by Colin Kersey
“That will be Daddy,” Valerie offered.
Vonda hurried to the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a broom and dustpan. Valerie hovered near a gleaming spinet piano where she began carefully rearranging several framed photos and knickknacks. “Don’t forget to put away the wine bottle,” she said. “It’s on the countertop by the refrigerator.”
“Thanks, Val.” Her sister left the broom leaning against the couch while she located the bottle. When she determined that it still contained a small amount of wine, Vonda raised it to her lips and downed the last swallow. Then she winked at me and tossed the empty into the trash pail under the sink with a crash and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
There was a noise behind me. The door opened, and a middle-aged man entered. He glared at me in surprise.
“Who’re you?” he asked, hanging his coat on a hook by the door.
I hesitated just a second. “Grayson Reynolds.” I put out a hand and the other man shook it with a look of suspicion.
“Virgil Van de Zilver.” He squinted. “Weren’t you supposed to be here three hours ago?”
“He had a flat tire,” Valerie said. Vonda and I both looked at her in surprise.
Virgil was an inch or two shorter than me and a good deal thicker through the middle, though he was not fat. He wore a plaid wool shirt like the one Vonda wore, khakis, and a pair of Rockport walking shoes. Beneath a red Case IH cap was an honest Dutch face, lined by sun and age.
“You could have called.”
“Lost my cell phone.” Lost my everything, I could have added.
“Where’s Stu?” Virgil asked, looking over one shoulder at his daughters. “I didn’t see him or his car.”
“Probably down at the Skooner having a beer,” Vonda said.
He glanced at his watch. “It’s still working hours. He forget that Saturdays are his responsibility around here?” He set his wet cap on the piano where Valerie had earlier straightened up. Then he spotted the several shards of the plate that still littered the floor. “What happened here?”
“Nothing,” Vonda said.
“She hid my…” Valerie blushed. “My woman things!”
Vonda chuckled. “‘Woman things’? Is that what you call tampons?”
Virgil stared at Vonda. “Now why on earth would you do that?”
She shrugged. “Can’t we ever just have fun now and then? Act like a normal family?”
“As the oldest, you have a responsibility to look out for your sister. And, by the way, where are the rest of your clothes? The day is two-thirds gone and you’re still half-naked.”
“It’s the weekend, Daddy. Besides, my toes needed painting.” She grinned at me. “Like ‘em?”
Each of her toes sported a green, gibbous moon. Personally, I prefer pink, but I have always admired women for their attentiveness to their nails.
Virgil pulled out the captain’s chair at the head of the table. “Spiritual guidance, that’s what you both need.” He sank down heavily. “Your poor mother must be rolling over in her grave.”
Vonda rolled her eyes, but Valerie’s pale face had turned red and blotchy. Vonda took a seat on one side of the table and Valerie, the other. Embarrassed to be listening in and unsure what else to do, I wandered over to the piano to inspect the photos on its top.
None of the photos appeared to be recent. In one of them, two young girls, the smaller one dark-haired and serious, the other one blonde with a smile that held a hint of mischief, clutched the hands of a fair-haired woman whose piercing dark eyes held my own. I could almost hear her speak: “Don’t be bringing your troubles here.”
Valerie nervously stroked her dog whose head rested in her lap. Virgil reached into his back pocket and withdrew a large kerchief that he used to clean and dry his metal-framed glasses.
He sighed at last. “Is it too much to ask, or can I get a cup of coffee?”
Although Vonda was closer, Valerie sprang up to get it. She put out her hand briefly to locate the countertop.
“You ever done any maintenance work?” Virgil asked. “I saw the California plates, but even without ‘em, you don’t look like you’re from around here.”
“Are you referring to my skin color?”
Silence crashed into the room.
“Kind of exotic looking, if you ask me,” Vonda said after a long pause.
“I don’t care if he’s purple like a plum,” Valerie said from the kitchen.
“Sorry, sis, but he ain’t plum purple, banana yellow, or raspberry red. Not even lime green. More like Hershey’s milk chocolate brown.” She smiled at me. “Sis only knows the colors you can eat.”
