Somewhere, he was certain Mason cried out, “Try to find us!”
“Mason? Where are you?”
Olivia and her friend nudged him down another row. He turned his head a moment, and the girls had vanished.
“No playing games, girls.”
Olivia and her friend appeared around a corner. “Wrong turn. Let’s try this way.”
“Hold up, you guys.”
Olivia raced back to him. “Isn’t this fun, Uncle Andy?”
“Sure. Where are Mason and the others?”
“Mason’s probably already out. He’s done it so many times, he knows his way even in the dark.”
Other children rushed past them, twisting and chuckling as they plotted their escape.
“I don’t think this is the right way,” Andy said.
“It’s over here,” Olivia’s friend said. “I remember now.”
Though the tall stalks blocked much of the sun, humidity built high, and Andy mopped his forehead. One impasse after another and Andy wondered if they’d ever see the outside world again. “The fairgrounds need to provide maps for this place,” he mumbled.
Olivia’s little friend grasped her hand and hurried her off. Andy followed, calling after them to slow down and not to get lost. Yet it was he who he worried the maze might consume without a trace.
He tired, and the girls rushed ahead. As he straggled behind, his thoughts turned to what Loretta and the other ladies had said about marrying in-laws. He laughed to himself. His crush on Harden hadn’t become that severe. It wasn’t like he really wanted Harden the same way he wanted Ken. Yet when he pictured Lucinda and Harden alone at the grill, blood burned his eyes.
Each turn brought his ruminations down more unfamiliar terrain. He began to compare Ken and Harden. Head to head, he had to give favorites to Harden. Ken was…. What was Ken? A bully, in some ways. Ken had been rough with Andy from the beginning, even while they had “fooled around” that first time. Years ago, Andy wouldn’t have given a man like Ken two minutes of his time. Had his sinister nature taken on such a deep root—like the corn around him—that he believed he deserved a man like Kenneth Millpairs?
He visualized Harden again, tossing his head back with the force of laughter, patting his buddies on their backs, beer gripped in hand, grill fork raised with poise. Good-old-boy fun. Andy had enjoyed observing him.
Suddenly, there stood Lucinda. Not only pretty and well-groomed, but bright. She spoke the language of farming, Harden’s cherished first love.
You belong in Chicago, bozo. Not in Iowa.
Gazing around, Andy realized the voice he heard came from inside his own head. The children’s giggles had evaporated amidst the breezes teasing the stalks. The only noise—the beating of his heart.
“Hello? Where did everyone go? Olivia?”
He traipsed down row after row, each time facing a wall of formidable green stalks. His breath came in scarce spasms. He’d forgotten to exhale. When he swallowed the thick, hot air, his tongue sealed to the roof of his mouth. All his spit had evaporated.
Far off giggles jerked his head. Vaporous laughter, like the breeze. His heart pounded inside his chest and he began to grow disoriented and dizzy.
“Where the hell am I?” he muttered loud enough for a flock of crows to flutter out from the cornstalks. He flinched back, cursing the birds. Although he wished he could fly away with similar ease.
The more he shouted for the kids, the more his voice sounded empty, the sole human utterance on earth. The walls of corn swallowed his voice. Almost as if he were drowning in a vast sea. A speck no larger than nothing.
He could navigate his way through the gritty, litter-strewn streets of Chicago’s crime-ridden ghettos, but he couldn’t find his way out of a corn maze in the middle of Iowa.
Pathetic!
He worked the saliva around inside his mouth. Laboring to orient himself, he peered from side to side, up along the massive stalks and down the endless rows. What sadistic freak had conjured up such a labyrinth?
Slices of sunlight against the clover-covered ground summoned his hope and courage. Somewhere out there, the world wagged. The sun, the sky, the trees, the people, the food piled high on picnic tables.
Stalks snatched at his T-shirt and hair as he traipsed along. No wonder they call them stalks! The elbows of corn seemed to thump his nose, scorning him. He swatted away the spindly appendages and annoying gnats.
