In the Field

by Claire Tacon

  Stephen squints over at me. “Was he your boyfriend?” The boys know that their father was married before, but I’ve never talked much about my past.

  I shake my head. “No, Bernie was more like a brother.”

  On the way to the cove, Max asks Stephen if he knows about the Swiss Air plane crash.

  Bernie glances at me, appraising whether or not he should let Max continue.

  “Did people die?” Stephen asks.

  “All of them,” Bernie says. “The whole area was shut down for months.” He pulls into a parking lot a few kilometres away from Peggy’s Cove and I realize it’s the memorial site. We file out of the truck and Bernie maps the plane’s trajectory with his hand. “They crashed over there.”

  Max sidles up to Stephen and points across the bay. “That’s where the forensic tents were set up.”

  I’m curious as to how Max knows so much about something he’s too young to remember but I don’t want to push the conversation any further in case Stephen develops a fear of flying. We reach the twin stone memorials and mull around for another few moments, unsure of what to say. Back at the truck, Bernie pulls some small metal spheres out of the ashtray compartment. I roll them around the palm of my hand. Bernie’s looking mischievous now, waiting for me to identify what they are.

  “Ballpoint pen?”

  He shakes his head. I hand them to Stephen. He guesses they’re for jewellery.

  Bernie returns them to the tray. “Ball bearings,” he says. “From a woman’s torso.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  “It’s true,” Max says.

  “I got them from a buddy on the forensics team—he showed me all the photos from the investigation. People started trolling that area looking for scraps pretty soon after.”

  “Since when are you hanging out with forensic scientists?” I ask sharply, appalled by his souvenir.

  “One of Chuck’s cousins. Went through the program at Dal.” I flush at the mention.

  We were on sabbatical that year and travelling in Trinidad, so we missed a lot of the coverage. There, the story was just a blip—a report on the night of the crash and a follow-up a few days later. They played some BBC feed with a journalist commending the Canadians for the hospitality they showed to the bereaved. That’s the thing about Nova Scotia, people’ll give you a blanket right off their own bed and go out scanning the beach for mementoes the same night.

  When we reach Peggy’s Cove proper, Bernie lugs out a cooler and hands us each an apple juice. He opens his own bottle in an efficient twist, the palm of his hand flat on the cap. It reminds me of the way he used to be at bonfire parties, always able to crack off beer caps with his belt buckle or wedged against the side of a log.

  Max leads us down the granite boulders, past where you’re supposed to stop and I don’t want to say anything that will make Bernie think I’m being picky again. We get as close to the water as possible, where you can see the barnacles and mussels on the rocks, like a mottled black frosting. Suddenly Bernie twists around and picks me up, so my head is lower than my feet. “Stephen, do you think I should toss your mom in?”

  He laughs. Max hollers, “Give ‘er.”

  Bernie pretends to heave, one, two, three, like he’s going to really swing me into the ocean. Then he whirls me around and plants me back down. “Better not.”

  The boys sprint back up the rocks. If Richard was here, I’d say something—don’t run, don’t slip. Instead, I scramble up the slope alongside them. They’re too fast for us. At the crest, Bernie and I sit at angles so we can keep an eye on them. I take my shoes off to feel the heat of the granite against my soles.

  “What are you going to do with the forklift?”

  “Move things.”

  I punch his shoulder.

  “Use it for packing away the hay, maybe start storing other things on skids.” He leans back on his palms and squints up into the sun. “It was a good price. Max’ll be able to drive it.”

  “He’s working on the farm already?”

  “A bit,” Bernie says. “May as well hire him myself than have him get some shitty job in back of Tim Hortons. I don’t let him work too much during school.” He pauses. “Lindie wants him to go to college, like you did.”

  “He wants to be a scientist?”

  “No. He likes the farm.” Bernie turns to face me straight on. “There’s way more papers now, more certification, inspection. He can learn things at college—restructure the whole op.”

  “If you want, I can call some colleagues from Guelph—they might know a consultant out here.”