“What on earth are your girls gabbing about?” Virgil exploded. “I’ll have you know that I don’t care what color a man is as long as he’s honest and works hard. I was simply referring to the fact that he looks a bit scruffy for someone applying for a job—even in an off-the-beaten-track place like this.”
From what I had seen of my reflection in the Toyota’s rearview mirror, Virgil’s comment was an understatement. It had been a week since that fatal day in Huntington Beach and, in my haste and with limited finances, I had not done much to keep up appearances. In addition to the bruises and several small cuts that still marked my face, I had not bothered to shave. I looked more like a refugee from a war zone than someone applying for a job.
Then I felt my passion rising and realized that, during the past few days, I had forgotten what it was to feel anything except the pain that was both deafening and defining. I stood up straight, squared my shoulders, and took a step toward the three of them. It was showtime.
“I’m from West Texas by way of Southern California, but I know how to work hard.”
Virgil squinted. “Ever drive a tractor?”
“I did some haying as a kid.”
Valerie touched her father’s arm and placed a mug down in front of him. He stirred the coffee absently and stared at me for an uncomfortable twenty seconds or so. “C’mon then.” He stood up. “Let’s find out what you can do.”
Virgil removed a jacket from a wooden wall coat rack. I shuddered in anticipation of the damp cold as I thought about the test I was about to face. Driving a tractor is about as easy as it gets. Just put the transmission in gear—any gear—and go. But I was not in the best physical condition. In fact, I may possibly have been in the worst condition for a job interview in the history of North America.
“Wait,” a voice called. The way we pirouetted in tandem, you might have thought we had been practicing.
“You need something on your head.” Vonda plucked a tattered Sedro Woolley baseball cap with a lopsided brim from one of the other coat pegs.
Our hands touched briefly as I accepted the proffered hat. “Quite a relic.”
“That hat’s seen better days,” Virgil said. “It belongs to Stu, my son-in-law.” He opened the door and held it. I pulled the venerable cap on over hair that was a little longer and shaggier than my normal buzz cut, and we stepped out into the rain.
We walked toward the back of the house, shoes crunching on the gravel driveway. The rain continued to fall, harder now: a slow, steady, ceaseless downpour, the drops making a thwocking noise as they struck the hat.
CHAPTER SIX
Coming from Southern California where lawns, if they existed at all, were often smaller than the swimming pools they surrounded, I was unprepared for the expanse of green that now greeted us. Acres and acres of grass, lush as a golf course and nearly as plentiful, extended before us, descending gradually before disappearing down the hill. Close by the house were rows of rose bushes, not much more than crippled stalks at this point, separating the backyard from the park-like grounds. Halfway down the slope, a stand of cedar trees were surrounded by a low, rock wall. They soared up like giants, guarding what lay beyond.
“You walk like you were walking on glass instead of grass,” Virgil said. I noticed him studying me out of the corner of one eye. “And pardon my saying
so, but you don’t look much like a maintenance man. Leastwise, not the ones from around here.”
“Really?” I was attempting to watch where I stepped while surveying the entirety of the farm which was not easy. The descending ground was uneven, and each step required a reach that sent little jolts of pain through my damaged ribs. “What do I look like?”
“I dunno,” Virgil replied after a few seconds of careful consideration. “But too smart by at least half, I’d say. And a good deal too thin.”
I realized that my appetite was yet another thing I had lost since Heide’s death. A list of all my losses would likely fill a small notebook and lead to some serious couch time with a shrink if I allowed my mind to go there. Which I could not. Not now and maybe never. In my extremely limited experience, I had discovered that the only way to deal with sudden, unexpected loss was either to give in to it or block it. I chose the latter as the only viable option.