He stopped and breathed. Beyond the stalks, the vinegar-like aroma of roasting corn tickled his nose. The gala was going on without him. He checked his wristwatch. He’d trudged inside the damn maze alone and lost for more than fifteen minutes. How long did a person need to reach the other side?
“Anyone hear me?”
A pile of bones lay to the side of one row. Nice sign, Andy brooded. At a closer look, he realized the bones were from someone’s chicken picnic. Discarded in a dash for the exit. Ants scurried over the bones in a crazed pursuit to devour leftover flesh. Trapped in their own maze.
A sudden impulse to bushwhack through the stalks took hold of him. Had to be quicker than racing around like a rat.
Each row led nowhere. More dead ends. More mocking corn. He imagined the stalks coming alive, chasing and grabbing him like devilish phantoms.
Silly to experience anxiety in a corn maze. They had built it for fun, not torture. Where are those damn kids?
“Olivia! Mason!”
The distant cawing of a crow dug a hole the size of a swimming pool in Andy’s soul. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and inhaled. His shirt and sweaty legs were coated with corn straw and dead bugs. Defeated, he fell to his haunches and dragged his fingers through the clover.
A few yards off, a candy bar wrapper lay on the ground, trampled by many feet. Another reminder that humans existed, yet had abandoned him in some strange parallel world.
“Andrew….”
He stood tall and jerked his head toward the sound of a man’s voice. Familiar, but too remote to judge.
“I’m here!”
“Andy?”
“Over here!”
“Stay where you are,” he said. “Keep talking and I’ll find you.”
Andy stood motionless and repeated, “I’m over here, I’m over here,” until the crunch of duff amplified and he beheld the sight of his former brother-in-law, Harden Krane, walking toward him and wearing a wrinkly forehead.
He stopped several paces away. “You get lost?”
Andy began chuckling in relief. “I was about to resort to eating crow, but I think I have in a way. I’m an idiot.”
“Everyone gets lost in here their first try,” Harden said. “The kids shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“They made it out?”
“Sure, they’re already eating. I asked where you were, and they thought you had gotten out.”
“What made you think to come after me?”
Harden flushed. “You were gone so long I worried. No one had seen you since Mason and Olivia dragged you off.” Sunlight bathed Harden’s blond hair when he turned to make room for Andy to walk alongside him. “Come on. I bet you’re hungry.”
They shared a light chuckle, and together they hiked down the corridor of cornstalks toward the exit, where the outside world awaited, among good food and much needed ice-cold beer.
Chapter 15
EXHAUSTED after a long day under the hot sun and trying to find his way out of that godforsaken corn maze, Andy relaxed beside Harden on the living room sofa. They had tucked the children in bed, and now they sat shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, smelling of sweat and corn and grill smoke, striving to remove the kernels from between their teeth with toothpicks.
Harden—toothpick pinched between index finger and thumb, pointy end wedged between two front teeth—elbowed Andy. “What did you think of our corn roast, huh?”
Their elbows working in unison, Andy smiled. “I had a good time, really, I did.”
“Even after getting lost in the
corn maze?”
The blood taste annoyed Andy. He tossed his toothpick on a napkin atop the coffee table and wiped his hands. “Quite an experience. I’ll concede that,” he said, and he roved his tongue over his gums. “Thanks again for rescuing me.”
“Not quite like a weekend in Chicago, though, I bet.”
“Everything’s fun in its own way. The food was awesome. That’s for sure.”
“I’m stuffed.” Harden patted his belly. Andy noted the small bulge overlapping his jeans—his papa pack, Andy called it. “I shouldn’t have eaten so much. I had one too many slices of Lucinda’s strawberry rhubarb pie. It was horrible, but I didn’t want to appear rude.”
“She likes you,” Andy stated with a downturn of his mouth.
Andy liked the red that streaked across Harden’s sun-bronzed face. “Lucinda’s a flirt,” Harden said.
“Not interested in her?”
“Way too young for me.”
Harden’s admission gave Andy a strange sense of gladness and relief, yet he needled him. “Kamila is too old, Lucinda is too young. Picky guy.”
