Red Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  Kelly repeated the name, her tone dripping with disdain.

  “He told the people they could worship as they please, and give God whatever name they chose,” Mrs. Steinborn continued. “But the church, which he built and owned, would be called Saint Saturn—and he would not be responsible for those who actively shunned the deity.”

  Kelly was practically standing, her hand as high as it could possibly get, her face a portrait of need.

  Mrs. Steinborn pointed to her, and Kelly got her chance to vent. “That’s why we won’t go to…that church.”

  Mrs. Steinborn lifted her chalk to the blackboard and drew the symbol for Saturn, something like a lowercase letter h, with the top crossed. “There is a school of thought that says Jesus was a coded personification of Saturn.”

  “But that’s just stupid!” Kelly asserted.

  Mrs. Steinborn offered no acknowledgment. “The rest of the story is not terribly pleasant—and not part of today’s lesson.”

  “Maybe God cursed those families.” Kelly’s hand was up again, but she wasn’t waiting to be called on. “That must be why bad things happen here,” she said. “Like…Stuart’s dad.”

  Eyes all burned into Stuart, Albert’s holding a hint of enjoyment. Stuart just lowered his head to his notebook and returned to tracing the lines of the guitar.

  Mrs. Steinborn’s hand had stopped moving on the board. “Bad things and good things happen everywhere,” she said. “And to everyone.” She continued, chalking, “Saint Saturn Memorial Park” beside a list of names that all struck Stuart as ponderously multisyllabic.

  “I want you to choose at least three names from the list and conduct your own investigation. Who were these people? What was their role in the town’s origin? Illustrations, gravestone rubbings, any kind of visual aid counts twenty points.”

  She set the chalk down, rubbed the dust from her hands, and faced the class. “Be safe at the parade, and…”

  The class took the cue and spoke the short chant: “Happy Halloween!”

  * * * *

  October 30

  Parade volunteers raised banners and decked poles, corners, and angles with spiderwebs. Main Street was transforming into Haunted Hollow.

  Pedestrians came and went amid a sense of fall frisk, some stopping to greet Reverend McGlazer as he oversaw the loading of pumpkins and hay bales from Mooney’s Market onto a volunteered flatbed.

  “Rev!” came a hearty call. McGlazer didn’t need to turn to know it was Kerwin Stuyvesant, talent manager and small-time real estate mogul, approaching for a “pow wow.”

  “How goes it, Padre?” Though he was clearly exiting Ember Spirits, Kerwin attempted to hide a large brown bag behind his back.

  McGlazer chased away his annoyance. He was tempted to extend a hand and watch Kerwin squirm with the bottles. Amazingly, it was Kerwin who initiated the handshake, nearly dropping his package during the awkward juggling act.

  McGlazer couldn’t help but grin. “Kerwin, I don’t know if you’re hiding that bag because of my collar or because of my past.”

  Kerwin shook his head as though he didn’t understand.

  “I’m a recovering alcoholic,” McGlazer explained. “But also a Unitarian. We’re a bit relaxed.”

  “Oooooh! Right!” Kerwin pointed at him with his free hand, bringing the heavy bag around to hold at his hip like a baby. “I read ya, Padre!”

  McGlazer felt his throat tingle at the mere teasing glimpse of sealed bottle caps. “Nice batch this year!” McGlazer said, distracting himself. He gestured toward the flatbed. “Wanna come to the hangar and help carve?”

  “Sounds like a real blast, but ya know, I gotta make arrangements to pick up the record company rep,” bragged Kerwin.

  “Ah yes! Very exciting!”

  “You know it, daddy-o! I mean, Padre.” Kerwin struggled to find small talk. “How’s the parade prep coming?”

  “Oh, it’s going to be legendary!” McGlazer stated in a malevolent British accent, assuming a scary face as he leaned close to Kerwin. “Even in hell!”

  McGlazer was pleased when Kerwin’s eyes grew wide, the Clive Barker reference clearly lost on him.