  Bernie waves me away. “I’ve got ideas. It’s Dad doesn’t want change.” He scratches absently at the back of his neck. “Later on, if things work out, we’re going to get a hatchery going.”

  “Linda doesn’t seem like a farm girl.”

  “She’s as good as you are with the chickens.” Bernie grins. “But she’s got a head for keeping the books. Lindie likes the Superstore though—she’s not giving up the benefits when the kids are still young.”

  It’s strange picturing the two of them together, Bernie and Linda. She’s nothing like the kind of girl I thought he’d end up with, too hard, too brash. I wasn’t lying to Stephen earlier—I’d never imagined Bernie and me together. For eight years or so of my life I felt closer to him than almost anybody. But I desperately wanted out of the Valley. Even in high school I knew Bernie’d die on the same ground on which he was born.

  The boys have circled back now and Bernie calls a race to the pickup. Stephen almost makes it first but Bernie grabs him and spins him to the side so he can win. Stephen pretends to slug Bernie’s arm and Bernie cuffs Stephen’s hat off. Both boys turn on him and start play-fighting.

  Bernie’s so much taller, all he has to do is keep one arm out to deflect their punches. After a few minutes he groans and hangs limp so the boys fall back. Max looks worried that he’s actually hurt him, but Bernie springs up and jumps into the truck, locking the door. We stand in the parking stall as Bernie backs out. He lets us catch up to him, then accelerates forward a few feet at a time, until there are cars behind us, honking.

  Bernie doesn’t linger when he drops us off. He gets Lisa settled in the truck, her face still made up to look like a tiger and then shuffles out into the lilac bushes at the far end of the property. He pauses there, facing the trees for a good minute.

  “You need anything?” I call out.

  He waits another moment, bends his knees then straightens up. When he turns around he winks.

  “We have a bathroom inside.”

  “Nah, just track dirt in.” He jumps into the truck, reaching out through the window to tap on the hood.

  Luke and Stephen grin back and forth at each other, disgusted and delighted.

  That summer before university, we had a big Labour Day party over on Evangeline beach. We’d brought tents and set them up in the campsite, along with three two-fours of beer and some homemade panty-remover from one of the guy’s uncles. Chuck and I were more or less an item by that point. There was a tacit agreement that we’d hook up at some point during parties, but we didn’t go on dates in between. Chuck still flirted with other girls, but everyone knew to keep a distance. Mostly I’d hang out with Bernie and Jason until Chuck got drunk enough to come over and start giving me attention, feeling me up in front of the other guys and pretending it was a joke.

  That night we got drunk fast, before the sun had even gone down. Some people were doing shrooms, but I wasn’t on anything and I don’t think Bernie was either. After a few hours, we ran out of firewood and we volunteered to search the wooded area up from the beach.

  There was a road through the forest leading to a string of cottages, a dark Hansel and Gretel trail. Bernie kept silent until we were well out of the campground. The end of summer was on both our minds; I was moving into residence in a few days. He’d be continuing on at his dad’s farm, same as ever.

  “Must be expensive.”

/>   “Cheaper than buying a second car. There’s the scholarship too.”

  Bernie reached over and tousled my hair. “Too smart for your own good.”

  I grabbed his hand and pulled him off the trail and into the woods. It was hard to make things out in the trees. The moon was up, but it was a thin crescent and the clouds were blowing in from Blomidon. I grabbed some underbrush and started piling it into the crook of my arm. Bernie’s boots made a clomping sound as he walked over the mossy patches. We couldn’t have been more than ten feet apart, but he kept reaching out to me every so often, making sure I was there.

  “Are we going to see you any more once you’re at school?”

  “What do you think?” I reached for his hand again. It always felt good to be next to Bernie. It felt like nothing bad could happen.

  “You scared?”

  I shook my head and pulled away. He held on. “It’s okay if you’re scared.” We found a tree that had snapped and Bernie hoisted it up onto his shoulder, the height dragging behind. I just carried branches—nothing that would burn for long.

