guests were encouraged to pitch in and help prepare the evening meal. Harlan continued to be the reliable jokester, entrancing the crowd with his genuine affable nature. Jane watched it from the comfort of a side room off the kitchen. In the space of a few hours, he’d captured them hook, line and sinker with his stories and musings on life. When he told the group that he sometimes sold firewood in the winter to make ends meet and that he got the most calls when he put an ad in the paper for “free range, grass fed firewood,” they exploded in fits of laughter. A transient sadness fell over Jane. She’d been so tuned into keeping him alive and safe that she’d never taken a spare moment to see him through the eyes of a stranger. He was very kind, she decided. She even noticed him innocently flirting with a forty-something, single woman in the group. It was clear that the group looked at him as someone who was “safe” and easy to talk to. The irony of that realization wasn’t lost on Jane.
Before sitting down to the meal later that evening, Blythe gave an ad hoc introduction to “slow cooking.” From what Jane could muster, the idea had to do with “communing” with your food, feeling “connected” to your meal, taking the time to appreciate the work that went into cultivating and harvesting the food and approaching the meal with “focused, conscious intent.” It sounded like a lot of work to Jane. She couldn’t argue that it was important to be conscious when you ate since most of the people she’d seen passed out weren’t interested in
eating. For someone who was used to cooking and eating out of the same saucepan and then placing said saucepan on a beat up oven mitt instead of a placemat, Jane was patently aware that this dinner would force her far out of her comfort zone. She didn’t trust the “Greenies,” as she called them. She also referred to them as “Eco-Nazis” but she wasn’t going to let that one out of the bag. There was just something quite eco-smug, Jane decided, about people who believed in “conscious eating” and “intuitive cooking.” And when she looked up at a banner that was strung across the kitchen that read: “We support the Sustainable Eco-Aware Local Farmers co-op,” she smiled. Their acronym was SELF. To her knowledge, there was no “me” in “community.”
When Blythe happily went into way too much detail about each item on their dinner menu, Jane gazed at the family’s old time glass bottle collection and read a handful of the many homey plaques that cluttered their walls. One plaque definitely caught her eye. It was an illustration of a pointing hand aimed at an “X” and the words, “You are here.” It was similar to the postcard in Jane’s possession that came next in the sequence. Perhaps, she pondered, Gabriel mimicked the plaque on purpose when he used the same words on the postcard? If she was right, maybe there was something of worth in the plaque. It was difficult to read because part of it was hidden in the shadow of a ceiling beam. Peering at it closer, she was able to make out the wording: “You are here: 37° 59’ 56” N / 105° 54’ 36” W. Jane stared at it, trying to figure out if there was any hidden meaning.
“Iris?” a voice said.
Jane turned to the group, unaware of anything that had been said.
“Sweetheart?” Harlan said, pulling out his chair across the long table from her. “They want you to say the prayer that Werner used to recite.” His eyes showed a moment of trepidation.
Jane looked at Blythe and her husband, who looked like a wet lap dog as he stood in the background and blended in. “Which prayer was that?”
Blythe stepped forward. “He said it was a family prayer he’d learned as a child.”
Harlan regarded Jane with a look of uncertainty.
“Oh, right. That one.” She cleared her throat and waited for the prayer muse to show up. Somehow, she knew that “God is great, God is good” wasn’t going to cut it. All eyes were upon Jane, including Blythe’s young son, who stood off to the side by the stove with a curious look. Jude sat on a stool at the far end of the table, wearing a smirk on his weathered face and waited for Jane to speak. She let out a breath and closed her eyes. The words suddenly came to her. “I will face the darkness, but I will not let it become me. Fear may be present but it will not possess me. I will face the darkness, as the knowing light within my heart and mind leads me home. And once again, I will be free…Amen.” She opened her eyes. Every eye in the room was upon her.
A lone tear drifted down Blythe’s face. “Beautiful, Iris. Just beautiful. And you said it perfectly. I could almost hear Werner’s voice in yours.”
Jane smiled. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
Everyone took a seat and dug into the first course, which appeared to be a medley of corn, green beans, fava beans, jalapenos and tomatoes. Slow cooking also involved slow eating. At least that’s what Jane discovered after devouring her first course and sliding her plate to the side before some of the others had finished filling their plates. Blythe set a huge platter of freshly baked bread on the table and was in the middle of telling the group how it was pre-baked in an authentic outdoor clay oven and then finished off in a solar oven built by a group of unwed mothers, when Blossom emerged at the top of the stairs, screaming.
“I cannot believe I am part of this family!” Blossom bellowed, her whiny voice hitting decibels that would startle a laying hen. “Nobody cares about me! Nobody!”
While the rest of the group remained taciturn, Jane matter-of-factly stood up and dished herself another serving. “Don’t know how you got the tomatoes to taste this fresh in April,” she offered.
Blossom pounded down the stairs and when she reached the kitchen, she abruptly crossed her arms across her teenage chest. “Why won’t anyone listen to me? If you push me, do I not fall? If you cut me, do I not bleed?”