“Guess I’m fickle,” Harden said, his voice earnest. “I don’t even know what I want these days.”
Andy exhaled and brought his hand closer to his side. “Don’t worry over it too much. All that matters is you’re a good guy.”
Harden continued to pick at his teeth. “You think?”
Nodding unhurriedly, Andy said, “I think.”
Harden chortled and again poked Andy’s side with his elbow. “Jane was sure giving you some looks. You can’t tell me you didn’t notice her.”
Andy had noticed Burt Anders’s eldest daughter, Jane. She had joined their party while Andy was fighting his way through the corn maze. The moment he’d scooted his legs under the picnic table she’d begun staring at him. Offset by the others, Jane had acted outright flirty. He’d tried to ignore her, but she had made it impossible.
“Don’t people around here know I’m gay?” Andy said.
Harden brought his picking hand to his lap and chuckled. “I took out an aerial advertisement after Lillian told me. Seriously, it’s nobody’s business. I have no idea if they know or not. Clearly, Jane Anders doesn’t. Why do you ask?”
“I got an impression Loretta might know. People are more indirect here, I guess. I don’t mind anyone knowing. Did it ever bother you?”
Harden shrugged and began picking his teeth again. “Why would it? None of my business either.”
“I’m guessing the kids know by now.”
“Kids know everything.”
Andy prodded Harden further. “Be honest, what did you think after you found out?”
“I figured it’s a part of nature, like corn.”
“Being gay is like corn?” Andy threw his head against the backrest and howled to the ceiling. He cupped his mouth with his hand when he feared he might wake the kids. Softer, he said, “That’s a new one. But I can see a reasonable simile there.”
They chuckled under their breaths and for a moment Andy fancied Harden might tickle his ribs when someone knocked on the living room’s french doors.
“Who’s that?”
“Must be Dick,” Harden said, setting his toothpick next to Andy’s and getting to his feet.
Harden and Dick spoke a few minutes at the door, but Andy failed to decipher what they were saying. Over Harden’s shoulder, Dick eyed Andy. Flushing, Andy turned his gaze to Olivia’s laptop on the carpet.
“Why’s he knocking at this hour?” Andy asked once Harden sat back beside him.
“He likes to let me know when he’s working the field at night,” Harden said.
“Working so late?”
“He’s using the full moon to get extra work in. It’s cooler to work nights. Haven’t you ever heard of a Corn Moon? Native folklore suggests the soil turns richer under full moons too. I took a course on farming folklore in college. Very interesting.”
“I should’ve known,” Andy said, nodding. “A full moon. That’s why we’re so punchy. I make my best money on nights like this. Shootings always increase during full moons. Did you know that? Farmers and gangsters share similarities. Both come out at night to accomplish their best work.”
Harden shook his head. “You and that tour business of yours. I can’t believe people pay for that kind of service.”
“People see shootings and crime all the time on TV. Why not see it in person? Is what I’m doing any different than providing tours through Auschwitz or Lizzie Borden’s house?”
“I know you better than this, Andy. You’re doing this for more than the money. This is your own way of….”
“Of what?”
Harden faced Andy. “Admit it, you hate what you’re doing.”
Andy crossed his arms across his chest and peered at his stocking feet. “I’m tired of taking the straight and narrow road. What do I get out of it? Poverty? Rejection? Layoffs from people who practice the identical political correctness as corrupt politicians? Even prisoners have pen pals and celebrity endorsements. What do I have? I have a right to a life too, don’t I?”
“Hey, take it easy, buddy. I wasn’t judging you. In case you haven’t figured it out, I have a high regard for you. I always have. That’s why I question what you’re doing.”
Andy turned his warming face to Harden. He loosened his arms and in slow motion brought them to his sides. “A high regard for me?”
“Sure. I’ve always liked your unique way of seeing things. I’d hate to see you toss aside your convictions just because you’re angry at the world.”
Andy stared back at his feet. “I’m not angry at the world.”