  It was strange to come back to the group. The forest had been so quiet and we hadn’t said much to each other on the way back. When we crested the bank, the fire was blazing and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Someone was playing guitar and a couple of the girls were dancing. Chuck was sitting next to some blonde, someone’s cousin from Bridgetown. “You’d better take care of that,” Bernie said.

  I shrugged.

  “What are you two doing anyway?”

  “Chuck’s Chuck.” I raced down to the beach, not wanting to get into it. It turned out Jason had chatted with the manager and had bought logs from him, so what Bernie and I had gathered wasn’t needed. Chuck waved when he saw me. The blonde shied away.

  Around midnight someone suggested a swim. Evangeline beach isn’t really a swimming hole—the shore is pebbly and the ocean cold, but everyone stripped down anyway. Some of the girls took everything off, but the bonfire was too bright and I was embarrassed. Chuck tore off into the water. I unzipped my jeans and noticed Bernie staring at me. I pretended not to see and took off my T-shirt so he had a full view of my bra. Jason ran over, picked me up and tossed me into the water. The naked girls stayed in longest. When they ran out it was into the shadows farther down the beach, their clothes clutched to their chests. I was lucky that my underwear was navy, and may as well have been a bikini. I was aware of Bernie watching me again as I dried off by the fire.

  He looked down at the sand when I caught his eye. Chuck saw and grabbed my waist. “You’d better dry off.” He spun me around and slapped my back, his hand making a loud smack against the wet cotton. He grabbed my clothes and I sped off after him into the parking lot. I thought we were headed for the pup tent we’d set up, but he led me to Bernie’s truck instead. We climbed into the back of the cab and lay on top of an old blanket, fumbling drunk. Chuck started taking off my bra with one hand and rubbing between my legs with the other. Chuck was good with his hands and he’d got me to the brink when we heard the door open. I stopped dead, afraid to breathe.

  It was so dark that Bernie didn’t see us. He sat in the cab for a minute and there was a metal clang, like he’d undone his belt buckle. Chuck started to grin.

  He shoved me upright.

  Bernie veered around. He thudded against the door, grabbing for the handle.

  Chuck seized Bernie’s shoulder. He kept him pinned there, against the seat back and Bernie froze like a dumb dog in the middle of the road, his cock out of his pants, erect.

  “Go on, Ellie,” Chuck said. “You did this to him.” He pushed me so I was half over the front seat, bent over.

  “Bernie, you want me to leave?” I looked him in the eye, but he just sat there, mute.

  Chuck repeated, “Help him out, Ellie. I don’t mind.” Then he moved my hand over to Bernie and jerked it up and down. Bernie stared at me, pleading.

  I kissed him. He shifted so it was easier and I kept pumping him. He grabbed my breasts, massaging them between his thumb and palm. Bernie kissed differently than Chuck, more clumsy, but more earnest. Then I felt Chuck enter me from behind, but Bernie and I didn’t stop. Chuck started pounding, driving hard in a way that was becoming painful. He reached around and played with my clit. In spite of everything, I came. Chuck groaned against me, staying inside and watching over my shoulder as I finished Bernie off. It got all over the steering wheel and dashboard.

  If it had just been us, I would have let him hold me against his chest, laughed as we dabbed up the mess. Instead, any connection that we’d had was broken and Bernie slumped, his head in his hands, refusing to look up. That sight is a shame I’ve carried with me my whole life.

  Chuck knelt on the seat, tucking himself back into his pants. He took his time pulling on his shirt, his face plastered in a self-satisfied grin. Chuck let me out of the truck first then leaned in and patted Bernie’s shoulder. “Cheer up,” he said. “Maybe next time she’ll suck you off.”

  Richard’s always treated my life before we met like something cramped and adolescent that I’d shed, snakelike, out of necessity. He’s right. I don’t know why I get so defensive about it. With this summer’s excursions, I have to ask myself what proud heritage I’m trying to pass onto my sons. The Citadel, the church at Grand Pré, even today’s drive to Peggy’s Cove—they’re all stunning examples of the Nova Scotian landscape, the province’s cultural heritage. But they’re not where I grew up.