  “Right…” It was Kerwin’s turn to change the subject. “So Padre, listen you’re, like, Dennis’s de facto sponsor, am I right?” Kerwin took a step closer to continue, from the corner of his mouth. “I mean, I get the whole confidentiality trip. But, you know, business is business, eh, Padre?”

  Kerwin glanced around, like there might be Russian spies at every corner. “He is staying on the wagon, right? I mean, this whole Pumpkin Parade gig is the biggest thing ever for me. Us. I need him straight. Dig?”

  McGlazer offered an assuring smile. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Kerwin.”

  Kerwin gave McGlazer a chummy pat on the shoulder, casting a thankful glimpse skyward as well. “Best news all day, right?”

  McGlazer excused himself, grabbing a hay bale, guessing correctly that Kerwin hated manual labor more than either anonymity or lean funds. When the dandy man said his quick goodbyes, McGlazer allowed himself a moment of judgmental contempt—and a longer worry for Dennis’s well-being. As hard as “the struggle” was for McGlazer, during this stressful season, it surely was a hundredfold for the sensitive young musician.

  * * * *

  DeShaun watched Stuart chat with Candace, pleased to note his friend’s assured body language.

  Candace cocked her head to the side. “Devil’s Night?”

  “Sure.” Stuart smiled. “DeShaun and I are going to the old house on Gwendon Street, where my brother rehearses. Tell some ghost stories.”

  “Whoa.” Candace hugged her books. “That sounds super spooky.”

  “Well, we could do something el—”

  “No!” Candace interrupted. “I want to do that! I really do!”

  “Swell.”

  DeShaun rolled his eyes. He was happy for his friend, but enough was enough. Bored with the romance, he looked around—and did a double take when he spotted Albert Betzler and some of his genius gang watching from a section of lockers down the hall, myopic menace in their eyes.

  “But…I don’t know what to tell my parents,” Candace explained.

  “That’s easy,” Stuart said. “Mrs. Steinborn gave us this assignment to get grave rubbings, and you wanna come along. You don’t even have to lie. We’ll even bike by and meet you at your—”

  “No!” Candace’s interruption was firm, definite.

  “Okay…”

  “I mean…no, you don’t have to come by,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the end of Zebulon Street.”

  Stuart flipped his hair. DeShaun cleared his throat, turning his back to Albert.

  When Stuart ignored him, DeShaun grabbed his arm. “Come along, Stewie.” He shot his eyes toward Albert. “You don’t wanna make the young lady late for class, do you?”

  Stuart pointed at a door not three feet away. “That’s her room right there, man.”

  DeShaun drew close, speaking through clenched teeth. “Well, then, let’s compare notes on that geography quiz, shall we?”

  “Huh?” The boys’ shorthand was misfiring, a side effect of “the love.” “We don’t even take geo.”

  “Excuse us, Candace.” DeShaun tugged at Stuart’s arm. “Get your ass over here, dude!”

  Stuart called to Candace as he was dragged away. “Okay then! Talk to you after class!”

  Candace went to her classroom.

  DeShaun dragged Stuart to the lockers like a rag doll, opening one to hide their heads behind its door.

  “Jeez, dude! What was that all about?” Stuart groused.

  “Albert and his brain bullies have been giving you the ‘ol’ die eye’ this whole time!”

  “So?”

  “So! I don’t wanna become the bre
akfast of champions, that’s so!”

  DeShaun jerked a thumb toward a terrifying tableau: Maynard, the dinosaurian defensive lineman, standing at his locker, guzzling a protein shake, much of which dribbled down his lantern-like chin. His other meaty fist emerged from his locker gripping a forty-five-pound dumbbell for a quick set of curls.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Stuart asked. “Keep it a secret we’re going out?”

  “Maybe just not flaunt it right in front of Albert’s prescription hornrims? Is that so much?”

  Stuart turned to walk away. “Let’s head to class. You ready for Devil’s Night?”

  “Ah, yeah.” DeShaun didn’t mind the change of topic. “Got all the goods. You get the key to the old house?”

  “Dennis is giving it to me tomorrow. But we gotta be careful. Their gear is in there.”

