by Bart Tuma
The
Kingdom
Land
Bart Tuma
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A
Double Edge Press, Scenery Hill, Pennsylvania
Selection
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Double Edge Press
Ebook ISBN: 9781938002298
The Kingdom Land
Copyright © 2011 Bart Tuma
Cover Artwork: Original artwork design by Double Edge Press.
Elements contained within the original design include the following images in its composition:
Montana Farmland (background) photograph by Bart Tuma. Used with permission.
Cornfield with Rainbow (foreground) photograph by Martha Dougherty, website http://marthadheritage.com. Used with permission.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Double Edge Press, 72 Ellview Road, Scenery Hill, PA 15360
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Acknowledgments
Novels aren’t created by a pen on paper, but by capturing the sparks of life.
My life would not be complete without the love and support of my beautiful wife Cindy, the joy of my three children Courtney, Shannon and Erik, and the realization that the Lord holds us in the palm of His grace.
I would also like to give special thanks to Double Edge Press for opening a window so others could see this work.
And to my mother, in prayer that her life be full today and forever.
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The
Kingdom
Land
Bart Tuma
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Chapter One
The last trace of black diesel hadn’t cleared the stack before Erik jumped from the John Deere tractor landing deep into the lifeless dirt. His day was done. His only concern was if the old pickup he’d brought to the fields that morning would start this afternoon. Each stride became faster and longer the further he was from the tractor and the closer he was to the pickup that had suddenly become his best friend. “Chevy, you’re a piece of junk, but you better start ‘cause I’m outta here.” His pace didn’t slow as he struggled to pull off his shirt, flapping it in the wind in a useless attempt to leave the dust of the day behind.
His strides stopped at the driver’s door of the ‘54 Chevy pickup. Years earlier he’d bought the old junk pickup to fix it up and show it off, but it was never fixed and remained the same. In Erik’s eyes nothing on the farm would ever change.
Just to open the Chevy’s door he had to lift it and pull at the same time. Reaching inside he grabbed a second water jug he’d forgotten that morning. The water was soured by the prairie heat, but it worked well to sooth his parched lips and rid himself of the taste of the day. When he spit the water to the ground the dust swallowed it without leaving a trace.
The jug was thrown back into the cab hard enough to bounce it off the opposite door. He slowly slid into the pickup to avoid burning himself on the hot vinyl seat. He even let a smile cross his face as the key coaxed the motor to the rattle of life. The sounds of grinding gears and running motor meant freedom, at least for a time.
The road back to the farm house snaked through the fields that should be filled with the green of growth, but now were only dust and wheat so shriveled it didn’t even look like grain. Erik didn’t care. It was his day off. It wasn’t his farm. His uncle owned the farm and lived and died with the wheat. His uncle saw these fields as his life. Erik didn’t.
It was August, the hottest month in the northern Montana plains, and the year was 1976, the third year in a row with no clouds breaking free from the Rockies to bring rain to the plains.
The dirt road turned to gravel and finally ended in front of the farmhouse. Erik didn’t even bother to let the pickup stop before throwing open the door, but let it lurch a few feet further as the gear bound motor died. He only hit every other step going up the back door stairs which lead to a hallway with a double sink. The smell of roast beef filled the room, and he vaguely heard his Aunt’s greeting. He was too hungry to care what Aunt Mary had to say. What she said wasn’t important and she’d say it again anyway.
“Erik, hurry up and get washed. Dinner’s going to get cold if you don’t hustle,” Aunt Mary again said, this time loud enough for Erik to hear. “Your uncle hasn’t got back from town. He’s still having problems getting the baler working. They better give him the right part this time. He’s already made two trips ‘cause the kid at the parts counter was too lazy to check the manual. I haven’t seen your uncle that frustrated in ages.”
Erik was still in the entry buttoning up his shirt he had just donned again after stripping it off in the field. The entryway sink was as polished and organized as any hospital room. His hard strokes loosened the dirt with the pumice soap, but it also cut the flesh from his hand. The dirty suds partly covered his arms but mostly splattered the suds to remain on the floor and counter top. Erik made no effort to clean it up. Maybe someday she’ll get the hint and leave this sink alone. Not everything needs to be perfect. If she wants me to scrub up before eating, she should know the sink’s going to get dirty in the process.
Cleaning himself was an exaggeration. The process Erik undertook was shifting the dirt to where people couldn’t see it. He rolled down his long sleeves to hide any spots he might have missed, and left the remaining dirt on a white hand towel that Mary would immediately clean after dinner. He would get to the serious washing later on.
“Anything worth eating tonight, Aunt Mary?” Erik saw his aunt cock her head wondering if Erik was serious or joking.
“What are you talking about? We’re having roast beef, and you’d better just eat it without any comments.”