Some two hundred yards below, the white, split-rail fence gave way to a line of trees, shrubs, and ferns. The naked limbs of alder trees and cottonwoods stood out in stark contrast against the darker evergreens. Near the base of the slope and beyond the cedars, I spotted the nickel-glint of a pond, pockmarked by the rain. A heavy mist clung sinuously to the hills above, leaving a jagged, snow-crowned mountain peak exposed. The monochrome sky looked as if someone had drawn a feather through it. Where they caressed the hills, the clouds were wisps of smoke.
Virgil directed me toward the larger of two metal buildings. “When did you say you drove a tractor?”
“In high school. For three summers.”
“And when was that exactly? Hard to tell, what with your beard, how old you might be.”
“About five years ago, I guess.”
The beard had been Heide’s idea. “All the guys are wearing them,” she had said. At the time, I thought having a beard was not worth the trouble but grew it to please her. Now, I no longer thought about appearances or pleasing anyone, for that matter.
We passed through a large, double doorway into a cavernous barn with a spotless concrete floor. There wasn’t a spec of hay or tack in sight. It smelled of oil and fertilizer and was cold enough inside that our breath was visible. The rain drummed steadily on the metal roof. Otherwise, the barn was still as a cathedral. Virgil hit a row of switches and light hissed, flickered, and exploded from rows of fluorescent tubes high overhead. Lining the barn’s walls was an assortment of hardware, from old bicycles to farm implements. Beyond the Cadillac stood a green John Deere, rear tires as tall as a man, hooked up to a hooded piece of equipment that I did not recognize.
“That’s the hammerknifer,” Virgil explained. “Take a look.”
With difficulty, I managed to get down on my knees to inspect this strange-looking contraption more closely. Hundreds of double-edged blades dangled from an axle. I touched one that looked like it might have been replaced recently and determined that it was razor-sharp.
“It’ll chop through just about anything: two-by-fours, beer bottles, soda pop cans, and bones if you happen to fall in its path. Do not ever stick your hand in there to clear it when it is turning. It will suck you in faster than you can holler for help. And one more thing: the hood is designed to prevent stuff from flying out the back, but not the front. Stay away from rocks. They’ll wreck the blades, not to mention smack you in the head if it picks up a stone and flings it at you.”
“Sounds dangerous,” I said. Driving around L.A. is scary, but at least you do not have to worry about your vehicle throwing rocks at you.
“It’s all business. Never for one, little, bitty moment forget that fact.” Virgil reached over, pulled the choke out, and turned the ignition switch on the tractor. The engine fired with a metallic rattle. “Go ahead. Get on. Let’s see you take it for a spin.” He nodded toward the grounds outside.
“In the rain? Won’t it ruin the grass?”
“The hammerknifer don’t care one way or the other,” Virgil said. “It will cut just fine, rain or shine.”
Here it was then—the moment of truth. I approached the tractor slowly, searching for a step of any kind to make the climb up onto the seat easier, but, on this model at least, there wasn’t one. I looked around for a step stool, or maybe even a ladder.
“What’re you waiting for?”
I took a breath, held it, and, using the steering wheel for leverage, hauled myself up. Halfway up, something—a stitch probably—gave in my side. The next several seconds felt like someone was holding a blowtorch to my ribs. The tractor seat, a concave metal shell with no padding, was as hard and unyielding as granite, but I barely noticed while gasping from the exertion and pain. Grimly, I recalled the doctor explaining that there was a bullet fragment too close to the aorta to be removed and was still moving around. If it nicked the artery, I could bleed out before help arrived. The way this occupational test was going so far, I was starting to think that death might not be so bad. My parents had converted from Hinduism to Christianity before leaving India, but reincarnation suddenly sounded like a fine idea.
“Something the matter?” Virgil asked. “You move slower than molasses on a cold day.”
Let’s smash one of your ribs and see how you do, old man, I thought. Unable to breathe much less respond, I searched beneath the seat for the lift lever, found it, and shoved it forward. Behind me, I felt the hammerknifer rise into the air. Without so much as a rearward glance—something I could not have managed anyway—I shifted the transmission into second gear and gave the engine some throttle. The tractor lurched toward the open door.