  If they had remained vigilant, they might have noticed Albert’s friend, electronics whiz Norman Branwith, hunkered over at his locker, appearing to check his calculus homework but in actuality directing a miniature amplifier ordered from a comic book at them.

  They might have seen Norman narrow his eyes with devious satisfaction.

  Chapter 7

  Ignacio hummed a favorite Tejano tune, even though he could not hear himself over the roar of his ride mower.

  Ignacio loved his job best during otoño, when cool breezes replaced the strength-sapping heat of summer and the weeds became manageable. The fallen leaves weren’t much of a problem either, here in the churchyard where only a few trees grew in spaces between graves.

  He found comfort in the thought of his coming winter belly, made plump by cervezas and steak tortillas. He would easily shed the paunch in the heat of Ember Hollow’s next growing season, when it was his savings account that swelled.

  He turned the corner around the towering obelisk that was by far the cemetery’s largest marker. Moving at a good clip, he ran into something that had not been there the week before.

  But the impact wasn’t what had Ignacio braking hard to kill the blades. It was the sudden cold, rushing wind that blew his cap off and raised goose bumps.

  The wind washed over him and was gone.

  “Ay, ay, ay,” Ignacio mumbled as he climbed off to check the front of the mower and saw the end of a tree limb sticking out. Slowly, he eased the mower back a few feet, then killed the motor.

  It wasn’t just a tree limb but actually a cross, almost four feet tall, made from the skinned branches of some hardwood. A deep hole indicated it had been driven several inches into the ground at the center of the big grave, until he came along and dislodged it.

  Why? God only knew. The grave was already marked with the biggest, and weirdest, tombstone he had ever seen.

  Kids playing vampiro games perhaps?

  But what if it was something else? Something important?

  What if he could lose his job over it? He thought of losing not only this contract but dozens of others, due to word of mouth from the surly blond girl who often bellowed instructions at him in English.

  He did not know her well, but he sensed something cruel about her, and he knew well the power that blond American women held.

  If not for this urgent fear, Ignacio might have seen that cold wind blasting through the leaves and bushes and as-yet-unmown grass, heading toward the church.

  * * * *

  Ruth sang a medley to herself, pieces of hymns she had learned after her conversion. She shuffled and stacked the papers on McGlazer’s desk, errant sheep to be herded into their little steel basket.

  She checked for cigarettes; it was her duty. None to be found. She congratulated herself for her work in reforming the poor reverend of his weakness.

  Hearing a door open and close in the hall, she watched the shadows in the hallway.

  But there was no movement, no sound.

  “Hello?” Ruth touched her little gold cross, thinking of Stella’s silly, godless superstition.

  There came a quiet shuffling, then a period of silence that had Ruth praying for its end.

  Then, “Hi, Ruth.” Reverend McGlazer.

  She came out from the desk, pretending to dust a picture frame on the wall.

  McGlazer entered, brushing off his blazer. “Quite a sight at the Bruner hangar today. I hoped you could drop by to see it.”

  “Hm.” More than a hint of judgment accompanied this. “I felt my place was here, keeping up the Lord’s temple, doing His work.”

  McGlazer deposited the contents of his pocket onto his desk and hung his jacket on the chair. “I see. Well, we’re very thankful for you.”

  Ruth stepped close. “Who’s ‘we,’ Reverend?”

  “The congregation, of course. And me.”

  “Shouldn’t you include the Lord?”

  “Of course. Goes without saying.”

  Ruth gave a prim smile and returned to her dusting.

  McGlazer looked at the freshly straightened desk, his gaze stopping on an unfamiliar little black-and-orange-cellophaned package sitting amid the change and pocket lint he had just dropped.

  Candy. McGlazer’s sweet tooth beckoned, but this was not the time.

  “Is something troubling you, Ruth?”

  “Well.” She wiped the corners of his framed seminary certificates, keeping her back to him. “Now that you ask… I fear this Halloween thing, with the parade and all…could be affecting your walk with the Lord.”