His aunt wasn’t eating, but she joined Erik as he pulled the platters of food closer. She bowed her head to pray. Erik knew what she was doing but kept filling his plate. He wasn’t part of that God stuff and he wanted to eat and get out of there. He loved his aunt, and it was nice to have some company, but he knew that her company would also bring her questions so he started eating when he had the chance.
“Pass the potatoes?” Erik asked even before Mary raised her head.
“You could say ‘please’,” Mary said as she passed the large bowl. Erik had heard her corrections for years, but heeded few. “I see you got all the strips west of the house done.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t take much when there aren’t weeds to kill anyway. It’s mostly just turning dust. It seems like a waste of good diesel to me. I should be done by next week sometime. Before I forget, I had a visitor today,” Erik added with his mouth half full of chewy beef.
“A visitor? Why would you have a visitor?” Mary’s surprise echoed his own earlier in the day.
“It was that McCormack guy, the county agent. I was surprised a county employee would work on Saturday, but there he was in that bright yellow Glacier County truck. He came by just after noon. I don’t know why you pay taxes to hire someone like him. He’s an idiot.” Erik’s focus remained on his food.
“Why did he go to the fields rather than coming to the house?”
“I don’t know why he does anything except collect a paycheck. He said he was looking for Henry,” Erik sneered as he balanced a fork full of peas and corn. “But I think he was lying, or he would have looked for him here at the shop. I imagine he’s afraid to come to the house after all his lies. He’s been t
elling people for three years that it’s going to rain and it never does. The thing that amazes me is that people still—”
Mary interrupted Erik before he could finish. He was used to it.
“He gets his reports from the weather man, so blame the weather man if you need to blame someone. He’s just doing his job.”
She always talked. You’d think she could listen to me once in a while. “Aunt Mary, anyone who believes that guy or the weather man is crazy. Just look at the fields. They’re pathetic. It’s August and the grain doesn’t even come up to my knees. It’s not even going to be worth pulling a combine into the fields. The diesel will cost more than what Uncle Henry will get for the crop. It’s even useless for me to run the tractor. The weeds aren’t even growing. All I’m doing is raising more dust.’’ Erik’s voice grew harsher the longer he talked.
“Erik, you know it’s not useless. We’ve got to keep the ground loose so when the rains come, the ground can take it in. We’re been through droughts before. They come and go. We just have to wait them out, and have faith that next year will be better. When the rains come no one will remember the drought.”
“When the rains come. That’s a big ‘when’. I’d bet against it if I were a gambler. Sure the rain will come back some day, but how many farmers will go broke before that?”
“Just be quiet. It’s hard enough without talk like that. You sound like an old man that doesn’t have anything better to do than complain. What did the agent say, anyway?”
“I didn’t pay much attention. If he wanted to do something worthwhile he should have brought something cold to drink. All he did was babble. He said something about the county has been declared a disaster area, as if that wasn’t obvious enough. I’m supposed to tell Uncle Henry that the state will help him out until next year. He says he knows it’s going to rain next year. I say he’s crazy. All that’s going to happen is the two of you are going to go further in debt; the government never gives out anything for free. You’ll go further in debt and all you’ll get for it is being disappointed again.”
“I said to be quiet about what you don’t know,” Mary again interrupted. “Your Uncle knows when it’s best to run the plow and when to harvest. Not you.” Mary’s glare made it obvious to Erik that he had crossed the line. “You aren’t helping with your comments. All you’re doing is bringing your bitterness to the kitchen table. Leave it at the door with your work boots and gloves. And I better not hear you talk that way to your uncle. You know how important this farm is to him. He’s put his whole life into the farm, and if you want this farm you better do the same.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Erik said. “I’m more than happy to help you out for a time because of everything, but never confuse that with me wanting to be a farmer. I’m not the farmer type. You know I could never be a farmer. Either that or you haven’t been listening. Just like Uncle Henry keeps telling me: a farmer, to be a farmer, has to be part of the land. He has to work the soil until the soil gives back the harvest, no matter how long that takes. I just can’t do that. Uncle Henry is like that, I’m not.
“He’s so much a part of the farm it’s almost scary. When the crops fail, like now, he looks like a broken man. You can see it in the way he walks. His shoulders droop lower, just like the wheat. That’s not me. I don’t want to be that close to anything—let alone dirt.
“You know the saying: Farmers are the only people who don’t have to fear death. They live for the touch of the soil all their lives, but they can only enter it once they die. That’s too depressing for me. Way too depressing.”
“Erik, you’re bound and determined to start a fight tonight, but don’t think you’ll get a reaction out of me. It’s Saturday; can’t we talk about anything else? At least your Uncle isn’t here. He’s a proud man, and you could learn something from him. He’s committed to God and he’s committed to making this farm something to be proud of. I’m proud of him and I’m proud of this farm. If you can’t understand that, keep your comments to yourself. I don’t want to hear any more.” Mary went to the Frigidaire to get a plate of butter that Erik didn’t need. Erik watched her hesitate in front of the open fridge and take a deep breath. Mary rarely got that that upset. The drought has got to her, too.