“You just proved you are with your outburst. I know you well enough that it’s against your nature to be doing this nonsense in Chicago. It’s good you came here to get away from it.”
“I’m just trying to make a living.”
“We all are. I work at an office I dislike. Sure, I like the people. That’s what makes it tolerable. Right now I’d do anything to swap places with Dick Carelli. But I’m not going to throw my life into the gutter because I can’t have everything I want.” Harden eyed Andy like he might Mason after one of his fights. “You once told me that’s what’s wrong with this world, that we’re all too spoiled and selfish. More is never enough. Didn’t you say we act like kids in a candy store who are told they can’t have a tenth piece of caramel, and then we throw temper tantrums, destroying everything in sight?”
Andy recalled many past philosophical discussions with Harden. One aspect of Harden’s personality Andy had always appreciated. He wasn’t one to draw blank stares whenever Andy mentioned topics heavier than what movie star wore whose gown at which award show.
Even more impressive, Harden remembered some of those conversations. Andy, equally self-conscious and tickled, grinned at him, but he grew worried when Harden’s face muscles lost their tautness.
He shook his head toward his lap. “I shouldn’t preach. I’m just as bad. It’s my job to peddle ethanol, although I know it’s a waste of tax dollars.”
“What’s wrong with ethanol?” Andy asked sympathetically.
“Requires more energy to distill corn into ethanol than what you get out of it. My company has me exaggerate the research to prove it’s cost effective and more environmentally sound, despite the industry knowing otherwise. The great collective lie, we call it. I guess everyone sells out at some point.” He craned a smile Andy accepted was for his benefit. “I better get some sleep. Kids will be up bright and early. We have to go to church. I kind of promised Mom I’d go again. You want to tag along?”
“To church? I’d rather not, if that’s okay.”
Harden pushed himself up by his thighs with a deep sigh. “Do what you please. It’s your vacation. See you in the morning. Sleep well, Andy.”
“I’m not too far behind you, Harden. See you in the morning.”
Downstairs in his room, Andy lay in bed after a fantastically long, hot
shower and stared at the ceiling. Pitch black silence. As if he’d fallen through a gaping fracture. Had he disappointed Harden? Maybe he should have accepted his invitation to attend church. Especially after the somber turn to their conversation.
The pull of Chicago suddenly became stronger. The excitement, the bright lights, the hot pursuit of criminals for his passengers. There was zero nightlife in Dover County. Days passed fine. Replete with sunshine and oddities to explore. But the nights?
Harden had said his business went against his nature. He had “high regard” for him all these years. What did a country boy know? A country boy who had earned a full scholarship to a major university. Still, Harden lacked the know-how to move mountains or to change Andy’s destiny.
The proprietor of South Side Tours had become a part of Andy’s identity. His van, parked out front for anyone to see, a monument to his self-defeat. Andy Wingal, the peddler of dirt. Would it be so easy to shake off that image, no matter how much his business dwindled to nothing?
He pictured Harden lying in his bed two floors above him. Certainly Harden deserved happiness and fulfillment. Maybe Lucinda what’s her name wasn’t a bad choice. She at least understood farming.
He switched on the table lamp and texted Ken. How r u? he wrote.
Ken’s text arrived a few minutes later. How’s Iowa?
Quiet.
Let me get back to you.
A minute later, Andy’s phone rang. Surprised, he answered. “Hello, Officer Ken. What makes you call tonight? You never use that end of your phone.”
“I’m on the handless, taking a break at Benny’s Chicken and Fish Hut. My hands are messy.”
“Sounds yummy. How’s the South Side?”
“Hot weather keeping things busy. So you’re liking your first weekend in Iowa? It’s a bit conservative for you, isn’t it? Don’t they drive those pickup trucks?”
“They’re more conventional than conservative. There’s a difference. And they drive pickups because they have stuff to haul around. People out here still do much of their own manual labor.”
“They don’t even wear tank tops or shorts from what I remember that summer I drove through there on my way to Colorado.”
The South Side Tour Guide Page 11