  “Oh?” McGlazer almost hoped his lack of sincerity was evident. “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s just…I don’t think all this punk rock and celebrating of the dead is very godly.”

  “I see. Well, I do appreciate your concern.”

  She approached him with startling quickness. “Reverend, I care a great deal for you.”

  She lowered herself, settling on both knees, almost between his legs, glimpsing up at him with doe eyes. Were they moistening with tears? She placed a hand on his thigh. “Reverend?”

  McGlazer shifted in his seat. “Y-yes?”

  She slid her hand higher along his leg. “Would you pray with me?”

  What could he say? “All right.”

  She tugged his wrists as she knee-walked backward, bringing him to his knees on the floor with her. She put his hands together with hers and closed her eyes. “Lord, please send thine angels to protect us from the darkness and evil that hath fallen upon our land and even now tries to invade our hearts with its wickedness.”

  She was quiet for long enough that McGlazer opened his eyes to see hers moving as if in REM sleep behind her lids. But then: “Thy beloved servant Reverend McGlazer needs you now, as demons of temptation and sinful choices assail him. Please guide him and keep him on the paths of righteousness.”

  She was quiet again, as the clock ticked. “In Jesus’ precious and holy name, Amen.”

  McGlazer followed her to a standing position with a mix of feelings. He tried to pull back his hands but found her only squeezing them tighter. “Shall I make the calls to cancel the Pumpkin Parade?”

  McGlazer had not felt this kind of pressure since his intervention—and indeed, it made him want a drink, preferably a hearty straight bourbon.

  “It would fill my heart with joy to do so, Reverend,” she whispered like a lover.

  McGlazer was able to break free. “You know, a lot of farmers and merchants are depending on the festival for their winter income.”

  “The Lord will provide for them.”

  Better make that a double, barkeep.

  “I believe…the Pumpkin Parade is the Lord’s avenue for providing.”

  “No sir!” Her sudden stridency somehow triggered the taste of an old favorite, Jefferson’s Presidential Select. This kind of stress called for only the best, didn’t it? “His word forbids these abominations!”

  “I’m sor
ry, Ruth.” McGlazer slumped into his chair, physically drained. “I can’t cancel it. I won’t.”

  “Then…all I can do is pray for you. And the people of Ember Hollow.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Ruth. Now, if you don’t mind…”

  Ruth gathered her cleaning supplies and whisked out of the room like a scorned child.

  McGlazer rubbed his weary eyes and propped his feet on his desk, sure he could sleep for at least a day.

  Scratch the bourbon. This called for the crudest, hardest, Tennessee-mountain-made corn liquor.

  When he opened his eyes, he spotted the bright orange-and-black-wrapped sweet on his desk, a lighthouse beacon amid the scattered change and lint.

  Sweets were his crutch, and he surely needed propping up. He reached for it. As he unwrapped it, a chill wind blew across his face, here in this windowless room. The fluorescent light above went dim, then his desk lamp.

  His gaze was drawn—by what, he couldn’t say—to the far wall, between the pictures and seminary certificates.

  An amorphous whiteness seemed to form, about the size of a man, with indistinct features, wispy-gray eye sockets, an apple-sized “mouth.”

  McGlazer sat frozen in place. He had to work up the saliva to whisper. “Hello?”

  The shape floated toward him, issuing a barely perceptible sound, like a distant moan.

  McGlazer shakily stood, all but forgetting to breathe.

  Then the white shade winked out of existence, like a witch or genie from a ’60s sitcom.

  * * * *

  McGlazer searched for his reading glasses, to see if there was still some remnant of the indistinct haze. What he saw instead was the candy, launching itself off its open wrapper from his desk like a bullet. It flew into his mouth and all the way back to his throat with such force he thought it had pierced the back of his neck.

  He was knocked to the floor, the sudden action barely giving his gag reflex time to kick in. In terror, he coughed and grasped at his throat, rolling to his knees and bending forward to enlist gravity’s aid.

  McGlazer feared for his life, as the candy burrowed deeper, like a malevolent shelled slug.

  Then it stopped in the center of his throat.