Erik was always amazed that Mary could keep her house and herself so perfectly finished when everything outside the farmhouse was dust and brown and dying. For as long as Erik could remember, Mary always had, and still did, carry her small frame with dignity and composure. She put her long, thick dark hair in a bun. She said she did it for convenience, but Erik always thought that it gave her the appearance of royalty. As a young boy Erik loved to sit on a stool and watch her get ready to meet the day. She would pull her hair together with a firm grasp, twist it into the bun and fasten it with one bobby pin. She would never know how much he respected her for being such a rock in this dismal land.
When she returned, her voice had regained her usual soft tone. “What are you going to do tonight? You haven’t got together with the Hanson boy in a long time. Why don’t you see what he’s doing tonight?” Mary asked with a plea in her voice.
Erik knew what his answer would be before Mary even finished. Aaron Hanson was a nice kid, but just too starchy for Erik. For years he knew Aunt Mary’s hope was that Aaron’s Christianity would change Erik, but the more she suggested the harder he said no. Aaron had never said anything wrong, but Erik knew exactly where he was coming from and Erik wasn’t there.
“As you say, I don’t want to hear any more of that talk. Aaron Hanson is boring and we have nothing in common,” Erik replied.
“He’s boring! And you’re the one to talk—Mr. Sociable himself. Why don’t you go out with someone else then, anyone, so you don’t have to spend another night alone in that bunkhouse? You haven’t had a date in ages. It isn’t good for you to be alone so much.” His aunt’s voice was both tired and frustrated.
“Don’t worry about me,” Erik advised. “I’ll take care of myself. I always have. Why don’t you get some ketchup so I can put it on this pot roast?” he said the last with every intention of garnering a reaction and changing the subject.
“That’s not pot roast. It’s the best roast beef in the county and if you want to put ketchup on roast beef and drown out the taste, you get your own ketchup. That roast was in the oven for three hours and I had to work next to that hot oven all day. You feel sorry for yourself working on the tractor, but working next to a hot oven so you can have a nice Saturday meal isn’t much better. Your uncle is late because he still isn’t done, and all you can do is complain. I don’t know why I even try. You get your own ketchup!” Mary slammed her cup on the table and left the room.
It had been years since Erik’s aunt had lost her temper with him. The drought’s getting to her, too, he thought again.
Erik turned back to his plate. He’d gotten the quiet he wanted, but not in the way he had wanted.
He finished the meal alone. Erik was good at being alone. He actually felt most comfortable alone, and as Mary walked away it reminded him that he had been left alone before. He lived with his aunt and uncle for a reason. Erik’s mother had left the family when he was three and his dad died when he was eleven.
Chapter Two
Erik walked to the refrigerator, grabbed a cold pop and left the kitchen without saying goodbye to his aunt. He walked straight to the bunkhouse with the last piece of bread and the pop, dragging his feet on the dirt path. Although there was an extra bedroom in the main house Erik lived in the old bunkhouse. It was his choice as it was his choice to use the entryway sink. The bunkhouse was close to the tool sheds and grain silos, but far from the farmhouse. It was where he wanted to live. In the bunkhouse there was no one to bother him and he could escape that farm in his dreams. Being alone in the bunkhouse was different from being alone in the farmhouse kitchen. The solitude in the bunkhouse was something he created.
The bunkhouse hadn’t been painted or repaired in decades. It was a pl
ace no one would want to live, but it was Erik’s refuge. He had the bunkhouse all to himself. The bunkhouse was the ideal place for him to dream. This was his place whereas everywhere else was their place.
Erik went straight to a small room to the left that was separate from the main dorm. It had both a bed and a tin shower stall. It took his eyes a second to get used to the dimness of the windowless room as he stripped and visited the cold-water shower. He gasped as the cold well water hit his chest, but the water had the desired effect. He finally felt different and alive. He finally could forget the farm.
Reaching into the second drawer of a four-drawer dresser, he retrieved a dress shirt that was seldom worn. A chipped runner made the drawer difficult to open, but he had never bothered to fix it. The starched shirt felt awkward, but his donning it signaled a special occasion he so desperately needed.
He plopped himself down hard on the bed. “This is better.” He could feel the slope of the bed which was propped up by bricks in one of it’s corners to solve a broken leg. It was still better than anything else he had felt that week.
Erik had time to kill before his trip. All week he had dreamed exactly how this evening would go, so it was time to take a nap. He felt himself drifting off while he rehashed the dinner conversation with his aunt. That conversation hadn’t been the start to his evening in any of his dreams. He knew his aunt was wrong. I wasn’t trying to start a fight. She needs to listen to me sometimes, and the conversation wouldn’t have happened if that stupid county agent had went to the house like he should have. Besides, she doesn’t have the right in getting mad at me and trying to tell me what to do with my life. She’s a great lady, but she has her own problems.