Jane plopped down in her seat. “If I shoot you,” she mumbled under her breath, “will you not shut up?”
Blythe suffocated a chuckle, as did a few of the visiting guests. Jane noticed that Blossom’s little brother was looking at her with a huge grin pasted on his face.
Blossom swung around and, with hands on her hips, approached Jane. “That’s not funny!”
“No, Blossom, actually it was. But what’s even funnier is the way you’re acting, with the emphasis on ‘acting.’ You make Sarah Bernhardt look like a shy recluse.”
Blossom’s mouth dropped open and she ran screaming up the stairs and into her room with a defined slam of the door.
Jane furrowed her brow. “She knows who Sarah Bernhardt is?”
Blossom’s brother piped up. “That’s what Werner used to call her all the time.”
Jane sat back. “Is that so?”
Blythe brought out a few more platters. “It’s amazing how in tune you and your brother are, Iris. Tell us how he’s doing.”
Jane was glad she had a prop of food in front of her. After taking a bite and chewing it slowly, she sipped some water. “He’s overseas right now…in Africa, actually. He’s working at a relief center there for tribes who have been displaced.”
Blythe frowned. “Displaced? Come on, Iris. You know better than that. ‘Displaced’ is a nice word for ‘violently overthrown’ or ‘slaughtered.’”
Jane nodded. “Yeah. It’s a nightmare over there. But that’s where Werner’s heart is right now.” She glanced at Harlan who smiled.
Blythe sat down at the head of the table, serving herself a plate. “You know, Iris, Werner never said you were married. How did you and Hank meet?”
Harlan looked at her. “You know, I’d like to hear that story again, Iris.”
Jane took another slow bite of food and looked across the table at Harlan. “I met Hank when I was working up in Midas, Colorado.”
“Werner never mentioned what you did for a living,” Blythe said.
Jane let out a slow breath. “I was doing fraud investigation at the time for an insurance company. One day, I went to lunch at this sports bar on the main drag called The Rabbit Hole. And the guy behind the bar was Hank. I later found out that he owned the place and that he used to be a cop, who also specialized in fraud cases.”
Harlan never took his eyes off Jane, drawn into her story and fascinated.
“What drew the two of you together?” Blythe asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Jane smiled. “Hank knows how to build the best hot dog you’ve ever tasted. And he makes a mean chicken salad too.”
“Well, food is, of course, important,” Blythe declared, “but I was more interested in what drew you and Hank together emotionally.”
Jane swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to answer that.” She struggled as all eyes were pinned on her. She kept her focus on Harlan. “I suppose it’s because Hank is the only person in this world who really gets me. I’m not used to that. I’m used to the fight…so, having somebody look at you and all you see is love coming back feels strange to me. I don’t have to worry about him going out on me. I don’t have to question his integrity. He’s solid and he’s dependable.” Jane felt the emotion ball in her throat. “Maybe in time, I’ll figure out what I did to deserve that.”
The room was silent. Jane took a sip of water and prayed to God that someone would speak up.
Blythe leaned across the table toward Jane. “Beautifully said, Iris.”
Harlan winked at Jane. “I second that.”
For the next three hours, the meal continued with one platter of food after another brought out and “eaten with purpose.” People talked and laughed and exchanged opinions on the world’s news reports. Gradually,
groups naturally began to form of likeminded individuals, with Harlan attracting more women to his satellite group than the others. Jane glanced across the room to Blythe’s young son. His focus lingered on her a little too long before he purposely got up, grabbed a jacket and walked outside into the night air. Jane waited a few minutes, before quietly removing herself from the kitchen and sneaking outside without anyone noticing.
The air was chilled and befitted a heavier jacket. With no streetlights around and the moonless sky above her, Jane crept slowly across the yard, trying not to fall over the scattered hay bales.
“Hey,” a voice softly said.
Jane turned to the sound. “Where are you?”
“Wait a second until your eyes get used to it,” the boy said.
She stood in the cold, her fingertips feeling the sting of the night air. Plunging them into her jacket pocket, she began to make out a few outlines of farm equipment and buildings. Gingerly moving around the hay bales, she crossed next to the boy. He leaned against a post and stared into the clear night sky.
“Do you know where Orion’s Belt is?” he asked her.
“No. Is that why you wanted me to come out here?”
He kept his head tilted up toward the starry sky. “Nah.”
Jane waited, feeling the cold creep closer. “Well, okay…happy stargazing.” She started off.
“Werner and I were good friends. Even though I was only nine when he showed up, he always talked to me like I was older. He worked here two years in a row, during the whole season, so I got to know him real well. And one thing I know is that he’s an only child.” He turned to Jane for the first time.
She walked back to his side. “That’s odd. He told your mom he had an older sister.”
He smiled. “I know. He told me the truth. He told her something else.”
Jane started to speak when the boy “shushed” her quickly.
“Don’t say a word,” he whispered in her ear.
Jane heard the faint crack of footsteps coming from the side of the house.