Once outside, I tilted my face up into the rain and felt a little revived. When I could breathe again, I lowered the hammerknifer and shoved the blades into gear. A violent humming, thrashing noise immediately came from behind me. I was able to stand up and shuffle my feet around the tractor’s small floor space far enough to confirm that the grass was indeed being chopped into a uniform height by the hundreds of whirling razor blades. I steered the John Deere for the opposite side of the greensward. When I had made a wide oval and covered most of the distance back, I glanced over at Virgil who motioned for me to return.
So far, so good. Now came the interesting part. After shutting off the blades and raising the hammerknifer, I had to reverse the tractor back into its previous location in the barn. Looking over my shoulder felt roughly akin to having a pair of scissors thrust into my ribs. After numerous minor course corrections, I succeeded in parking the tractor back in its original resting place. I lowered the hammerknifer, turned off the engine, and wiped the rain and sweat from my face with a damp sleeve.
Virgil had already walked over to a stubby, orange vehicle with four wheels in the back and two smaller ones in front like the tugs they use to move the luggage carts around at airports. Above the grill appeared the brand name, Payloader. I slid to the ground from the John Deere with only a small grunt of pain. Behind the orange Payloader were three big gangs of mower blades that could cut a ten-foot swath in a single pass.
“Meet the Bull. It has got a straight-six Chrysler motor producing a hundred and seventy horses and it will mow the entire forty acres in less than a day when the grass is dry. The only problem is keeping the blades in adjustment. Too close and you will hear them chatter up a storm. Then they slip and slide more than cut the grass and you end up with an ugly mess. Too loose and they won’t cut anything. But do it right and they’ll sharpen themselves.”
He upended the mug to finish the last of his coffee. “It’s a bit like dealing with women,” Virgil added. “You’ve got to give them some attention now and then to keep ‘em happy.”
I looked to see if he was smiling, but he was not.
The final stop on the tour was a green and yellow John Deere riding mower that looked positively toy-like by comparison to the other mowing machines.
“This is for up around the house and the playground area we maintain for the children of our customers,” Virgil said. “Vonda likes to drive it sometimes
in summer. She calls it ‘Little Deer.’ Let’s go outside. I’ll show you the ponds.”
“What else have you done besides drive tractor?” Virgil asked when we were back outside, headed down the hill in the rain. My feet were now soaking wet, my teeth were beginning to chatter, and I realized I had had nothing to eat since a hamburger the night before. Hello, hypothermia.
“I worked in a warehouse for a couple of summers while I was going to college. Before that, I delivered newspapers, mowed lawns, did some haying like I said earlier. For the last two years, I worked for a landscaping firm in Orange County, California.”
“Orange County, huh?” Virgil nodded as if this geographical detail explained something important. “What made you come up here?”
Flash. Boom.
It was probably only a trick of the imagination, but I could almost see the muzzle flash and hear the crack of the gun as the bullet struck me. I stared at Virgil for a moment, unable to speak. Remembering Heide’s death caused acid to rise in my throat, scalding it. Confessing that I had fled Southern California for this remote location to avoid being hunted down and killed by the Sinaloa Cartel was not likely going to improve my employment outlook. I waved an arm, anxious to jump-start my lips, say something—anything at all—to get past this moment.
“This. The trees. The mountains.” Nearby, I spotted two large rabbits with red eyes watching me from their hutch as they chewed on lettuce. “Look at these big guys.” I bit the inside of my cheek. I half-expected the man to frown, maybe even laugh. Fortunately, he did neither. This would be my first insight into Virgil Van de Zilver and it was refreshing to learn that, unlike people in Southern California, Virgil was not a man who agonized over the subtext of conversations and, for this, I was extremely grateful.
“That’s Thelma and Louise,” Virgil said, nodding toward the rabbits. “Daughters named them.”
Which one is Geena Davis? I wondered.
We came to the first pond where thousands of random craters appeared with every second, then rippled away, silently, on its surface. Except for the rain striking the grass and our clothing, it was unbelievably quiet. A drop stuck the back of my neck and I turned up my jacket collar as an arctic chill passed through me.