  Stephen’s using the cornfield’s wooden fence as a gymnast’s bar. It jiggles as he somersaults forward, hooking his legs behind him and dismounting into the rear field. He springs back up and sits straddling the post, watching me secure a pile of Ziploc bags under a stone. I’ve performed this dig dozens of times but I still mumble through a rehearsal and triple check my inventory, lining the shovels up so the handles are level.

  Bernie has staked off a 4 by 4 section of the field for us right on the border of the cultivated area. The terrain is moderately sloped and a valley creek separates this field from the far hill like the spine of an open book. The corn is already waist high.

  If we’d been doing this project in Guelph, it would have taken months to set up, but Marc located several LaMotte testing kits in storage and Bernie offered his field, so I’ve only had a week to prepare. Smaller school, smaller bureaucracy. Stephen leaps down from the fence and stands at my side as Marc’s red hatchback cruises down the access road. With our serious expressions and the stockpile of shovels we look like mother and son undertakers.

  Both of Marc’s grad students are so unabashedly enthusiastic it makes me feel like a minor celebrity. Melanie is tall and blonde and has a Swedish naturalist look, her hair pulled back into buns on either side of her crown. Tom is olive-skinned and slightly elfin, small hands and ears. Unlike my usual undergrads, they’ve come equipped with clipboards and graph paper. No one’s surprised that I’ve brought my son. While we’re unloading the vehicle, I overhear Marc chatting with him, comparing the Nintendo DS to the Sony PSP.

  We have the site prepared by eleven, the profile edges nice and clean so we can see the layer-cake striations. This soil is almost a textbook example of a humo-ferric podzol with a nice ashy band under the topsoil where the minerals have leached out. Underneath the ruddy, iron-rich b-horizon, it gets darker as it approaches the parent material—glacial till over sandstone. There’s a little bit of mottling, patches of a rusty brown, which can mean the soil isn’t draining well.

  The first step is to touch the various layers of soil, get a rudimentary feel for the composition. The more silicate or clay in a soil, the more it will clump together as you knead it between your thumb and forefinger. With some marsh clays, you can form a long ribbon.

  The horizons on the sample we’ve dug are on more of an angle than I’d expect. The a-horizon, which has the bulk of the organic matter, is thin. As the rest of the group works through a soil classification flow chart, I take a shovel and dig over in
the first furrow, where the crop’s failed to thrive. The soil there is worse, the b-horizon close to the surface, indicating significant erosion. There’s also the start of a hard pan. I feel a bit like a dental hygienist, poking away, checking for receding gums.

  Clarence startles me as I’m examining the patch of earth. “You just go digging in people’s fields now, Ellie?”

  I rise to greet him but he just stands there peering down into the hole, nodding. “Bernie didn’t tell you we’d be here?”

  “Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t but I’m right curious to know what you’re doing.”

  Marc jumps to his feet and holds out his hand to Clarence. “Thanks so much for letting us use your field.”

  Clarence looks Marc up and down, not sure what to make of a man who wears new clothes to dig up dirt. Clarence himself is wearing an old pair of jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a flannel vest, even though it’s a warm day. “Mind telling me what you’re up to, Eileen?”

  “Jump down there and I’ll show you.” I slip into the first pit. Clarence and I always got along pretty well when I was growing up, but I can tell he’s gotten protective of Linda.

  “I can see from here.”

  “Alright, suit yourself.” I go through the same information that I gave the students, pointing out the bands of minerals. Clarence doesn’t look particularly interested, so I focus on the top soil. “How’ve your yields been?”

  “Can’t say as they’ve been one way or another. Some years good, some bad, same as always.”

  “You’ve got a nice layer of humus up here.” I point to the side where it’s thickest then walk to the smaller hole. “But it’s pretty thin here. You ever sat down with someone to talk about alternative management practices?”

  “When you start speaking English, I’ll start listening.” Clarence pulls out a cigarette. Healthy, holistic Melanie tries to keep smiling but I notice her shifting out of the line of exhale. I go back to the original site and show Clarence a hard pan that’s been forming where the soil’s been compacted, probably from plowing.